by Beck, J. L.
Skimming his hand down my back, he enters me with one hard thrust and tears through my virginity with ease. He buries himself deep inside of me until his heavy balls press against my ass. Pain rips through me, and I whimper into the pillow, my hands clawing at the cushion as if it could save me from him. I feel like I’m being ripped in two, my insides shredded. Tears prick at my eyes, and I bite my lip to stop myself from screaming.
“Fuck, you feel good,” Jackson grunts behind me, his hands on my hips as he plows into me over and over again.
His strokes are hard, powerful, and they hurt, fuck do they hurt, but beneath the pain is a sliver of pleasure. It sneaks in between each stroke like a thief in the night, and I want both, need both. Feeling impossibly full, I hold on for dear life as he fucks me with primal, raw rage. He’s trying to imprint his hate on me, and I feel it. Feel every fucking lash as if he’s beating me, the belt hitting my skin, and leaving a mark behind.
Fingers dig painfully into my hips, and I know there will be bruises by the time we’re done. Heat blooms deep in my stomach, and slowly I loosen up, opening like a flower in full bloom. Jackson’s balls slap against my clit with each punishing stroke, and it’s enough friction to leave me panting, leave me craving more.
“I hate you,” Jackson growls, releasing my hips, and moving a hand into my hair. He grabs a fistful of hair and tugs my head back, making my neck ache with the angle. My scalp burns, and for a moment, I am catapulted back to that night, the feeling too familiar.
No, no… I don’t want to think about that. Not now, not ever. This is Jackson, not him… I wanted this, asked for it. I force the ugly memories away and concentrate on the here and now. On Jackson. I can smell him all around me, his citrus scent. I am here. Not there.
He releases his hold on my hair, and I let my head fall back down, face-first into the couch cushion. He grabs the back of my neck tightly, so tight it hurts, but it also brings me intense pleasure as he fucks me with every ounce of hate he has.
“I hate you so much. Why did you have to do it? Why? We could’ve been more than this… I could’ve…” His words cut off, but the animalistic tone of them pushes me closer to the edge, and the pleasure trickles in slowly, building at the base of my spine.
“Please,” I beg unsure of what I’m actually asking him to do.
“You want to come? Come on my cock? You think you deserve that?”
“No. Yes. Please,” I gasp into the cushion. My lungs are burning, my entire body is a giant knot of pleasure building up to the breaking point. I can feel my juices dripping down my thighs. I want this. Need it so badly, I might die if I don’t get to come.
“Lucky for you, I really want to feel your pussy strangle my cock.” I can practically see the sinister smile on his lips as he swivels his hips, hitting a spot deep inside of me. It’s like being struck by lightning, every hair on your body stands on end, and you wonder if your heart might stop beating for one second.
“I…” Words try to escape me, but nothing comes out. My entire body tightens, my pussy clamps down on his cock so tightly I’m surprised he can still move inside of me.
Light forms behind my now closed eyes, and my entire body shakes as an orgasm rips through me, stealing the breath from my lungs. The pleasure is so intense, all I can do is sag against the sofa while Jackson uses my body. Aftershocks of pleasure tingle down my spine.
“Jesus, I’m coming,” Jackson warns as he explodes deep inside of me, his sticky warm release painting the inside of my womb. I wish I could see his face, see the pleasure overtake him, but we aren’t lovers, we aren’t even friends. We’re enemies, two broken souls floating through life, the results of a complete and utter tragedy. I knew what he was going to say to me a little bit ago, that he could’ve loved me, but that was the problem here, wasn’t it?
He could’ve loved me. He just never did. Part of me knows that if he was there that night, Jillian would still be here. I wouldn’t be broken, and neither would he. If only he would’ve loved me then, maybe things would’ve been different.
Something inside my chest fractures, and suddenly I’m overwhelmed with guilt and shame. The pleasure can only fog your brain for so long before reality comes crashing back through. This never should’ve happened. I know before he even pulls out that this was a mistake. Doing this with him has only complicated things further. I should be running away from him, not letting him fuck me on his couch. Tears start to form in my eyes, and bile rises up in my throat. I need to get out of here, leave, run away as far as I can, and never look back.
11
Jackson
My body is flooded with endorphins, floating on a cloud as I pull out of her. I don’t think I’ve ever come so hard in my life. I’m literally weak in my knees as I take a step back and look at Kennedy, still bent over the couch. With her perfectly shaped ass jutting out and her warm, wet pussy nestled between those creamy thighs, she is a sight to be seen. I could get used to seeing her like this. When I notice my come leaking out of her, my cock roars back to life.
Shit, I could fuck her again already. Looking down at my cock, I’m about to grab the iron rod when I notice something else. Mixed in with the glistening wetness of her arousal is… blood. It’s not much, almost as if she was…
“Fucking Christ, were you a virgin?” My question gets her moving, but she doesn’t answer right away. She pushes herself up from the couch and pulls up her panties and yoga pants frantically. Only when she is dressed, does she turn around. Her hair is a tousled mess, her cheeks a soft pink, and her eyes are filled with tears. She’s looked thoroughly fucked and sedated. If it wasn’t for the fucking tears in her eyes, I would say she looks pretty happy about it too.
“Does it matter?” Her question catches me off guard. Does it? Fuck, I don’t know. It shouldn’t, but I don’t know how to feel about this. I just didn’t expect her to be. She is nineteen for fuck’s sake. Who stays untouched for that long nowadays? What the hell was she waiting for? Marriage? Prince charming? Well, she got neither.
“Yes, it mattered. If I had known, I would have turned you around, so I could see the pain in your face when I took this part from you.”
For the first time since we started this game of hate and revenge, I see something that looks a little like anger in her hazel eyes.
“Fuck you, Jackson,” she grits through her teeth.
Gesturing to my cock, I snicker. “Looks like you were the one that got fucked, so get your shit and get the fuck out.” Tugging my shorts back up, I watch as she winces when she moves.
God, I’m an asshole. This takes the cake on all the shitty things I’ve done to her so far, but I know worse will come. I’m not done making her life miserable, not by a long shot.
She leaves my house, and though I don’t look at her face, I know there are tears in her eyes. I can hear her sniffling, trying to hold back the sobs that will wreck her the second she walks out the door. If I had a heart, I might’ve cared. I might’ve called an Uber for her, so she didn’t have to walk across campus. I might’ve done a lot of things, but she knew the score when she came here. She knew what would happen, and I can’t feel sorry for someone who walks into something expecting a different outcome. I didn’t promise her shit. Didn’t even ask for sex. I asked for a blow job. Well, maybe not asked, more like demanded. She offered sex up herself, so the only person she has to blame is herself.
When I hear the front door close with a soft click, I get up from the couch and lock the deadbolt, then I head to the bathroom for a shower. My entire body is one massive ache, and as I turn the shower on and step under the stream of water, a terrible feeling overcomes me.
My stomach churns and tightens, and I feel like such a fucking dick. Hating Kennedy is my life now. I’m consumed with my need for revenge. She took the only other person besides herself that mattered to me. She killed my twin. Hating her is the nicest thing I can possibly do.
Washing my body, I’m overwhelmed by the fact that even if I d
on’t want to admit it to myself, I still care. It’s why I didn’t push her into traffic that day, why I couldn’t actually go through with forcing her to give me a blow job.
Clenching my fist, I lash out at the tiled wall with rage. My teeth grind together, and I hate myself a little more for not being able to fully hate her, for there being a morsel of care beneath it all. Why? I just want to hate her, to forget that she ever mattered to me, and yet every time I look at her, I see the little girl who hugged my sister on the first day of kindergarten. I see my sister’s best friend hugging her. I see someone that should’ve protected her, instead of harming her, and maybe that’s half the problem. I never should’ve expected that from Kennedy.
Punching the tile a couple more times, my knuckles are a meaty mess as I get out of the shower. Blood drips all over the pristine white tile, but I don’t give a fuck. Drying off, I walk into my bedroom and pull on a pair of shorts. As soon as I step out into the hall, I hear a knock at the door. Gritting my teeth, I stop at the front door. I swear to god if it’s Kennedy, she is going to wish she didn’t show back up here.
My patience to deal with her is non-existent at this point, and though I don’t want to physically hurt her, I’m toeing the line between right and wrong at this point. Unlocking the deadbolt, I tug the door open, a barrage of words cling to the roof of my mouth when I find it isn’t Kennedy at all, but Talon.
“Hey, fuckface, got out of there fast enough,” he says, shoving into my apartment. Fucker wants to get punched in the face, doesn’t he?
“What the fuck do you want?” I whirl around to face him, slamming the front door since I already know he isn’t going to be leaving right away. I’m not really in the mood for company tonight. I’d rather drink myself to death at this point.
“Is that any way to greet the person who comes with twenty-five thousand dollars in his pocket for you?”
My face deadpans. “Just give me the money, jackass. I’m not in the mood for company tonight.”
Talon wiggles his eyebrows at me. “Oh, really? Is that why you ran out of the pit and to that chick? I saw her walking down the street on the way over here. Did you fuck her?” I don’t say anything, mainly because there isn’t anything to say. I don’t have to tell him who I fuck and don’t fuck. Does he think he’s my dad or something? Agitated, I roll my shoulders. It feels like I’m being interrogated.
“I’m going to take your silence as a yes since you aren’t denying it.” He smirks. “Did you at least make it hurt? She deserves some pain after the story you told me. Hell, you should’ve kept her here, maybe I could’ve fucked her too. Made sure she got the point.”
I don’t understand my reaction to what he’s said, but I pounce, grabbing him by the front of his shirt. “Don’t fucking touch her! She’s mine. Do you hear me? Don’t touch her. Don’t look at her. Nothing.”
“Jesus, dude.” Talon tries to push me off, but my grip on him is too tight. I’m tempted to rearrange his face, but I hold back. I’ve hurt enough people tonight. “I heard you loud and clear. Don’t touch the blonde. I got it.”
I release him with a shove, and he stumbles back. The shock over my outburst is written all over his face, and I don’t want to see it. I’m ashamed to be feeling this way. I hate Kennedy, fucking hate her so much, it’s all I can feel sometimes, but every once in a while there is something else, something deeper. It comes out of nowhere and makes me think twice about what I’m doing to her.
“You okay, man? You’re acting weird,” Talon says, pushing me to my limits. His voice is a saw cutting through me. I want to flatten him.
“I’m fine. Now get the fuck out of here before I beat the fuck out of you. I want to be alone,” I yell at him, pointing to the door. He backpedals, his entire face ashen now. I can’t imagine how I look at this point. Like a beast that’s ready to explode.
Slamming down onto the couch, I take my head into my hands and listen for the door to close. When it slams shut, I shove up from the couch. Her fucking scent is all around me. It’s in my head, under my skin. I hate her. I fucking hate her. There is no room for anything else inside of me. Walking into the kitchen, I grab the bottle of bourbon off the top of the fridge, twist the cap off, and bring it to my lips.
My muscles quake as I tip the bottle back and let the liquor pool inside my mouth before swallowing it down. It burns a path of fire deep into my belly, warming the coldness inside my chest. Tears prick my eyes as I sag to the floor and continue drinking.
“Why the fuck did you do this to me, Jillian?” I scream into the empty space.
It’s not her fault she died. It’s not her fault that she got into the car that night. It’s mine. It’s Kennedy’s but never hers. She didn’t deserve to die. I drink some more, letting the brown liquid cloud my mind, but nothing can truly make me forget. This is a temporary fix. Tomorrow, I’ll wake up and be reminded of it all over again. Such a vicious fucking cycle.
“I hate her so much, Jill. I hate her, and I don’t want to care, but a part of me does, and it feels like a betrayal. She killed you, took you from me…” I sob, feeling the loss of my sister for the first time. I never cried at her funeral. I couldn’t. I needed to be strong. For my parents, for myself. Plus, crying wouldn’t fix anything, wouldn’t bring her back, but not allowing myself to mourn—my best friend, my twin, my other half—only made the emotions I was feeling ten times worse. I held it all in, thinking I could swallow it down, but all it did was swallow me. I was drowning, and there wasn’t a lifeboat in sight.
Sighing, I down the rest of the liquid, and when it’s empty, I toss the bottle at the wall, watching as the glass fractures, flying in a million directions. I’m not sure how many shards of glass the bottle has become, but I imagine that’s what my heart looks like now.
It’ll never be whole again.
Feeling the unbearable rage building inside me again, I want to hurt someone, but like always, there is no one here to hurt but myself. Needing to unleash the pain, I rear my hand back and punch the wall. One hit isn’t enough, and neither is two.
I clobber the wall like it’s the pain I face every day. I beat my fists into the drywall until I’m sure someone is going to call the cops, until my knuckles are bloody, and there is nothing left inside me. No anger, no sadness, just a numb feeling that washes over me, taking all the good and bad with it. Tonight I realized something… Kennedy might have been the one to kill my sister, but I helped. I helped put her in the ground. I’m to blame too. Sagging against the floor, I close my eyes and hope that I never wake up, that the nightmares become my reality.
12
Kennedy
It’s been a week, and I still feel used. Like I whored myself out. I don’t want to see Jackson again or think about what we did. It was wrong. We shouldn’t have gotten pleasure from each other’s pain, but somehow, we did. Immersing myself in classes, I focus on schoolwork and nothing else. I pick up a bunch of extra credit and toss myself headfirst into the work.
It’s the only thing I can do to stop myself from thinking about him. Any time that my mind starts to wander, it’s to him. I think about how angry he was and how he felt inside of me as our bodies became one. Thank god, I haven’t seen him since that night. I’m not sure what I would do, or even say if I did.
As I rush from the library–with three books for my extra credit project in hand–I nearly collide with another person. Looking up from the ground, I prepare myself to apologize, only to realize that I know the person I just ran into.
“Oh, hey!” the girl says. I rack my brain, trying to remember her name.
“Hey,” I mumble back, noticing that we aren’t alone. There are two men with her, hovering around her like protective animals. Both are brooding and dark, with a possessiveness in their gaze. Is she with both of them? Are they her friends? I shake the thoughts away before they can take root. I don’t care. I’m not interested, at least not really.
“Remember me? I’m Stella.” She smiles, and her ey
es twinkle with excitement. She’s way too eager to make friends.
“Uh, yeah…” I press my lips together. I don’t really want to do this. Not today, or tomorrow, or ever really. I don’t need or want friends, but for some reason, I can’t bring myself to tell that to this girl.
“It’s funny that we meet again. Maybe we can go get a coffee or something? Or even have a glass of wine sometime?”
All I can do is shake my head and backpedal. “I… I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
One of the guys she’s with places his hand on her shoulder and gently pulls her toward him. “Let’s go, Stella. She doesn’t want to make friends, no matter how adamant you are.” The smile he gives her is one of love and admiration, and I’m only a little jealous. A frown appears on Stella’s face as she brushes some blonde hair from her eyes.
I feel bad, like someone kicked me in the stomach, but I still turn around and rush back to my apartment. I’m halfway to my complex when I realize the streets and quad are much fuller than usual.
“I can’t wait to show you my dorm and the library. You’re going to love it, Mom,” a girl exclaims as she walks past me, a middle-aged couple following behind her.
Oh, god. Pressing a hand to my forehead, I can already feel the onset of a migraine. I continue down the sidewalk, and that is when my reality becomes a nightmare because of all the things I could forget, family weekend definitely shouldn’t have been one of them.
“Kennedy!” my mother squeals as she runs down the sidewalk, wrapping her arms around me. “We called, but it went straight to voicemail. I wasn’t sure if you still wanted us to come, but since we hadn’t seen you in a while, I figured it would be nice to make the trip,” she says as she pulls back. I gaze at my father over her shoulder. He hasn’t moved an inch and doesn’t look like he’s happy to be here either.