Anything.
“Oh God. I wanted it.” My fingers grip the sides of the bowl; back arching, I cough up what’s left in my stomach. The acid bites into my tongue.
You’re a good boy, Rex.
They knew what to say, what I needed to hear. I was so sick when they were done with me, raw and broken from the inside out, but those words . . . I was starving for them.
I’d have done anything for them, whatever they asked.
Until . . . He was doing up his belt buckle.
You’re worth every dollar, kid.
Cramps seize my body in an unrelenting hold. They paid for me. Not love.
They lied. I wasn’t a good boy. I was the worst kind of boy. Dirty. Sick.
Unworthy of love.
I push up from the toilet and rinse my mouth out in the sink. Catching my reflection in the mirror, I study my bare torso. Covered in ink, different sayings, random thoughts matched with whatever art I thought was cool at the time. A mishmash of shit that means nothing except to prove just how fucked I really am.
All except one. Mom. What’s her story? What about life was so horrible that she couldn’t hang on for me? Where was my dad?
So many questions and not enough answers. I scrub my hand through my hair and squint to focus my eyes. My skin crawls with the feeling of hands all over me.
I reach down and hook my finger around the rubber band at my wrist.
Snap!
There’s no sting.
I pull it tighter.
Snap!
Nothing.
I drag my fingernails up the belly of my forearm.
It burns.
Yeah, fuck, yeah.
I bite my lip, snagging my lip ring and pulling hard with my teeth. A low moan rolls from my chest. More.
My nails dig deeper, and I pull them up my arm again. The skin breaks; blood tracks the path.
“Mmm.” It stings.
The pressure in my chest lets up.
Everything around me dissolves. I need more, so much more.
Stripping off my pants, I turn the shower on hot. I climb in and let the scalding water hit the most sensitive part of my body. The dirtiest part.
The pain is so much, but I force myself to take the punishing torment. It’s what I deserve. It’s what I crave.
Starting at my head, I bury my hands in my hair and pull, ripping against my scalp.
I’m filthy, forever stained by the memories of my past. I scratch down my face to my neck; the raw sting is the only thing that keeps me grounded. My chest, arms, stomach—every inch of my body has been defiled by perversion.
I scrub harder, faster.
Hands grab and stroke. Lips against my neck. Hot breath at my ear. I’m covered in them. Every man who used me, manipulated my feelings, robbed me of my innocence, all of them left their mark.
I want them gone.
Skin gathers behind my fingernails and blood colors the water at my feet.
More. Get them off!
Pain. Blood.
Will I ever be rid of them?
*
Mac
It took seconds. Seconds of standing in my driveway and watching everything I’ve built my life around drive away for me to realize there’s no way I’m giving him up.
The worst thing he can threaten is calling the cops? Fine. A ticket, a few months in jail, restraining order, bring it.
I failed him once. I will not fail him again.
Pulling on a pair of leggings, I slide into my boots and race to the garage. I throw my leg over my bike and fire up the engine.
“Come on, come on.” I hit the opener and pull back on the throttle, ready to shoot out of the garage when the damn door lifts. As soon as it’s high enough to accommodate me, I lie hard on the gas and peel out of the drive. I don’t worry about closing it. Trix should be home soon, if not, fuck it. Nothing matters at this point, nothing but getting to Rex.
The wind whips through my hair and slaps my face in stinging bites. Pushing his face into the forefront of my mind, I fly through a stop sign, racing until I’m in the parking lot of his condo.
I spot his truck, parked sideways. A knot drops dead weight in my belly, knowing that I did that to him. I stand and pop the front tire to hop up on the curb. Riding on the sidewalk into the bowels of his complex, I aim my bike at his front door. He doesn’t get to walk away from me, not like this, not without a chance to explain. And if I have to drive my bike through his front door to get to him, I fucking will.
Once at his place, I swing off my bike and ready my fist to bang the shit out of his door. He gets one warning and then I’m ramming the shit down.
I pull back and thrust my fist into the door, and it swings wide open. “What the . . .?” Not only unlocked, but left open?
The interior is dark as if no one’s home, but his keys are lying near the front mat in the foyer. His shoes aren’t there either. I swallow and step inside, closing the door behind me. The light from outside is shining in through the windows, and I don’t see him anywhere.
Standing in the great expanse of the dark, cold room, I strain to listen. What is that sound? The pipes? He’s in the shower.