44. Montana
44
Montana
M y eyes aren’t open, but I feel as if I can see. A lucid dream; I’m trapped within. A figure hovers over me, cloaking me in the shadows as I lie sealed back in my bed, incapable of moving. The soft groans of pleasure I’d memorized from Shane’s ruthless fuck penetrate my mind, and I'm transported back to the alley. His eyes stare down at me, that same malicious smirk masking his face, the one that screams of chaos and makes my heart thrash within my chest. I feel my throat vibrate as if I’ve moaned. The sound of that feral cry finally reaches my ears, and I sit up straight in my bed, waking.
Peering around the room, I see it’s empty, and I expel a large, uneasy breath. Another of these dreams again.
A damp sheen of sweat coats my forehead, and my palms are clammy. I twist my legs over the side of the bed and feel it immediately. Wet. My panties are wet.
My phone pings with a message on the nightstand, and I quickly grab it off the charger and scroll through my messages. None from Markie, but I see two unopened messages from an unknown number. Two images.
Curiosity grips me, and I straighten, squinting to clear my eyes. Clicking it open, I stare at the first message.
It’s a blurry image of Wesley with his tongue down some girl’s throat. Figures.
I scoff, not giving a shit, and scroll to the next unopened picture.
This one has my mouth gaping and my body tightening with tension. My heart hammers as the scene comes into view. It’s an image of me lying in my bed, the covers slipped off my body. My loose t-shirt is raised all haphazardly, the bottom half of my breasts exposed, showcasing the edge of my nipples in the pale light of the morning sun sneaking through my curtains. My dark brown hair splays across my face, draping around my shoulders, while my hand lies dipped into the waistband of my panties, my fingers clearly grazing my slit. The words knew you’d make me a lot of money, sis, sit beneath it.
Panic seizes my throat as the inability to scream overtakes me. I quickly exit out of the messages and head over to the hidden browser where I can pull up the website. CyprusX. As soon as I log back into a burner account, I find the search bar and type in vEn0mX.
I stand from my position on the bed, clutching my phone tightly in both hands as an entire list of new videos pops up under my name. Video after video, I watch as Shane defiles me in my sleep, shoving his thick cock beneath the edge of my panties every morning and creaming me with his ejaculate. Every morning that I woke up in this house with wet panties was due to Shane and his demented actions.
Rage grips me into a chokehold as I steadily scan through each and every entry, the number of views nearing millions on most. He completely pirated my account, using me and my body, along with his, to continue the popularity of vEn0mX. The comments insinuate the excitement over the new collaboration, some even detailing how jealous they are at the visualization of someone else’s cock ramming through and stretching out their favorite cunt on the web.
I quickly scroll through the videos, making note that in the ones in which I’m apparently sleeping, he never goes further than rubbing externally and leaving me coated in cum. My insides tickle at the thought, my core heating with lust at the perverse aspect of the videos as Shane groans victoriously, shoving his slick cock beneath my panties and stroking it against my slit until he covers his “sweet sister” again and again.
Anger and betrayal build again as I realize he’s capitalized off my popularity, my username, likely earning thousands of dollars, if not more, in royalties.
Without even dressing, I storm out of my room, making my way to his.
“Sh—” The name gets ripped from my lips as I’m met with a hard chest and sculpted arms, running so hard into a brick wall of abdomen that the air leaves my lungs.
“Jesus! Where are you off to in such a hurry?” Wheeter says, steadying me and holding me upright. “I wanted to see if you wanted any of these eggs I whipped up. You alright? You good?”
He grabs me in his hold while I take a breath, my face flushed with anger.
“Sorry,” I breathe, “I was just…I don’t know what I was doing.” I lie.
He quirks his brow at me, a sexy half grin pulling at his lips.
“You’re kinda sexy when you wake up looking all mad and crazy,” he says, his eyes trailing to my bedhead. “But you should never leave your room like this. Not while living with us animals.” He peers over his shoulder at Shane’s room, and I wonder if he’s there.
It’s then that I look down at myself. I’m still only wearing my crop top and soiled panties. Jesus, get it together, Money Shot.
Money Shot.
Money.
Shot.
I’m not sure why the memory hits me when it does; the brain is a funny muscle. Trauma response to an overly emotional event can cause memories to fade or vanish altogether, but this recent one sticks out strong.
“When we were talking the other day, you were telling me about Shane and all the reasons he may hate me,” I say, pinching my eyes tightly and shaking my head until the memory is clear.
“Yeah, so many reasons.” He laughs, leaning against the frame. “Are you awake yet? Or still trapped in a dream phase?”
“No, you said something. You called me something…”
“I never called you a gutter rat! I swear, it’s not even my style, babe. I told you this―”
“You said he hates all things when it comes to Money Shot. ”
His brows lower as he looks back and forth between my eyes. My seriousness is finally catching up to him.
“Yeah,” he says simply, running a hand through his pink locks, clearly not understanding where I’m headed with this. “It’s the climax. You know, the ejaculate scene of the porno. It’s the grande finale for all things filth. Yeah, he’s called you that before. Along with many other names that I probably shouldn’t tell you. He tends to be a bit of an ass, ya know?” He smiles playfully.
I push off him, tossing him forward to make my way around him and into Shane’s room.
“Woah!” he says, catching himself on the wall. “What are you doing?”
I twist the door, but it’s locked. Slamming my shoulder into it, I try to burst through as Wheeter watches on in horror.
“Oh my God, you’re like a linebacker,” he comments, astonished.
I slam into the wood yet again, wincing in pain when my bone connects to the solid, unmovable surface.
“Fuck!” I scream, then briskly walk toward the kitchen.
Looking around, my eyes catch on the red lace still hanging nearby. I grip the blade and rip the knife from the wall, sending the red panties to the floor. Knife in hand, I march back down the hall toward Shane’s door again, Wheeter’s eyes rounding in horror.
“Listen, I understand you’re a bit mad, but I’m sure we can talk this out—oh shit!”
Wheeter backs up, hands raised as I charge him with the blade. Quickly turning the slim blade on the lock, I work to pop it.
“Stop talking!” I yell.
“Please, for your own sake, don’t do this,” he pleads. “Oh fuck, he might really kill you for this. Rooms are people’s fortresses. You can’t just go bustin’ in there.”
“Fuck him,” I comment, finally popping it open.
I scramble into his space, the room filled with his undeniable scent. I approach the desk first, fumbling through his belongings, tossing papers, his controller, pipes, condoms, and random soda cans all over the floor. Finding nothing incriminating, I check his nightstand, opening and closing each drawer, tossing cigarettes everywhere, shuffling through random lighters and more gaming controllers.
“Monty! Please! Let’s just talk about this. Maybe it’s just a misunderstanding, you know?”
I pause my search, straightening to a standing position to face him.
“Are you fucking serious right now?” I say, my voice unintentionally raising. “Is anything ever just a misunderstanding when it comes to Mr. Motherfucking Delacroix?! I think the fuck not, Wheeter!”
He swallows, rolling his lips inward as he takes a seat on the chair beside him and places his hands in his lap.
“You right, you right, miss ma’am. I’ma sit this one out.”
I let out a huff of frustration, diving onto the floor to search beneath his bed. A wooden box the size of a shoebox comes into view. Gripping it, I pull it toward me, sitting back on my heels to look it over. It’s locked. With a fucking padlock.
“Is this middle school? What is this thing?” I flip the padlock, clunking it against the wood.
“A man’s diary is a hidden well of wonders. A place to express emotions society tells us to contain. Mine is filled with secrets of—”
“Shut the fuck up!”
Wheeter’s eyes round again, and he fake zips his lips.
My mind races as I consider my options. Take it with me and work to unlock it in my room? Nope, that would take too long. Search through this mess for some sort of number code? That would take even longer. I need it open. And now. My eyes scour the room, and Wheeter flinches when my gaze passes over him. The gun.
Approaching the nightstand, I pull open the drawer and shuffle to the back, finding the handgun. Twisting my lips, I consider the fact that I’ve never actually used a gun before. It can’t be that hard, though. I’ve seen movies. I’m sure there’s a lock and a safety, then a trigger to pull.
Wheeter gasps when I turn to face him, gun in hand. I toss the wooden box in the middle of the floor before me, then check at the weapon. I find a small lever and press it down, releasing the safety.
“Jesus, woman!” he shrieks, cowering into himself as the gun points in his direction.
I grip the handle with two hands, afraid of the kickback, and point the gun at the lock. Closing my eyes, I squint one and peek through the other, and I fire. Wheeter covers his ears, crouching into a ball as the explosion rings through my ears.
“It worked!” I exclaim, dropping to my knees and crawling toward the box.
Pulling the busted lock apart, I grip the edge of the box and work to pry it open with my fingers.
“What are you doing?” Wheeter asks, coming up behind me, watching.
A loud bang causes both of us to jump. I search his face, questioning who might be here, as the kitchen door slams and footsteps approach us.
“I don’t think he’s back for my eggs,” he says, panic widening his eyes further.
I quickly shut the box, shoving it back under the bed before grabbing the shattered pieces of the lock, gripping the gun, and holding them behind my back. A sweaty sheen coats my forehead as Shane steps into his room, seeing me and Wheeter sprawled on the floor together, me still in my crop top and soiled underwear.
I expect him to say something, to hit me with a threat so forceful it sends me tumbling into next week, but he doesn't.
He looks distraught. His hands rest on his head, and worry tightens his eyes, all of his apparent anguish having nothing to do with me at all.
“Have either of you seen Rocco?”
My heart plummets at the question, and Wheeter and I share a look. Rocco’s missing?
“He’s not on his bed in the living room?” Wheeter asks, standing. “I swear I heard him snoring this morning when I was cooking in the kitchen, but now that I think of it, I don’t know that I ever saw him.”
“No,” Shane answers quickly. He paces the room a few steps, pauses, then paces some more. “No, he’s not on his bed.”
Wheeter fires questions at him.
“Was the gate left open?”
“No, it was locked.”
“Any chance he snuck through that one part out back again?”
“I sealed that one off. I’ve checked the whole block already.”
“Maybe he’s hiding under Josiah’s bed? He did that once when he was hot—”
“He’s not here!” Shane yells, punching a hole in the drywall in frustration. Wheeter and I share a quick, nervous glance. “It’s not like him to even run off anymore. He’s old and overheats so fast. He just wouldn’t run off.”
He runs his hands down his face, turning to leave the room when my voice makes his feet plant in place.
“It’s Wes.”
Facing me with a scowl that could burn buildings, he waits for me to continue.
“Wes is involved,” I say.
He charges at me, the anger exuding from him stripping me of any confidence I could ever obtain. He grips my shirt by the chest, pushing me against the opposing wall.
“What the fuck did you do to my dog?” he seethes through a clenched jaw.
Wheeter stands back, disbelief on his face as he shakes his head.
“I didn’t do anything!”
He rattles my back into the wall again, crushing me against the drywall.
“Where is he?!” Shane yells, his fist pushing into my sternum, eyes wild with a storm of fear and rage. “What do you know?!”
It’s clear to me that his love for this dog is beyond anything I’d assumed or expected. He’s breaking, losing all sense of control in fear of his whereabouts. He’s as loyal to this dog as Rocco is to him. I can only imagine how Rocco healed his heart and became the only companion Shane may have had during some of the darkest times I put him through.
To be honest, I hated dogs when I came here. I thought they were needy, dirty fleabags who lived solely to eat and shit, but after being in Rocco’s presence, feeling his unconditional love for anyone that’s kind to him, and the way he protects and cares…my heart just opened to him like I never even had a choice.
I reflect on Wes’s words before he left last night. Cute dog. Would be awful if something happened to him.
Shane waits for me to respond, clearly only holding on by a thread.
“I don’t know, Shane,” I say calmly, his face so close to mine. “I don’t know what’s happened, but Wes is definitely involved. After the shit the other night…you knew it was only a matter of time before he and the guys retaliated.”
He looks at me with the tiniest fragment of hope left in his eyes. Hope that’s fleeting with thoughts of everything that’s transpired between him and Wes, especially since my arrival. He’s never looked so distressed.
“Fuck,” he curses, dropping my shirt, his forehead falling to the wall behind me. He pounds his fist against the wall again before pushing off and storming out of the room.
Wheeter glances at me as the silence of the space becomes a loud static noise I can’t contain. Shane’s frantic expression eats away at me, the pained fragments of disappointment shattering through his face. I know that I will be forced to explain myself for what happened here. That this isn't over. But this situation is pressing, and time isn’t on our side.
“You have to bring him back,” I whisper to Wheeter, my eyes filling with tears.
He nods once, then follows Shane out of the room, my words holding the weight of multiple meanings.