by Lane Hart
What the fuck was I thinking? There’s no way I can go more than a day without lighting up again. After six years of the nasty habit, I’ll be shocked if I can last a fucking hour.
Pulling out my phone from my coat pocket, I check the time and see a missed call from Jim. Fuck. It says he called around eleven last night. I call him back right then, for some reason thinking of the first time I met him and Paula. They were nothing but nice, and I was such a loud-mouthed, little asshole. Why they didn’t take me back to the children’s center after the first hour is beyond me. I was angry at the world and took it out on them, trying to get them to take me back to my brother. Jim and Paula promised me they would do everything they could to keep us together and had even set up bunk beds in my room for him. They knew from day one that we were the sons of a cold-blooded murderer, that killing was in our DNA, and yet they wanted us anyway.
My foster parents did all they could, but after months of fighting the state and trying to prove they could afford to raise my brother and I both, they were denied custody of him, and he went off to live God only knows where. For years I’ve looked for him and come up empty, making me hate our father even more.
“Brede,” Jim answers on the third ring with an even, only slightly tense voice.
“Ah, hey. Sorry, I missed your call,” I tell him. “How’s Paula?”
“Well, she’s been better. With her age, we know getting to the top of the donor list won’t be easy.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, swiping my free hand over my face. “Did you get the money I sent?”
His exhale is heavy over the line. “Yeah, Brede. You didn’t have to do that, but we appreciate it more than you know.”
“I’ll try to come home soon,” I tell him, and then ignore the nagging guilt of why I’m delayed. “Tell Paula to stay tough as nails.”
“Good, and I will,” Jim says. “We’ve missed you. You can keep your money if you’ll just visit more often.”
I owe the two of them everything. God knows I didn’t make it easy on them during my juvenile delinquent years, but now I’m old enough to know I was lucky to have them when I didn’t have anyone else.
Thinking of my foster parents and the still fresh nightmare causes a slow burn in the pit of my stomach. Is that guilt? I had no idea I was still capable of such an emotion. Never once before or after I put a bullet in a man’s head have I felt it. Sure, the faces of the innocent family members may haunt my unconscious mind when I sleep, but I haven’t felt regret or anything like it before now.
Maybe because this time the target is on a girl who I know doesn’t deserve it, unlike all the others. Yesterday I could’ve easily followed her into that house, but for some reason, I didn’t. I hesitated, and now I’m starting to think that I don’t have the balls to take her life.
So what the fuck am I gonna do?
…
Blair
I wake up feeling like my head is gonna split in half. If there was someone to whine to, I just might do it, but…he’s gone. My appropriately named Late Night Prowler disappeared sometime before I woke up. I do remember him holding me in my sleep all night, making me feel cared for and protected. Sure, I wanted to peel his mask off and demand answers from him, but after the orgasm he gave me, I was too tired. Not that asking people questions is my strong point anyway.
Now, seeing that he’s gone this morning is depressing as hell, making me feel lonelier than ever before. Really I should be used to being alone, but after having someone here with me, holding me during the night, now I know exactly what I’m missing, that odd comforting sensation that it invokes, keeping the nightmares away. I’m desperate to feel that sort of peacefulness again. Every night.
Fighting against the still skull-pounding headache, I shuffle my way into the kitchen and dig around the cabinets, finally finding migraine medicine. When I turn around to grab a glass to get some water, I notice the half-quart milk jug sitting empty on the counter. Yesterday I was certain it was more than half full, and that’s not just me being an optimist.
He drank it.
My late night prowler drank all of my milk and helped me give myself an amazing orgasm. The first orgasm technically by my own hand.
How…odd. Yet at least the empty milk carton confirms that he is, in fact, real and not contrived merely from my fucked up head. With a smile of remembrance, I fill my cup up at the water dispenser on the fridge and swallow down a few headache pills before trudging back to bed.
Not only am I lonely in the empty house, but the sun is too bright. The birds are too loud. Why do I feel so shitty after two drinks? Alcohol is the devil. It tastes horrible and makes you feel like crap the next day. Why do people ever drink it more than once?
I try to figure out what I had planned today, but it hurts to think. Like the night, yesterday is somewhat of a hazy memory. It wouldn’t surprise me if riding on the back of Brede’s bike, his hand in my pants and his dick in my mouth was all just a bizarre dream. My nights are equally peculiar. There’s no limit to what my fucked up mind is capable of. Could I have sleepwalked in the middle of the night and drank all the milk myself?
Exhausted, I give up trying to solve the crazy riddle and fall right back asleep…until the doorbell rings. And rings. And rings some more. Jeez!
Crawling out of bed, I finally drag myself to the front of the house. Standing on my tiptoes, I look out the tiny peephole. On the other side of the door is none other than the leather jacket wearing man from yesterday. Brede does exist. Either he’s real, or my naughty fantasy is running on a continuation today too.
Unlocking the door, I pull it wide open for him. When he barks out a laugh at my appearance, I consider slamming it in his bushy face.
“You look like you’ve been rode hard and hung up wet today, little girl. Don’t you own a brush?”
Don’t you own a razor is what I want to ask as I glare at him, but of course I refrain.
“Yes, I have a razor, but I like the beard. It makes me look older and more badass,” he says while stroking a hand over his hairy chin.
My eyebrows shoot up when he answers my question. Did I ask it aloud?
“Well, do you want to go get your car or not?” he asks when I simply stand there and stare at him. He really does have such nice, light blue eyes. I bet the rest of his face is nice too. Unfortunately, it’s hidden by wool.
Holding up a finger for him to wait a minute, I walk off to the shower, locking the door before I undress and step into the tub. Not in a rush after his hateful comment, I take my time soaking under the warm spray, scrubbing my hair that’s full of tangles after Speedy Gonzalez’s bike ride yesterday. Then I dry my long hair until it’s only a slightly damp. I never let them cut it, not even an inch over the years. It was more than just my aversion to sharp objects. Knowing there was no way to escape, I always remembered the fairy tales my mother read to me as a little girl. Naively I thought that if I let my hair grow as long as Rapunzel’s maybe a knight would come save me from confinement. Silly really, since there was only a tiny window in my room that only a small animal could fit through.
Finished with my hair, I realize that I didn’t bring a change of clothes. I consider my two options, put on the pajamas I was wearing or throw a towel around myself and march out like he isn’t the first man to see me mostly naked before.
Deciding to be the new Blair until I get my gun back and find some bullets, I go with the second option. But as I walk to my room, I realize that the urge to off myself isn’t nearly as appealing as it was yesterday. If my sudden change of heart is because of Brede or my late night prowler, I’m not entirely sure.
Based on his jaw dropping, Brede is surprised that I’m only in a towel, and I’m shocked to find him stretched out on my bed with his arms behind his head and feet crossed. He’s still fully dressed with his big muddy boots on, but he looks so freaking good.
“You’re still playing with fire, little girl,” he warns me.
Since I don’t w
ant his shoes to leave dirt on the fluffy white comforter of my childhood, I lift his feet and move them to the side, noticing for the first time that the pungent cloud of cigarette smoke is absent from him today.
“Don’t want me staining your perfect, spotless sheets?” he asks, sitting up on the edge of the bed.
My cheeks burn, remembering what happened in those sheets last night. For some reason, I’m feeling guilty for not admitting it to Brede, so I turn away from him to find some clothes. Before I can find an outfit of my mom’s to wear, Brede’s arms go around my waist, hauling me backward and tossing me onto the bed. He quickly follows me down, pinning my hips to the mattress with his own, straddling me. Hovering above me, he jerks the towel apart, exposing all of me to him, and causing me to instantly become self-conscience. No one’s ever seen me naked before, especially not a man who’s been with lots of other women, probably women considerably more well-endowed than me. The next second, Brede’s sucking on one of my tingling nipples that I’m feeling so insecure about, making me wiggle underneath him, and most other thoughts in my head jumble incoherently.
“If this isn’t what you wanted, then you shouldn’t have come out here, strutting around in nothing but a towel,” he says to me, looking up with a hungry, hooded expression on his face before his mouth moves over to my other breast to feast on it. While his hand teases the abandoned nipple, I start to feel his hard cock through his denim, pressing against my stomach and I…panic. Why? I’m not sure. Because of last night? Because I’m clearly not ready to have sex with a man I just met, and he seems very determined to keep going? Who knows?
My hands push firmly on Brede’s shoulders, but he only grunts and apparently takes that as my urging him to go lower. His wet mouth dips down to my belly button, and as it moves south of there, I suddenly realize his intention. Part of me nearly melts at the wonderful sensation and anticipation, but the other part of me remembers that this man I don’t know hasn’t even bothered to kiss my lips once, yet he wants to put his mouth somewhere else so…so intimate?
The stupid, silly girl I am inside decides that I want more from him first. I want, well, I don’t exactly know what I want. Maybe more of whatever I had last night with the stranger in my bed, holding me without asking for anything from me in return. This...I know exactly what this is with Brede. He obviously thinks he’ll put his mouth down there, and then he’ll try to fuck me without a care in the world because that’s all he wants.
Coming to terms with the truth, I quickly wiggle out from underneath Brede, not stopping until I’m scrambling off the side of the bed. Grabbing my abandoned towel with a shaking hand, I wrap it back around me and secure it before I’m able to raise my eyes to him again. Brede gets to his feet on the other side of the bed and stares questioningly at me with a raised eyebrow, my queen size mattress now separating us as both of our chests rise and fall rapidly with our breaths. Just looking at him, seeing the prominent erection jutting from his jeans does strange things to me. That now familiar tightening clenches my lower belly, only confusing me more because, for some crazy reason, I want to give him relief with my mouth or my hand. God, what the hell is wrong with me? I’m torn between wanting him and wanting him to be…more.
“What the fuck?” Brede asks, echoing my own sentiments with his hands braced on his hips in a wide stance of aggravation.
I shrug, hugging myself, unable to explain all the thoughts running through my messed up mind, even if I was able to speak like a normal person, which I definitely am not capable of. A wave of anger at myself for being too cowardly to use words mixes right in with all the other whirling emotions.
Licking his lips, he says, “I’m guessing you’ve never had your pussy licked?” I cringe at his bluntness that is arousing and shameful at the same time. The fact is, I feel like a slut for wanting the things I do from him and another stranger, but yet I foolishly don’t want to stop seeing him or my late night visitor.
Realizing he’s still staring at me, waiting for a response, I shake my head indicating I haven’t ever had a man’s mouth on me down there, at the same time a blush warms both of my cheeks.
“So you don’t know what the fuck you’re missing.”
My face flames hotter in embarrassment, unable to believe that we’re actually having a conversation about this subject, albeit one-sided. Yes, I want his mouth down there, very badly, especially if it’s even better than his hands or mine. But first, why can’t he kiss me?
I wet my lips that feel parched from my panting breaths, wondering at the same time how he would kiss me. I’m not sure, but I do know that I want his mouth on mine before he puts it anywhere else on my body. Maybe it’s juvenile or silly, and I wish I could explain it, to him and to myself.
Blowing out a breath of frustration, Brede strokes his fingers over his beard for a few seconds and then, shaking his head, he leaves the room. “I’ll wait for you outside,” he says over his shoulder. I startle when I hear the front door slam shut. He’s pissed, obviously. Why, I have no idea. I assume it’s because I put on the brakes and he was hoping to take things further. I do too, but for some reason, it feels different here in my room than it did out in public yesterday.
Now, I can see that I let him take advantage of me, not that I didn’t want to get on my knees and put my mouth on his cock, but I didn’t get anything from him but an orgasm by his hand when I wanted…more. To feel cared for.
Unable to further analyze my fucked up mind, I quickly get dressed in my mom’s old jeans, a plain white V-neck tee, and sandals that buckle around my ankle, then head outside. On the way out the door, I grab my purse, and the empty plastic bag still sitting next to it. Eager to change the subject from what just happened and move on from the awkwardness, I wave the bag in the air as I approach Brede, who’s sitting on his bike.
“Hmph. Missing something?” he asks gruffly.
I nod.
“Have you ever shot a goddamn gun before?”
I consider lying but then shake my head no in response.
“Then you don’t need to be carrying around a fucking gun,” he responds. “I told you if you need protection…”
I shake my head in denial of that reasoning.
“Then what? Why do you need a fucking gun?” he asks, his forehead scrunched in confusion. I shrug, stuff the empty bag down in my kitty purse; and then, while holding onto his shoulders, I climb up on the back of his bike. Wondering if he has the gun on him, I feel around the pockets of his leather jacket and then the front of his jeans. Empty. Damn.
“Keep feeling around and see if you can find another trigger to pull,” he teases.
I wrap my arms around his waist, indicating that I’m ready to go, but have to loosen my hold when he stands up to jump start the engine. The motorcycle, loud and grumbly, takes off out of the stuffy neighborhood and heads in the direction of the pawn shop. I can’t help but smile thinking my dad’s neighbors are probably freaking out at the sight of Brede in their perfect little housing development. Being on his bike is wonderful and freeing. No wonder my mother loved it so much.
When Brede parks in the same spot out front of the store, I glance up and down the street, puzzled when I don’t see the Audi. Son of a bitch! I slam my forehead into Brede’s back and shake it.
“Where’s your car?” he asks. “The Audi, right?”
I nod, surprised that he remembered what I was driving.
“Gone?”
I nod again.
“Well, fuck.”
I laugh at his reaction even though it’s not funny.
“So it was either stolen or towed. Let’s try the towed option first,” he says, and I nod in agreement.
A few minutes later, we pull up at a high, barbed wire fence with a padlocked gate. Brede parks his bike in front, and we both climb off to take a look around. I shake the gate just to make sure it’s definitely locked. Yep. No getting in.
Looking through the holes in the metal fence, I finally spot the Audi off t
o the right and point it out.
“You got the cash to get it out?” he asks.
I shake my head as my eyes water, not giving two shits about the car, but needing to get my photo album out.
“Okay, then tomorrow night we can come back and bust it out if we have to.”
Blinking away the tears, I look at him, raising my eyebrows in surprise.
“I’ll take care of it,” he says before I can protest. “Now what?”
I shrug since my plans consisted of my car and getting a gun and bullets. Not that the gun is exactly at the top of my list of things to do anymore.
“Let’s go,” he says, walking back toward his bike. I climb on and hold on to him tightly, trusting him to keep me entertained today.
Chapter Nine
Brede
She wouldn’t let me eat her pussy.
I still can’t stop thinking about that shit as I drive us over to Roger’s place. It’s a Monday, so there’s not much else to do. I first met Rog back in middle school, right before everything went to hell and I had to move. I saw him in the local bar the day I got into town, sitting at a table with a group of people, drinking a round of beers. It was actually good to see a familiar face, and we’ve been cool ever since. He offered from day one for me to crash at his place, so that’s where I’ve been staying most nights. Rog hasn’t asked if I’ve taken care of what I was hired to do, assuming I’ll let him know when I’m ready for the rest of his boss’s payout.
But back to the situation at hand, what the fuck? Why didn’t Blair want me to go down on her? She would damn well like it, there’s no doubt about that, but she’s seemed…off since I got there and found her looking like a hot mess. Nothing like the eager little beaver from the day before. It’s times like this I want to shake the shit out of her until she talks and tells me what the hell is going on. Women, in general, are hard to read; but when one doesn’t say anything, it’s even harder than usual to try and figure out what’s going on in her pretty little head. The bigger question is, why do I even give a flying fuck?
