Killian
The bedroom is dark. The mattress creaks as I kneel by her hips. My fingertips slip under the waistband of her panties, my knuckles skimming her soft skin.
I freeze.
Please don’t stink. Please don’t stink.
I rip her underwear down.
Fuck.
“Come on. Start snacking,” says the drunk girl.
“I’m the drunk guy,” I slur.
“What?”
“Did I say that out loud?”
Drunk girl laughs as if I just told the funniest joke she’s ever heard. Maybe I did. Women love that I’m funny.
I laugh too. I don’t know why. I’m following her lead. She knows exactly what she wants.
Focus, Killian. It’s time to get it in. Enjoy this.
I line up my cock to her—
“Oh no, Killy. You’re eating this first.” She points at her pussy.
I don’t skip a beat.
“You need a shower.”
I brace myself, ready to block a slap to the face, but I am met with... more laughter.
Make a woman smile, and she’ll forgive you.
“If it’s good enough to fuck, it’s good enough to lick,” she says, twirling her long blonde hair.
That’s sound logic.
“Okay, Elle—”
“Elle! Who’s Elle? I’m Nina,” she hisses.
I just stare. That was a major fuck-up. Actually, I don’t even remember telling her my name.
“Well? Hello?” she pushes.
“Nina, Pinta, Santa Maria.”
“Did you just Columbus me?”
“I did.”
Her laughter bursts into the darkness, where it’s lost — along with her request for oral.
Humor always saves me. Not that I don’t enjoy pleasuring a woman.
Then we fuck.
Then, it’s over.
Except it’s not.
Like two newborn giraffes, we stand and search for our clothes. She attempts to dress. I help her. Then I button my jeans. I can’t find my shirt. A lamp falls. It shatters. I think the room is spinning. My eyelids are heavy. Moments flash of being present, then blacking out.
She laughs again.
Now, it’s annoying.
“Please, shut the fuck up,” I say, agonized.
She giggles, the noise scraping the inside of my skull.
Damn, I need a bump.
Suddenly, she flings her arms around my neck. I grab the dresser to keep upright. We both wobble while she gives me sloppy kisses on my neck.
“Thanks, Killy. You were so good!”
“I was?” I say, unable to remember much.
“Yeah!” Her hand wanders up to my face, and her thumb strokes my cheekbone. “And Jesus, your face is prettier than mine.”
I wait for the usual rush — that smug high of being adored. Yet, none of her praise sets in.
She just turns away. “See ya.”
“Wait. Want my number?” I blurt.
Her red lips curve into a carefree smile. “I swear. You are so funny.”
I furrow my brow.
Nina slips out of the bedroom and back to the party, leaving me alone in this dark room.
In some random house.
Oh well. Better for her to go than be clingy.
Yet, I stand there, drunk and shirtless, brooding because feeling anything is better than nothing. I mean, women used to want my number. They’d beg me not to ghost them. Now I’m their ghost. The kind that makes them shiver, then forget I was ever there.
Moonlight streaming through the blinds, lighting my way to an adjoining bathroom. I dig into my pocket and retrieve a tin. Inside, the powder I’m not supposed to touch.
My eyes flick up. I grimace at my reflection.
I don’t recognize myself. Once, I was built.
Tall, rich, clean-cut, with curly black hair that fell exactly how I told it to.
Everyone noticed when I walked into a room.
Women wanted my number before I offered it.
At least my face — the one Nina was gushing over — hasn’t completely changed.
Women still worship my jawline as if it were sculpted by the gods.
Like beauty makes me less of a disaster.
Like a pretty face can’t lie, snort, or fake a laugh.
Now?
My bloodshot brown eyes are dead, my cheeks sunken, my nose sharpened by weight loss. Tattooed knuckles graze my stubble. Horror villains crawl from my fingers, up my arm, and across half my neck, cruel and grinning — a warning everyone ignores when they slap my back like I’m their jester.
Maybe I just need to gain weight... Dad’s gonna be pissed when he sees me this thin. The tattoos infuriated him. This will send him over the edge.
His dark eyes flash with that familiar look of disapproval.
A sick feeling knots my stomach.
I hate him.
I grip the countertop and hang my head.
Fuck this.
Let’s party.
I snort a line.
Another. Another—
Another.
Footsteps.
My gaze snaps over, and I flinch as Bobby Morris appears in the doorway. He’s the same greasy dealer I remember. Who let that bastard out of prison?
“Found you,” he says. “How long have you been hiding out here? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Where’s my money?”
“In your wallet,” I quip, too fast and careless. Though, I am high as fuck.
He belts out a laugh that crawls under my skin.
“Always the joker,” he says coolly, then signals behind him. Two men appear. “Hold him down.”
Shit.
I lunge forward and barrel past Bobby, but slam into one of his giants, who hooks my arm.
I punch the fucker, causing blood to gush from his nose.
He loses his grip and stumbles backward.
The other guy throws a right hook. I dodge it and knee him in the groin, but miss the main target.
He stays upright and jabs fast, his fist connecting with my eye.
The hit is hard and disorienting. My world blurs more than the effects of alcohol already did.
They latch onto me, and both men drag me back to the bathroom.
Before, I’d destroy them, or at least escape. Not now.
Goddamn, have I fallen that far?
“Make him watch,” Bobby says, and the men shove me down to my knees, facing the mirror. My chin clips the countertop, causing my teeth to clack. My chest heaves, and every muscle flexes as I try to slip free.
“I’ll get the money,” I assure, my breath ragged. “My dad is good for it. He cut me off, but he’ll pay to help me.”
“You’ve had plenty of time to pay your debt, even when I was behind bars.” He digs in my pockets, finding a receipt, switch blade, and my wallet. His eyes light up as he pries it open, but finds nothing. Then, he spots my open tin beside the faucet and shakes his head.
He glides behind me, lanky and loose-limbed. He leans down, and his big nose edges into my peripheral vision. “Don’t ya know these drugs will kill ya?”
That’s the selling point.
“Look at you. You’re penniless, coked out, and at my mercy.”
“Come on, Bobby. I’m telling you my dad—”
His clammy palm snatches my forehead, and he cranks back. “Let’s give you a smile, joker man.”
It happens fast.
He shoves a cold blade, my own fucking pocketknife, into my mouth. A blinding pain explodes as my cheek rips open in one hard pull. Hot blood spills down my jaw and neck. He lets go. The blade appears again, splitting my eyebrow as my head falls forward.
“What the—!” a woman shrieks.
We look that way, and she runs, screaming.
“Ah, hell,” says Bobby. “Time to go.”
His guys release me, and I collapse onto the floor and cup my face. I try to groan, but blood bubbles in my throat and distorts the sound. Bobby’s men vanish first. He should follow. Instead, he crouches beside me.
“I’ll fucking kill you for this,” I snarl, though my threat is mangled by my torn cheek.
He laughs, the sound worse than Nina’s.
“No, you won’t,” he says, and shoves something under my nose. “I’m tired of your excuses. Nobody gets away with not paying me this long. Here’s one last hit for the funny guy. Breathe it in.”
I don’t want to. I’m gasping for air, but inhaling through my mouth means inhaling blood. So when precious air flows into my nostrils, so does something else. Something stronger than cocaine.
He leaves, and soon darkness falls, and the laughter finally stops.