by W Winters
But he has his brothers.
Let me know when I can come over, I text him. And it takes a few minutes with only the sound of the paper bags rustling from Chlo getting the Chinese food out before Carter replies that he will.
I think he’s lying though. I don’t think he’s going to ask for help or for anyone to come around. He’s not okay.
“You should go to him,” Chloe speaks up, dishing out the lo mein on both of the paper plates with the white plastic forks they threw in the bag. “I think he’d like that,” she adds. She’s on her knees in front of the coffee table in nothing but a shirt of mine.
Tossing my phone on the sofa, I get down on the floor with her. It’s awkward and I have to push the coffee table away a foot, so I can fit between it and the sofa.
The sound of her small laugh soothes a piece of me that’s hurting for Carter. I peer up at her with a smirk on my lips. “Not everyone’s a tiny little thing like you,” I tell her and watch that soft blush creep up in her cheeks.
“I love making you smile,” I say and it only makes her blush harder. She bites down on her lip, reaching for another carton. She dishes out the General Tso’s quietly until both plates have more than enough on them.
“I love it when you make me smile too,” she says sheepishly, sitting back on her heels. “But seriously,” she tells me, “I think he’d be happy if you stopped by.”
“Yeah,” I agree with her, remembering how she was at Carter’s house and then at the funeral. She was quiet and polite, but the moment someone was ready to break down, she was right there. For Carter, but for Daniel too, his younger brother. All she wanted to do was be there to take away the pain as much as she could.
I love her for it.
I love her for being her.
She peeks up at me as the thought occurs to me, but she quickly looks away and repositions herself. She’s barely eating, just pushing the food around on her plate.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her, a nagging feeling inside of me that what we have is going to go away. It’s all going to slip through my fingers and I’m going to lose her.
She clears her throat and glances at me, her gaze shifting between the untouched plate and then back to me. I have to put my fork down and push the plate away to face her. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“I think I love you.” Her answer is immediate, although each word feels hesitant like it was afraid to be spoken. “I think I’m weird and needy… and that I have problems,” she says then swallows thickly, and the blush that was on her face turns a darker shade of red before she looks up at me again with those blue eyes shining with vulnerability. “But I think I love you, and I don’t know if… if it’s okay that I tell you.” She bites down on her bottom lip and then nods once like she’s said her piece. “But I wanted to tell you,” she adds quickly before I can answer her.
She’ll never know how she breaks something inside of me with her confession. With how genuine and sincere those words come out. I know she means it. She feels that she loves me, and she loves the part of me she knows. It shatters something deep down inside of me. The part of me that’s hiding from her sight, the part of me I hate, that part of me falls to my knees for her, praying I could atone for all my sins and be worthy of that love.
“Lie down, Chloe Rose,” I give her the command, feeling my heart slamming against my chest, begging me to tell her how I feel. I’m not ready though. I love seeing her squirm, and a part of me thinks if she knew how much she meant to me, she’d run.
She glances at me warily before setting her fork down and scooting out from between the coffee table and the sofa to lie down on her side only to ask, “On my back?”
Letting out a single huff of a laugh, I grin at her and say, “Yeah.”
With her heels on the floor and her knees bent, she lies on her back, the t-shirt riding up and she lets it, so I can see her underwear.
“Take them off,” I tell her from where I’m sitting, feeling my cock get harder for her. Pulling her hair behind her first, she obeys me. Shimmying out of her underwear and setting it next to her, she daintily readjusts so her legs are flat and I can’t see her cunt.
“Like you were before, Chloe Rose. I want to see you.”
Slowly, she picks up each of her heels, her pussy on full display, her center a dark, bright pink and glistening from arousal.
“Tell me you love me again.”
She brings her gaze to meet mine and licks her lips. “I love you,” she tells me like it’s obvious. Like it doesn’t change anything at all.
I have to practically crawl to her from where I’m sitting, but I don’t give a fuck.
I don’t need food; I don’t need sleep. I don’t need a damn thing, so long as she loves me.
With a single finger, I push on her inner knees and she instantly moves her legs farther apart for me. I trace her pussy, sending shivers through her body.
“So, does that mean you’re my girlfriend?” I ask her the question I wanted to so many years ago. If I hadn’t already been involved with Romano, heading down a path I knew she was too good for, I’d have asked her then. Shit, I’d have begged her to be mine.
The corners of her lips turn up as she smiles wide and beautifully. “Yeah,” she answers me in a single breath and I reward her by brushing the rough pad of my thumb over her swollen clit. Her sweet, soft moan makes precum leak from the slit of my cock and I can’t take it anymore.
She watches as I undress fast and recklessly, kicking the coffee table and almost spilling the food, but it doesn’t matter. None of that shit matters.
She spreads her legs farther as I climb on top of her, bracing my forearms on either side of her head and kissing her softly, gently and giving her every ounce of goodness, I have, even if it is so little.
“You still sore, Chlo?” I ask her as I push into her slick folds just enough to feel her tight cunt gripping my cock before pulling out.
With her neck arched back, her lips parted, and her eyes closed, she whimpers, “No.”
“Good,” I tell her, “’Cause tomorrow you’re going to be.” I slam into her all the way to the hilt in a swift, merciless stroke. Her sweet gasps fuel me to fuck her on the thin carpet until she doesn’t have a scream left in her.
Chloe
“I loved coming here.” My mother’s voice is calm and sober, which is at odds with the noise of the bottles clinking and everyone talking in the bar. It sounds like everyone’s talking at once and over each other. The billiard balls collide on the break and the sound of a new game starting draws my attention briefly. The television’s on with a football game and some of the guys cheer a player on, but he the whole bar voices its dismay as he’s quickly tackled.
I recognize a few faces, one of them Carter’s dad as he orders a drink.
“That man’s going soon.” My mother’s voice catches my attention. Goosebumps flow over my skin; she’s so close to me. A thin, sickly smile is on her lips. She nods, not taking her gaze away from the far end of the bar as we sit on two stools next to each other.
I look back to the man I recognize and ask, “Mr. Cross?”
“No, no, baby girl,” my mother tsks me, “the bartender.”
Dave.
Ice flows over my skin as my mom laughs at my reaction. Fifth on the list.
The billiard balls clack noisily, and the bar carries on like nothing’s happening. Like they can’t even see us.
Sharp nails dig into my shoulder as my mom comes closer to me, whispering in my ear and making my body stiffen.
“I used to fuck him at the end of the night,” she tells me with her smile growing. “He’d clear my tab in return, although sometimes he just wanted me to suck him off like a whore.”
My words fail me and I struggle to breathe or to know what to say. It’s only a dream.
“Yeah, yeah, baby girl. But that doesn’t make it any less true,” my mom tells me before letting go and sitting upright in her seat.
I swallow the ti
ght knot in my throat and peek up at her.
“Just because you’re dreaming doesn’t mean shit.” The smile fades and she stares at the bartender as he pours a glass of some clear liquor for Mr. Cross.
The music seems to die down, everything except my mother’s voice turning to white noise.
“At one point, I thought he loved me,” my mom tells me, staring down at the drink on the bar.
It takes me a moment to realize the smudge on the glass is blood. My gaze darts to her hand, to the broken nails and the bruises on her wrist.
My heart pounds, the anxiety and fear rising as her voice hardens and she picks up the drink. “Men don’t love, Chloe.” She sets the glass against her lips, but she doesn’t drink. Instead, she stares at the man behind the bar. She stares down the bartender who doesn’t see either of us. “Don’t you ever believe that shit.”
I grip the barstool tighter, feeling the blood draining from me as she looks me in the eyes, her own pale and lifeless. “Don’t believe him, Chloe Rose.”
I wake up drenched in sweat and alone. Trembling, I can hear the faint sounds of someone outside. I can’t help getting out of bed, my heart still racing as I check to see who it is.
Peeking through the blinds, it’s just two guys walking down the street. Guys I’ve seen before on the porch of a house down the street. They look like they’re on their way back from the liquor store, carrying bags full of large glass bottles. That would explain the noises I heard in my sleep.
I’m still shaking as I turn from the window and slowly walk back to the bed, my mind racing with the memory of the dream. Of the bar. Of Dave.
I reach out to Bastian’s side of the bed, but the sheets are cold.
Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I walk to the bathroom, my bare feet padding against the cold floor. The door’s partially open and it’s dark inside, but still, I push it open wide and flick on the light.
The brightness makes me wince, and I find it empty.
“Bastian?” I call out for him even though I know he’s not here. His place is empty.
Where the hell is he? The clock on the stove reads 3:46. “Where the fuck is he?” I mutter, still breathless from the fear that woke me. I’d rather focus on Bastian than on the night terror, but when I get to my phone that I’d left on the coffee table, my blood runs cold.
Dave now too. They’re going one by one.
I stare at the text message, reading it over and over.
Dave is dead.
I dreamed of it. And he’s dead. I’m so cold. I can’t feel anything but the horror I felt from the nightmare.
I don’t know how I’m still standing. The scream of fear is silent in my throat, but it’s there.
Tears prick my eyes and I can’t control the shaking. Adrenaline and the need to run kick in before I can do anything. It all happens so slowly, each level of despair falling on its own. Like dominoes. And between each blow, I reread the text.
Dave now too. They’re going one by one.
My knees collapse, and I drop the phone, pressing my hands together and begging them to stop shaking.
It was a dream. She’s not real.
It’s not real. Tell me the text isn’t real. It’s not true.
It’s just some asshole fucking with me. There’s no truth to it.
I swallow each of the thoughts, pushing my head into the carpet and trying to steady my head from spinning with the fear racing through me.
But how can it be a coincidence? It can’t. It can’t be.
It’s not real.
“Bastian,” I cry out for him like the crutch he is. The panic is slow to set in.
I know he’ll make it better. He’s a balm each and every time. He can make it go away.
But he can’t explain this. Nothing can explain this.
I reach for my phone and miss it, but then I grab it again, my nails digging into the carpet as I drag it closer to me. “Pull your shit together,” I mutter under my breath. I lift my gaze to the front door as I scroll for Sebastian’s number.
My body is hot, and tense and the fear threatens to consume me.
It’s locked. The door is locked.
Ring, ring, ring.
No answer.
I stare at the screen as if it’s lying to me. I don’t know how long I sit there on my knees, my ass on my heels as I stare at the fucking phone, hating it and hating this place and freezing. I’m so cold. I’m so fucking cold.
It was a nightmare, it’s not real.
I try again and get the same result, voicemail.
Swallowing thickly, I brave looking at the text message again.
I could ask who it is, but they won’t tell me.
I could ask for proof, but I don’t want to see.
Instead, I try Sebastian again because he’s all I have. And still, I get nothing. My heart races and the anxiety grows inside me, burning me from the inside out and nearly shoving me over the brink of insanity.
It’s okay, I tell myself as I rock on the floor. It’s okay.
It’s just a nightmare. Just a text.
Just another coincidence.
“Bastian,” I cry out for him and feel so unworthy. So unhinged.
Where is he?
He has to be with Carter, out on the edge of the city where there’s no reception. It’s my fault. I told him to go there. It’s my fault, I repeat to myself.
Finally, my body moves. I need to get dressed and go to him. I can’t stay here. I won’t do it. I need to tell him; I need to tell someone. I’m breaking down and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what’s real.
I’m not crazy.
A scream tears through me as the phone rings in my hand. I drop it, the vibrations feeling like fire against my skin.
It rings again, and I see it’s Sebastian.
My fingers shake as I answer it and wait for his voice.
“Chlo?” he asks, and I struggle to put what’s going on into words.
“I need you,” is all I manage. I can barely breathe.
“Chloe, it’s okay.” I hear the tone of his voice morph from curious to concerned. “What’s wrong?” he asks me.
“I had a nightmare,” I cover my mouth with my wrist, remembering my mom and her words.
“Chlo, it’s just a dream,” he tells me as tears prick my eyes.
“I dreamed about Dave and then I got a text,” I push the words out and take in a deep breath. Shaking out my other hand, and staring straight ahead at the stark white wall, I wait for him to say something that makes sense, something that will make me feel better.
“I’ll be there soon,” he tells me, and I nod my head, my throat raw with emotion.
“I’m not okay,” I tell him in strangled words.
“It’ll be all right,” is his only answer before the line goes dead. But it’s not all right. It’s not going to be all right. I wanted them all to die for having done nothing while my mother cried out for help. I wanted them to feel the pain and regret that I felt every damn day for years when I cried myself to sleep. They felt nothing, and it wasn’t fair. That was years ago though and I don’t want this. I would never ask for this now.
I’m living in my own hell.
Sebastian
I hang up the call and stare at the dirt and blood on my hand that’s holding the phone.
“I need to shower at your place before I go home,” I call out to Carter who’s still leaning against his father’s beat-up truck.
My hands are numb and yet they still burn from the blisters that’ll come tomorrow. I don’t know what I’ll tell Chlo if she notices them. The shovel did a number on me and it all proved for shit.
“You hear me?” I ask him, my voice barely carrying into the early morning darkness.
“Yeah.” Carter’s answer is weak. He looks like shit. He looks like he just lost it and that makes sense. ‘Cause that’s exactly what happened.
The river babbles in the night along with the sound of the crickets. It’s all I
can hear as the sun starts to peek over the horizon.
Another night with no sleep and another night with Chloe falling apart. She knows too much.
“You ready?” he asks me before pounding his fist so hard into the truck I swear he’s going to dent it. He’s losing it. He can’t hold himself together.
The dew on the grass soaks into my jeans as I walk through the tall grass to the truck.
I grab his shoulder, shaking him. “It’s over with; it’s done.” I’m firm with him even though my heart is pounding recklessly.
Carter nods his head but immediately throws up. He vomits off the side of the truck with both hands on his upper thighs. The smell is rancid, and I can’t stand to be around it.
I feel fucking sick to my stomach too. I hate this. I hate this life.
I lay a hand on his back, patting him hard once before walking away from him and climbing into the driver’s side. The truck rocks as I do, and I can’t shake the eerie feeling that I’m being fucked over.
He texted her again. I’m blocking that fucking number. He crossed a line doing that shit, and I don’t give a fuck who he is. I won’t let him get to her. My Chloe is off-limits. There’s no exception to that.
It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, but it doesn’t matter. He knows. I know he knows.
Laying my head back against the leather headrest, I wait for Carter, looking over my shoulder and watching him wipe his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. He takes it off, leaving on his t-shirt underneath and throws it into the back of the truck before getting in.
The rusty door closes with a protest, right before slamming shut with finality.
“I’m sorry,” he tells me as he looks out the window. I feel bad for him; more than anything, I feel fucking awful for the kid. I can handle Chloe. I’ll figure it out for her, but this fucked him up.
“You’re all right,” I tell him and then swallow the rest of the thought. “It’s fine.”