How to Love An Angel - Alyssa Murphy

 

When you first meet her, the girl with golden hair and blood-red lips, she is off limits. Someone else’s play-thing, or so it appears, but you learn quickly that she plays by different rules. She is no one’s prize to be won; no, she is her own volatile entity, reckless and controlled at the same time, passionate but well aware of what she means to do and where her actions will take her. In hindsight, it’s a wonder you didn’t rip your own heart out that night and save yourself the trouble of ever giving it to her.

What little you learn about her, you learn from whispers and rumors. Nothing is ever concrete, but from the details that repeat often enough, you begin to paint a picture of your downfall. Her name is Chloe, that much you establish; her surname varies depending on who you ask, but it’s more likely than not that there’s at least one ex-husband she’s no longer speaking to. She’s in her early twenties, a good few years younger than you but not young enough for your lust to be considered problematic, and looks it. She has expensive taste, wears artfully fitted dresses, looks like a scandal waiting to happen even at midday. No one has survived her, but you mean to be the first exception.

She corners you at a party some weeks later – you hate these events, but you know the right people and you go because drinking good alcohol on someone else’s dime is more convenient than drinking the cheap stuff on your own. As per usual, it’s two hours in and you’re hiding behind a potted plant, third glass of wine in hand and nearly finished, alone by your own choosing. And then, suddenly, you are not.

“Alec, wasn’t it?” Her voice is mid-pitched, breathy, hinting at a healthy smoking problem.

You nod, trying to stay calm. This will either end spectacularly or catastrophically, and you hold the damning balance in your hands. “You’re… Chloe, correct?”

“Cloe,” she corrects your pronunciation, and of course she has some ‘quirky’ name, women like her always do. “Marina Fisher tells me you’re a photographer.”

You shrug, trying to act modest. “If taking fawning shots of newly engaged couples can be considered such… yes, I am.”

“It’s a start,” she laughs. “Personally, I find engagements rather dull. No diamond is worth the effort of a wedding. Although, if you ever find one that is… call me.” With that, she turns and walks off, leaving you breathless in her wake. She’s really good at that, you soon learn.

The next time you see her – another party, behind another goddamn cactus – she doesn’t say anything, just steps forward and kisses you until her precious red lipstick is smudged all over your face. “No one will believe you if you tell them I did that,” she whispers, mouth half an inch from your ear. “So don’t. You’re not a play-thing to be flaunted, Alec. You’re an outsider, real… as long as you keep my secrets.”

You don’t need to be told twice. As if you’re the sort of man to brag about your conquests, and as if Cloe is the sort of woman who can be so easily demeaned. Truth be told, you value your life too much to risk her ire.

Another few weeks and you’re straddling her in a bathroom, hoping no one will venture into the surrounding area because they will hear such unholy sounds if they do. Cloe is nothing if not vocal and demanding, and what she wants, she gets. In return, you hear the sweetest curses from her lips as you press into her, sounds you memorize because you doubt you’ll ever hear them again. There’s that nagging voice in your mind – women like her don’t fuck men like you, not more than once, and you’ll be lucky if you get so much of a sideways glance from her the next time your paths cross.

In the aftermath, as she smoothes down her green satin dress, she laughs. Her hair is loose around her shoulders and she is a true Aphrodite, but you dare not say that. No, you just watch her, worshipping her every move as so many before you have no doubt done. You know you’re not the first, nor will you be the last, but right now you don’t care.

“You’re beautiful,” you whisper, not a compliment so much as blinding truth.

She laughs again, lips curved in a devilish smile. “And we had fun, Alec. But truth be told… I don’t play games with people like you. You’re too… incorruptible.”

You never thought that word would sound like such a high honor, but you decide to embrace it and move forward. “So what now, Cloe?”

“Now?” she laughs. “There is no now. I move on to better prey. You think of me late at night with your hand tight around your cock. We both find lovers more suited for our purposes. It’s a vicious cycle, but hell, so is life in general.”

She is a vision as she saunters off, thoughtlessly swaying her hips, and you wonder if she’s right. Maybe you will find someone more suitable, a quiet girl who works in a shop and takes her cat for walks. Until then, at least you have the first part of the angel’s prophecy.

 

 

 

 

 

About the Author

ALYSSA MURPHY is a shopgirl, writer, and general creative type. Her work has previously been published in The Storyteller, The Tower Journal, and This Zine Will Change Your Life. She is currently based in Southeast Indiana.

You can also find her here: thelittlestlioness.wordpress.com