Darcy likes her boys like she likes her clothing, sometimes, lying with their backs pressed to her mattress and staring up at

Darcy likes her boys likes she likes her clothing—sometimes, depending on how much said attire costs and how well-loved it is—lying on her bed, backs pressed to her mattress and the only thing they see is her.

It's the romantic thing. Something she isn't always comfortable with admitting to herself, unless it is under the mutual opinion that anything one says while under the influence of certain alcoholic substances is to be stricken from record.

(She also likes them with their pants loose around their thin, thin, bony hips and their belt thrown half across the room like a long discarded whip. But that's more of something she keeps privately, to herself, for the proper little lady inside her that would die of shame, otherwise.)

She likes that sated, victorious smirk that curls over his lips and half-moon eyes. "Babe, get back into bed," he calls out coyly; his voice hoarse and scratched, smoky.

She takes a long drag from her cigarette—long, nimble fingers loose around the cancer stick as she stared out at the infamous city; all lights and deserted passion—and hopes she'll be able to keep him, just a little while longer. She hopes she won't fuck it up by saying the wrong thing, hopes she's learned to be a little less selfish, a little less picky or expecting of other's.

She looks to the city that never sleeps and doesn't give an answer.