4. Montana
4
Montana
D ogs bark wildly at each other outside as children zip past the street on their bicycles. The sun is setting, yet this block is alive with chaos. Someone knocks over a garbage can, and the sounds of broken glass sprinkle across the sidewalk. All the while, laughter spills in through my window.
I stand at my small white desk, which I’ve made my own in the past hour, organizing class schedules and receiving emails from new professors. I’ve yet to be bothered by Shane again since our official introduction, even after finally taking one of the hottest showers I’ve ever had in the shared bathroom with no sign of him.
I spent my time working to make this room feel like “home” by hanging my clothes in the closet, setting up a corner for my cello and music stand, and organizing my makeup on the dresser. I even tacked a few old wrinkled-up rock band posters to the stale-white walls to make it feel more alive in here. But as I look around, it dawns on me. I’m still the same girl, endlessly moving from place to place without ever being able to establish who I am.
Permanence is an idea that doesn’t exist when you’re used to a life of dishevelment. Stability was a word unknown to my mother. All that mattered to her was where her next hit came from, and to be honest, supplying her with the ability to function again became a lifesaver for me as a child.
No twelve-year-old should know how to inject heroin into their mother’s blown veins, but I needed her. I needed to keep her alive in whatever way I could in order to survive in my own undesigned way. Something Phil would never understand or even try to. When you really love people, you deal with their dirt and let it become you.
Making my way to the window to shut out the noise, I use all my strength trying to force it closed, but the wood gets stuck and refuses to slide down. Frustrated, I slam my hands on the window ledge, looking at the floor when I think I feel heat blowing against my toes from the vent. Fucking heat! That explains why it’s hotter than shit in my room, even though it’s only high seventies outside.
Twisting the tiny fan I found in the closet in my direction again, I sit on my office chair with my arms open as a bead of sweat dares to drip down my face.
“Fuck this shit,” I comment aloud, stripping myself of my tank top and shorts.
Pulling out my phone, I text Markie.
Money Shot: I’m in a hostage situation. The hot-boxing has begun. This asshat has the heat on. I’m nearly naked.
I send the message, sitting in nothing but my black thong and pink under-wire bra.
Markie Mark: Hot step-bro ready for round 2 already?! That mf got rebound like crazy.
I’d laugh at my stupid friend if my face wasn’t melting off. I explained to Markie in great detail shortly after my realization that my stepbrother had set me up with the bullshit agent scheme. She found it amazingly attractive and is currently pushing me to go for round two.
Money Shot: I’m burning alive in my room by means of pure torture. He’s trying to force me to go into one of the general areas to get some much-needed AC after being in here for hours. I just know it. I won’t do it. Send a custodian to mop up my remains.
It’s clear what’s happening here is planned torture.
I had my suspicions. I knew from the three sentences Phil ever said about Shane that he was going to be a trip. I can read between the lines. But the depths to which his hatred plummets are completely irrelevant in the grand scheme of things.
A few seconds later, my phone vibrates again.
Markie Mark: Please tell me you’re still in solid form
I type back.
Money Shot: Markieeee, I can’t take this anymore. Wesley said he isn’t coming until eleven if he can even make that happen, and I just can’t go out there and face the dickhead that knows the face I make when I come. I might die in here. Actually.
Markie Mark: I think Mr. Step-bro just likes to see you wet.
Money Shot: You fuck face.
Markie Mark: Don’t you dare use my love of eating women out against me . Just check and see if he’s even there. Maybe they’re all busy playing with each other’s dicks or thumb-wrestling in each other’s assholes.
I bark out a laugh at her humor.
Markie Mark: Just peek out the door and see if anyone’s out there. At least get yourself a glass of water or something. Dehydration is a real thing.
I stand from my chair, tipping my ear against the door to see if I can hear anything or anyone.
Money Shot: You still working on your thesis?
I ask, switching the subject, genuinely curious to know.
She’s supposed to be researching, but the rate at which she messages me back says otherwise.
Markie Mark: Why Social Media is the Breakdown of Modern Society isn’t hitting well with these new-age professors. I swear some of them seem younger than me.
Money Shot: Let me know if you need me to sleep with one of them for ya. Or at least send a tit pic.
Markie Mark: Their IG profiles declare they are indeed part of the problematic generation. Ill-timed joke, Money Shot.
Knew that would get her.
Money Shot: Yeah, too soon, huh?
Markie Mark: You know that angers me more than I’d like to admit.
Money Shot: Listen, Mr. Dobson promised Korn tickets and that B- if I sucked him off. I couldn’t pass that up. Plus, I was bored with the schoolboys. They don’t know how to eat. But Mr. Dobson, oof, he knows his way around the clit.
Markie Mark: Again. Not funny.
I continue texting, changing the subject again.
Money Shot: It’s truly too bad we didn't meet earlier in life. Why did we have to waste so many years before finally becoming friends through our shared love of modern rock bands?
Markie Mark: It’s one of life’s greatest mysteries. Years were wasted. Life had no meaning.
I can practically hear her dry sarcasm lashing me.
Markie and I met online through an Alternative Grunge fan page. We commented on each other’s posts, which stirred up a further conversation about who the more iconic band was, The Foo Fighters or Red Hot Chili Peppers. My love for Dave Grohl set me on the other end of the spectrum on the topic, but we had a healthy debate before our shared love of rock bands had us chatting for hours.
Now we have a friendship I wouldn’t trade for the world, even if we live across the country from each other. She’s the only person I’ve ever exposed selective pieces of myself to, and that means a lot coming from a person like me—someone whose underlying traumas have entirely closed themselves off to the world.
Money Shot: Alright, I’ll text you later. I’m finally going to venture out into the land of dirty frat boys before getting a practice session in.
Markie Mark: Proud of you. I mean seriously, who learns cello in less than two years and works their way up to pushing out elite and established, lifelong members of an orchestra? A fucking thug. That’s who.
I chuckle to myself. If only she knew my reasons for the undertaking.
Markie Mark: Although, I do enjoy the darker Money-Shot who dabbled in dick.
Money Shot: Porn pays well, and this cello cost me my ass. Literally.
Markie Mark: You’re a twisted fuck.
Money Shot: Love you too, Mark.
I toss my phone, quickly throw on an oversized t-shirt, and pad my way over to the door. Slowly, it creaks open, and cool air feathers across my face. I sigh in relief before peering at Shane’s door. It’s closed, and there are no sounds emitting from it.
I tip-toe out into the main area, the kitchen only illuminated by a dingy yellowish light above the stove. This place and its occupants are still so foreign to me, and not knowing what could be around any corner is causing unnecessary anxiety. At least at my mom’s, I knew there’d be random men lying around, and I’d found ways to avoid them when I could.
Making my way to the fridge, I crack it open, searching for something to quench my thirst. A sliver of golden light casts its way across the kitchen, leading to the nearly black living room I passed when I first came in.
I spot a water bottle sitting on the top shelf, humming in pleasure as I grab it and down the contents immediately. As I’m finishing the last drops, the wood floor behind me creaks and groans, and when I turn, I gasp, my heart pounding when I see Rocco standing a few feet away. His eyes glow green in the fridge’s dull light, and my spine straightens with unease; I’m questioning if I should be fearful of this beast or not. Food. He loves food.
Peering back into the fridge, I see a block of cheese sitting near a half-full case of beer. The second I grab it, Rocco’s nose fires up, and when I unwrap the plastic, he steps a few feet closer to me.
“Peace treaty?” I offer, holding out the chunk of cheese.
He gazes into my eyes before snatching the cheese from my hand and trotting off into the darkness of the living room.
I shrug to myself, not wanting to leave the refreshing cool air escaping the fridge, when I hear what sounds like a frustrated groan echoing from the other hallway—the hallway where my other roommates live. Curiosity gets the best of me, and before I know it, I’m sneaking toward the sound and resting my head against the wall near the door to one of their rooms.
Muffled sounds of guns firing and voices screaming permeate from what I’m assuming are headphones, followed by another exacerbated moan. My hand falls to my chest, my head pressing closer to the wall as my heart rate picks up.
“Fuck, you know how to make it so hard,” a strained voice whispers alongside sloppy, sucking sounds.
I skim my teeth over my lip at the man’s lust-filled voice.
Silently scooting closer to the door, I gently push the ever-so-slightly cracked-open white wood, grateful it doesn’t make a sound.
“I’m not gonna make it,” he rasps. “Ah, fuck.”
Bright flashing lights from a computer monitor hit the opposing wall, illuminating the silhouette of a man in a gaming chair with someone on their knees before him. The sucking sounds continue as the man in the chair continues playing some shooting game, guns firing, while voices randomly scream out into the headphones hanging sloppily off his ears.
I nearly jump out of my skin when the gaming controller falls to the wood floor with an obnoxious thud. He rests his head back against the chair, face tilted toward the ceiling as one hand reaches forward, holding someone’s face to his groin, the other gripping the back of the headrest.
I swallow nervously when I realize what’s happening, continuing to watch the two partake in oral sex, enjoying the voyeuristic element.
I know those sounds. The throat fucking. I hear the gagging continue before I see another man’s hand palming the armrest of the chair. Seconds later, a head of pink shaggy hair pops up from his lap.
“I won,” the man on the floor taunts.
A large red X appears on the monitor, fake blood dripping down until the entire computer screen is covered, and the game is presumably over.
“You got lucky,” Gamer Dude says. “Knowing damn well I can’t defeat Micron with your tongue wrapped around my cock. Fuck.”
I should walk away while I can, sneak back to my room before I get caught, but I can’t when I hear them continue.
“Lean back, Sigh,” the guy on his knees whispers. “Give it. Finish for me.”
The man I’m now labeling ‘Sigh’ leans further back into his chair, his thighs spreading wide as he groans loudly.
“Ah, fuck meee,” Sigh moans, the skin of his knuckles taut with tension.
My thighs tighten together, my palm against my chest as I hear him come apart. Loud, gasping moans fill the darkened room as his body spasms, his legs rigid.
After he’s finished, a low laugh rumbles through the man on the floor’s chest. “I always win.”
“Yeah, yeah. Here’s your fucking medal. Now clean me up, bitch,” he says before ruffling the man’s uniquely colored hair.
Slippery sucks and light groans continue to pulse through the room as I imagine him licking the cum off of this Sigh guy’s body. My hand unknowingly sweeps across my breast, over the tightened bud, and I nearly buckle. I feel the throb down below, that constant neediness that keeps me primed and ready, aching for another explosive orgasm. Like the one I had with—
“Enjoying yourself?”
I gasp, falling back into the wall at the sound of Shane’s raspy voice behind me. Turning back to the room, I find both men now looking in my direction.
“What the fuck?”
Shane pushes the door the rest of the way open with a hard thud, his arm bracing over me as we stand in the frame together.
“Croix, what the fuck?” The guy known as Sigh says again, focusing on me.
“Got ourselves a stalker,” Shane declares.
“I was just…sorry, I—looking for the bathroom.” I hang my head, peering down at the floor in the hallway while absentmindedly rubbing my elbow.
The man on his knees rises, wiping his face with the back of his hand, and takes a few strides forward to reach me.
“Wait. Melanie, right?” He holds out his hand, looks down at it, then retracts it immediately, wiping it on his jeans. He has a hard-on protruding through the denim, a huge grin on his face, and cum on his hand.
Shane stands there, amused as ever, looking back and forth between the two of us.
“Montana, actually.”
“The new step-sis,” Sigh comments from the chair, grabbing his controller and facing the screen again, disregarding me entirely as he starts up another game.
Pink hair must sense my annoyance because his face lights with a smile. “Don’t mind Sigh, he’s a dick.”
Shane tips his head, still staring at me like a psycho. His eyes trace my bare thighs, and I pull my shirt down lower to cover as much of myself as I can.
“Josiah, the dick, and I’m Wheeter, the dick sucker,” he says with the biggest grin, running his other hand through his Barbie-pink locks.
I can’t help but choke at his words.
“It’s nice to meet you…” I say, looking back at Josiah, who’s ignoring my presence entirely, his focus back on the game. “Both.”
“So, I’m assuming you’re tagging along, then?” Wheeter asks, his eyes lighting up. “I just have to say…” He studies me momentarily, his blue eyes raking me, a grin growing. “I had this insane dream last night about this eager woman who was begging on her knees for a taste of my cock. She wanted to lick it, suck it, smack it, stick it in her ass…looked just like ya! But with red hair and a nose-piercing. Fuck me! She was hot. You were hot. With red hair. Not that your hair isn’t hot, it’s nice. But the red was wild! You're coming, yeah?”
This man is as rapid-fire as a machine gun. Spewing shit from his mouth with no aim, talking all fast and abrupt.
I cock a brow before Shane quickly answers, “No.”
“No?” Wheeter asks, perplexed.
Shane’s dark eyes flicker with something before he continues, “Nah, she’s not ready to roam the streets with us wolves yet.” He says it like it’s a challenge, somehow knowing challenges are my thing. This, however, is one I’m more than willing to pass up.
Josiah’s menacing laugh rumbles from his desk as he reaches to turn off his monitor.
“My boyfriend is actually on his way over,” I explain to Wheeter, the only seemingly nice roommate.
“Yeah?” Shane leans against the doorframe, looming over me, closing in. “You’re hot, and you got a boyfriend?”
Josiah joins us at the door, throwing a hat on backward over his black locks before pushing past us, seeming completely disinterested. “Let’s go.”
“Wait, I’m trying to get to know—”
“Let’s go,” Josiah reiterates after receiving a bland, uncaring look from Shane that makes my skin crawl.
The dynamic between these three is confusing the hell out of me. There’s a natural hierarchy here, and the biggest asshat, Shane, appears to be leading their pack. Surrounded by guys, Shane at my back and the other two before me, I make my escape, dipping around Shane into the hallway. I press my back against the wall to let Josiah pass while Shane, the cattle dog, herds them out like sheep.
“Thanks for holding down the fort, gutter rat,” he taunts, departing last.
Trailing them to the kitchen, I glower at his decided nickname for me.
“There’s pizza from yesterday in the fridge if you want some!” Wheeter tosses behind him, following Josiah through the side door. “Make yourself at home!”
Shane turns his focus to Wheeter before glancing back at me. I watch silently as he approaches the fridge, pulls out the pizza box, and opens it.
“It’s okay, really. I’ll probably just—”
He reaches for something in his back pocket and turns, stabbing a switchblade into a remaining slice. As if that wasn’t enough, he leans over the box and spits onto the remaining food. Facing me, he says four little words that pack a punch while the most emotionless eyes meet mine.
“Eat your heart out.”
The old screen door slams as he leaves, and the loud hum of motorcycles starts up in the nearby garage, shaking the circular clock hanging from the kitchen wall.
Rocco barks once, causing my body to jolt, and before I know it, I’m surrounded by silence and a spit pizza.