Razor's Edge (Afflictions)

by Racquel Reck

  Things are so messed up. I’m doing nothing but protecting my son. Can’t Bebe see that? What is it she’s getting that I’m not?

  Heading back to my desk, I go over all the things she has said in the past three days, looking for clues to why she thinks I’m in the wrong.

  I look down. A crumpled business card is lying on the ground. I pick it up and smooth it out: Morgan’s name and number. He’s successful in everything he’s done. People who let drugs rule them aren’t well off. They can’t function. Gary couldn’t function. Gary wouldn’t quit—he never even offered to, the times I took him back. Would Morgan? I don’t know, because I never gave him the chance.

  You should give him a chance. And I will. But he’s not the only one I hurt. First I have to make a call, and hope to God I didn’t ruin my relationship with Tryst.

  Morgan

  Staring at the different pictures of cannabis I have to upload onto this company’s website has my knee bobbing up and down. It’s been four days since Shay left and I decided to quit smoking. I’ve kept to it. Haven’t sparked up since. My therapist prescribed me Valium for my nerves and so far it’s worked. Having my stash out of the house helps, but having the reminder of all the different kinds of pot out there, staring at all the perfect buds, makes me want to call Wiley and ask him to bring me a blunt.

  It’s not worth it. Maybe I need to up my dose of Valium?

  I’ve called Shay over a hundred times and left a ton of voice mails. Not one returned. Even stopped by her shop a few times, but she was always out running errands, or so Bebe told me. She was probably hiding out in the back.

  I grab the stress ball next to my computer and squeeze the life out of it over and over again. Not helping. I should back out of this account. I could refer them to my friend Kenny. He doesn’t have a pot problem and he’d be the right person for this job.

  I click save and jump over to my inbox to write up the e-mail to my client. When I hit compose, a beep comes through my computer—a notification from my Facebook account. I click over.

  Holy shit.

  Shay defriended and blocked me the day of our fight, but now I have an IM from her on my screen. We need to talk.

  My heart speeds. She’s opening a door. What do I say before she changes her mind and slams it again? I’ve been worried about her the past couple of days—Gary, the stress that she’s under, the stress I no doubt put her through. What the fuck do I say?

  I reply. Okay. And wait. My nerves are jumping, and I grab my stress ball again and squeeze it until my knuckles turn white.

  She’s seen the message and she’s typing. A minute goes by and she still hasn’t sent her message. This is useless. She’s changed her mind—chickened out. She’s been thinking about me, so all’s not lost. I type up a message to let her know how sorry I am and that I quit smoking pot. That I’d do anything for her and Ben.

  Before I can hit send, her massage comes through. Not on FB. Come by the shop tonight @ 11.

  It took her that long to send the message?

  I reply. See ya then. How are you feeling otherwise? How’s Ben?

  She went offline. She’s right. It’s better to talk face to face.

  Twenty-three

  Shay

  Everything’s all set. I closed the shop early. Ben’s at Bebe’s, and my hand shakes as I roll down the blinds for the night. I glance at my station. My gun is ready and the ink is in the caps to finish the color on Morgan’s tatt. We got interrupted last time, and this time I want to make it special if I’m apologizing to him for not hearing him out. This is my way of extending an olive branch.

  My phone rings. Pulling it out of my purse, I fumble with it then answer. “Bebe? Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m about to put Ben to bed. He wanted to say goodnight.”

  “Okay, put him on.” There is shuffling and Ben’s excited voice in the background. He’s nowhere near ready for bed.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “You being good for your Aunt Bebe?”

  “Yeah. She was teaching me how to play poker.” I hear Bebe scolding him in the back.

  I shake my head. Great. “It’s past your bedtime.” Bebe spoils him too much.

  “I know. I wanted to say goodnight and ask if you could sing the goodnight song.”

  Since I’m not there to read to him, when he spends the night out he always asks. I began singing the song I made up when he was a baby. It’s just the Lord’s Prayer mixed with “The Bedbug Song.”

  The bell rings and, the March windy as hell air, rushes me.

  I turn around in the middle of my verse and stop. Heat floods my face because I know my singing is worse than a crow caw.

  Morgan is standing there with a crooked smile and gleam in his eye. His leather jacket creaks as he pulls it off to reveal his muscles packed into a black Rock on the Range 2013 T-shirt.

  Hey, I wanted to go to that concert.

  “Mom!”

  I jolt.

  “Don’t let me stop you.” Morgan smirks and nods for me to continue.

  This is so damn embarrassing. “Hold on, Ben.” I cup the phone. “I’m just going to go take this in the back.”

  His eyebrows lift.

  “Have a seat in my chair I’ll be right back.” Once I say goodnight to my son and gather the courage to face him. Why did he have to come in at that precise moment?

  When I enter the stairway to my loft, I quickly sing through the song, not wanting Morgan to listen in, even though I know he can. After I say goodnight to Ben, Bebe gets back on the line.

  “You need to look at your Facebook post.” Her voice is frantic like someone died. Bebe’s such a drama queen. I really couldn’t care less at this point. I wronged someone and need to make it up to him. Sometimes the world needs to be put on hold.

  “I don’t have–“

  ”Gary posted some shit on your pregnancy post.”

  What! I jump off the stairs and wobble a little when I land. Damn high heel boots. That's going to hurt like a bitch in the morning. Fucking Gary. “What did he say?”

  “You need to look at it.”

  I don’t hang up and rush to my desk. Morgan shoots up out of my chair as he sees me enter.

  In a matter of seconds I’m logged on, click over to my page and... "The fucking asshole!"

  Morgan

  Shay’s jaw drops then clenches. Fire rages behind her eyes as she yells about some shit Gary posted on Facebook about her, to Bebe over the phone. It takes a real fucking douche bag to do that to a woman. Hell, I don’t even know if douche bag is the right term. I’d comfort her, but how? If I touch her, will she pull away? I move toward her chair and peer over at the screen.

  "Why are you even friends with him online?" After all the shitty things she’s told me about him, how he used to treat her and Ben, you’d think that she would have defriended and blocked his ass by now.

  She glares back at me.

  Okaaay. Stupid question to ask. "Just sayin’, being his friend online is like giving him an open invite to your life."

  After saying a few things to Bebe, she hangs up the phone and spins in her chair. "How could he do that? I know he’s an ass, but this is a new low for him." She deletes his post and I watch her defriend and block him.

  I read the post he made. Something about her being a slut and how I don’t know what I’m getting myself into. He says she’ll come back to him, she always does. How the baby she’s carrying probably isn’t mine. I don’t believe any of it.

  "I’m sorry." What else is there to say? I pull at my lip ring. Maybe we don’t need to talk about us right now. This shit is way worse. I’m going to kill that motherfucker if anything happens to her or the baby. I grind my teeth. He’s fucking stressing her out. Think it’s about time I stressed him out. Maybe I’ll pay him a little visit.

  Her eyes soften. "No. I’m sorry." She sighs. "It’s not your fault. This is not how I planned our night going." She runs her fingers through her hair and stands
. "Let’s forget about the Gary BS for tonight. There’s nothing I can do now." She gestures toward her chair. "Take off your shirt. I want to finish the color."

  Forget about Douche bag? Kinda hard to do when I want to rip the asshole’s shit-flapper from his cock-sucking face.

  Her hand lands on my shoulder. “Forget Gary. Tonight is about me and you, and the shit we need to work out.”

  She’s right. I take a deep breath and nod.

  How can she just put it out of her mind like that, all calm and focused to do my tatt? Part of me thinks she wants to get it over with, and the other part of me is elated by the idea. Maybe she’s forgiving me? Ha! Fat chance. I lied to her. But I’ll be damned if I walk out of here without at least her friendship.

  We can’t be friends. We proved that. Maybe, but before we didn’t have something huge between us, keeping us from taking it further.

  I chuck my shirt and plop down in her chair.

  Her delicious scent surrounds me as she comes around me. All I wanna do is be with Shay. I want her to forgive me and give me another shot, even though I sure as hell don’t deserve it. She bends down to retrieve something out of her bottom drawer.

  God, I love that ass. The black leather pants she’s wearing are screaming Fuck me. Ha! Fuck-me pants. That has potential for a great song. Damn, if that woman doesn’t give me musical inspiration. All the blood rushes to my dick. Nope. Cock motivation.

  She turns around and grabs her stool. Her breasts are bigger, more firm. The smooth mounds and perfect valley of her cleavage are a feast for my eyes. A feast you are no longer allowed to taste. Displayed perfectly in that light blue baby-doll tee she’s wearing.

  My cock twitches.

  I hate and love the effect that this woman has on me. It’s sweet fucking torture. A razor’s edge. I’m caught in an uncertain and dangerous situation. Dangerous to my heart.

  "See something you want?"

  My eyes travel to her face. She’s smirking.

  "I want a lot of things." My voice takes on a deep tone and her eyes flash. She can feel it, too. She wants this—us—just as badly as I do. Hope flares in my chest as her soft hand runs over my pec. I shudder.

  She shakes her head, puts on her black latex gloves, and sets the picture of my band's logo up on her easel. "Why didn’t you tell me you smoke pot?" She clicks on her machine.

  Fuck if I want to talk about this now. My body's buzzing like the tatt gun in her hand. I’m aching to feel all her soft curves, and she wants to have a serious convo? We need to talk about this, but my answer won’t get me anywhere except right back to where I was: without her.

  "Honestly, it slipped my mind." It’s a lame ass excuse, but it’s the truth. "I knew your position on drugs and–"

  She sprays my pec with some solution. It’s cold and leaves a trail of goose bumps. She wipes me down, then puts the gun to my skin.

  "Exactly." She doesn’t look up from the gun, only continues a path of bright yellow. "You knew how I felt about them and it slipped your mind? Sorry, not buying it, dude."

  "This isn’t going to work, us talking, if you don’t let me finish."

  She looks up at the picture, wipes my skin, dips the needles in orange, and goes back to coloring. "Sorry, go ahead. Tell me how you forgot to mention something that is so important for me to know."

  "I–" And I forget how I forgot. Man, pot does affect the memory. "Truth is, I don’t know. Every time I’m with you, I forget about me. It’s like only you and your problems exist. Never did I once feel the urge to smoke when I was with you."

  She laughs. It’s sarcastic.

  "You’re saying that you forgot to get high?" She laughs again. "I don’t believe that."

  "It’s the truth." Why can’t she believe me? You lied to her, dick. "After the fight, when you were doctoring my face, all I could think about was how freaking gorgeous you are. How much I wanted to be with you. And every time I’d looked at you, you had this glow around you. I wanted to bury myself inside you."

  When her eyes meet mine, heat blasts through my body. "You wanted—"

  "That’s why I kept looking at the ceiling, kept jumping up and pacing. I was crawling out of my skin. Wanting to kiss, touch, lick, and suck every inch of you."

  Shay inhales deep, looks back down at my tatt, and blushes. "I felt the same."

  She felt the same? Hell, yeah. I wanna bury myself balls deep right now. “Still feel that way?”

  She bites her lip. “Uh-huh…” Her lidded eyes roam my chest down to my belt buckle. “You’re not lying about the pot thing? Not even a little?”

  "Not once did smoking pot cross my mind."

  "Did you smoke after you left?"

  "Yeah."

  She goes back to inking me.

  I didn’t lie. Oh, she’s good. "It was only because I couldn’t have you. It drove me nuts. I knew we couldn’t be just friends, and you needed time." And her ex, who’s still in the picture, played a big factor in that decision. "It’s like that every time, Shay. Even now with you wearing those fuck-me pants and that suck-me shirt."

  She gasps. "You mean that, don’t you?" Her eyes search mine.

  "Hell yeah, I do."

  “Sit up.”

  Huh?

  She stands. “My hand’s getting a cramp.”

  Whatever. I thought we were on our way to a makeup session. I sit up and she moves in between my legs. She leans down, her soft cheek inches from mine. Her breath is at my ear, and her intoxicating scent bathes me. “I needed a better angle.”

  I smirk. Cute excuse. I rest my hands on her waist and scoot to the edge of the chair so she can feel exactly what she’s doing to me. "You sure it's because of the angle?"

  Leaning to the side, she dips her gun in the ink caps next to her.

  Her smooth neck—I want it in my mouth. I wet my lips. My heart bangs in my chest.

  She turns toward me and leans in. Her breath ghosts my ear. "I want to be with you."

  My chest expands, and I press her hips into me. My dick is throbbing so goddamn hard she has to feel it. I jack my hips to make sure she can. She leans back and slightly rocks her hips into me. She moans.

  Her eyes flash open and she shakes her head. "But I can’t be with someone who smokes pot. I can’t put anything or anyone before Ben."

  My heart explodes. Damn, if that woman doesn’t know the right things to say.

  "I don’t want you to put me before Ben. And I know you won’t. It’s one of the things I”—love—“admire about you."

  I run my thumb along her cheek. "My mother always put everything before me. But you, Shay—you are everything in this world that mothers are supposed to be. Nurturing, stern, loving, and selfless. Ben is lucky to have you.”

  She sucks my thumb into her mouth.

  Holy shit! A zap hits my balls. Trying to apologize, here. “You make me want to be better.” She sucks my thumb so hard I feel it in my dick. Want her lips around my—Apologize! “I was afraid… I quit.” She swirls her tongue. “You, Ben… baby… mean more."

  She moves from my thumb to my mouth. Her tongue instantly penetrates and devours me. My cock throbs behind my jeans. I lace my fingers into her hair and pull her closer to me.

  It’s not close enough. The moan that leaves her mouth vibrates down my shaft.

  "I’m done with the color."

  What?

  A sharp zing hits my collar bone.

  She breaks away. "Oh, shit. I’m sorry." Her eyes are huge. "I didn’t mean to make an orange line. Damn gun."

  A normal person would be pissed as hell. As I look down at the out-of-place orange line and smile. I made a huge mistake by not sharing my pot issue. But she just made an even bigger one that will last me a lifetime. If I can overlook this, she should be able to forget what I did. We’re on even ground, this time.

  She goes to put it down and I stop her hand. "It’s okay."

  She cocks her head. "It’s permanent."

  I chuckle. No shit. "Yeah
, but I can forgive my tattoo-wielding assailant."

  Shay

  Oops. I can’t believe I just did that. What was I thinking? I wasn’t. My foot was on the pedal the whole time and I forgot. The way he makes me feel, like I’m a shrine to motherhood, to womanhood. It’s something I've never felt before. That he’d put the kids and me above his addiction is everything I needed to hear, and I lost myself.

  Just words.

  The mark on his collarbone isn’t.

  It’s hard not to find the symbolism in that. If he can write off a mistake that’s permanent, shouldn’t I forgive a little white lie that’s not? It only seems fair.

  With a shaky hand, I hover the gun over the mistake I made. "You’d put me above your addiction. How far?"

  His breath hitches. Eyes flare. He pulls his lip ring into his mouth and nods. He’s giving me complete control. Trusting me.

  My body fires with heat and it coils in my core. He knows what I’m going to do.

  I press the needle down and draw a line from the oopsy on his collarbone to his nipple. He tenses, then his warm hands gently run down my sides, sending tingles to every fiber inside me. My hips jerk. I lift the gun and meet his eyes. “Not going to leave you with just an orange line. I’m going to fix it.”

  I run the gun back up to just below his collarbone then down and back up again. Working silently for a couple of minutes, all I can hear is his rapid breathing. In the end, I’ve turned my error into a beautiful work of art over his left pec, an orange star. I lift the gun. He trusted me to fix my fuck up and I should do the same for him. That’s how normal relationships work, right?

  Sliding my hand down his body, I hover the gun over the V of his waist. His whole body tenses as if he’s anticipating another slip of the needle. Not going to happen. I just wanted to provoke that sexy-ass look in his eyes. Unsure, but blasting heat. Trusting.

  I smirk at him and set the gun down, then lean down in between his legs. Warmth tingles in my nipples, sending pulses to my pussy. I move so that my breasts press against his bulge. They ache, and want friction, but tonight isn’t about me—it’s about him, making sure that he receives pleasure. I owe him for running out without giving him a chance to explain. I rub myself against him again.