5. Shane
5
Shane
“ S he’s hot,” Wheeter says before taking a sip of his beer. “Like an innocent-as-apple-pie, yet let-me-step-my-boot-on-your-neck-while-you-cum-on-the-floor type girl. I’m getting masculine energy vibes.”
“Who’s hot?” Lana asks from my lap, inhaling a blunt as I sit back deeper into the broken-down couch.
“Masculine energy?” Rocks, another one of our friends, a druggy-turned-jock-turned-druggy, coughs. “Like she lifts more than Matt?”
“Yeah, not like manly, but like…masculine.”
“He means she possesses traits that society sees as masculine. Persuasive, strategic, opinionated, ambitious, intimidating…however, we’ve yet to conclude,” Josiah corrects Wheeter with an eye roll.
Not a bad assessment.
He’s always been the brightest in the group. Far more intelligent than Wheeter in more aspects, but Sigh lacks the ability to properly socialize outside our tight-knit circle. Well- versed in technology, with zero emphasis on interpersonal connectedness.
“Okay, I just mean she’s got this aura of ruthlessness beneath those cute little dimples and that chocolate-hued hair she flaunts. She’s a cold killer. I’m sure of it.”
If they only knew just how ruthless this chick was.
We’re at Troy Digman’s place again, drinking and partying with the twenty-some college kids who’ve decidedly crashed as well. His house is closer to campus and has always been labeled the “stoner” house, so the slew of scum bags around this town tend to collect.
“Who’s hot?” Lana asks again, clearly only hearing that. “Who are you talking about?”
I peel the blunt from between her black, cat-like fingernails and take a drag, allowing the weed to infiltrate my lungs, sending warmth throughout.
“His new stepsister,” Sigh chimes in from the loveseat, scrolling through his phone, “A bit nosy, but she’s not horrible to look at, I guess.”
“A fuckable face for sure,” Wheeter adds dreamily.
The girl sitting next to him frowns.
“You have a new stepsister?” Lana directs the question at me, the insecurity already dripping from her. “When were you going to tell me?”
I ignore her question entirely.
“A hot one,” Wheeter continues, lining up some coke on the end table with his Walmart credit card. “Living with us.”
Lana repositions herself in my lap to face me, settling herself right on my cock. “Guess I’ll have to keep my screams to a minimum now, huh? Maybe now you can use that gag on me.”
Her tongue trails up my neck, licking and kissing along my dragging pulse, but I don’t feel anything. I’m numb to it all, and these drugs help with that. I haven’t felt much of anything for years. Disconnected and dissociated from my old self. Well, until this afternoon, when I got my first satisfying taste of revenge. Sent a spark right through me.
But the thought of Montana finally alone in the house, about to fuck her boyfriend…
My phone vibrates in my pocket as I take another long drag of the joint to continue my calm. When I’m done, I cash it out on the end table nearby, lifting Lana off my lap and placing her on the couch next to a half-awake Troy.
“What the fuck, Croix?” she whines, her tits practically falling out of her black corset top.
I ignore her and head for the door, walking through party-goers, desperate for some fresh air. I can’t yet process these emotions that are working to resurface. I thought I’d finally fuck her over, and the release would leave me lighter. But here I am, still tethered to the anchor that pulls me deeper into the darkest of waters.
Making my way off the porch, I settle myself along the side of the house, leaning against the crumbling siding, and pull the cigarettes from my back pocket. I need clarity again. I need calm. But after years of wasting my life away, becoming nothing but another troubled delinquent, I’m immune to it all. Emotion. Care. Empathy. Calm is only found through chaos and violence to drown out the constant scream. Fucking with an innocent boy's heart can manufacture a grown monster.
My thoughts continue to drift to her being fucked by someone else. Does she put on an act for him, too? Does she confess her adoration and fill his jock brain with deceptive love bombs? Do her screams make him hard? Does she come for him? Who is she with Wesley Hopkins?
My right hand shakes like it always does now. I curl it into a tight ball, fighting the urge to fuck someone’s face up again, but I pull out my phone instead.
To my pleasant surprise, there’s a new message. I open it immediately, seeing an image of a slice of pepperoni pizza, shiny with spit, and an opened mouth, the sexiest tongue lapping it up.
This fucking girl.
She got this number. Sending me this image to truly plant herself beneath my skin. A big fuck you back . She better watch out. She’s playing with fire. I’m not like these other men, willing to drop to my knees and surrender to the dirt of the earth for her scheme of seduction. I’ve already had her.
The healthy purr of a BMW interrupts my thoughts as it pulls up alongside the curb and parks, and the shriek of a woman laughing assaults my ears when the engine shuts off. I turn my attention to them as I put out my cigarette. If I had a sense of humor, I’d have laughed out loud seeing that it’s little Miss Gutter Rat’s pristine boyfriend strolling into the party along with a few other boys. A blonde circles up beside him, smiling as she hands him a small baggie, which he tucks in the back pocket of his jeans.
Taking my lighter, I flick it on and run the flame along the length of my forearm, feeling the comforting scalding sensation along the length of the scar he gave me. The best gift he could give me, he said. A parting gift, kind compared to what he wanted to do to me. I’d always been given a choice before that day, which form of punishment I preferred—cigarette, belt, or fists.
I always chose fists. Not because it was easier to take a beating versus a burn or a sharp lashing of a belt, but because I needed direct contact with the man who created me. Wanted to watch as his knuckles cracked and bled from the impact of me. I ached to be the cause of his pain, too.
Had I been the reason for their divorce? Possibly. An entire IRA depleted and drained didn’t help an already crippling marriage built on a foundation of lies and abuse. And maybe I did deserve the effects of his internal pain and turmoil, but the root of everything—the primary catalyst to the chaos—stemmed from the deceptions of one girl.
One destructive, dishonorable whore.
If not for Montana, maybe things could've been different for me. Maybe I would have kept my scholarship and gone to school. Maybe my father would have gotten clean and worked to improve our family dynamic rather than beat it out of me. Maybe my mother could have focused on being a mother rather than worrying about the decision between buying the overpriced lipstick or the groceries this week. A whole lot of fucking maybes.
I watch from the shadows as Wesley and most of his crew head inside. One of his friends, already unsteady on his feet, ascends the porch stairs while the other walks toward the side of the house near me. He stumbles slightly before catching himself, stepping closer and closer to where I’m standing. Making his way into the shadows, he unbuttons his pants, slapping a palm flat against the side of the house before digging his dick out.
I light up a new cigarette as he pisses against the house, jumping when he sees me standing only a few feet from him.
“Oh, fuck, dude. You scared me.” He laughs.
Taking a long drag of the cigarette, I slowly exhale through my nose, watching as the piss continues pouring out of him. He turns, the piss now hitting the puddle beneath him, splashing onto my boot.
“Any loose women in there?” he slurs, nodding to the house. “They said they were loose here. I got these pills off my buddy, and I’m looking to fuck something tonight, you know what I mean?” He laughs his dreadful-sounding laugh again, rambling on about fucking a nice set of titties or some dumb shit while I stare down at my black boot, littered with sprinkles of urine.
He stops talking, waiting for a response from me. When he gets nothing, he turns his head in my direction, his gaze trailing mine down to my boots.
“Ah, it ain’t hardly nothing. Chill out.” He scoffs before zipping up his fly.
I drop my cigarette to the ground, stomping on it with the piss-covered boot, my eyes locked on him.
He turns to head into the party but I grab the back of his shirt, throwing him against the side of the house. His temple slams against it, his head bouncing back as he crumples into the dirt.
“What the fuck?!” He spits as I grab the hair at the top of his head. Cranking his chin up, I send a fist into his face. Blood gushes from his mouth as I keep hold of his head, delivering another blow.
I’m intoxicated by madness, blinded by indomitable rage, as my boot comes down on his skull, mashing him into the dirt.
Gasps and gurgled sounds seep from a loose jaw, his body lying curled up as his hands contort against his chest. Leaning over him, I press my boot down against his cheek. His breathing increases, coughing out more blood and slurs of no and stop, pleading for me to be a decent human.
But I'm anything but. I’m a monster carved from abuse and neglect. Why fight it?
I press his face into his own pool of urine with my boot, grinding my foot so hard against his cheekbone that I'm just waiting to hear the crack of the bone beneath.
His screams are muffled by the pungent smell of piss and mud as he begs me for mercy.
I lift my foot and send it to his abdomen. All the air leaves his body as he recoils beneath me. I enjoy the sound, so I do it again and again.
Leaning down over him, I hear a faint cry. A weak-ass tear falls down his cheek, and the empath in me vanishes entirely. I recall a time when I used to cry getting hit. It only subjected me to more pain and further abuse. I learned to turn off the emotion completely after her . The sight of his tears now makes me physically ill.
I stand, disgusted by the weakness before me, as he softly sobs in his own mess beneath me.
“Ah, it ain't hardly nothing. Chill out.” I repeat his words, spitting on his useless form before walking around the side of the house toward the door.
I reach into my back pocket, controlling my harsh breaths, and check the time on my phone. 11:18 pm. My bloody fingers type away, and I send the text through. Seconds later, Josiah storms out of the front door, slumping onto the steps and dropping his head into his hands.
I don’t know his torture. I can’t even begin to understand its depths. But I know torment like a best friend. I know pain and how it grips us, controlling what it must.
As if knowing I’m there, he turns his head and gives me a look. His focus is hard on mine before I give him a nod, and we immediately head toward our bikes.
“What happened to you?” he asks once closer, noting my bloody knuckles.
“Just a little misplaced rage.”
He shakes his head at me as Wheeter trots down the stairs of the porch toward us. Within seconds, three low growls light up the night, and we head toward the horror that started it all.