The van smelled of stale weed, spilled beer, and last night’s sweat. The only light came from a cracked dashboard, illuminating the worn upholstery and discarded clothes. Robin sat slumped in the captain’s chair, his head tipped back, eyes closed. A girl was on her knees between his legs.

Her mouth was warm. Wet. A practiced, rhythmic suction that pulled a low groan from his chest. His fingers tangled in her bleached hair, not guiding, just holding on. The van was parked somewhere behind the venue, the distant thump of the after-party bass a faint heartbeat through the metal walls.

His other hand held his phone. The screen glowed against the dimness, illuminating April’s name. Her contact photo—a candid shot from his birthday, her laughing, a smear of frosting on her cheek—stared back at him.

He tapped the call icon. Lifted the phone to his ear. The girl between his legs hummed around him, and his hips jerked involuntarily.

The ringtone trilled once. Twice. A third time. Then silence. Not her voicemail. The call just… ended. He stared at the screen. The disconnect felt colder than a rejection.

He called again. Same sequence. Ring. Ring. Ring. Dead air.

The girl pulled off with a soft pop. “You good?” Her voice was husky, edged with irritation at the distraction.

“Yeah.” His own voice was rough. “Don’t stop.”

She sank back down, taking him deep, and he let the phone drop into his lap. The screen went dark. He watched the top of her head bob, the pale part in her hair. He tried to feel it. The heat. The slick slide of her tongue. The building pressure in his gut.

All he felt was the silence from the phone. The finality of those disconnected calls. Lena’s words, calm and clinical in his memory, wrapped around the feeling. *You’re not a marrying man, Robin. You’re promiscuous. You don’t know how to love.*

Maybe she was right. The proof was in his lap, in the van, in the empty house he hadn’t returned to in a week. The proof was in April’s refusal to answer.

He grabbed a fistful of the girl’s hair, not gently. “Eyes on me.”

She looked up, her mouth still stretched around him, pupils wide in the dashboard glow. He held her gaze. “Suck it. Like you mean it.”

She moaned, the vibration traveling straight up his spine, and doubled her efforts. Her hands gripped his thighs, nails biting through his jeans. He focused on the sight. The obscene, beautiful sight of a stranger working him over. This was the life. This was what he was built for. Fleeting moments. No promises. No disappointed silences.

He let his head fall back again, closing his eyes. He concentrated on the physical truth. The ache of his cock. The wet sounds fill the van. The cheap perfume was clinging to her hair. He chased the sensation, willed it to fill the hollow space behind his ribs.

His phone buzzed in his lap. A text notification. His eyes snapped open. He fumbled for it, heart hammering against his will.

It wasn’t April. It was a venue manager. Details for tomorrow’s soundcheck.

A harsh, humorless laugh escaped him. The girl paused, confused. “Nothing,” he muttered, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat. “Forget it.”

He reached down, cupped her chin. “Turn around.”

She obeyed, shifting on her knees to face away from him, presenting herself over the center console. Her skirt was already pushed up. He unzipped his jeans the rest of the way, freed himself. He didn’t enter her yet. He just looked. In the half-light, she was just a shape. A convenient, willing shape.

He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the small of her back. She shivered. He kissed a trail downward, over the curve of her ass. He didn’t think. He just acted. He buried his face between her thighs, tasting her. Salt. Musk. The tang of her arousal. She cried out, her hands scrambling for purchase on the console.

He ate her with a focused, desperate intensity. Like he could consume the feeling. Like he could fuck the memory of April’s silence out of his own head. Her thighs trembled around his ears. Her moans grew louder, drowning out the distant bass. He drove her with his tongue until she came, shuddering and gasping his name.

Only then did he rise. He positioned himself. Pushed inside her in one slow, relentless thrust. She was soaked. Tight. He filled her, a groan tearing from his own throat. He set a punishing rhythm, the van’s suspension creaking with each drive of his hips.

He fucked her with his eyes open, staring at the blank, dark window of the passenger side door. Seeing nothing. Feeling everything. The sweat was dripping down his temple. The burn in his muscles. The perfect, mindless friction. This was living. This was full. He chanted it in his head with every thrust. *This is it. This is all there is.*

He came hard, a raw shout ripped into the close, hot air of the van. He collapsed over her back, spent, breathing in the scent of sex and regret.

For a long minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. Then, quietly, she asked, “You want me to get my friend? She’s waiting outside.”

Robin pushed himself up. He zipped his jeans. Looked at the girl, her face flushed, makeup smeared. A stranger. “Yeah,” he said, his voice hollow. “Send her in.”