8. 8
Killian
Harlow and I watch a documentary. I hate documentaries. I lied. Big surprise.
But she gets comfortable and settles into the couch. Her short legs curl beneath her, those round hips begging to be spanked.
I want to touch her. I want to trace my fingertip along her soft curves and—
“What?” she says, having caught me staring.
I grab the bowl of popcorn and shrug, forcing myself to look at the television.
“Nothing,” I murmur.
She doesn’t call out my bullshit.
This is a good job for her, anyway. Watch TV. Follow me around. Pretend I’m dangerous when she’s sitting there with an ass like that.
“Why are you staring at me?” she huffs.
Ah, fuck. I did it again. Hell with it.
“How come you don’t do Onlyfans with a shelf like that?”
She blinks several times. “You mean my ass?”
“Yeah. I have a friend. Meghan. She became a millionaire camming. You should see her house. I was shocked she went from poor to filthy rich just for getting railed online.”
“Oh my God, Killian. Did you ever think I have self-respect?”
“That’s harsh. Judging sex workers like that.”
She balks and sits up. “No! I mean! If that’s what they want to do, it’s fine. I’m not judging women for—”
I laugh, pleased I made her squirm so bad. I pull out my phone to bring up a video. “I’ve done porn. Once with Meghan and her friend. Wanna see it?”
“Ew! No!” she practically shouts.
I cock my head. Lightly, I graze my thumb over the stitches. “I get I have a scars, but I’m not that disgusting. What’s your deal?”
“I don’t...” she stammers, shifting uncomfortably. “I don’t want to see you fucking other women.”
“Jealous?”
“What? No! I just...” She sighs heavily. “Listen, I think that sex is special, okay? People should love each other if they sleep together. I’m sorry if that makes me judgemental.”
Oh, no.
She’s a goddamn romantic.
“I only cammed once,” I grumble.
I don’t know how to separate her from this idea that I’m just a screwed-up patient. She takes it too seriously. She follows me into the kitchen every time I refill my drink. When I change into comfortable clothes, she’s in my shadow.
Although, she turns away right as I drop my pants. I wish she wouldn’t. I want her to see me. No, I want her to want to see me.
“Go to sleep,” she says at three in the morning. “You look tired.”
I am.
My face hurts, I’m not myself without cocaine, and watching what she likes would put anyone to sleep.
But I fight it.
And fight it.
Because Harlow isn’t making beds or taking vitals. Her book isn’t in her hands. And the television is burning her half-closed eyes. She’s tired, too.
Eventually, my persistence pays off, and she’s the one asleep.
I wait another minute to make sure.
Then, I grab her phone.
No passcode. Brave girl. Why?
Doesn’t matter. I go through it.
Hm. She texts Keysha a lot. I wonder if it’s the one Brax is dating.
I check the photos. Not many of Harlow. The few she has, I send to my phone. Then I delete the thread, but now I have her number. Progress.
No dating apps. Her social media is bare. She has less than a hundred followers. Most are in scrubs. Looks like coworkers or nursing school people. I scroll. Yep, there is Keysha’s photo. Brax’s girl.
Nothing salacious. No boyfriends or men blowing up her DMs. So why resist a rich guy who could change her pathetic life? Not that I would save her. I just want to play with her a little. Ruin that uptight mouth. See how long it takes before she stops looking at me like a patient.
I peer over at my lowly CNA nestled against throw pillows.
“I want to sink into you so bad,” I mouth.
Carefully, I reach out and sweep a lock of hair behind her ear.
Nothing.
My palm floats down, almost close enough to touch. My hand hovers over her hip. She would probably slap me if she were awake.
I touch her anyway, carefully resting my palm on her hip. Her soft body is warm and so squeezable under my hand.
I close my eyes and bite down, but it’s no use. My fingers dig into her hip, aching for more.
She moves, just barely.
I snap my hand back, feeling frustrated. I’m not used to the chase.
When morning comes, I wake up on the couch.
Harlow is gone. Her shift is over.
And I hate it.
Everything feels a little bigger without her. Like the walls are whiter, the air is colder, and the feeling of being sober is so much bigger. I need my distraction. My toy. My reward for not crawling out of my skin.
“I just need to fuck her,” I remind myself.
I close my eyes, letting the words settle in.
Harlow’s Friday shift ended at seven this morning, and she refuses to come back until Monday.
By Saturday night, I’m desperate for another distraction.
I step onto the patio, and instantly, I’m home. People are everywhere, music blasts, and the pool sparkles under the Florida moonlight. Damn good party. And since Harlow doesn’t want to work on weekends — even though I practically begged her to — I need a second distraction.
“Hey, man,” I greet Brax.
This is his place after his mom went to prison, and he sure throws the best parties here.
He lifts his chin and hands me a beer.
“Damn, bro, they fucked you up,” he says.
His perfectly styled curly blonde hair shifts as he tilts his head, gawking at my face. He must be drunk to be so blunt about it. On second thought, these people don’t give a shit about faking shit or manners. It’s kind of what I like about them.
Anyway, my new scars must be noticeable. Dad took out the stitches today. I was hoping that would help. Guess not.
I grunt, disappointed.
“Yeah, they sliced me up good.” I lift the beer to my lips, just now realizing I’ve already cracked the can open. The hoppy aroma floats to my nose, familiar and inviting.
Of course, Harlow’s annoying professional voice resurfaces, telling me to resist temptation. I stored some clean urine before this party, though. I’m sure she’ll test me on Monday.
I sip the beer. Then another. I tell jokes. I socialize.
And by midnight, I’m feeling good despite the fifty times I’ve been asked about my face. The drunker people get, the more they blurt dumb shit like “Hey, you’re the joker now,” or “Wow, look at two-face.”
I don’t like it. I preferred women smiling coyly when we first met or asking about my tattoos, not gawking at me like I’m actually Freddy Krueger. They eventually flirt, but I wonder if they’re attracted for novelty’s sake.
After opening another beer, I slip into the pool and sit on the ledge, keeping my face above water. Dad said no swimming until the cut closes completely, but Dad says a lot of shit.
The scent of chlorine burns my nose, but the water is cool and refreshing against the humid night air. A pretty blonde approaches with a joint between her lips. We chat a little. My eyes fix on the embers’ glow as she inhales. She passes it to me—
“No, no, no,” a woman says, her voice familiar. For a second, I think I am hallucinating.
I glance across the pool, and my eyes go wide.
There, Harlow stands tits-deep in the shallow end of the pool, laughing and talking to some guys. Keysha and Brax are beside her.
Keysha. Brax’s girl. Of course. That’s how Harlow got here.
And she’s in a tiny black bikini.
One of the guys laughs. “Nobody goes two years.”
“Oh my gosh!” she says, her voice way louder than normal. She pushes on his shoulder. Her body movements are sloppy and exaggerated. “I told you. I haven’t had sex for two years!”
Holy shit.
My toy is drunk.
Very drunk.
And that was some statement.
Two years. Zero sex.
No.
The blonde is still holding the joint out to me.
I found something better.