Fueled

by K. Bromberg

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 K. Bromberg

  Fueled by K. Bromberg

  All Rights Reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher or author constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at kbrombergwrites@gmail.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  FBI Anti-Piracy Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, in investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Cover art created by Tugboat Design

  with Shutterstock image # 89919298

  Copy and Line editing by The Polished Pen

  Final Proof by Polished Perfection

  Formatting by Hayson Publishing

  Except for the original material written by the author, all songs, song titles, and lyrics mentioned in the novel Fueled are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.

  To J.P. -

  Thanks for your patience while I take on this challenge that's always been a dream of mine. Oh and hey, it's not just a hobby anymore...

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Fucking dreams. Jumbled pieces of time that tumble through my subconscious. Rylee’s here. Filling them. Consuming them. And fuck if I know why the constant sight of her in a place that’s usually clouded with such horrible memories fills me with a sense of calm—of what I think might be hope—allowing me to realize that I might actually have a reason to heal. A reason to overcome the fucked up things that lurk here. That the black abyss in my heart just might have the capacity to love. Her presence here in a place so dark lets me think the wounds that claimed my soul and have always been raw and festering just might be finally scabbing over.

  I’m dreaming—I know I’m dreaming—so how come she’s everywhere, even in my sleep? She’s robbing me of thoughts every minute of every goddamn day, and now she’s woven her way into my fucking subconscious.

  She pushes me.

  Unmans me.

  Consumes me.

  Scares the ever-loving shit out of me.

  She feels like the start of a race, stopping my heart and speeding it up simultaneously. She makes me think thoughts I shouldn’t. Digs deep into the black within me and makes me think in whens, not ifs.

  Fuck me!

  I must really be dreaming if I’m thinking fucking shit like this. When did I become such a pussy? Becks will hand my ass to me if he hears me talking shit like this. It can’t be anything more than just needing to be buried in her again. Have her warm body beneath me to sink into. Soft curves. Firm tits. Tight pussy. That’s all it is. I’ll be fixed then. My head will return to where it needs to be. Well, both heads actually. And once satisfied, I’ll be able to focus on something else besides useless shit like feelings and a heart beating that I know is incapable of giving or accepting love.

  It has to be the newness of her that has me feeling like a needy little bitch—so much that I’m dreaming about her specifically, not just the faceless, perfect body that usually frequents my dreams. There’s just something so fucking hot about her that I’m losing my mind. Shit, I actually look forward to the time spent before fucking her as much as I do the time I am fucking her.

  Well, almost.

  Unlike the numerous chicks that throw themselves at me with their overtly sexual ways: tits hanging out, eyes offering me to take them any way I want to, legs spreading at the drop of a dime—and believe me, most of the time I’m fucking game to their willingness. With Rylee though, it’s just been different from the start, from the moment she fell out of that fucking closet and into my life.

  Images flicker through my dreams. That first jolt as she looked up at me with those fucking magnificent eyes of hers. That first taste of her that seared my mind, crept down my spine, grabbed hold of my balls, and told me to not let her leave―that I had to have her at any cost. The image of her ass swaying as she walked away without a backward glance, reeling me in with something I’d never considered sexy before. Defiance.

  Pictures continue to circle. Rylee kneeling down to Zander, trying to coax his damaged soul out of hiding; her sitting on my lap in my favorite t-shirt and panties, straddled over me last night on the patio; showing up at her office, confusion mixed with anger warring across her incredible features from my non-refutable offer; Rylee standing before me in lacy lingerie, offering herself to me, selflessly giving everything to me.

  Wake the fuck up, Donavan. You’re dreaming. Wake up and take what you want. She’s right next to you. Warm. Inviting. Tempting.

  Frustration fills me, wanting her so desperately and not being able to shake this damn dream to take her sexy as sin body as I see fit. Maybe that’s what it is about her. That she doesn’t realize how sexy she actually is. Unlike the countless others before who spent hours staring at and critiquing themselves and their best sides, Rylee has no fucking clue.

  Images of her last night consume me. Looking up at me with violet eyes, her bee-stung bottom lip tugged between her teeth, and her body instinctively responding to me, submitting to me. Her signature scent of vanilla mixed with shampoo. Her addictive taste—sinfully sweet. She’s irresistible and innocent and a vixen all mixed into one tempting, curvaceous package.

  The thought alone makes my dick hard. I just need another fix of her. Can’t get enough. At least until the newness wears off and I move on like usual. There’s no way I’m gonna be pussy-whipped by any one woman. Why get attached to someone that will only leave in the end? To someone who will run the other way when they really know about the truths inside of me, the poison that clings to my soul. Casual is just what I need. The only thing I want.
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  The only thing I’ll allow.

  I feel her hands slither around my abdomen, and I sink into the feeling. Fuck I need this right now. Need her right now. The knowledge that the tight, wet, heat I crave is just within my grasp stirs my dick awake. Sinking into the softness of her body and forgetting all of this shit in my head is just mere moments away. My morning hard-on stiffens further so that it’s almost painful, begging for her touch.

  My body tenses as I realize the arms encircling me aren’t soft or smooth or smelling of vanilla like Rylee’s always are. Shivers of revulsion streak down my spine and turn my stomach. Bile rises and chokes my throat. Stale cigarettes and cheap alcohol permeate the air as it seeps from his pores with his heightened excitement. His paunchy gut presses against my back as his meaty, unforgiving fingers spread across my lower abdomen. I squeeze my eyes shut, the throb of my pounding heartbeat drowning out all sound including my feeble whimpers of protest.

  Spiderman. Batman. Superman. Ironman.

  I’m so hungry, so weak from the lack of food while Mommy has been away on her last trip that I tell myself to not resist. Mommy said that if I’m a good boy and do what I’m told, we’ll both be rewarded—that doing this for her makes her love me; she’ll get her fix of “Mommy feel goods” from him, and I’ll get to have that half eaten apple and plastic wrapped pair of crackers she luckily found somewhere and brought back here. My stomach cramps and mouth waters at the notion of having something in it for the first time in days.

  Spiderman. Batman. Superman. Ironman.

  I just have to be good. I just have to be good.

  I repeat the mantra to myself as his bearded jaw scrapes against my neck from behind. I try to stifle the heaving sensation from my stomach, and despite there being nothing to throw up, my body shudders violently, trying to anyway. The heat of his body against my back—always against my back—makes tears spring in my eyes that I fight to prevent. He groans into my ear—my fear exciting him—as the tears leak through my squeezed eyelids. They trail across my face to fall on my mom’s musty mattress sitting on the floor. I tell myself not to resist as his thickening thing presses against my bottom. I remember all too well what happens when I do that. Resist or not, either option is painful, is a nightmare that results in the same ending―fists before pain or just accepting the pain without the struggle.

  I wonder if there’s pain when you die.

  Spiderman. Batman. Superman. Ironman.

  “I love you, Colty. Do this for Mommy and I’ll love you again, okay? A good little boy does anything for his mommy. Anything. Love means you do things like this. If you really love me and know that I love you, you’ll do this so that Mommy can feel better again. I love you. I know you’re hungry. So am I. I told him you wouldn’t fight this time because you love me.”

  Her pleading voice rings in my ears. I know that no matter how hard I scream, she’ll never open the door to help, despite sitting on the other side of it. I know she can hear my cries—the pain, the terror, the loss of innocence—but the haze of her withdrawal is so strong she doesn’t care. She needs the drugs he’ll give her when he’s done with me. His payment. That’s all she cares about.

  Spiderman. Batman. Superman. Ironman. Spiderman. Batman. Superman. Ironman. I repeat the names of the superheroes, my silent escape from this hell. From the fear that races through my veins, coats my skin with sweat, and fills the air with its unmistakable scent. I repeat the names again. Praying any of these four superheroes will show up and rescue me. To fight evil.

  “Tell me,” he grunts. “Say it or it’ll hurt more until you do.”

  I bite my lip and welcome the metallic taste of my blood as I try to prevent myself from crying out in fear and terror. From giving him what he wants, my screams for the help that I know will never come. He grips me hard. It hurts so bad. I give in and say what he wants to hear.

  “I love you. I love you. I love you…” I repeat over and over, endlessly as his breath picks up from the excitement my words bring him. My fingernails dig into my clenched fists as his hands grope and grab their way down my torso. His rough fingers find the waistband of my threadbare underwear—one of the only pair I have—and I hear them rip under his excited and jerky movements. I suck in my breath, my body shaking violently, knowing what happens next. One hand cups my crotch, squeezing me too hard and hurting me, while I feel his other hand spreading me apart from behind.

  Spiderman. Batman. Superman. Ironman.

  I can’t help it. I’m starving but…it just hurts too much. I buck against him. “No,” gurgles past my chapped lips as I fight hard to escape what happens next. I thrash violently, connecting with some part of him as I spring from the bed and escape momentarily. Fear consumes me, engulfs me as he rises off the stained mattress and comes at me, a determined grimace on his face and desire in his eyes.

  I think I hear my name being called and confusion flickers through my overwhelmed brain. What is she doing here? She has to go. He’ll hurt her too. Oh fuck! Not Rylee too. My frantic thoughts scream for her to run. To get the hell out, but I can’t get the words out. Fear has locked them in my throat.

  “Colton.”

  The horror in my head slowly melds and seeps into the soft morning light of my bedroom. I’m not sure if I can believe my eyes. What is real? I’m thirty-two but I feel like I’m eight. The chilled morning air mingles with the sheen of sweat covering my naked body, but the cold I feel is so deep down in my soul I know that no amount of heat will warm me up. My whole body is taut with the impending assault that it takes a moment for me to believe that he’s not really here.

  I shift my gaze, my pulse thundering through my veins, and lock eyes with Rylee. She is sitting up in my beast of a bed, pale blue sheets pooled around her bare waist and her lips swollen from sleep. I stare at her, hoping this is real but not sure if I believe it. “Oh fuck,” I exhale on a shaky breath, unclenching my hands and bringing them up to rub them over my face to try and wipe away the nightmare. The coarseness of my stubble on my hand is welcome. It tells me I really am here. That I’m an adult and he’s nowhere near.

  That he can’t hurt me again.

  “Fuuuccckkk!” I grit out again, trying to get a hold on the chaos in my head. I drop my hands down to my side. When Rylee moves, my vision comes back into focus. She very slowly reaches her hand up to rub the opposing shoulder, her face grimacing with pain, but her eyes are chock full of concern as they remain focused on me.

  Did I hurt her? Fuckin’ Christ! I hurt her.

  This can’t be real. My nerves are shot. My mind is racing. If this is real, and that’s really Rylee, then why do I still smell him? How come I can still feel the scrape of his beard against my neck? How come I can still hear his grunts of pleasure? Feel the pain?

  “Rylee, I—”

  I swear his taste is still in my mouth? Oh God.

  My stomach revolts at the thought and the memory it conjures up. “Give me a fucking minute.” I can’t get to the bathroom fast enough. I need to rid the taste in my mouth.

  I barely make it to the toilet, stumbling and falling to my knees as I empty the nonexistent contents of my stomach into the bowl. My body shakes violently as I do what I can to expunge every trace of him from my body even if those traces are only in my mind. I slide down to lean back against the tiled wainscot wall, the cool of the marble welcome against my heated skin. My hand trembles as I wipe my mouth with the back of it. I lean my head back, closing my eyes, and try to shove the memories back into hiding to no avail.

  Spiderman. Batman. Superman. Ironman.

  What the hell happened? I haven’t had that dream in over fifteen years. Why now? Why did—oh fuck! Oh fuck! Rylee. Rylee saw that. Rylee was witness to the nightmare that I’ve never confessed to. The nightmare full of things that absolutely no one knows about. Did I say anything? Did she hear something? No, no, no! She can’t find out.

  She can’t be here.

  Shame washes through me and lodges in my throat,
forcing me to breathe deep to prevent from getting sick again. If she knows the things I did—the things he made me do, the things I did without a struggle—then she’ll know what kind of person I am. She’ll know how horrible and dirty and unworthy I am. Why loving somebody, accepting love from somebody is not possible for me. Ever.

  The deep-seated fear that lives just under the surface inside of me—over someone finding out the truth—bubbles up, sputters over the edge.

  Oh fuck, not again. My stomach riots violently, and when I’m finished dry heaving, I flush the toilet and force myself up. I stumble to the sink and with shaking hands squeeze a heaping glob of toothpaste on my toothbrush and scrub my mouth aggressively. I close my eyes, willing the feelings away while trying to remember the feel of Rylee’s hands―instead of any of the numerous women I’ve used unabashedly over the years to try and smother the horror in my mind—to take the memory away.

  To use pleasure to bury the pain.

  “Fuck!” It doesn’t work so I scrub my teeth until I can taste the coppery hint of blood from my gums. I drop my toothbrush with a clatter on the counter and cup some of the water in my hands to splash onto my face. I focus on Rylee’s feet through the mirror’s reflection as she enters the bathroom. I take a deep breath. I can’t let her see me like this. She’s too smart—has too much experience with this kind of shit—and I’m not ready for the skeletons in my closet to be exposed and gone through with a fine-tooth comb.

  I don’t think I’ll ever be.

  I scrub my face with the towel, unsure of what to do. When I drop it, I look up to her. God, she is so incredibly fucking beautiful. She takes my breath away. Bare legs sticking out beneath my rumpled t-shirt, smudged eyeliner, hair tangled from sleep, and a crease in her cheek from the pillow do nothing to lessen her attraction. For some reason, it almost heightens it. Makes her seem so innocent, so untouchable. I don’t deserve her. She is so much more than someone like me is worthy of. She’s just too close right now, closer than I’ve ever let anyone get. And it terrifies me. I’ve never let someone this far in because that means secrets are shared and pasts are discovered.