8. Chapter Eight
Jade”s lap dance did nothing for me. That’s usually her way of wanting to hook up. But for some reason, my dick didn’t want to play. It was only when I looked across and saw the feisty princess who gave me the best blow job of my life that my dick started to react. I grew rock hard as I watched her, the memory of her warm mouth still fresh in my mind. I’m pretty sure Jade thought she was the reason I was hard.
Yesterday I fucked Ebony Wilson in the girls’ bathroom, but while I did it, all I could think about, was the sensation of Poppy’s mouth on my cock. My release came swiftly, and Ebony didn’t have a chance to put on her usual fake theatrics.
Even though Ace and I share everything. I never told him about the blow job I received from Poppy. For some reason, I couldn’t tell him I’d found the first-place champion. If he finds out she’s great at giving head, he’ll be all over that. And trust me, once he experiences the sensation of Poppy”s mouth on his cock, every other blow job pales in comparison. He’ll just keep coming back for more, like the way I’m craving it now. And for some odd reason, I don’t like the idea of sharing her.
Poppy’s mouth was something else. She told me she’d never done it before. But I think that’s bullshit. Who gives a blowie so skillfully like that their first time? If what she says is true, just imagine how much better it will get with some practice.
For two days now, I”ve been constantly thinking about how to convince her to do it again. Yeah, I might have pulled a move on her the other night, but I don’t think it would be so easy for her to do it again. When I saw her on her knees after we finished, a strange mix of emotions washed over me. Every touch, every look, every word from her made my heart race with newfound excitement. A flood of unfamiliar emotions washed over me, all because of her. What I was feeling didn”t sit well with me. I can’t explain it, but the vulnerability in her eyes beckoned me to explore the depths of her emotions. I can see the pain in her eyes. It”s as raw as mine. And like me, she holds onto the silence, keeping her thoughts and feelings hidden.
Maybe that makes me a twisted fuck, but I had to get out of there before I did something stupid because of the way I was feeling about her.
It’s late when Ace drops me off at my house. Later than usual. We were so invested in refining our sound that we didn’t even realize how much time had passed.
As we pull up to my house, Ace turns down the music. In the silence of the dimly lit street, the occasional flicker of the streetlights adds to the already ominous atmosphere.
”You should have just stayed at my house,” he says, his tone filled with regret, as his gaze lingers on the house. Ace knows all too well that my father”s temper can change in an instant.
I turn my head and follow his gaze.
The house is all dark and quiet, with no signs of life.
“I’m sure it will be fine. The asshole is most likely passed out already.”
My eyes move down the street, focusing on the house that is just two doors down. Even though it”s getting late, I can still see some lights on in the house from the front windows.
I push open the passenger’s side door and get out.
With my pack slung over on my shoulder and my guitar in hand, I bid Ace goodnight as I quietly close the passenger’s door.
He slowly drives down the street, the sound of the engine barely audible. Normally, he races down the street. When he drops me off like this, late at a dark house, he just vanishes into the night, without a sound. He doesn”t want to draw attention to me, fearing my drunken father might still be awake.
I stay there, watching the red taillights disappear into the distance, merging with the night. I turn and make my way down the front path, feeling the anticipation growing as I approach the front door. I”m waiting, ears on high alert, trying to catch any faint sounds before I go in.
Nothing. It’s dead quiet. I lift my hand and turn the doorknob, then step into the quiet house.
The room is pitch black. The microwave clock, usually a source of light in the room, is now completely dark. Great, the power is fucking off again.
Closing the door behind me, I navigate the room with uncertain steps. My foot accidentally kicks an empty bottle, making a clinking sound as it slides across the floor. I wait in silence, holding my breath, straining to hear the slightest sound.
Out of nowhere, a voice shatters the silence, catching me off guard.
“Where the fuck have you been?” His voice drips with venomous hatred, like a poisonous serpent ready to strike.
I remain quiet, my heart pounding in anticipation of the impending confrontation.
Squinting into the darkness, I strain my eyes, hoping to catch any flicker of movement that might reveal his whereabouts. The last time he caught me like this, the sharp throbbing sting of pain in my face lasted for days. My injuries got everyone at school talking and asking me what happened. There was no way I could tell them the truth. So I lied. I told them I got into a fight with some guy who caught me banging his girlfriend. Only Ace knew the truth. Because he knows my old man’s a piece of shit. That’s why he worries about me.
My eyes dart around the room, searching for him. And then I hear the unmistakable sound of the whisky bottle slamming onto the table. Fuck he’s close. Too close for my comfort. I need to get out of here. I stand still, my mind racing as I contemplate the two choices before me. Either go back the way I came or sprint down the hall to my room. But it doesn”t matter which one I choose. He”s so close, he”ll nab me before I can make a run for it.
“I guess you”ve been screwing around, just like your mom, no doubt.”
His words pierce deep into my heart, bringing forth a flood of memories of my beautiful mother. But now is not the time to linger on that matter. I need to get the fuck away from this psycho.
Moving slowly, I take each step with caution, my breath held tight, afraid of the repercussions if even a whisper escapes me.
One step. All good.
Two steps. As I let out a slow breath of relief, I can almost taste the freedom of making it to the hall and then I can flee to my room before the fucker can catch me.
As I take a third step, the floorboards groan under my weight, echoing through the room. But before I can even react, he has me pinned against the wall - his hand tight on my neck.
The impact hits me with such force that my bag and guitar slip from my hands, crashing onto the ground.
With his face inches from mine, his alcohol breath stings my nose.
“You worthless little bastard,” he spits out.
“Fuck you, asshole!” I hiss, my voice strained as I struggle against his tight grip.
His grip on my neck tightens, and my pulse becomes a relentless drumbeat in my ears.
“I should”ve kicked your ass out when your mother died. You worthless fuck.”
“I’m not fucking worthless,” I say. “Just you wait. One day I”ll be something.”
“Ha!” He laughs. I feel the wetness of his spit hitting my face. “Dream on big boy, because it ain’t gonna happen. Nobody fucking wants you. Not even me, and I thought I was your old man.”
“Let me go, you fucking asshole,” I manage to gasp out, my nails digging into his hand that refuses to release its grip on my throat.
His fingers relax on my neck, giving me a momentary sense of relief, but he quickly regains his strength and forcefully shoves me back. His face hovers so near to mine that it’s almost touching. I can practically feel the waves of anger coming from him as he glares at me.
He despises me with every fiber of his being. I can feel my breath being snatched away as his hands constrict around my throat, my body fighting for oxygen. My vision becomes warped and hazy. I am on the brink of passing out when he retracts his fist and delivers a powerful blow to my face.
Agonizing pain shoots through the side of my face like a fiery spear. I collapse onto the unforgiving floor. My mouth tastes the blood as it flows from my nose, staining my lips. I”m struggling to breathe as I wipe the blood off my nose with the back of my hand.
Despite the darkness, a piercing sound breaks the silence, leaving me even more breathless. It’s a jarring sound, like splintering wood. And I know exactly what it is. My heart aches knowing it’s my guitar, the one my mother gave me before she passed away.
”How are you gonna make it now big shot without your guitar,” he sneers, his words laced with mockery.
What that guitar represents to me is invaluable. It was my ticket out of this place, but, most of all, it was my mom”s prized possession. The loss of it reduces me to a whimpering child.
Music is not just a hobby or an interest for me - it’s my lifeline. Without it, I am nothing but an empty shell.
With each stomp of his foot, my guitar shatters and scatters across the room.
By the time he’s finished, he’s gasping for air and has to stop. Then he wearily collapses onto the couch with a satisfying sigh. “Not so fucking Mr. Big Shot, now are ya?”
Standing up slowly, I lose my balance and make contact with an object near my feet.
Once I hear the sloshing sounds, I know exactly what it is. I snatch it up without thinking. Clutching the bottle tight, I make a mad dash for the front door, seeking solace in the quiet, dimly lit street.