Bully (Angel & Demons Trilogy Book 1)

by Ashley Love

  "Oh Fergus, you do know your stuff," Slate chuckles, pulling out a small jar with a dropper, and a handful of hard candies that look like Smarties.

  Zane swallows a little. He's never tried LSD before, but it's not as if he hasn't tried other things with his friends. The cocaine hadn't been the end of it, after all.

  "Where'd you get that?" Ryker asks, smiling a little. It's an ugly smile, one that doesn't reach his eyes. He's always had a cold exterior.

  "I have my sources," Slate replies, lining up ten Smarties on the floor, uncaring that they're going to be eating them in a few minutes and the floor is dirty. Zane watches in mild interest as Slate takes the dropper of what he assumes is liquid LSD and places drops on each of the little candies.

  "What ever happened to the good old days when we just smoked a spliff and called it good?" Noah asks as he watches Slate work.

  Gordon shakes his head. "Man, that's old news. We may as well try this shit while we're young."

  Slate gives an approving nod. "Consider it a gift from me to you."

  He scoops up the LSD laced Smarties and hands two to each person, stopping in front of Zane last and brushing his fingers over Zane's palm as he lays the candies in his hand. Zane bites back a snotty comment and settles on glaring a little. Slate just seems amused and sits back down again. He raises his two candies.

  "Bottoms up," he says, tossing them back.

  Noah sighs beside Zane. "Cheers," he mutters, and eats his own. Gordon and Ryker eat theirs one at a time, and Zane hesitates for a few seconds before sighing a little. What the hell, right? He enjoys the taste of the Smarties while he can, swallows, and waits for the LSD to take effect.

  He doesn't realize he's closed his eyes until, an immeasurable number of minutes later, he opens them again and his heart skips a beat. All his friends are still there, yes, and the cold is still bitter and biting. But the lantern is...moving. Not the lantern itself perhaps, but rather, the light it emits. It swirls and wriggles like worms and waves in the darkness, like a lion's mane as it shakes its head and roars in silence.

  The light is streaked in color, red and blue and green and purple, twisting together like a color wheel in elementary school art classes. Zane stares, eyes wide, glassy, unblinking, like if he blinks the colors will disappear.

  He has to admit, of all the drugs Slate has persuaded them into doing, this is without a doubt his favorite. He doesn't hear his friends for a moment, his ears ringing, too zoned out staring at the colors, twinkles of light, reaching out toward him like tendrils, like fairies. And he just feels silly for thinking that. Fairies, really?

  It's only when Noah punches him in the shoulder that he snaps out of it. All his friends are staring at him, and when he mutters "What?" they all burst out laughing.

  "Dude, you're tripping hardcore, aren't you?" Gordon snorts, blinking a few times like he too is seeing colors. Zane stares at him for a moment, and then lets his eyes jump from one friend to the next, finally landing on Slate, who has a too-mischievous-for-comfort smirk on his face. Zane swallows, lubricating his dry throat from where his mouth had been hanging open.

  "What did you do?" Zane asks, trying his best to glare. God, he really despises Slate.

  Slate lets out a nasally laugh and taps his grossly-long fingernail against the small bottle of liquid LSD. "I may have dosed you with a bit more than the rest of us," he admits, sounding not a bit sorry for it. "I figured a guy like Zane Peterson could certainly handle it."

  Zane lets that settle into his brain for a moment, trying to focus on Slate's sneering face through the too-happy colors swirling in the darkness. "You son of a bitch," he mutters, giving up on mustering a good glare, despite the fact that Zane fucking Peterson is one of the best at doling out frightening death glares to just about everyone. He doesn't have a bad reputation for nothing, after all.

  His friends laugh again, as if it's the most hilarious thing. Maybe under different circumstances, it would be, but right now, the colors are becoming overwhelming, and nauseating, and his skin is crawling like the little waves of fairy dust are reaching out and brushing across his arms and exposed neck. He rubs at his jaw and slumps back against the wall of the train car, half-heartedly throwing a woodchip at Slate and missing by a long shot.

  He tunes out his friends as they begin to chatter amongst themselves again, laughing about what they're hallucinating at the moment, despite the fact that they're all seeing basically the same thing. Everything is more hilarious when one is high, Zane supposes.

  His mind wanders, thinking about Liam at home with Mike, thinking about school and his shitty grades, thinking about his fists connecting with some cheekbones. He hopes that Liam is alright, that he's sitting in his room reading a stupid textbook on whales, that he's staying out of Mike's way if his father has woken up and wandered out for another beer that he doesn't need.

  Zane worries. But he always worries. He knows Liam can take care of himself...but Zane still worries.

  However, his vision is swirling, twirling, diving and flying, colors dancing like in Pocahontas (and he'll never admit that he actually likes that movie) and he fears that if he tried to venture home now, he'd trip and fall into some mental fairy realm where he'd sprout wings and have such a bad reaction to the LSD that he'd scratch the skin straight off his back trying to pull imaginary wings out.

  Yeah, he really has no idea how LSD works...but he imagines he would have bad luck with it if he tried to wander off alone. When has he ever had good luck?

  His friends' voices become white noise, and the pitch of their vocals hit the swirling colors like vibrations, and the colors bounce off the sound waves like someone swatting at a fly. Zane stares, entranced, and when deeper swirls of blue begin to twist free, his mind wanders to Ariel Riley.

  And lord knows why, but thinking about Ariel in this moment calms him down, makes him feel like he won't succumb to a bad trip. Ariel is a comforting presence, even as the blue-eyed girl sets her jaw and allows Zane and his friends to punch and punch. There's just something about her that makes Zane hate himself, but want to be better at the same time.

  He pays special attention to the blue swirls of color in his hallucinations now, hoping to keep hold of thoughts of Ariel. While sober, Zane tries to avoid thinking about her as much as possible, because it's wrong. But right now, his mind clings to it.

  He loses track of time. Before he knows it, a few hours have passed, and his back is sore and ass numb from sitting in the same position for so long. The half-moon has dipped lower in the sky and now shines directly into the train car, adding more sparkling silver swirls to the mix. Zane blinks a few times, and despite the fact that he's heard trips last for hours and hours, he can feel himself coming down just slightly, enough that he can focus more.

  Conveniently, when he brings himself back to reality, Gordon and Ryker are standing to leave. They seem fine now—their doses of LSD were lighter than Zane's, which Zane is kind of pissed about.

  "We're heading out, you guys coming?" Gordon asks, eyeing the remaining three of them. Ryker looks at Zane and snickers a little, probably because Zane is still high and the evidence is all over his glassy-eyed face. Zane gives his best glare, but it ends up as more of a grimace.

  Noah clears his throat and stands. "I'll be accompanying you, if you don't mind," he says, straightening his coat. He looks down at Zane as Zane forces himself to straighten up and position himself to relieve some of the soreness of his tight back.

  "You going to be alright, Z?" Noah asks him, eyeing him with slight concern and amusement.

  Zane rolls his eyes, waving his hand. "Go," he says. "I'm fine. Just gonna let it pass for a while longer."

  "I'll be here for a bit. I'll look out for him," Slate states, as if that's comforting at all. Noah seems to hesitate, but then he shrugs and jumps out of the train car. Gordon grabs his lantern by the handle to avoid burning himself and cuts off the flow of gas until the light flickers out. The
darkness is shocking at first, but as their eyes adjust, the moonlight offers plenty of light to see by. Zane is actually relieved that the lantern is gone—he sees less colors this way, becomes more lucid, more sober. The less time he has to spend with Slate here alone, the better, and as soon as he sobers enough, he's going home.

  Gordon and Ryker jump down without another word and follow after Noah. Zane listens to their crunching footsteps fade over the frozen ground, and then he and Slate sit in silence for several long uncomfortable minutes. He and Slate have never been particularly close, although Slate seems to like to make Zane as unnerved as possible whenever he can. But he supposes, despite the creepiness, that this guy is harmless.

  The silence doesn't come as a surprise.

  Zane just pulls one leg up to his chest, circling his arms around it, leaving the other leg bent and sprawled on the floor, staring at the moon out the open train car. He can feel Slate staring at him while lighting up a cigarette, but Zane ignores him.

  He's craving a cigarette too, but he doesn't plan on staying long enough to smoke one, despite the fact that the moon still looks like a beating heart, pulsing out colorful waves of drug-induced light. He'll smoke on his way home. Maybe that will keep him focused, sober him up, because he's still pretty fucking high.

  Slate's nasally voice shatters the silence, a little dry from his cigarette. "So, you're straight, right?" he asks casually.

  Zane's forehead crunches up, and he turns his eyes on him. "Excuse me?"

  "You're straight," Slate repeats. "You like girls."

  Zane just stares at him for a moment, annoyed. "Duh," he answers carefully. "That's old news."

  Slate hums in thought, pulling in another drag. Zane doesn't take his eyes off the guy. "So you don't like boys as much as girls, then? You don't have a preference?"

  Zane swallows dryly, a little annoyed and a little pissed. He scratches his forehead. "Hell no. Why?"

  Slate shrugs. "I suppose I'm just curious, is all. We've never really talked like this, Zane."

  Zane doesn't like the way Slate says his name, but swallows back a snotty retort. Instead he rolls his eyes and looks back at the moon. "Whatever," he mutters in reply. "You know there are Wikipedia pages for that shit, if you're so curious or something."

  Slate chuckles a little. "I'd rather hear it from someone with experience...a primary source."

  Zane doesn't afford that a response, hoping to let the subject drop. But of course Slate wouldn't just let it go like that, the prick.

  "So...you have experience then?" he asks.

  Zane turns his best glare back on Slate, ignoring a small tendril of swirling color he hallucinates rising from the glowing tip of Slate's cigarette. "I'm not a fucking faggot," he growls.

  Slate surprises him with a throaty laugh. "No need to be shy, Zane," he says. "It's just polite conversation."

  Zane grits his teeth, remaining silent again.

  "So you've never sucked dick before then, I take it?" Slate presses on.

  Zane's eyes actually widen at that, unsure whether he's actually hearing this. Who the fuck does Slate think he is, the freak? "Dude, fuck off."

  Slate grins, not at all discouraged. "You've never taken it up the ass? You seem like the submissive type," he continues casually, sucking on his cigarette, goading Zane on. "Am I right?"

  Zane wants to punch Slate right in his smug face. He's put people in the hospital for saying less than what Slate is saying right now. But he's too out of it and high at the moment to bother. He scoffs, shoving himself angrily to his feet. "You're like, nine kinds of fucked up, dude," Zane growls, heading toward the opening of the train car. "I'm out of here."

  Just as he's about to jump down though, swaying a little to avoid the imaginary blots of color in the air coming at him, Slate's bony hand wraps around his arm to stop him. Zane didn't even hear him get up.

  "Wait, don't go," Slate says, pulling him back into the car, perhaps too roughly. "I'll drop the subject. Let's just relax."

  Zane tries to jerk his arm out of Slate's grasp. "No dude, fuck you. I'm leaving."

  Slate doesn't let go though. Instead, he smiles a sharp grin, disgusting and eerie. Zane reaches up to peel the skeletal fingers off his arm, but Slate only grips his arm tighter.

  Suddenly, he's jerking Zane back into the shadows of the train car and spinning him around. And before Zane's intoxicated mind catches up to what's happening, Slate's lips are on his and he's kissing him hungrily. Zane freezes up as Slate kisses him, and he's so shocked that he just stands there stiffly for a couple seconds.

  When he finally realizes what's happening, he growls in the back of his throat, shoving against Slate to get him away. He opens his mouth to snap out a couple insults, but Slate takes the opportunity to plunge his tongue inside, invading Zane's mouth. His tongue is wet and slimy and cold and Zane wants to vomit right then and there as it probes his mouth. Instead, he does the first thing that he can think of.

  He bites down. Hard.

  Slate howls in pain as Zane bites into his tongue. Zane doesn't bite it completely off, although he wants to—God, he wants to. But he does taste blood as his teeth sink into the bitter-tasting muscle. Slate stumbles back, choking and shouting, his tongue hanging out of his mouth and covered in blood, hands coming up and prodding at his lips.

  "What the fuck is wrong with you, you fucking faggot?!" Zane shouts, spitting out the blood in his mouth and turning to walk away again.

  But he barely makes it two steps before Slate is grabbing him once more. Zane tries to shake him off again, but this time, Slate is holding him tighter, and he's angry. There's blood running out of his mouth, and he's shouting something that Zane can't understand because Slate's tongue doesn't have any function at the moment.

  Zane takes a swing with his free arm, but before his knuckles connect with Slate's face, Slate catches his wrist and twists it up painfully behind his back. Zane feels something pop in his shoulder and he cries out in pain. Slate takes the moment of opportunity and shoves Zane to the floor. His forehead connects with the wood, and he blacks out for several seconds, his mind a ringing daze filled with swirling acid colors and the feeling of blood running down his face.

  When he comes to, Slate is sitting on top of him, pressing him flat to the floor, holding him face-down. Zane is dizzy from the blow to the head, but he's a strong guy. He bucks up against Slate with every ounce of strength he has left, but Slate is surprisingly strong, stronger than him.

  "Get the fuck off me!" Zane shouts. "Slate, let me go!"

  But Slate doesn't relent. And when Zane feels a large, bony hand sliding over his jean-clad ass and squeezing hard, he begins to realize just what's happening here.

  Oh, no no no, this is not happening right now, Zane thinks in shock.

  Slate has always been a freak, has always given Zane the creeps. But this? He can't be this fucked up, can he? This shit doesn't happen in real life.

  Only, it does. And it's happening right now. Zane's stomach drops when he hears the tell-tale sound of a zipper, and he realizes Slate is undoing his pants. When Slate's hand snakes around and very deliberately cups Zane's dick through his jeans, he sucks in a sharp breath and growls in rage. The first tendrils of fear tug at his heart.

  "Stop! Get the fuck off!" he screams, thrashing and writhing beneath Slate with every ounce of strength he has left. He ignores the colors exploding in front of his eyes from the acid trip, and the way his heart feels like it's going to tear out of his chest, it's beating so hard. His throat is raw from hyperventilating, and he tries to calm down, to get his wits about him, because this can't be happening, and he just needs to get Slate the fuck off of him and get out of here. Go home to Liam and forget this all happened.

  Somehow, Slate's skilled fingers pop the button and open the zipper on Zane's jeans, and Zane whimpers and stiffens as he feels Slate's cold, clammy hand slide inside, right under his boxers, and wrap around his flaccid, unint
erested dick, bare skin on skin. Zane jerks as he squeezes too hard on the sensitive flesh, and he groans in pain when Slate presses his thumbnail right into Zane's slit.

  It's too much. Too much. Zane swallows back the urge to vomit, because he really doesn't want to be laying face-down in his own puke, and fights as hard as he can. He never stops fighting, even when he feels Slate pull his own dick out of his boxers and start rubbing it along the small of his back. Zane's shirt has ridden up in his struggles, and he shivers and gags as he feels a blot of Slate's precum smear onto his bare skin.

  Slate is speaking to him, sounding angry but eerily calm, even though Zane can't really understand what he's saying because of his bloody, swollen tongue. And Zane's ears are ringing anyway as his panic slowly but surely escalates into hysteria. He's shouting things at him, threats and curses and pleas, but he doesn't even understand them himself.

  Slate's free hand goes to the waistband of Zane's jeans, and he starts to tug them down. He tries a couple times, but Zane is fighting hard, jerking this way and that, bucking up against his attacker, and Slate seems to give up on trying to pull his pants off. It seems Zane is making it too difficult with all his thrashing.

  Zane thinks maybe he's going to give up altogether and just get off of him, but then he decides to try something else, and he starts to move. He begins to rub his stiff, leaking dick against his backside, and as he presses down harder, moaning in disgusting pleasure, Zane feels the hard member rubbing between the cheeks of his ass through his loose jeans. Zane gags and swallows back bile, his stomach twisting and turning with nausea as he lays there being violated.

  He tricks himself for a few minutes into believing that he's just having a bad trip, that he's hallucinating this. He's still seeing colors dancing in front of his eyes from the LSD, so maybe he's just hallucinating Slate doing this to him right now. Maybe this is all just a really bad reaction to the acid, and once he comes down from the trip, he'll realize this is all just a figment of his sick imagination.