Cameron
THERE IS NOTHING brEATHTAKING about my ceiling, but I stare anyway. I’ve been in this exact position for a long time, so long that I can feel the indentation I’ve made in the mattress.
I called out sick today; Uncle Danny was understanding, and yet the guilt is eating me alive.
Not as badly as the heartache is, though, so calling off work won the battle.
I’m fighting an internal war: one that features morality, loss, and fear. One that makes breathing feel a little too difficult and my conscience heavy.
On the one hand, I’m kind of concerned about this guy who visits me at night. What is he truly? Why is he taking on Atticus’s form? But on the other hand, I feel such a terrible agony knowing I will never have the man I love, that when his doppelg?nger shows up, I can do nothing but cling to him.
Just like I did last night, as I sobbed into his shoulder while he jerked me off. And when I woke this morning, prepared to fake my way through the day, I was overcome with guilt. If Atticus knew what I was doing, how I was using him in my mind, would he hate me?
Is this right?
I’ve never been good at answering questions. I don’t want to make these decisions.
“Cameron!” Mom shouts through my locked door, her fists banging wildly. “Come out! I need money.”
I ignore her. I don’t move an inch, don’t bother to open my mouth, and it feels liberating. And a little mean.
It’s the same feeling I felt when we befriended Julian so many months ago; I was so excited at the prospect of seeing Atticus again, yet felt incredibly wrong for using him in such a way.
Julian truly believed Cassie wanted him. He genuinely thought I wanted to be his friend. And sure, now I do, but back then? I just wanted Atticus.
I still… I still want him. Desperately. And I will never have him.
Another jolt of hot, blinding pain works its way through my chest, and I heave through it. I breathe and gasp and clench my fists. I refuse to cry; I cried all night. I bet Dad never cried. I bet he never fell in love with a man who doesn’t want him, either.
And if Mom had treated him the way she treats me, he would have left. He would have packed his bags and moved on to bigger and better things.
That is the kind of man I imagine my father was. If he truly was any less, if I ever find out he was just as scummy as Mom is, I think I would fall apart.
No one wants to come from nothing. No one wants to have spoiled blood running through their veins.
I am better than this dingy house, this small life, these useless bones, I tell myself. And then I mentally say it again.
Mom finally stops knocking and retreats, most likely too tired or drunk to continue. The sun has set, and I know that if he’s coming to visit me tonight, it’ll be soon.
So, I turn the lights out and watch the trees sway beyond the windowpane.
I hope he comes; I hope I never see him again.
I move my gaze back to the ceiling, and I stare. For a long time, I lie here, and I stare.
The house settles around me in the absolute silence, telling me Mom is gone. I can’t hear her snoring or the TV playing anymore.
And the longer I stare, the hotter the room gets. My skin moistens, and my vision blurs from how long I’ve focused on one thing.
Another knock sounds at my door. A soft bang, just one.
The handle is still locked, but this surely isn’t my mother.
With shaky limbs, I stand, slowly approaching the door. As I touch the knob, I can feel the metal sting against my skin. I’m fairly certain that I know who stands on the other side of this faded, dirty oak.
I’m not sure how he’s gotten in before, but I’ve never locked him out. He’s never had to be so polite.
Well, aside from the front door, I suppose. Maybe I should ask.
I open the door, and the question immediately leaves me as I stare up at Atticus. Dark eyes, hungry expression, purple-tipped fingers. My Atticus.
“Hello,” I breathe, feeling each breath leave me in a huff.
“Corculum,” My Atticus greets. A slightly misshapen grin shapes his lips as he takes a step forward, forcing me a step back. “Locking of doors?”
I can’t help but flush a little, my hands wringing together at my navel. “Sorry. I was keeping my mom out.”
“Mom,” he says, as if he’s trying the word out for the first time.
“Don’t worry, she’s not home,” I assure him, though I’m not certain why. Whoever or whatever My Atticus is, I doubt he cares about parents. “We’re alone.”
“Alone?” he repeats, his grin widening into something promising and deadly.
“Y-yes.”
My Atticus takes another step, and then another, backing me up until I fall straight onto my ass on the edge of my bed. One of his hands, featuring those discolored fingers, reaches out and runs through my hair.
I can’t help it—I lean into his touch, savoring it, even as it’s so cold it nearly stings.
“So warm,” he mumbles, digging blunt fingernails into my scalp. “Tam bene gustabis.”
I stare up at him, letting the distorted sound of his voice coat me like a warm blanket on a dreary night. But then I catch sight of his wrist, and I’m snatching it up before I can think twice.
“Your wrist! What happened?” I gasp, staring at the harsh red line circling it, and at how parts of the skin have broken to ooze a little stream of blood.
“Shh, corculum,” he croons. “All is well. Lay.”
I only hesitate for a moment, concerned for his well-being, before my own desire takes over and I lie back on my bed, resting my head on the pillows.
My Atticus crawls over me, his frost-bitten skin grazing my bare thighs, making me shiver deliciously. He drops soft kisses to my stomach, his chest rubbing me over my briefs in a way that has me panting.
Once he gets to my face, he stares at me for a moment, assessing. “Like clouds, your eyes. Like rain will fall.”
“Thank you,” I mutter, my chest rising so rapidly it brushes into his with every pull of air.
Instead of answering with words—the man towering above me so domineeringly that he truly does embody Atticus—replies with his hands.
He grips me roughly through my briefs, pulling a loud mewl from my mouth as I arch into him, desperate for friction. For his touch. For him.
“I’ll finish you,” he promises, “and then you will do for me.”
“I g-get to make you come?” I push out around grunts, rubbing against him shamelessly.
“Non, Cameron. You will do other things.”
The pleasure at the base of my spine is building embarrassingly fast tonight, and My Atticus seems to sense this, rubbing me faster, harder, tighter.
“You will go to his home,” he murmurs against my neck.
“Who’s home?” I pant, my brain only half working.
“The one you love. The one you crave.”
Here is what I know about the man above me: he has somehow managed to appear in Atticus’s form, just as commanding and beautiful. He always makes me come, as if the entire reason he’s entering my house is to do just that, and somehow, there is some part of the real Atticus inside.
Somehow, some way, he can feel what Atticus desires and what he thinks. Whether that means he carries some bit of Atticus’s subconscious or he has some weird, psychic connection to him, he knows.
I guess he could be lying about it, but I don’t see why he would.
“He wants me too?” I ask, suddenly desperate for him to say yes. “Atticus wants me to come over?”
“Oh, sic,” My Atticus purrs. “He wants to see you so very badly. You must go.”
“O-okay,” I gasp, my balls drawing up at the mere mention of actually seeing him again. “I’ll go.”
“But,” he interjects, voice suddenly serious as he stops stroking me, holding me in a firm grip instead. “You will need to find the book.”
“The book?”
“The Nigrum Librum. The Black Book. It is in his room.”
“Why am I grabbing a suspicious book?” I ask, suddenly more aware of what he’s saying. “Does he want me to? What is it?”
A cruel, sadistic smile takes over his lips, and for the first time since that night he first came to my room, I’m a bit scared.
“He may not like this, but I will,” he tells me.
“B-but—” My words die out, turning into a rough moan as My Atticus begins to stroke me again, bringing me to the edge with a skillful quickness.
“Listen. You listen so well, corculum. Get the book, and I will meet you in the room. If you do this, we can be like this forever.”
“Forever?” I mimic, tasting it on my tongue, loving the way it cradles me.
“Forever. You will never be alone again,” he promises.
And that’s all it takes. Surely this guy wouldn’t do anything to hurt the real Atticus, not when they’re clearly connected in some way, and the temptation is too much.
Having Atticus forever, even in this way? I would do anything.
After I come—my favorite part—I load up into my Mustang with My Atticus in the passenger seat. He looks uncomfortable, as if he’s never truly been in one before.
The roads are mostly dead for this time of night, and the closer I get to Chastain Castle, the more nervous I am.
Side-eyeing the mark on My Atticus’s wrist, I squirm in my seat.
“Are you sure about this?” I ask him.
“Sic. I am sure,” he answers confidently.
We’re silent for the rest of the drive. The rain beats down onto the windshield, the wind roaring above the soft playing of Metallica through the radio.
Once we arrive at the gates of Chastin Castle, My Atticus leans over me, enveloping me in his scent, the cool touch of him as he punches in a code.
“How…” But I don’t finish. In the grand scheme of things, his knowing the entry code doesn’t really matter.
I’m about to sneak inside and raid Atticus’s bedroom while he’s sleeping in bed. Fuck, am I committing a crime? Is he going to hate me again?
I have no time to debate. I switch off the headlights as we approach the estate, just as we did that night Cassie and I snuck in with Julian, and park the car by the large, gothic fountain.
“The front door is open,” My Atticus tells me, nodding toward the door.
“Y-you’re not coming?” I ask, freezing with my hand on the handle of my car. “I have to go alone?”
“I will meet in the room.”