In Pieces

by Alexa Land

  I was grateful that I only had the one job today. On the long bus ride home, I curled up into myself a little and closed my eyes, trying to shut out the world for a few minutes and calm and steady myself. This was the bad thing about taking time off from my job: the transition back was always really difficult.

  Since I no longer had roommates, I didn’t have to pull up a cheerful façade when I got home. I had a terrible headache. How did anyone actually get off on having their hair pulled? It just sucked. I wished I could take some Advil, but pills were impossible, of course – I’d never be able to swallow them. I stripped as the tub filled, then climbed in and slid down so all of me was underwater except for my mouth and nose.

  I stayed in the water until it got cold, then toweled off and put on a big pair of sweat pants and a thick sweatshirt, and went to the kitchen with my backpack. I pulled out a packet of crackers and set them on the kitchen table, retrieved a plate and napkin and a bottle of water, and sat down to a late lunch. There’s no point in saying I was hungry. I was always hungry.

  I unwrapped the crackers and arranged them neatly on the plate in a little grid. No one was around to watch me do this so I could go ahead and play it up, pretend this was a real meal. Six square cracker sandwiches were in each cellophane-wrapped pack. They were the most unnatural shade of neon orange, each set of two crackers held together with a thin smear of peanut butter. I didn’t know why these were the only things I could eat, why my messed up little brain didn’t see them as a threat. Though if I had to guess, maybe it was because they were almost entirely unlike food, completely artificial and processed.

  I picked up the first cracker sandwich and took a small bite. And immediately the back of my throat closed up, my gag reflex engaging. Oh God, no. No! Panic welled up in me, my breathing coming in short, fast gasps. I spit the bit of cracker into a napkin and grasped the edge of the little glass-topped table. Please no. I just couldn’t develop a phobia to these, too.

  I pushed back from the table, whispering to myself, “Just give it a few minutes, then try again.” I went and curled up in a little ball at one end of the couch and pressed my eyes shut. Oh God, this was bad. I pulled my blanket off the arm of the couch and covered myself with it. Why was this happening now? I’d lived on nothing but these exact same crackers for the last sixteen months. I’d been able to tolerate them. I didn’t understand why today was different.

  I knew it was stupid that I hadn’t been dealing with this, that I hadn’t been actively working on trying to get better. Right after my food phobia began, I went to three different therapists, but each one kept focusing on trying to get me to quit prostitution. As if I needed them to tell me the job was bad for my self-esteem, duh. None of them seemed equipped to deal with the more pressing issue, the fact that I couldn’t make myself swallow ninety-nine-point-nine percent of all the food on the planet.

  So I’d just done what I always did: I figured out how to survive without anyone’s help. Through lots of trial and error, I found the one thing I could actually tolerate eating. And I decided that for the time being, that was good enough.

  After a long, stressful hour, I returned to the kitchen and threw the crackers in the trash. I got a fresh, sealed pack, and unwrapped it carefully. I drew a deep breath, then took one tiny bite. And I was able to swallow it. Relief flooded me. I was still ok. I was still surviving. For today at least, I was holding it together.

  Chapter Seven

  I hated the fact that I thought about Kieran so often.

  I had decided to give it a full week before arranging to see him again. I needed time to get over him. Today was only Thursday, it had only been four days since our amazing weekend together, and I wasn’t going to give in to temptation yet. Never mind that I missed him with every part of me – the sound of his voice, his pleasant, masculine scent, the way his arms felt around me, the trust in his eyes when I was inside him…God, I needed to stop thinking about him.

  Around ten p.m. I was dressed in bulky sweats, the top and sides of my hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. I was curled up on the couch with a blanket over my legs, a sketch pad on my lap. I was supposed to be doing an assignment for school, but what I was doing instead was staring at a blank page and thinking about sky blue eyes, and little freckles, and a sensual upper lip with a perfect V in the center of it. I was a million miles away when a knock on the front door startled me out of my daydream.

  I took a look through the little round security viewer embedded in the door, and was surprised to see Kieran standing out in the hallway. “Hey,” he said when I swung the door open. “I’m sorry to drop by without calling first. I left my phone at home, and was just out driving around….”

  He was obviously upset about something, though he was trying to act like everything was fine. I didn’t know what had gone wrong in his life today, what had caused the pain he was trying to conceal beneath his dark lashes. But I knew why he was here, I knew exactly what he needed from me. It was the same thing I needed.

  Without a word, I pulled him to me and kissed him. He sank into it, grabbing hold of me as he returned the kiss passionately. Then he kicked the front door shut and peeled off his t-shirt and my sweatshirt, and dropped to his knees in front of me, splaying out his big hands on my back as he held me and peppered my stomach with kisses. He pulled down my sweats and took my cock in his mouth, which surprised me. He’d only licked me hesitantly during our weekend together. Having never given a blowjob before, he’d been reluctant to try.

  But now he wrapped his lips around my cock and looked up at me as he began sucking me almost urgently, the need clearly spelled out in his eyes. He didn’t stop until I was rock hard and leaking precum onto his tongue. With shaking hands, he unzipped and pivoted around, pushing his jeans and boxers to mid-thigh, then getting on his hands and knees for me. I hurried across the room and grabbed lube and a condom from my backpack, then went to him and prepped him with two fingers and lots of lube as I rolled on the condom with my other hand. When he was opened up for me, I pushed my cock into him as he whispered, “Yes.” Holding on to his hips for leverage, I sank into him with a sigh that was almost a sound of relief. God I needed this. It felt so good to be inside him, his little hole tight and warm around my cock, his body strong and solid beneath my hands.

  He completely gave himself over to it, rocking back onto me, impaling himself, his yells and moans raw. I reached underneath him and took hold of his achingly hard cock and jerked him off as we fucked. He still hadn’t finished by the time I came, so I stroked him to orgasm as my cock filled him. Finally he shot across the hardwood floor, bucking into my hand and crying out. It was as much a cry of anguish as pleasure.

  Kieran got up a bit shakily after that and pulled up his pants, then went into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a fistful of paper towels. He wiped up the mess he’d made on the floor and went back to the kitchen to throw the towels away. I heard the water running as he washed his hands and face, the edges of his light brown hair damp when he returned.

  By the time he’d done all of that, I’d disposed of the condom and gotten dressed, and was leaning against the back of the couch, watching him closely. He scooped up his t-shirt and held it in his hands as he stood rooted in place for a long moment, not looking at me. He probably felt guilty about coming here like this, maybe even embarrassed. I almost expected him to leave without saying anything.

  But instead, he crossed the few feet between us, dropped to his knees in front of me and hugged me around my waist, burying his face in my sweatshirt. I stroked his silky short hair, and we stayed like this for a long time before I ventured, “Do you want to talk about whatever’s bothering you?”

  “I really don’t.” His voice was subdued, his head still resting against my belly.

  I went on stroking his hair for a while, and finally said, “Come on, let’s go to bed.”

  He got up and went into the bedroom without discussion. While he stripped off his sneakers and jeans
and got under the covers, I brushed my teeth and tugged the elastic band out of my hair, then shut off the lights and got in bed with him.

  This was actually the first time I was letting myself sleep in this bed, instead of on the couch like usual. Dante and Charlie had officially moved out and left me with all their furniture (which I was going to return to them when the lease was up and I moved out of here). I’d replaced their silk sheets with a new set of simple light blue cotton ones. Even so, it hadn’t felt like my bed and I’d avoided sleeping in it, but it was time to get over it.

  Kieran was over on the far side of the mattress, laying on his side facing me, his eyelids lowered. “Come here,” I said quietly. He slid across the space between us and I took him in my arms.

  “Thank you for this,” he said. “I promise not to make a habit of showing up unannounced and then being a pathetic mess.”

  I kissed the top of his head. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  He looked up at me. “Really?” I nodded, and he settled back against my chest. He was quiet for a couple minutes before asking, “Will you please fuck me again on Saturday night?”

  It seemed a little odd to word it so bluntly, but maybe he was trying to make it clear he was only talking about sex and not a date. That had been what I’d agreed to, after all. “What time?”

  “I get off work at eight, so I should be able to get here by eight-thirty,” he said. “Is that ok?” I nodded and drew him into my arms a bit more securely.

  It wasn’t that surprising to find myself alone the next morning. Kieran had left a note on the nightstand before slipping out quietly. All it said was: Thanks again, Christopher. See you Saturday.

  I showered and dressed just in time to open the door to a sleek, pulled together Hunter. He was dressed all in black, from his sunglasses to his leather jacket to his jeans and cowboy boots. “Good news,” he said by way of greeting, smiling cheerfully, “your muse has arrived.” He breezed into the apartment and kissed my cheek, then gestured with the huge to-go coffee cup he was holding. “I’m yours for the morning, so just tell me how you want me.”

  We’d exchanged several texts since Christmas, and Hunter had agreed to be the model for my junior project. I was going to owe him big-time after this. The project was an intensive subject study, which involved not only a whole series of sketches, but no less than three paintings and one sculpture. Hunter had agreed to sit for me without reservation, even when I explained to him how much time would be involved.

  “Make yourself comfortable on the couch,” I said as I crossed the room and picked up a drawing pad and pencil. “I just want to do a few preliminary sketches today, this is going to be really informal.”

  He took off his jacket, then tugged off his boots and socks and sat cross-legged at one end of the couch. I sat at the opposite end, tucking my feet under me, and began to draw. “Can we talk while you work?” he asked. “Or is that too distracting?”

  “It’s fine. So how’ve you been, Hunter? What’s going on in your world?”

  “Oh, you know,” he said with a little frown. “My life is nonstop glamour and excitement. I kind of have a stalker. Lucky me.”

  “Oh my God! Who is he? What’s he done?” My pencil froze in mid-air above the sketch pad.

  He held up his hand, palm facing me. “It’s not a big deal. Once in a while in my line of work, fans get a little obsessed. But most of them are perfectly harmless.”

  “Has he threatened you?”

  “Yeah. But it’s probably nothing. I’m trying not to let it get to me.”

  “Have you contacted the police?”

  “There’s no reason to. It’s just a few emails. I’m being stupid to even give it this much thought.”

  “Promise me you’ll get help if it gets worse,” I said.

  “I will, I’ll go to the police if the threats escalate. Don’t worry, Christopher, it’ll be ok. I shouldn’t even have brought it up.”

  “I’m glad you did. I want to know what’s going on with you.”

  “Like I said, nonstop glamour and excitement.” He gave me a little grin and settled back against the arm of the couch. “Let’s change the subject, that one’s kind of depressing. I seriously don’t even know why I mentioned it. And you’d better start drawing, Christopher, because I’m aging rapidly over here and will be far less cute the older I get.” I watched him for a long moment, and he held my gaze steadily.

  “If you need to talk about it, please come to me, Hunter.”

  “I will. I swear. Now get busy, Michelangelo.” After watching him for another moment and realizing he really wasn’t going to say anything else about this, I tilted up the drawing pad and got to work, worry still eating away at me.

  When I finished sketching him, Hunter slid over so that he was sitting right beside me on the sofa. He wrapped his arms around me as he watched what I was doing, and I put my free arm around his shoulders while I continued to shade one of the drawings. Hunter craved physical contact, more so than anyone I’d ever met. Through our conversations over the past few days, I’d learned he was really promiscuous, spending almost every night in someone else’s bed. I suspected it was for the physical contact far more than the actual sex. To me it was obvious that underneath the flawless exterior, there was just a lonely, vulnerable boy that desperately wanted someone to love him. Not that he’d ever admit it. He laughed off his promiscuity and tried to pretend he didn’t need anyone.

  “You made me look so handsome,” he said, studying the drawing on my lap.

  “You’re absolutely gorgeous, Hunter.”

  “Thank you for saying that.” Just like he needed physical contact, he also needed a lot of reassurance. He frequently hid his insecurity behind a lot of cockiness, but at times, he’d let me see behind the façade.

  “It’s the simple truth, darlin’. You’re a work of art,” I told him as I used the tip of my pinkie finger to soften a shadow on the sketch.

  He pulled back a few inches and beamed at me. “What was that?”

  “What was what?”

  “You just turned southern on me. Oh my God, it was so cute! Say something else.”

  I grinned at him and said in my usual tone of voice, “I make a conscious effort not to talk that way. But sometimes it leaks out when I’m not paying attention.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Georgia.”

  His expression got all dreamy. “I always wanted to go to Savannah. I’ve never been to the south, I imagine it’s all horribly romantic.”

  “Uh, no. There was nothing romantic about my south. To me, it’s all just something to forget, and leaving the accent behind is part of that.”

  Hunter put his head on my shoulder as I turned my attention back to the sketch pad. “Fine. But I still love the way it sounds. Someday, I want to find a man with a deep drawl.”

  I grinned a little. “You told me once that you like big, dumb jocks. Now you’ve added a southern accent to the mix. Aim a little higher, Hunter.”

  He smiled at that. “You mock me. But my southern stud is out there somewhere.”

  “He’s in a convenience store in Alabama. Hell, he’s in all the convenience stores in Alabama. Take your pick. You’ll find big, dumb jocks with a drawl by the dozen.”

  “Wanna go on a road trip, Christopher?”

  I laughed at that. “Sorry Hunter, you’re on your own. When I left the south, it was for good. I’m never going back there.”

  He sighed dramatically. “Killjoy.”

  Someone knocked on the door then, and I opened it to find Mrs. Dombruso dressed in a camouflage track suit, a rhinestone-studded camo baseball cap on her head. I stepped back to let her in, and as she came into the apartment she said, “Hi Christopher Robin. Oh, and hello there, Hunter.” He gave her a friendly wave. “I’m on my way to the shooting range, I figure that’s probably a good place to meet men. I was going to invite you along, but it looks like you’re busy.”

  “Hunter and I are d
oing a project for school. We were just finishing up.”

  “Oh good. So do you want to come and blow away some targets with me? It’s a lot of fun. And like I said, there’s no shortage of men at these places.”

  “No thanks. Guns make me nervous.”

  “What? Why?”

  “They just do,” I said.

  “Maybe you just need to spend more time around ‘em, maybe that’s your problem,” she said.

  “Actually, I grew up around them and they still really make me uneasy.”

  She stared at me for a beat, then shrugged her skinny shoulders and said, “Suit yourself. If I find any cute gay homosexual boys at the gun range, do you want me to give ‘em your number?”

  “No thanks, Nana. I’m good.”

  “You still seeing that big, buff hottie from the wedding?”

  In some sense of the word. “Yeah.”

  Mrs. Dombruso beamed at me. “I’m glad to hear it, you two are cute together.” She turned and headed out the door, and called over her shoulder, “But if it doesn’t work out with the two of you, call me! I got all kinds of ideas for meeting hunks, and I could use a wing man.”

  Chapter Eight

  I had four back-to-back jobs on Saturday, one of them a two hour BDSM session, and was tired and shaky by the time I got home. It always took me a little while to pull myself together after something like that. I stood under a hot shower for a long time and looked myself over. The good thing about that client was that he was a highly experienced Dom, and knew how to inflict pain without leaving lingering marks on my body. It was the mental aspect far more than the physical that took a bit of recovery time.