The Mute and the Menace

by A. R. Breck

  Logan.

  My heart clenches, and I want nothing more than to curl into myself and let out the agonizing groan wanting to break free.

  Unfortunately, I don't have the time for that. Jackson's blood dripping hasn't stopped, and I'm worried it might need stitches.

  It must not hurt that bad though, considering he isn't even flinching or paying attention to the fast falling blood in the slightest.

  "Jackson." No response. "Jackson! You're bleeding." He sets down the empty bottle and looks over at me, confused. I point at his arm, and when he looks down, he furrows his brow at the blood smeared on his skin.

  "What happened?" When I look around, I see the block of knives spilt at his feet. He must have knocked it over when he was reaching for the bottle and cut himself in the process.

  But, seriously? How do you cut yourself and not even realize it?

  "Are you going to say anything?" My eyes feel like they're going to bug out of my head. I realize he doesn't like talking in front of people, but come on, it’s just me!

  He narrows his eyes at me but doesn't say anything.

  When I can start to smell the blood in the air, I swallow down a groan and walk up to him. "Where's your bathroom? You need to get cleaned up before you bleed out all over your kitchen."

  I feel like, realistically, I should be too drunk to be doing this, but dealing with this man-child has made me sober up, otherwise I know I'd be almost as incoherent as he is.

  The moment I grip his forearm, his entire body stiffens up. He doesn't move away from me, but the look in his eyes could kill. He doesn't like to be touched, that much is clear.

  But why not?

  I suddenly realize that I don't know a thing about Jackson. I don't know where he grew up, I don't know what he likes. I have no idea how this guy grew up.

  All I do know is his dad is scary, his mom is a druggie, and he's a mute.

  Who are you, Jackson?

  I don't look at him as I pull him into the bathroom, because my face suddenly feels hot and I'm not sure why. I don't want him to know the weird feelings lighting me up on the inside. How is that even possible when your soul is dead?

  When we get into the bathroom, I switch on the light and flinch as I try to adjust to the obnoxious white glare. The bathroom is so small that you can barely sit on the toilet unless you close the door. Directly in front of it is the sink, and off to the side is the bath/shower combo that looks like Jackson would never be able to fit into. The shower head reaches the top of my head, and I'm a little over five feet. How in the hell Jackson can squeeze down for it to reach the top of his head is beyond me.

  "Okay." I shove him up against the sink, looking for the source of the bleeding. "Shit, what the hell happened?" I don't look up at him, since I'm not really expecting an answer.

  There's about a two-inch cut along the inside of his forearm, not too deep where it needs stitches, but it needs to be wrapped so it doesn't get infected. "Do you have like, uh, first aid kit or something?"

  He nods his head towards the bathroom mirror. I go over and push on it, and it makes a click and opens up, revealing an array of prescriptions and medical supplies. I peek at Jackson out of the corner of my eye, but he's looking at the wall in front of him, cheeks clenching repeatedly, and a thick line has formed between his eyes.

  He also looks like he's sobered up, but it hasn't done much for him in the talking department.

  "I don't know much about cuts, but it doesn't look like it needs stitches to me. I'm just going to clean it up and put a bandage on it. Okay?" I finally look up at him and almost fall back to see him staring at me right in the eyes.

  His blue-green eyes swirl with so many emotions it's hard to pick which one is the most dominant. His nostrils flare, like he can barely stand to be in such small quarters with another human.

  Is it another human, or is it just me?

  I break eye contact first, because holy shit and what the fuck. I can't even begin to weed through what's going on right now. All I know is, I need to clean him up and get the hell out of here. If not…

  No. Absolutely not. My stomach jumps at the thought of anything remotely inappropriate happening here, at all. With Jackson, no less.

  Maybe I am still hammered.

  I get to work, grabbing the bandages, some antibiotic ointment and a few other things. I work silently, the only thing heard between us is our breathing and the occasional clatter of supplies. As I work, I can feel his eyes on the top of my head as he watches my every movement. Its nerve wrecking, and it makes me self-conscious that I'm going to do something wrong. But more than that, my body temperature starts rising, and I'm not sure if it’s from the tension in the room or if it's literally so small, the both of us being in here kicked up the temperature a few degrees.

  "There. Finished." I want to drop the shit and run out of here, but I don't want him to know how much he's affected me from just a few minutes of being together. How embarrassing would that be? And I'm sure he'd think I'm a horrible person for doing that to Logan, and then shit would be super awkward between us.

  Yeah, no. I'll suffer a little bit longer.

  I start putting the stuff back quietly and avoid his heavy stare. I can feel him still looking at me, and I don't know what he's thinking. I might have sobered up a bit, but I still feel very much intoxicated, and this last hour is confusing the fuck out of me.

  Once everything is back in their proper spots, I close the mirror and look over at Jackson. "Yuck, this shirt needs to go in the garbage." I wrinkle my nose up at it. The blood has dripped down most of the right side. It's not a lot, but the shirt is probably stained and it's making it still smell like blood in here. "Give it to me. I'll throw it out on my way home."

  He doesn't move. That, combined with him not saying one thing to me all night is really getting on my nerves. "Jackson! Take the fucking shirt off. What's wrong with you?"

  I know. I'm a bitch. I don't need to be so rude, but when I get uncomfortable, I lash out.

  He snarls at me and grabs his shirt behind his head and whips it over his head so fast I barely have time to blink. He tosses his shirt at me, and it lands on my face. Luckily, it’s the clean side. Instantly, I'm filled with the scent of Jackson. Not something I've ever really smelt before. It's a mixture of man and smoke. Jackson isn't the type of guy I could see spritzing himself with cologne. No, he's natural.

  And his natural surprisingly smells good.

  I frown at myself, upset for even thinking these thoughts. This is Jackson, Logan's best friend. Ugh, I'm terrible.

  Thankfully, none of the bloody parts of the shirt got on me. As I peel his shirt off my face, I'm about to ream into him about throwing shit at me when I see a glimpse of his back.

  Only a glimpse, but it was way too much.

  I gasp. In shock. In horror. In anger. "Jackson! What happened to your back?" What looks to be like scars litter just the top corner of his back. I grab him by the shoulder and pull him around, revealing his entire back. My hand flies to my mouth as I gasp again. "Jackson! Oh my God!"

  Scars. So many scars draw a picture along his back. Some a larger than others, and some were obviously deeper than others, but it doesn’t matter. Because they are all terrible.

  And from the looks of it, they look like… “Are those cigarette burns?” My eyes feel like they’re about to fall out of my head, and I don’t know whether to be angry or start sobbing for Jackson. Whatever happened to him, whatever he’s been through, I’ve never seen anything like it. I didn’t know this type of horror was even possible.

  Jackson whips around, only giving me a few seconds to see his back before his face blocks my entire vision. He growls, getting so close to me that I can feel his breath fan across my face.

  “What happened to you?” I whisper, tears of sorrow filling up my eyes. This poor guy. I know he’s never done anything to deserve that type of pain and torture. “Who did this to you?” Was it his dad? My blood boils at the thought. I�
�ve only ever shown him respect. The thought that he’s hurt his son like that makes me want to spit in his face.

  Jackson doesn’t respond to me, only gets closer and his breathing picks up to an uneven pace.

  “Jackson, what are you doing?” My tears dry up and apprehension takes its place. The look in his eyes is not something I’ve seen from him before. He looks furious. But beneath that furiousness is another emotion. Something that is almost… aroused?

  What? No.

  He reaches up and places his hand on each side of my head, up against the wall. I swallow down my nerves, hating the way my body starts to heat up from the smell of Jackson and my stupid, intoxicated hormones.

  That’s it. Blame it on the alcohol.

  “Why won’t you talk to me?” I whisper, barely moving my lips as I look up at him in the eyes. This is so bad. I know it’s wrong, and evil, but morals fly out the window as I stand here in this small bathroom.

  As I stand here with this lonely, broken man who hides in the back because he doesn’t want to be seen.

  I see him. Right now, I see him.

  He moves one of his hands and places his pointer finger over my lips, essentially telling me to shut the hell up. That’s kind of hard, because I’m, well, me.

  Instead, I press the acceleration on what I already know is about to happen. There’s no stopping it, and I need to do something before guilt starts creeping up on me.

  I slip around in the little cocoon he’s made around me, ending up facing the wall and my ass digging into his waist.

  “Do it. I know you want to.” I whisper. He wraps one hand around my mouth to shut me up and growls in my ear.

  I push my butt even further into him, feeling wanton and out of control. I don’t know what’s come over me. But these feelings of grief, intoxication, sadness, and loneliness has left me feeling unbearably needy and all I want for one moment is to forget and just be wanted. I don’t want to feel this emptiness in me any longer, and the feeling is so overwhelming it feels like it’s about to claw its way out of my throat.

  I nudge his hand away from my mouth and once more say, “Do it.” This time my tone is more firm. More sure. I know this isn’t right, but right and wrong at this point aren’t even in the same dimension. The only thing I care about is the here and now. And right now? Right now, Jackson stands with his hard-on nudging into my back and I need it more than I need my next breath.

  Jackson growls again and slaps his hand back over my mouth. This time, my words pushed him over the edge. He grabs my dress and hauls it up over my waist and pulls down my underwear in one quick go. I hear a clank of a belt loosening behind me, and in the next second the pressure of Jackson’s rock-hard cock entering me. No foreplay, no warning, just a hard shove of his cock inside my soaking channel. Nothing could have prepared me for the sensation of Jackson fucking me. Never in a million years did I think it would happen.

  He slides his hand from my mouth down to my neck, increasing pressure there. My eyes go wide. I can tell from the squeeze around my neck that he’s angry. So, very angry. I try to lift my head up to say something to him, but he uses his hand that’s not around my neck, places it behind my head, and pushes my head down away from him.

  Like he can’t bear the thought of having intercourse with me. With me.

  That’s fine, because I can barely stand to think that I’m currently having sex with Logan’s best friend.

  I push all those thoughts out of my mind as my head is shoved forward and I’m rammed into from behind. It feels so good, to forget my shit life for just one moment. To let myself be taken advantage of the way I want it to happen. To finally—for just one moment—feel like I’m in charge of my life.

  Behind me, Jackson doesn’t relent as he chases his own release. From the emotions in the room, it seems like he is also finally letting go. Alone we suffered in torment, but together we’re free.

  At least for a moment.

  The bathroom starts to get sticky warm, almost uncomfortable from our heavy breathing and slapping skin.

  I let out a strangled moan, like my mind doesn’t want to be feeling the pleasure but my body isn’t giving it any other choice.

  Jackson knows what the hell he’s doing.

  All too soon, I feel the tingling in my toes. I can feel the electricity rise through my legs and take over my entire body. I let out a cry in pain or pleasure, I’m not sure. The need to keep this ecstasy going is addicting, but my guilty conscious knows I’m going to pay for it later.

  I ride on my high for many minutes, listening as Jackson finds his own release behind me a second later. He only lets out a small grunt, almost like he swallows down his pleasure and doesn’t fully give into it.

  Once his breathing slows, he releases my neck and steps away from me. I keep my head bowed and pushed into the wall, feeling confused, and scared, and guilty. But inside small part of me, I feel good, and turned on, and free. I know these feelings are only going to last seconds, but these are seconds that I'm going to bask in until the very last moment.

  I hear silence behind me, louder than it’s ever been before. When enough seconds have past to the point where I can't have my head digging into a wall any longer, I get up, brace myself, and turn around to face Jackson.

  He stands there, silent as always with a blank look on his face. I'm still hot all over. The guilt I thought would immediately press on my conscious is still only flitting in the background. Good, I hope she stays there.

  Jackson and I stare at each other for seconds, maybe even minutes. I'm not sure what he's thinking, because his face is always closed off to the world.

  What I'm thinking is, I don't want this feeling of weightlessness to end. I feel good right now, and I’m worried what I'll feel like once my sanity collides with reality.

  One more glance at Jackson and he whips his hand out, gripping my wrist and pulling me the five steps into his room. He kicks the door shut with his foot, grabbing me so tightly it nearly hurts. His hand grips my waist while his other reaches to the back of my neck and grabs a fistful of hair, pulling me until I'm only a breath away from his mouth. I could so easily kiss him if I wanted. How simple it would be to press my lips to his and melt even further into this madness that's taken over.

  No one would ever stop me.

  I know Jackson sure wouldn't. He's fallen as quickly into this dark hole that I have. He doesn't look guilty, nor does he look like he wants to push me away. He just looks… blank, with a tiny fire lit behind his irises.

  It's startling, and arousing, and something I'm not ready to look away from.

  He pulls me even closer. So close that I shut my eyes and prepare for lips I never thought I'd touch. I feel his breath fan across my face and his eyelashes whisper on my cheeks. I pucker my lips, neediness filling me to the brim.

  Suddenly, I'm whipped around and my body is shoved into the bed. I barely have time to assess his dark room as my head is shoved into his black comforter. Ass up in the air, Jackson sticks his fingers inside of me, grunting when he finds wet heat. I mewl at the sensation, wanting more.

  More, more, more.

  More of what?

  More Jackson, maybe. Or maybe Jackson is just a temporary drug that I'm using until I can breathe again.

  He pulls his fingers out, and I cry out in pain at the loss, but he instantly replaces his fingers with his cock. Slowly this time, I feel every single inch of him as he slides into the hilt. I bite my tongue to stop the moan that wants to break free. If these walls are anything like my own, they're paper thin and any and every neighbor can hear us on the block.

  He grabs ahold of my hair, wrapping it around his hand like a rein as he picks up his pace, slamming into me so hard that I feel him in my lungs. It's like he's angry and trying to fuck the guilt and pain out of himself.

  He reaches around, sliding his long, strong fingers in between my slit and instantly finds my clit. My knees buckle, but Jackson releases my hip with his free hand and swings i
t under my stomach, holding me up as he continues to pummel into me at a brutal pace.

  My toes curl as my stomach heats. I'm afraid to let this orgasm take hold. I'm afraid it's going to swallow me up. I'm like a rag doll at this point, loose limbs held up by Jackson's strong ones. All I can do is whimper and let out tiny moans as I'm ravaged and taken to heights I've never been before.

  Darkness enters the corners of my sight, and the warm, tingling sensation I'm all too familiar with takes over my body. My body gives out again, and this time, Jackson lets me fall to his bed. Pressing his fists into the comforter on either side of me, he pounds into me only a few more times before letting out a low growl as he finds his own release.

  I feel him slide out of me and fall on the bed next to me. I open my eyes, my foggy vision only slightly clearing enough for me to see darkness. His room, filled with dark furniture, decorates his dark walls. His mattress sits in the middle of the room, and directly above it sits a tiny light fixture, not nearly enough strength in it to brighten up this dungeon of a room.

  That's it.

  No decorations, no color, no light. It's like a jail cell in here. It's depressing.

  My eyes fill with tears as I think of Jackson laying here each night in the dark, empty room filled with no personal memorabilia, no tv, not even a fucking clock. Bed, dresser, nightstand. Black, black, black. This room is a black hole of depression. I cry silently into the pillow as Jackson's breath evens out next to me. I know I'm not only crying for Jackson. I'm crying for everything that's happened lately. My emotions are spiraling out of control.

  I can't take it anymore.

  I close my eyes and try to swallow down my cries, but my eyes keep flowing tear after never ending tear. The pillow turns soggy, but eventually sleep starts to creep in on me, and I'm grateful when it comes so I don't have to think about my shit of a life for a while.