I honestly don't know how I was even able to drive the two of us back to the apartment. The fact that I somehow managed not to commit vehicular manslaughter is beyond me. Monica had been jerking me off the entire drive back home, she even tried to sit on my lap a few times. I don't know what the fuck had gotten into her but she was acting about as sex-crazed as a nymphomaniac.

Maybe she needs to come to group with me...

Currently, at this very moment, I'm trying to get Monica upstairs as she continuously tries to take my clothes off. "Monica..." I grab ahold of her hands for the millionth time. "Jesus, Monica, wait until we get into the fucking apartment." I mean, she is incessant on fucking and that fact is abundantly clear.

"What? You don't want to fuck me here on the staircase?" She starts slowly pulling up the hem of her dress after she stumbles a bit up the last step. "Come on, Sean."

I hold back the urge to roll my eyes at her because the answer to that question is obvious. Yes, I'd love to but instead I say,"As much as I would absolutely love to fuck you on a set of stairs, I'm not too keen on Miss Boucher walking out of her apartment and having a heart attack." The elderly woman had already had congestive heart failure once as well as a stroke.

"But Sean, I want to fuuuuck..." She's basically moaning to herself now.

What the fuck has gotten into her?

I don't respond to that as I manage to get her down the hallway. She's pawing and clawing all over me, which would usually drive me crazy in more way than one. I open the door to my apartment with Monica moaning more to herself behind me. That's when it clicks like a fuck-ton of bricks that this isn't just strange behavior, this isn't something Monica would do. No, she's not acting like Monica at all.

She's not just drunk, she's fucking high. He fucking drugged her.

I pull her into the apartment and get her to calm down. "Monica, stop." She doesn't, she's trying to unbuckle my pants, again. "Stop." I say it forcefully enough for her dilated, wobbly eyes to look into mine. "Did you take anything?" I ask her as calmly as I can.

"Whhhaattt do you mean?" Her voice sounds off now that I'm really listening to it.

"What I mean, Monica, is did you fucking take any fucking drugs?" I grit out irritation.

She snorts before saying, "no, but I'm feeling really, really warm..." she taps her mouth "and thirsty." She begins giggling to herself but manages to finally get out, "thirsty for that dick!"

Yup, he fucking drugged her.

Under normal circumstances her saying that would be almost comical but right now, not so fucking much. My jaw ticks as I try to contain the utter fury building inside me. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and pinch the bridge of my nose as the thoughts swirl around in my head.

He wasn't just tying to dance with her. No, that cunt was trying to get into her pants and fucking rape her. I have never been so fucking happy in my entire life to have publically mauled a man. If I ever see him again I'll be doing a lot worse. He'll be lucky to come out of it alive.

Anyone who would try to force someone to have sex with them is a lowly piece of shit. Anyone who would take someone against their will is the scum of the planet. If you don't know how to properly get yourself laid then you need to touch your own naughty bits, not take someone else's. If I had one fucking principle that was it. Although, I must say, anyone who would deny me access to their nether regions is clearly out of their mind. I can work fucking miracles. Literally.

She tries to put her hands on me but I hold them down at her sides. "Oh shit, that's right, you have that weird thing about being touched. Why is that anyway? Liiiike, what is your damage anyway, Sean? What guy doesn't like being touched? Don't all men like being touched?"

I have to pause for a moment before I say something ridiculously mean. She doesn't know what she's saying right now. I close my eyes and take a few deep breathes before I answer her. "Yes Monica, most men like being touched. Some men like it so much that some of them can't keep their fucking hands to their fucking selves. Some of them, like the shithead scum you were with tonight, take things that are not theirs for the taking."

"But not you?" She quirks an eyebrow up at me.

"No," I shake my head "not me, Monica. I'm not a desperate fucking twat who has to make a woman want to fuck me. Women just want to fuck me. It's not something I have to go around forcing them to do."

"Why do you have to be such a man-whore, Sean?" Her eyes are still shaking a bit and probably will be for the next few hours.

I let out a hearty sigh in frustration. "Come on, you need some water. The shit that's in your system will dehydrate the fuck out of you."

"What shit are you talking about?" She asks while stumbling into the kitchen after me.

"I'm talking about the fucking drug-infested drink that that steroid laced dumb blonde cunt gave to you at some point tonight." I grit out as I turn around to face her.

Her face pales slightly. "What?" Her wobbly eyes go wide as saucers.

"That asshole drugged you, Monica." I deadpan. "That's why you're acting like you want to fuck so bad."

Monica stares at me for a while and I can tell her brain is slowly processing this information. Yeah, drugs will do that to you, sweetheart. That's why you don't go on dates with assholes. Not that I'm entirely too much better in the personality department, but still, at least I'm not that much of a twat.

"Oh my god." She blinks up at me, nearing tears as it finally sinks in. "Oh my god! You're trying to tell me he was trying to... that he..." She cups a hand over her mouth.

I sigh loudly again, expelling the frustration from my lungs. That's when I remember my hands still have blood on them. Well, it's dried blood now, and it's more like all over them. I don't say anything to a shell-shocked Monica as I turn around toward the sink. I turn on the tap water and begin washing my hands.

Bloody hands being washed in the kitchen sink...

The image disgusts me as I scrub away the grime. It also reminds me of the previous answer to Monica's question. This was my damaged childhood. This is one of the reasons why I don't like being touched. Yes, there's more than one, Monica and tonight is a clear reminder of that.

-&-

Monica is sleeping, yet again, in my bed. I am sitting on the couch watching her, making sure she's okay. For someone who isn't used to taking drugs or being on them it can be dangerous. Especially dangerous when neither of us know how much she's ingested because of that fucking dipshit from the club.

It's currently one in the afternoon and I haven't slept a single wink, not that I sleep anyway. I never sleep, thank you post-traumatic stress for fucking my brain every night so I can't get a good night's rest. I spend most of my time stuck in between reality and uncontrollable addictions.

Speaking of which, I'm going to break my cardinal rule of no smoking in the apartment right about now. I light the end of my Turkish-gold and take a deep inhale while watching the brown-haired girl in my bed. I let out a heavy smoke-filled sigh.

What the fuck am I doing? What the fuck am I going to do with her?

Monica was a mess last night. She was all over the place. Happy. Sad. Mad. Horny. I have never had to say no to a woman who wanted sexual intercourse as many times as I had to last night. She wanted to fuck so bad and the things coming out of her mouth were pure torture to someone like me, someone with no fucking morals. But hey, surprise, I actual do have some.

The one principle in my life that I will always stand by is that you do not fucking touch someone without their consent. I don't care how much of a fucked-up, piece-of-shit I am I will never break that rule. I may be an egotistical prick but I am not a complete fucking cunt, whether people would like to believe that or not. I would never want Monica waking up in my bed wondering what happened to her.

My inner demons start rearing their ugly heads just at the thought. At the memories...  My mind is starting to become a loathsome pit of inner-hell again. There will never be a place as dark as my own mind. I angrily flick my cigarette ash as I let out a giant blow of smoke.

I think back to the club and my fist hammering into that guy's skull. I look at Monica and wonder how differently this situation could've ended up for her. Dumb-blonde-fuck would've most certainly had his way with her. I take another long drag from my cigarette and run my hands over my face.

I wonder if she's been with anyone else since she's been with me? Not that anyone would measure up, but still. The thought of anyone else between her thighs, coaxing her to climax, if they even could, irked me in the strangest of ways.

She lets a small sigh pass between her lips and then mumbles something. I couldn't understand what she was saying but there's a piece of me that really wants to know what she dreams about. Fuck, I hope it's far, far away from what I have night terrors about.

I put my cigarette out, stand up, and walk over to the bed. She's continuously mumbling something and fuck me if I don't want to know what it is. I sit down on the edge of the bed and watch her. She doesn't utter another word, to my utter disappointment.

She has a strand of hair laid across her beautiful face. I reach out cautiously and push it to the side. Even in her sleep she manages to lean into my palm. I smile down at her and I don't know why. "Sean..." My name leaves her lips softly. "I'm sorry Sean... I just... just knew you wouldn't..."

I furrow my eyebrows wondering what on Earth she could be sorry about. I was the one who kicked her out of my apartment. I was the asshole that told her she was just some senseless woman to fuck. She was the one drugged by the Jersey shore reject. She shouldn't have anything to be sorry about. The poor thing was surrounded by a bunch of fucking pricks.

She starts to look stressed in her sleep and there is even a small tear developing in her right eye. I reach out and wipe the tear away.

What the fuck is going on inside that beautiful mind?

"It's okay, Monica." I utter words I haven't even uttered to myself. "It's okay, whatever it is, just let it go. Don't be sorry, sweetheart. You've nothing to be sorry for."

She sighs and leans into my hand again. I don't pull it away because she finally looks content. Whatever painful thing was going on in her mind has stopped. I stopped the pain and that's not something I want to pull away from.