Disclaimer: Seth MacFarlane owns all. I, nothing.
He sat up, murmuring angrily under his breath. The red light of his digital clock read 2:56 am. Damn. Rummaging through his bedside drawer, he found a leftover cigarette. It would be slightly stale, he knew, but he didn't care. He lit it and, inhaling deeply, sunk back against the pillows.
Silently, smoking his stale cigarette, he stared at the tiger print of his bed. Bloody hell, he was pathetic. Over forty and he still had a tiger print bedspread. There was nowhere else to look, though. He had mirrors all over the room, on the headboard, the footboard, the ceiling… He had no wish to see what he looked like at the moment. He already knew he looked like shit.
No where else to look, he cast a furtive glance at the girl sleeping beside him. He sighed, sending smoke in her direction, curling in gray wisps against her creamy white skin.
It was crazy, he still remembered the gawky little sixteen-year-old girl she used to be. Back in those days, a mere eight years, had changed that self-conscious, slightly overweight girl into the beautiful woman in his bed. She had dropped the weight—he figured she took pills—bleached her hair, and traded in her wire specs for turquoise colored contacts.
She must have woken up as he searched for the cigarette because an arm stretched out languidly over his abdomen. He prided himself on his figure. Even though he was over forty—nearing fifty, really—he didn't look it. He felt it every morning, that was damn sure, but he could still convince twenty-somethings that he was still in his prime.
The girl moved closer to him, and he absentmindedly drew her closer. He wasn't thinking about the girl now, the girl who managed to sneak her way into his home earlier that night, and the night before, and the night before. Ever since she had gotten home from college earlier that month, actually. No, it wasn't this girl he dreamed of at night, so intensely that it forces him from sleep. He was thinking about the woman he had dreamed of possessing for as long as he could remember. Way before the girl was ever born, undoubtedly.
She was the only reason he stayed in this hell-hole of a town. It was never his style to rot away in suburbia. But she had drawn him, as assuredly as she forces him every night to find solace in the arms of another woman, because she would never deign to be with him.
She was the reason he never settled down, never married. No woman could sound like her, could smell like her, feel like her. He looked at the girl in his arms… no matter how much they looked like her, they never could be her. Never.
He slipped deeper into the covers, drawing the girl even closer still. He allowed his hands to roam freely—he knew the process of seduction too well to worry how to make the next move. His body carried out the action automatically.
It excited him how quickly the girl responded to his touch. She would be like that, he imagined, parting her with an expert knee. She would always be ready and willing to please him. Ready to love him. As much as he loved her.
As much as he loved her, though, she angered him, the woman of his dreams—taunting him with her perfect life and three children and happy marriage. At times, he didn't know whether the passion he felt boiling in the pit of his chest was for love or hate of the woman.
His thoughts made his hands rough as he squeezed the girl's curves and ground his lips and pelvis against her own.
"You've always been such a good friend to us, Glen," she had always told him. She was the only one who called him by his first name. "I don't know what we'd do without you."
But she was always without him. She never even touched him. He grabbed the girl's wrists and pinned them over her head against the bed. "You never even let me touch you!" he screamed, driving deep inside her.
The girl squirmed and writhed under him, scared or excited, he didn't know or care. "You always do this to me," he continued, his assault relentless. "And all I've ever wanted was to love you!"
Finally the girl screamed out, and he suddenly realized what he'd been doing. His face crumpled as he held her gently, burying his face in her neck. The girl smelled like her.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, anguished. "I'm so sorry… I didn't mean to—oh god, I'm sorry…"
He kissed her lips, her cheeks, her breasts, saying repeatedly, "I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you."
The girl was used to this. She drew comforting arms around him, as he spent his tears on her chest. She cooed to him like she remembered her mother cooing to her, when she was a baby. The girl ignored his quiet little declarations of love. They weren't for her anyway.
Meg had always known they were for Lois.