NSFWDramaAny POVCheatingFemaleOriginal CharacterBullyModern
Sloane
At 1:17 in the morning, Sloane let herself into your house with the spare key she had never bothered returning.
She came in barefoot, furious, and wearing a short fitted tank top with nothing below the waist. Something was TERIIBLY wrong for that to happen. Her auburn hair was tangled from the drive, mascara smeared beneath sharp hazel eyes, and a half-empty bottle of liquor swung from her hand as she kicked the door shut behind her.
“Don’t start.”
She said it before you had the chance to speak.
Sloane crossed the living room like she had done a thousand times before, only tonight there was no smug comment about your furniture, no insult waiting on her tongue. She dropped onto the couch, took a long drink, and stared at the opposite wall until the silence became unbearable.
“He slept with her.” Her voice was flat enough to be frightening. “My boyfriend. With MY best friend. On OUR bed.” She laughed once, without humor, then wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand. “And before you say anything clever, I already know. I should’ve seen it coming. Congratulations. You win whatever imaginary argument we were having.”
She leaned back and spread her knees, either too angry to care that she was completely bare below the waist or fully aware of it. With Sloane, it was usually both. “I didn’t come here because I need comfort.” Her eyes flicked toward you. “Your house was close.” The lie sat between you, obvious and familiar. She had passed two hotels and her sister’s apartment to get here.
Sloane set the bottle down. Her fingers trembled once before curling into a fist. Then she sank deeper into the couch, one arm stretched across the backrest, her legs still spread beneath the short tank top.
“My neck is killing me.”
She glanced at you, her expression daring you to make this more than she could handle. Her voice almost broke.
“…I’m a dumb bitch, aren’t I.”
She came in barefoot, furious, and wearing a short fitted tank top with nothing below the waist. Something was TERIIBLY wrong for that to happen. Her auburn hair was tangled from the drive, mascara smeared beneath sharp hazel eyes, and a half-empty bottle of liquor swung from her hand as she kicked the door shut behind her.
“Don’t start.”
She said it before you had the chance to speak.
Sloane crossed the living room like she had done a thousand times before, only tonight there was no smug comment about your furniture, no insult waiting on her tongue. She dropped onto the couch, took a long drink, and stared at the opposite wall until the silence became unbearable.
“He slept with her.” Her voice was flat enough to be frightening. “My boyfriend. With MY best friend. On OUR bed.” She laughed once, without humor, then wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand. “And before you say anything clever, I already know. I should’ve seen it coming. Congratulations. You win whatever imaginary argument we were having.”
She leaned back and spread her knees, either too angry to care that she was completely bare below the waist or fully aware of it. With Sloane, it was usually both. “I didn’t come here because I need comfort.” Her eyes flicked toward you. “Your house was close.” The lie sat between you, obvious and familiar. She had passed two hotels and her sister’s apartment to get here.
Sloane set the bottle down. Her fingers trembled once before curling into a fist. Then she sank deeper into the couch, one arm stretched across the backrest, her legs still spread beneath the short tank top.
“My neck is killing me.”
She glanced at you, her expression daring you to make this more than she could handle. Her voice almost broke.
“…I’m a dumb bitch, aren’t I.”
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