Destroy Me (Crystal Gulf Book 1)

by Shana Vanterpool

  “Stop crying,” he ridicules. “You’re always crying. Men don’t cry. You must not be a man then, huh, boy? You look like one. You’re little dick says you’re one. But you’re probably just a little girl, ain’t ya, boy?”

  I wasn’t a girl. I was a man. “I’m tough,” I tell him.

  He laughs as the meth enters his veins. Momma called it the monster, because when Dad took it he turned into one. I always wondered if he was on it all the time, because he was always a monster.

  “You are?” he asks, tossing his needle on the table. He leans over and taps his jaw. “Hit me, Bach. Right here. If it hurts you’re a man. If it doesn’t I get to show you how a man hits.”

  I was sick of him hitting me. I could hit too. “I can hit hard,” I warn him.

  The monster grins. “Show me, son. I want to see.”

  He never said I had to use my fist. I was seven, but I wasn’t stupid. He was going to hit me anyway. He hit me all the time. I snapped that day. I think the fact that my jaw was swollen and my cereal lay in a soggy pile on the floor was too much for my seven-year-old body. I looked forward to little and that cereal was supposed to be the best part of my day. We never had cereal. Never. I reached over and grabbed the needle on the table when he closed his eyes. Then I rammed it into his cheek. He roared, rearing back in pain. I took off, running for the shed behind the house. I ran so fast I was able to lock the door and hide under the old worktable before Dad came and started pounding on the door.

  “Open the door, Bach!” He shook the handle so hard the windows trembled. “Open this fucking door!”

  “Go away!” I screamed. I was scared now.

  “Come on, son.” He sounded nice now. “Daddy’s sorry. He didn’t mean it. You know I don’t mean it, right, son? Come out so Daddy can show you how much of a man you are.”

  I covered my ears. He always did that to me. When I hid under my bed he pretended to be nice to get me to come out. Then he’d hit me so hard my head would bleed for hours. Dylan would steal band-aids from the corner drug store to stop the bleeding. “No! You’re going to hit me!”

  “I’m not,” he promised, knocking nicely. “Come on, open the door for Daddy. I’ll pour you another bowl of cereal. We can watch cartoons. Daddy’s sorry.”

  He did sound sorry. But my jaw hurt so bad my teeth ached. I didn’t want to get hit again. He was always hitting me. My teacher wouldn’t even let me come back to school because the bruises scared the other kids. But Tyler Bachmen scared them more. They weren’t going to get him in trouble. My tears were so thick I couldn’t see through the dirty windows.

  “You promise?” I called.

  “I promise,” he said, trying the handle again.

  Just as I crawled from under the table and reached for the door I heard him. “Stupid little shit’s going to get it. He’ll be begging for hours.”

  “You liar!” I screamed, running back under the table.

  He gave up pretending. “Come out, Bach, or you’re never coming out.”

  “GO AWAY!”

  “Fine. Stay in there. You want to stay in there so bad? You got it, Bach. You got it, son.”

  He left. At least I thought he left. I sat with my head between my knees for what felt like an hour waiting for him to come back and try again. Dad always tried again. When I knew he was gone I’d sneak out and run to Dylan’s. His dad hit him too. We’d go hang out at the creek until Dad got drunk and forgot.

  But Dad didn’t forget this time. I could smell the gasoline. His feet blocked the light under the lip in the door. “You won’t come out, I’ll make it so you can stay in there forever!” I didn’t get it. I didn’t understand what the smell meant. The gas station smelled like that. Not the shed. I just hunkered lower under the worktable, waiting for him to give up. He walked around the shed and I could hear something wet splashing against the walls.

  Dad jiggled the door once more. “There. See how he likes it when he’s begging to come out.”

  The smell of smoke seeped under the door. I got it then. I understood what he was doing. This fear, this back breaking fear, shot through me. I got up and ran to the door as the flames poured in through the cracks in the ceiling. But it was blocked by something. Dad locked me in. He set the shed on fire and locked me in. The walls started to crack and the wood started to blister. I screamed at the top of my lungs. I screamed so hard my lungs couldn’t take it. I watched in terror as the fire started to eat the ceiling. I have to get out of here. That’s all I could think. I pounded against the door so hard my palms were torn. Blood coated my hands. I clawed at the handle until my fingertips were cracked and splintered, kicked until two of my toes were broken. The fire got brighter, spreading to the beams on the walls. “Momma!” I continued to scream. I never screamed the word help. Not once. It was Momma until my throat gave out. She never came. The fire got bigger. The entire roof was billowing with flames. It was so hot sweat dripped down my face and coated my arms. I watched as fire balls of wood fell to the floor. Cinders ricocheted off and burned my bare legs. I scurried to the other end of the shed, but that would become fire too. The whole thing was going to burn. I was going to burn.

  I peed myself twice. Once when I realized I was never getting out. And the second time when I pictured those burnt chicken legs Momma made last week for dinner. She left them in the oven for too long. The smell of pee was stronger than fire. It stank so bad I threw up. I didn’t want to get burned.

  “Bach!” I looked up into the most beautiful pair of light brown eyes I’d ever seen. I smiled. The angel saved me. “Please wake up. You’re dreaming, honey. It’s just a dream.”

  My eyes snap open. I put my hands up, stopping the beam from falling on me. It always falls and crushes me. In my dreams, I never escape.

  I scurry back in bed. My heart is pounding out of my chest. Harley watches me the way she does me after a nightmare. Like she can see in my head. See the piss on my pants. See the fact that I’m going to burn alive because of my father. But she can’t. No one knows that happened but me, Dad, and Mom. Even Dylan doesn’t know. He knows something happened, something bad, but I never told him what. And I don’t think Mom counts. She never believed me. She believed her husband. She could hear my screams. The whole world could hear my screams. She ignored them because she didn’t care about me. She wanted me to burn. She let her husband burn me alive. When Dad got picked up on a huge drug bust the next day it was like my prayers had been answered. I always wondered about that drug bust. The way it happened, that it happened. But I don’t wonder too much. I only remember. From that day forward, I only remembered.

  “Shit.” I slide down in bed, letting the covers fall back into place. “What time is it?”

  Harley takes a deep breath, her eyes wild. “It’s two in the morning.”

  I can’t shake this dream. I see the flames, snaking their way down from the roof. They were like hungry demons, the way they swayed and sizzled. They were hungry for me. I stare at the ceiling in Harley’s room. It’s just a plain white, boring ceiling. It’s not on fire.

  I know what happens now, I need something to forget. Sex, women, and booze, specifically scotch. Pills that come in colors and pills you crush up and snort. Naked skin on skin. The bitter sting of a drink.

  “I gotta go.” It isn’t a decision anymore. This isn’t something I think about. I just do it. Like breathing. My brain knows what it needs to keep functioning.

  She scrambles out of bed and runs to stand firmly in front of her bedroom door. “You are not leaving so you can go out and do the same damn thing you did last night. It’s not happening. You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Bach.”

  I feel trapped. I don’t like it when I feel trapped. If I weren’t naked I’d get up. I’d leave. As it is, I swing my legs over the bed and grab the towel from the floor, wrapping it around my waist as I get up. “Please move, Harley. I don’t want to be mean to you. I’m going to be if you don’t move.”

  “Be mean to me.
Say the meanest thing you can think of. Push me down. I’m still not moving.”

  “I would never push you down.” I put my hands on her waist gently, looking into her eyes so she knows I’m not messing around. “I have to go. If I don’t I’m going to fucking lose it. It’s not good when I lose it.”

  “Losing it is better than what you did last night.” Her beautiful eyes glisten. “You were barely breathing. You were throwing up so bad blood was coming out and you were convulsing. I can’t handle that again, Bach. I can’t know that when you leave that’s what you’re going to do. I would actually rather you be with another woman.” The moisture in her eyes spills over. “I would rather you make love to her right in front of me than to go out and drink. Don’t go.”

  Oh hell. My brain’s begging for escape. It needs it. Wants it. But Harley’s begging for something to. I always do what I want. There was no point to do what others wanted when they didn’t matter. What someone else wants has little to do with me. They couldn’t survive in my atmosphere anyway. I learned a long time ago that pleasing myself made me much happier.

  “I wouldn’t make love to her,” I clarify. “I would fuck the shit out of her and then I’d leave her there. I would use her.” Just saying it makes me want to do it. I want to call Justine, tell her I don’t want to be friends, and pull her jeans off and burying my dick inside of her until she can’t feel anything else. The screwed up part is this brings me no pleasure. I’m not even hard. I don’t actually want to have sex with anyone right now. I just want to forget. I just want to fucking forget …

  “You can lose it with me. It’s okay.” She touches her hands to my face. “Please don’t go.”

  I remove my hands from her waist and step away. The four walls in her room are taunting me. They’re not on fire. But they could be. “I shouldn’t be here, Harley.”

  “Where should you be? With a girl who’s using you too? At a bar with people who don’t care how many shots you’ve had? This is where you should be. With me,” she adds quietly.

  “I can’t be here with you.” She knows what I’m saying. We both know what I’m saying. “It’s not good for you. Look at your living room. Imagine what I’d do to you if I stayed.” Just the idea of figuratively puking on Harley makes me yearn for a wood chipper. “I have to go, babe. You were right to leave me. You did the right thing. Now let me.”

  She shakes her head. “Why do you always want to do the right thing when it comes to me? Just this one time do the wrong thing, Bach. Be wrong.”

  Her request confuses me. “Can I at least get some pants? I’m not sure it’s such a good idea to let my penis loose. It’s got a mind of its own you know.”

  She doesn’t laugh or smirk or even glare. I pushed her over the edge last night. She eyes me suspiciously. “Go lay down first and I’ll get you something.”

  She thinks I’m going to run. I don’t want to do what she tells me to do, yet I do. I sit on the edge of the bed like a good sinner and smile pleasantly at her. “I hope Dylan didn’t leave his douchebag clothes here. I’m not wearing khaki shorts no matter how naked I am.”

  “How did he used to dress?” she asks as she searches through his drawers.

  “Like those potheads I was with at Flutes. I was always the one with the style.”

  She finally cracks a small smile. “You have something. I’m not sure it’s got anything to do with style though. Here. Try these.” She throws a pair of blue jeans at me.

  I unwrap my towel from around my waist, letting it fall to my feet and put on Dylan’s douchebag jeans. Because of my all scotch meal plan they actually fit. “Tell me the truth? My amazingness has greatly diminished.”

  “You’re amazingness is still intact. You’re abs are hurting though.” Her eyes don’t say that. Her eyes say she probably hasn’t eaten in days, but her smile is still small. She’s afraid to smile around me. It breaks my heart. I didn’t even know I had a heart to break.

  But I keep pretending because she’s finally playing along. “You really think so?” I run my hand down my body. She’s actually right. My abs are turning to shit right before my eyes. “I bet if I walked out your door right now there’d be a stampede.”

  “More like a mob of women who want their panties back. Seriously, Bach. Where do you put them all?”

  “In Dylan’s old room. Now that’s he gone I have a lot more room.”

  I miss his square ass. And as much as it pisses me off Harley misses him too. Just the mention of him not being here reminds me of the reason why I am. I’m not sure my promise to him has anything to do with it anymore, but it did, and that makes me want to leave again.

  “My turn,” she says, dragging me out of my thoughts. She unties her robe and lets it fall.

  For some reason I smile the most honest smile I’ve smiled in a long time. I sit down on the bed and watch her walk to her closet in her bra and panties. I just want to look. I don’t even want to touch. Her long legs carry her like a pedestal. When she stretches in and grabs a pair of yellow shorts from the top shelf the backs of her thighs tighten, making her apple shaped ass firm and round. Her thong is barely there. It only covers the part of her I didn’t get to taste last week. I wanted to taste her until my tongue fell off, to swallow her pleasure and know it was me giving it to her. I want to taste her right now. Pull her over, pull her black thong off, and bury my tongue inside of her hot wet heat. I imagine the taste of her. Her wetness making my tongue slippery. Dylan really shouldn’t have left me with her.

  She knows what she’s doing too. I don’t want to leave anymore. I want to stay here and watch her walk around in her bra and panties until I come in my pants like I’m fifteen years old.

  “How do I look?” she asks, rotating slowly.

  Unsatisfied, I think, wanting to satisfy her. “You look beautiful, Harley. You always do.”

  Her yellow shorts pass my short approval. Her black tank top hugs her tits and curves perfectly.

  She stops and looks at me funny, her sexy mouth opened slightly and her eyes wide. “I always do?”

  “You always do. You looked really good on your date by the way. Those heels? Drove me fucking nuts.” I’m admitting something right now. She gives me a look and I know she picks up on it.

  “Better than the girl you were there with?”

  “The only girl I cared about in that entire club was you.” Justine was right. I tried so hard not to see Harley, not to want this woman, because deep down she’s all I saw.

  Her eyes dance. “What a good boy you’re being. I knew you had it in you.”

  I think Harley might be sexier than a million Justine’s. Her calling me a good boy makes me want to show her how bad I am. “I’m not leaving. You can stop now.”

  She walks to me slowly. When she gets in front of me I hold her waist. I want to touch her. She puts her hands on my shoulders. “Do you think it’s messed up how we can go from crying to horny in two seconds?”

  I pull her down until she’s straddling my lap. I love her in this position. We’re close enough to the parts we can’t have. Sometimes torturing myself is just as satisfying. “Yes.”

  She wraps her arms around me, leaning so close her lips almost touch mine. “Me too.”

  Her lips tease me. I love it. I lay down with her so she’s resting right on top of the part of me that is teased the most. “You can keep up with me, that’s all. I’m not sure it’s something to be proud about though.”

  “I’m proud,” she promises, leaning over and kissing my lips so softly I can barely feel it. “I’m proud, Bach. Don’t ruin it for me.”

  I slip my tongue into her mouth. I know how to kiss. I know how to move my tongue and that the right amount of it can make or break it. I’m making this kiss. Kissing is part of the equation. This time I don’t want to think of it that way. I want to feel it inside and not in my groin. I want to have her and taste her without thinking of where this will end. I slide my hands up until they gently hold her face. I close my eyes
and allow Harley’s body to control my actions. Her lips coax the warmth inside of me until it starts to blister my skin. Her tongue, so damn soft and hot, slides against mine. Each time it does I crash with it. I crash into her because I know she’ll help me pick up the pieces.

  Harley doesn’t kiss like most girls I’ve been with. She hasn’t done it enough for it to become passionless. To her it’s like sex. It has to mean something and be done the right way. We’re having sex. She’s still fully clothed and I’m panting, grinding, exploding.

  “You want to keep going?” she asks, moving to kiss my earlobe as she whispers.

  Yes. I do. I want to keep going. “We probably shouldn’t.”

  “You want to know why I’m asking?” she growls, rising up. She’s sitting painfully on top of my erection. By the way she grinds against it I think she knows it. She wants to hurt me. It only makes me harder.

  “Because I got a blow job from Justine last night?”

  “She blew you?” Fire heats her eyes until they’re blazing and her nails dig into my chest.

  “In my car.”

  “What else?” she wonders, burning me with her gaze.

  “Don’t judge me,” I warn. “But if you slap me right now I’m probably going to love it.”

  “You want me to hurt you?”

  I look her in the eye. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Because I deserve it. “The same reason why you want to hurt me.”

  She falls across my chest and bites my earlobe again. The sting of pain sends a rush of pleasure through me. “What else did she do?”

  “She swallowed my load.”

  “I’ve never done that,” she whispers, dragging her teeth over my throat. “I’ll never do it to you now.”

  “Good,” I gasp, as she bites down on my nipple. “I don’t want you too. I don’t want you to be like her.”

  “What do you want me to do, Bach?” Her breath fans across my chest.

  I’m so turned on I can’t fucking stand it. “Don’t leave me again.”