by Amy J. Heart
His eyebrows twist. Maybe in shock. Or sympathy.
I throw back the rest of my beer and get to my woozy feet again. “Where’s the bathroom?”
“How about a shower before you crash? Might help you sleep better if you feel a little less funky.”
A shower. It’s been a while. “You mean smell less funky.”
“You said it, man. Come with me. Wait till you get a load of the six head shower contraption. It’s fucking insane.”
FIVE
ANGELO IS RIGHT. The shower is fifty shades of fucking insane, the bathroom itself unearthly. I’m talking about a massive plunge pool set deep into a stepped stone platform, the scale and design fit for the king of the underworld.
The walls are metallic mosaic tiles of blue, green, and orange. Spooky lights shimmer through a huge round window like the damn thing is a portal to another universe. It probably just looks out over the bay. It’s cool, though.
My head turns and turns as I take it all in. Okay, guess that crazy-ass looking alcove is the shower. Or a solarium. Or a teleportation device.
I strip off and fumble with knobs until I find the right lever. Water jets from fucking everywhere as I yank it. Then I step into the flow. Oh. Fucking. Hell. That’s damn good. Light sparks off my wet skin while I gawk at the lavish surrounds, still unable to believe my change of luck.
This whole scene is surreal—just like that girl.
Water pummels me, the heat almost too much. It’s shooting from no less than six different shiny heads that stick out from the walls. I’ve never felt anything so satisfying in my life.
Speaking of shiny heads and satisfaction…
I glance down at the one on the end of my hard dick. Jesus. Why did I allow myself to think of black-dress girl? If I obsess about her, I’ll only end up feeling as sad and lonely as she looks.
In addition, empty, lost. And worthless.
But is she really sad and lonely?
And am I worthless?
Truth is, I probably won’t lay eyes on her again and I’ll never learn a thing about her. That’s for the best. Because what would she want with a dirtbag like me, anyway?
I pump herbal smelling gel out of a ceramic bottle and soap up my chest. My dick pulses. I need to jerk off, get some relief, but with my legs this weak, I’ll probably pass out when I come.
I wash every millimeter of skin until I smell like a flower farm—well not quite everywhere—I’ve saved the best bit for last. I should be able to stay upright as long as I don’t let myself get off completely.
Head pressing back against the tiles and water gushing over my face, I slide my hand down my stomach. My heart pounds as I picture her, the curve of her hips, her dark eyes sifting through the shadows where I lurked. I give my cock a slow, torturous pump.
Then another.
It’s hard to breathe.
Holding my base tightly, a groan vibrates through my chest. Blood throbs past my fingers, the veins of my dick pulsing. I’m so ready to sink into warm, wet, heat. That girl’s body.
My legs shake as I start to get into it, using my other hand to bring my balls into the game. Fuck. I think I’m losing control, and my plan to stay conscious in this stupidly princely bathroom is evaporating with the steam. I’ll hit the stone floor hard any minute. Hope I don’t break anything.
Who cares. What would it be like to suck on sad-girl’s lips? Those magnificent tits?
My breath comes in harsh pants, and I keep pumping, wondering what the girl smells like. Feels like. Then my leg muscles lock, my head spins, and I freeze. Not gonna swoon like some weakling loser. No way.
I picture her smile, the one she gave Cooper, and my hands drop to my thighs. Fucking Cooper. He’s a buzz kill. I cradle my skull in my palm, fingernails digging in hard.
Thank Christ I thought of Cooper, because I am seriously close to passing out.
The lever that shuts down the deluge of water squeaks when I flick it. Then I dry off with a velvety towel, dick still leaping in pathetic pleas for attention. What a dumbass it is. I need to be on my back before I can attempt to deal with it—in bed where there’s nowhere left to fall.
When my hair has stopped dripping, I take my raging erection back to the living room where Angelo has laid out a fluffy white duvet and a pillow. Fuck! A real-life pillow.
I scratch my head, calculating when I last used one of those foreign items—definitely another lifetime ago—and stare around the empty room, the luxury trappings taunting me with their exoticness.
This is a fantasy world.
When I open my eyes later, will I be hogtied and drugged and possibly have a knife sticking out of my gut? Who gives a fuck. That probably isn’t gonna happen. But if it does, as least I’ll be warm and hopefully unconscious while I wait.
Better lie down, then. I don’t. Instead, I gaze at the cloud-soft covers for a while. What am I afraid of? That I’ll be too comfortable? Or that I’ll wake from this dream and be laid out next to the old railway, smelling like gutter water as usual?
I am officially a chickenshit.
Right, I’m just gonna get in.
The crisp cotton crinkles as I fold back the duvet thing and slip underneath.
Fuck, yeah.
Stretching my aching body, I huddle down, groaning like a wild creature in a trap. If this is death, then it’s gonna be a very blissful time cocooned here waiting for the end. Pretty soon I’ll be as hot as a furnace. Probably in more ways than one. Bring it on.
I pull the covers up to my neck. They smell like lemons. Ah, goddamn it, the standing lamp next to the fireplace is still blazing. That’s okay—that fucker can stay burning. Then it might shine some light on the pretty rasta-dude when he comes for me with a kitchen knife, granting me some warning. Fuck. See how I can’t let go of the idea?
Even with the amber lamp glowing, the dark still slithers toward me from the corners of the room. And I wait, feeling shut up, locked in, defenseless.
Ah, just go to sleep idiot. I should be used to this feeling. After all, ever since Mom died—it’s how I grew up.
Always waiting in the dark. Shivering and shaking, fighting back nausea. Always wondering. Will it happen tonight? Is he coming for me again? Night after fucking night.
That voice from the past starts to whisper and snarl. I smack my fist into my temple hard, and I push the hated sound down deep. Nope. Nope. Nope. I won’t let it wreck my first comfortable sleep in forever. Not fucking here. And not now.
Because, tonight I want to feel good. I’m gonna treat myself and for once let the lust simmering through my veins go all wild-fire and burn itself out.
Normally, being turned on brings bad, bad, feelings. Shame and hate. Disgust. Can’t say I like it much. So, whenever I get myself off, I don’t see any girl in particular. There’s no whole person I’m getting into. It’s just a hot-mess mix of imaginary body parts. Silky slopes and wet crevices—fashioned into how I guess the secret parts of a girl’s body might look and feel.
Just like the havoc I unleash on the fuckwits in the park, I make sure it’s quick, always get it over with fast. Because I’m Lightning Boy, right? Like Angelo said.
I don’t dig the head space I get lost in when I’m train-wrecking toward the big-O station. Nope, I fucking hate it. The weakness. Disappearing into nothingness. It ain’t safe. Not for me, anyway.
But, now, palm drifting down my hot skin, I think of the sad-eyed girl and let flames lick through my blood. It’s shocking, because I feel far from annoyed by the situation. It’s as if my past doesn’t exist, and I can’t wait to get into it. Crazy.
My dick feels heavy, hypersensitive, precum already seeping, and it couldn’t get any harder.
Sad-girl’s face—sweet and hot—is all I can see.
Then the dress, crushing her curves like a black bandage. I do the same to myself, squeeze hard, breathing loudly through four slow strokes.
My hands shake. My stomach feels like it’s filled with vibrating feath
ers. Feathers made of cement. What? That doesn’t even make sense. The feeling intensifies. Fuck, I might blow any second.
Shit. This is too fast. Not gonna let it happen yet.
My hands drop, fists twisting into the covers. The friction of the bedclothes will be enough to push me over. But that doesn’t stop me moving against them, the slow rock of my hips agonizing.
Hands still clawed into linen, I transport myself back to Jackson Street, picture walking through the rain and strolling right on up to the girl.
Water hits my boots as I splash through puddles. I duck outta the way of a car, the screech of its horn loud at my back.
It feels and sounds and smells so real.
I’ve always had a superior fantasy life—needed one to survive. At this moment, I’m thankful for it.
So now here I am, apparently standing in front of her. And, fuck, she looks like the genuine article too. Good job brain. I should design robots. Or sex dolls.
I clear my throat and she looks up, her sexy, dark eyes widening. She takes a step away. Yeah, I probably look a mess, like some filthy, tattooed demon come to ravage. A fucking terrifying sight. Funny how in my fantasy I’m still unwashed, yet here I lie as clean and shiny as I’ve ever been.
“It’s okay.” I stretch a hand out, bridging the space between our bodies—only two feet, but it feels like an ocean. “Hey, don’t be afraid. My name is Li—” Cutting me off, her hand zips out and twists into my t-shirt. Huh? I lose balance as she reefs me around a corner and shoves me backward, the brick wall grating my skin. “—Lightning,” I finish. “My name is Lightning.”
She smiles and fuck it’s beautiful. Like a candle flame filling up a dark space, banishing every single ghost. We puff and pant at each other, staring and staring, and I’m lusting so bad for her body. To touch her.
It’s not real.
It’s not real.
I don’t care. And it’s a good thing that this is only happening in my head, because I’ve never done this before, so it won’t matter if I fuck it up. This weird sound comes out of me as I lift both hands, slowly, slowly and then, holy fuck, I’m exploring her tits. Well, her fictional tits, but even so—it’s a better high then anything I can buy out on the streets.
Horns beep in the distance. People yell. And I don’t care about any of it.
Her eyelids flicker closed as I slip my clumsy paws into her dress, the skin silky beneath my fingertips. I drag the material below her breasts. Yep, my imagination is first-rate, because, Jesus, what a sight—dark nipples and round, soft flesh to caress and knead. I pull her in tight, wrap her in my arms, and crush her way too hard. Lucky she’s not real.
She grinds against me, her head falling back. When her eyes open, they’re not sad anymore, they’re hot. Sparkling. Fiery.
Somehow, she’s got her hands in my jeans, and she’s stroking and massaging. Light then fast. Soft then hard.
“Lightning,” she whispers. With a firm grasp on my wrist, she drags my hand down to her core, my palm scraping skin along the way. The black dress is hiked up around her waist and she’s dripping fucking wet.
I pant and groan like I’m dying. Fuck any second I’m gonna come so hard… but no.
Not like this.
I shove her against the wall, grip myself, and push into her heat. Oh, man. She makes this guttural sound, and the feel of her—glove-tight—is freaking mind blowing.
I plunge in and out.
In.
And.
Out.
Long strokes.
Hard strokes.
And, fuck.
I don’t know if a real-life girl would feel like this… but whatever… because this is amazing. Jerking off has never felt so good.
I heave her further up the wall and piston my hips in time with her moans.
“Fuck yes. Fuck yes,” I say, my hand delving under the covers, pumping my dick frantically. Then I’m groaning and moaning like it’s the end of the world. Everything winds tighter, coiling and spiraling. Up. Up. Up. I’m gonna…
Stop.
Stop.
In the alley, my hand grips her hair tight as I balance on the knife’s edge, the rest of my body frozen. Don’t move. Don’t move.
It can’t end.
Not ever.
“What’s your name?” I ask, voice coming in panted bursts. I need to know. Then as she begins to speak, I fall and tumble over into oblivion.
“No. Fuck!” I can’t hear her. I need to hear her, but I can’t stop sinking—down, down, down—exploding like the mother of all fireworks until I hit the bottom.
Fuck.
I’m blind. Deaf. Defeated.
Gone.
Like her.
My eyes flare open. I’m crashed over the couch, my limbs shaking like jelly. There’s no flame-eyed girl. No black dress. No smokin’ hot body to hold on to. It’s just me and my buzz saw breathing. And my hand covered in an impressive load of jizz.
Ah, shit. Angelo definitely will kill me when he sees what I’ve done to his cloud-like bed linen. It’s not exactly heavenly anymore.
I spend a while wheezing like an asthmatic before I’m able to creep to the bathroom and wipe myself down. I grab a wad of toilet paper and try to do the same to the duvet. Then I collapse back into the warmth of my couch-bed, brain whirling with crazy thoughts.
This is what I want.
A house. A home. A place where I can dream about the girl in peace and safety. Not looking over my shoulder or hustling for food, feeling like shit all the time. I don’t want to do that anymore.
If Ariana is for real and it’s true that a guy like me can make good cash just by getting his photo taken, then I’m gonna learn how to do it right. For once in my life I plan to be good at something.
And fit in somewhere, be like every other guy who does the same shit for a living. Because I want normal. I want all this—everything Angelo has—so freaking badly.
I want to feel human.
To be a guy who just wants a girl.
No blowjobs, no hollow, painful gut. No stench and cold and dirt-shit loneliness. No Coop. No memories.
Just a guy. A guy who wants a girl.
I think of Cooper and the last time I saw him—back when I ran.
It wasn’t so long ago. I was nearly seventeen. Now I’m eighteen.
So. Fucking. Young.
Shit. Yeah.
But eighteen—eighteen is just a number. Right?
Yeah, it’s just a number.
Fucking eighteen.
Eighteen. Eighteen. It keeps looping around my head, driving me nuts. My brain is fracturing and seriously needs a full reboot.
I thump my skull into the pillow—it feels good—and I remember that it’s all okay. It’s fine because eighteen is only one way to live.
One way to fuck up.
To kill or be killed.
A way to ruin everything if I don’t change.
But I won’t be this young and stupid for long. I won’t be that number. I’ll be older. Steadier.
Strong.
When that day comes, Cooper better look the fuck out, because I’ll be coming for him.
An uncomfortable feeling drops over me, smothering like a hot blanket.
It feels fluid. Wet. It’s the past and the future and all my days colliding together into a sticky mess.
And I know. I know in my bones that time moves fast, like a river gushing by. Days will pass, nights too. Hopefully, they’ll be easier than what I’m used to. And before too long, I’ll be a man good and proper. A steady one. And, who knows, maybe even a fucking rich one.
That idea is hilarious.
Yeah, I’m not sure about that.
But I will be primed for revenge. Oh, yes, I’ll be a loaded gun. Cocked and ready.
Closing my eyes, I summon the girl’s image again, wishing for her. Wanting to know—maybe just once—what she feels like in reality. Not in a dream conjured up by lust. I draw her sad eyes close to mine. Imagine taki
ng her hips in my hands, trapping them again, and pulling her in. Not letting go this time.
I’m hot inside, a treacly warmth spreading through my veins as I wish for this. Fucking pray for it.
And, of course, this makes me an idiot, because I’ve forgotten the warning—the one my mom gave me over and over when I was a kid.
Be careful what you wish for.
Be careful, my little lion.
My angel.
Be careful.
Because you just might get it.
And four years later…
I do.
I fucking get it.
SIX
Eden - one hour later
“DID YOU ENJOY your birthday, Eden?” Cooper asks as he pulls up outside my apartment block. He flicks on the car’s interior light, beady eyes burning into mine.
Did I?
The restaurant was fancy, but I barely ate a thing.
Coop noticed and, like the control freak that he is, forced a bag of greasy fries down my gullet on our walk back through the seedy part of town. He loves to remind me where I’d be if it weren’t for his so-called benevolence. Believe me, kind and caring this guy isn’t.
Now where was I? Right. My eighteenth birthday…
All night, Coop had been edgy, sick plans and schemes clearly brewing beneath his furrowed brow.
The rain on Jackson Street was heavy. My mood gloomy.
So the truth is… no, I didn’t enjoy my birthday.
But the smile currently stretched over my face tells a different story—the version I hope he’ll swallow down without question. It’s all gratitude and oh-my-god-you’re-the-best-guy-ever. What crap. “Thank you,” is the most I can force myself to actually say on the matter.
He looks pleased, the fool. “Good. You’re only eighteen once. Live it up.” The navy suit jacket strains as he pulls an expensive wallet out of his breast pocket. He’s putting on weight. “I nearly forgot to give you your present.”
Heaven forbid!
The wallet flips open and pudgy fingers dip and delve inside it. A creased photo lies across the middle. His thumb keeps it in place.
Who goes to the trouble of printing photos these days? I’ve unfortunately known Coop for two repulsive years now—far too long—and I’ve never seen this thing before.