Two Women he has never seen before

Finally, the door creaked open.

Two women emerged from the room, and for once, Simon was genuinely caught off guard.

They moved carefully, as though the ground beneath them had shifted without warning. Each step carried the hesitation of people abruptly pulled out of one reality and dropped into another. One followed the other into the hallway, shoulders slightly hunched, hands kept close to their sides.

Neither spoke.

They did not even try.

His words lingered around them like an invisible barrier. Their mouths remained firmly shut, expressions caught somewhere between embarrassment and **** calm. Confusion flickered behind their eyes as they took him in, then glanced at each other, then stared down at the carpet as if it might offer instructions.

The first woman stepped out shorter than him, maybe 5'6", her curvy hourglass frame crammed into a teal ribbed dress that screamed for notice in all the wrong ways after a long night. Her olive skin looked warm enough under the dim hall bulb, smooth with that fake glow from too much time chasing tans or whatever passed for effortless these days. Oval face, sharp cheekbones clashing against a softer jaw, the kind of mix that lured in fools who thought approachable meant easy. Big almond eyes in dark brown stared back, lashes clumped from yesterday's makeup, halfshut and sultry like she was sizing up an exit, brows arched and furrowed in confusion she couldn't voice. Those plump lips stayed clamped, faded pinkish nude still clinging, bottom one thicker for that permanent pout folks paid surgeons to fake.

Her jet-black hair sat yanked up in a sloppy bun, stray waves dangling loose around ears and neck, giving off that half-hearted polish that jarred against her rigid stance. The dress hugged every inch, tracing broad shoulders down to a cinched waist, then out to hips that curved wide and unapologetic. That backside swelled full and pronounced, even catching his eye as she fidgeted, shaped with the kind of firmness born from genes or gyms or whatever people chased these days. Her chest stole the focus though, heavy and lifted, probably DD or bigger, cleavage dipping low where the strapless top barely held on, all soft give and natural heft stretching the material taut. Arms folded soft over her middle, muscle lurking under plush skin, fingers slim and tipped white, a lone ring glinting, small ink mark half hidden on the inside. Thighs pressed thick below the hem, flowing to calves carved strong, the whole form carrying that plush allure holding steady through the mess.

Trailing behind her stepped the second one, taller and built like a statue, probably pushing 5'9" or 5'10", her overdone curves wrapped in that air of practiced shine folks chased for attention. Fair skin stretched flawless with a light tan, catching the weak morning rays through his grimy windows for some ghostly gleam he figured came from creams or filters or whatever gimmick sold youth these days. Heartshaped face pulled focus right away, cheekbones cut sharp, chin pointed neat, nose straight and prim like it belonged on billboards peddling poise to the gullible. Those wideset eyes shaped sly as a cat's, maybe hazel or green under smudged liner remnants, lashes long enough to throw shade while she blinked back the fog, that sharp gaze dulled flat by his words alone. Brows bold and curved sat groomed above, framing the lot without a hair astray, but her mouth grabbed the rest, swollen full with a sharp bow up top and thicker base below, faint gloss in bland shades keeping them parted just so, sealed tight regardless.

Auburn-red locks spilled long and wavy over one shoulder, parted off centre, soft under the dim glow but likely stiffened with spray, highlights snagging stray beams as she edged forward. That dress shimmered through pink fading orange, draped single shouldered to the floor with a slit climbing high, drawing out those extended legs where the gap flashed thighs sleek and tapered to calves etched firm, feet crammed into beige strap heels jacking her stature up. Backside swelled rounded and hoisted, curving her outline with a subtle shift in each step, sturdy without dominating the view. Chest pushed full and alert, D or bigger, leveraged by the cut for cleavage edging sideways, buoyant rounds implying tweaks or raw luck. Arms hung lean with shoulders carved and muscle faint, one hand plucking restless at hip fabric, nails glossed plain. Skin stayed unmarked by scars or ink in sight, frame stretched tall and poised, the sort tuned for pulling eyes he'd redirected too often.

They stood there in the hallway, a mismatched pair in their evening finery, the air thick with the remnants of whatever night had led them here. Emily stirred faintly on the couch behind Simon, her snoring hitching once before settling again, oblivious. The women's eyes met his, waiting—silent, presentable, and utterly under his influence.

Simon studied them for a moment before speaking, letting the silence stretch just enough to be uncomfortable.

“So,” he said at last, voice low and dry, eyes moving from one to the other. “Tell me who you are. Why you are in my apartment. And what you are doing here.”

Each word was placed with care.

The woman in the teal dress straightened slightly. “My name is Ashlynn Spires,” she said, her tone flat, as if reading from a script.

“And I’m Lauren Smiles,” the redhead added beside her.

Simon noted the contrast without meaning to. Different looks, different energy, both undeniably attractive in their own ways. Years ago, he might have cared more. Now, it barely registered beyond a passing observation.

They glanced at each other.

“We,” they said together, then continued in the same oddly synchronized rhythm, “were invited here by Emily. The woman on the couch.”

Their eyes flicked briefly toward the living room.

“The three of us went out last night,” they went on. “We partied. Had a good time.”

Simon listened without interrupting, his expression unmoved. Whatever charm they carried did nothing to soften the situation.

He had heard enough stories over the years to know where this one was heading.

“We stayed at the bar until it closed,” Ashlynn continued, her voice steady and automatic. “Five this morning. We needed somewhere to go, and Emily offered your place. She thought you’d be gone for work by five thirty.”

Her eyes flicked up to him briefly, then dropped again.

“So we came here,” Lauren added. “We kept drinking. Emily passed out. And… we decided to hook up in the guest room. Things got heated, and we ended up having sex.”

Simon listened without comment, face unreadable, the cynicism he'd honed over seventeen years in security kicking in like muscle memory—this wasn't his first brush with people treating boundaries like suggestions.

He glanced at Ashlynn as she finished speaking. Even now, standing in his hallway under bad lighting and worse circumstances, she carried that polished appeal. Stiff posture holding onto scraps of confidence. The type who'd turn heads on purpose. He noted it, then shoved it aside, same as always.

A slow sigh escaped him, heavy with the weight of too many shifts grinding him down.

Two grown women, crashing his apartment for a quick escape, and screwing in his spare bed was the brilliant plan they'd stumbled into.

Plenty of motels or backseats out there for bad ideas.

None of them had to drag his home into it.