16. Kaden
Kaden
I’m trying to block everything out. Trying to make my mind go blank. The sounds of my fists connecting with the punching bag is almost enough to drown out my thoughts.
Almost.
Don’t think about it! Don’t think about it! Don’t— and then a flash of images is rushing through my head.
Me on the floor last night, panting like I’d just run a marathon. My hands on a narrow waist, fingers digging into soft skin, and hips thrusting and grinding.
I yank off the gloves, throwing them on the floor. My chest heaves with every breath, and sweat drips from my forehead, down my temples. I swipe a hand over it, wiping it off on my t-shirt.
Click.
Another image flashes by, hands and lips on my chest, my stomach, my collarbones.
I put my head in my hands, tugging at the hair, groaning, but that doesn’t help at all. All it does is force more images through my head. Of me, groaning, moaning, a fucking mess on the floor, with a dick so hard I thought I was going to pass out from the lack of blood in my head.
And then Seth… Fuck!
Seth.
How could I do that to him?
Jesus fuck, my head is swimming with images of him with his hands on my dick, his lips wrapped around it, his cheeks hollowing as he—
I get a stream of heat through my body, and it’s rushing south so fast I get lightheaded. The air whooshes out of me and I double over. Hands on my knees.
Is this what a panic attack feels like? Sans hard dick? And why the fuck am I hard anyway? It must be the fucking Molly.
Yeah, that’s it.
I’m having withdrawals from the drugs, and it’s making me crazy, sweaty, and hard.
Of course.
Because last night, I got high with Seth and we—No! Stop!
“Ugh,” I groan into my hands, but it echoes off the walls in the basement in a way that does nothing to make the images go away.
I need to get out of here.
I snatch my sweater off the floor, and almost run into a neighbor on my way through the door. Someone apologizes, and I don’t think it’s me, and then I rush up the stairs.
“—you been up to?”
This day is hell. As if it wasn’t already bad enough with the panic attack or whatever it was in my basement gym this morning, I thought, “hey, why not visit your mom, who you can’t hide anything from because she’s like a fucking bloodhound? Doesn’t that sound like a great fucking idea?”
I don’t even want to think about what happened after I ran up the stairs to my apartment like something was chasing me.
But of course, my mind goes there anyway.
I yanked the door open, got in, and slammed it shut.
My sweater stuck halfway out. I didn’t even bother before I rushed into the bathroom.
I probably got frostbit in the shower because I didn’t wait for the hot water before I stumbled in.
Then I spent the next minutes jerking so fast, my hand was just a blur.
Trying like hell not to think about a certain someone with blond hair and blue eyes.
Failing immensely and hating how even harder it made me, and how fast I came.
Let it be written in stone: I’m never doing Molly again.
“K?”
“Huh?” I jerk my head up, so lost inside my mind, I forgot I decided that yeah, visiting my mom was a great fucking idea. I’ve never regretted anything more in my life. Probably.
Well, maybe one thing…
“What’s wrong with you?” Mom places one hand on her hip, waving the other at me.
“Nothing,” I shrug, sounding all breathless.
She squints at me, sucking her teeth. I blink at her. Two times.
Crossing her arms, she raises her brows. She’s trying to smoke me out. I’m usually pretty good at this game. I usually stand my ground. I—
“What?” I squawk, pulling my hair, and dragging my hands down my face.
“You hiding somethin’.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You sweating like a sinner in church.” She squints at me again, jerking her head forward. “Are you high?”
“No!”
“Then spill!”
Well, what do you want me to say, Mom?
That no, I’m not high.
Anymore.
I was last night, though. Yeah, last night, I was through the fucking roof.
And you know what else?
I let my best friend suck my dick. I basically begged him to do it. And I’ve never come so fast, or so hard in my life.
And now I can’t stop thinking about it, and I’ve probably fucked up our friendship, and tomorrow, I’m expected to go to work like nothing. Fucking. Happened.
I drop my head on the table, sighing.
“I did something.”
“Somethin’ bad?”
I nod, scratching my nose against the table.
“Somethin’ illegal?”
“Maybe.” It feels illegal. “No.”
“Do I wanna know?”
I snort. “No.”
“Do I need to know?”
I shake my head as I hear her pulling a chair out, sitting down.
“Are you hurt?”
I shrug.
“Did you hurt someone?”
“I don’t know,” I mumble. “Maybe.”
“Okay,” she says, stroking my hair. “I’m here, if you need me.”
“Thanks—”
“But,” she cuts me off. “If you’ve hurt someone, even if you didn’t mean it, you apologize. You let them know you’re sorry. The rest is up to them.”