13. Montana
13
Montana
I take a seat at my desk, organizing my music in the order of most comfortable to most needed to be worked on after the fine dinner I had. I'm exhausted, but I need to perfect these pieces by tomorrow.
Ten minutes later, I hear the rap of knuckles on the wooden door. I swivel in my chair just as Shane pops the lock and opens it, leaning his shoulder against the frame.
Why are there even locks on these doors? They're entirely irrelevant.
Casually resting my elbow back on the chair, I give him the cheesiest, fakest grin. “To what do I owe the displeasure?”
“You don’t like to listen, do you?”
“To your unorthodox demands?” I shake my head. “No. No, I don’t.”
“Fiery little thing,” he scoffs, a sly-looking grin sliding across his face. “Just in need of a bit of basic training.”
“Training? Train this.” I offer him my middle finger.
“Tell me, pretty girl”—he rests his head back against the frame, his hand coming up to rub his jaw as his stare hardens—“what’s it going to take for me to convince you? The release of a filthy sex tape? A broken finger to end that beautiful career you’ve been focusing on?” He adjusts on his feet, pulling a freshly rolled joint from behind his ear and popping it into the corner of his mouth. “Tell me.”
My eyes roll, and I turn in my seat, facing my notes again, trying to deny that his nickname for me, pretty girl, makes my insides flood with heat that drives south. It has me clenching my thighs together while simultaneously hating myself for feeling things.
“I’d slit your car tires, but it appears that’d be a waste of a sharp blade, considering you bought yourself a piece of shit,” he continues.
Reluctantly, I sigh and turn to face him again. He’s never going to stop.
His pierced lips pull into a mocking grin, holding the joint between his teeth now. He pulls it from his mouth, his expression dropping as he points the joint at me and says, “I’m not done with you yet.”
He departs from his position by the door, and moments later, I hear the slam of his.
My head drops into my hands, knowing he’s got me backed into a corner. I’m trapped. Stuck beneath the demands of a madman. My only escape through this maze is to chew my way out.
But rats love corners, don’t they?
I don’t knock when I enter, and after closing the door behind me, I don’t even lock it. Bright green LED lights set the space aglow, strips wrapping behind and around Shane’s computer and beneath his desk. His gaming chair and entertainment console both exude the same color, creating an eerie yet techy space.
Quickly scanning the rest of the room, my eyes fall back to his desk. Multiple gaming controllers are lined up next to his row of monitors, and beside them is that all-too-familiar handheld camera.
My shoulders shiver, and my feminine organs practically clench at the memory of his hands on my body. It's almost as if they never left. That moment has implanted itself into my body, weaving through my veins. Now, when I think of sex, I think of him. A masterful design.
My eyes skirt over to his nightstand, where a handgun lies next to a lighter. Ignoring the impulse to run, I take a deep breath and walk over to where he’s sitting on the bed. He’s resting back on his palms, arms and shoulders veiny and defined. I close my eyes to block out the sight of him. I just need to make him come quickly, and I can continue on with my night.
My thoughts flashback to our sex tape. The way his lips parted as the sexiest and loudest pants and groans escaped him. One thing is certain, he’s not one to shy away from making noise when he fucks. He’s as vocal as they come. Come. Ugh, I actually enjoyed witnessing him come.
I kneel down between his parted thighs, and he quirks a brow. “What are you doing?”
I swallow, timidly peering up through my eyelashes. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”
“As much as I love seeing my whorish sister on her knees before me, you’re about to smoke something other than my cock.”
Panic seizes my body, but I remain kneeled beneath him.
He pulls the joint from his ear, placing it back between his lips. He then reaches onto the nightstand, grabs the lighter, and tosses it at me. I catch it against my chest, shaking my head.
“No. I won’t.”
No drugs. There's no way. Not with the demons that haunt me. Not with the evening I have planned. I need to be clear-headed and focused. Not a chance in hell.
Shane leans back on one arm, planting his palm on the mattress behind him again.
“Won’t.” He chuckles at my immediate dismissal.
His eyes drop to the lighter in my hands before he leans forward, his face stopping mere inches from mine. The only thing that separates us is the joint between his teeth. Our eyes continuously fight unspoken battles. Battles that clearly shock and thrill us both. It’s all-encompassing, this hatred fueled by lust, and I can’t look away from the power he holds over me with his silent gaze. Those deep, chocolate browns with their reddish hue when the light hits just right, sparking to life the devil within him.
I grip the lighter, igniting the flame, and heat the tip of his joint. He holds my stare captive as his cheeks hollow, and a cloud of thick smoke fills the space between us.
He sucks in another breath, the joint tip blazing a fiery red, before he urges closer. He wraps a hand around the back of my neck, holding me hostage, and dusts his lips against mine. Flutters magnify in my chest, my body succumbing to his will. Slowly and somehow erotically, he exhales the smoke into my mouth, eyes never leaving mine.
He blinks once, his pupils blown, before gently releasing my neck and quickly pulling away from me. It's almost as if his mischievous plans shocked his system more than they did mine.
“Your turn,” he utters breathlessly, holding out the joint to me.
I shake my head once, staring him down definitively. His shoulders slump, a look of boredom overtaking him.
“C’mon, just smoke with me,” he pleads, attempting to hand it to me again. “Quit being a prude.”
I lean back, away from it.
“You're so used to getting your way, aren't you?” I scowl. “Mama's boy coded.”
With a glare meant to hurt me, he pops the joint back between his lips and inhales deeply, the end of it igniting with bright red ash. Blowing the smoke to the side this time, his half-lidded eyes roll.
“Well, fuck, if you're not gonna smoke with me, you might as well suck me off.”
He doesn't know it, but I'd rather do that. Get it over with. Get back to my mission. Simple men only last so long.
His face contorts. “Jesus Christ, you'd rather do that,” he says, astonished.
Fucker read my mind.
“What do you want from me, Shane?” I reply, exhausted by his nonsense. “Just get it out and be done with it.”
He stares at me, almost disappointed in my lack of fight, when we hear Rocco bark from the front of the house. Seconds later, footsteps trail down the hall, and someone raps on the door.
“Come in,” he answers, eyes never deterring from mine.
I hold my breath, waiting for Lana to enter, but am surprised when I see baggy jeans and a tall frame topped with dark shaggy hair.
“What the fuck is she doing in here?” Josiah asks, plopping himself on the chair across from us.
“Proving to me she can hang,” he declares. “An initiation of sorts.”
Leaning back on the bed, he grabs his weapon off the nightstand. I study him as he offers two choices to me, holding each out. The gun or the joint. I can only imagine the dumb shit he’d have me do with the gun. Shoot out the neighbor’s window, blow someone’s tire…fuck, he might even suggest I kill someone to prove I can keep my mouth shut living here in this fuck-up frat house of felons and forgotten feelings.
I look to Josiah for some sort of help or reasoning, but he’s just leaning forward, elbows on his knees, eagerly awaiting my decision.
I’ve smoked weed in the past. Numerous times, in fact, but they don’t know that. I’m not scared of it, but I am scared of Shane. Granted, he’s already taken a few hits himself, meaning whatever it is can’t be that potent. Even so, I can’t help but hold him in complete contempt.
With a disgruntled huff, I grab the joint. Shane attempts to hide the satisfaction in his malevolent smirk, but I see it exuding from him. My decision fills him with pleasure.
“One hit,” I say, appeasing the idiots.
Josiah runs a hand through his ragged locks, pushing the dark hair out of his face as if to properly bear witness to this moment. It’s just weed.
I wrap my lips around the joint, working hard not to think about the fact that Shane’s mouth was just here, and I suck.
“Into your lungs,” Josiah says. “Inhale it into your lungs.” He nods. “There you go.”
I return his nod, holding the smoke in my lungs, but the itch in my throat has me instantly coughing.
“Fuck,” I cough some more, grabbing my chest.
Shane grins, and Josiah attempts to cover his laugh with his hand.
“You barely got any.”
I cough again. “I got enough.”
He walks over to a mini fridge I hadn’t noticed in the corner, pulls out a water bottle, and hands it to me.
“Thanks,” I mutter, taking a sip as they both study me.
No one says anything. They’re just waiting for something.
“What?”
“You gotta take another one,” Josiah says with a sigh.
“No, I said one hit, and I did that. I took one hit. I’m done.”
“C’mon, Monty,” Shane groans, rolling his eyes. “I won’t be related to a stuck-up bitch. Take a real pull, and you can leave.”
He holds out the joint again, and I stupidly tell myself I’ve handled worse.