Too Late

“Asa,” I whisper. “Go to sleep. I’m not leaving.”

I feel him move suddenly, so my eyes flick open. He’s propped up on his elbow now, staring down at me fiercely. I don’t know what I just said, but it upset him. Or maybe it had the complete opposite effect. I’m not sure.

“You swear?” he says, his eyes boring into mine. “You won’t leave?”

I nod, because it looks like he needs the affirmation. “I swear.”

He exhales, his forehead dropping to mine again. And then he’s kissing me. “I don’t want you to leave,” he says between kisses. “Don’t leave me, Sloan.”

I don’t like the sound of his voice. The fear in his plea. I have no idea why he’s saying this and if he’s just talking about right now—tonight—or forever.

Surely not forever.

Whatever it is, it makes me wonder what kind of things must have happened to him to make him so intense. He was either loved deeply or hated deeply. Hopefully it was the former.

“Promise,” he says, kissing me again. “Say you won’t leave.”

I take his face in my hands and whisper, “I won’t, Asa. I promise. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

He pulls me to him and holds me tightly for so long, the only time he releases his grip is when he finally falls asleep.

I stare at him for a moment. He looks less like a man when he’s asleep and more like a vulnerable young boy. His features are softer; his mouth isn’t set so tight. He’s relaxed in his sleep. Relaxed with me in his arms.

I adjust myself slowly until I’m on my stomach. His arm is still around me, but I turn the other direction and face the wall, allowing my arm to dangle off the side of the bed. I close my eyes and think about today.

I was kissed for the first time.

I went on my first date.

I had sex for the first time.

And even though it was nothing like I thought my first time would have or should have been, Asa already treats me better than anyone has ever treated me in my whole life. I’ve known him for one day and I already feel more important to him than I ever felt to my own mother.

I find myself relishing in the way he’s holding me. It feels good to be wanted. It feels even better to be needed. I’m almost asleep when I feel him move next to me. His lips meet the center of my back and he presses a gentle kiss there.

“You sleep on your stomach?” he whispers. “I don’t know why, but I fucking love that so much.”

His head comes to rest against my back, his cheek pressed against my skin.

And that’s how we fall asleep.

Me on my stomach.

Him half on top of me, ensuring I don’t leave, even in his sleep.





There was a case on the news recently about some dude who raped a girl. He got a few months in jail because he was white, or because he won some medals, or some shit combination like that.

The whole fucking nation went nuts over it. Everywhere anyone looked, his lenient sentence was all anyone saw. It flooded the news for weeks. I don’t know all the details of it, but it’s not like the guy was a serial rapist. Pretty sure it was just his first or second offense, but everyone acted like he was motherfucking Hitler.

Not that the stupid fuck didn’t deserve whatever jail time he got, or an even longer sentence. I’m not defending the cocksucker. I’m just a little irritated that my case hasn’t received one single goddamn second of national news coverage. I fucking murdered a guy and didn’t even get charged. I ran the biggest campus drug ring since college was fucking invented and didn’t get charged. Even after holding a gun on Ryan, the judge releases me on fucking house arrest until my trial.

House arrest. Six whole glorious months of it.

It’s a joke. This entire nation and the racist fucking hypocrites who run it are a joke, and guys like me are the ones who benefit from it. I would be ashamed of this country if I didn’t love it so much for its lack of repercussions.

And while we’re on the subject of white dudes having non-consensual sex with chicks without repercussions...I’m pretty sure I don’t even have enough fingers on both hands to count how many times I’ve been inside a girl without permission. Hell, I can’t even count the times I was inside Jess without her actually wanting me there. In all honesty, that’s one of the only reasons I even bothered with her. I liked how much she hated me.

I just don’t understand why I can get away with all that shit and no one makes a big fuss about it. I’m better looking than most of the dudes who get national media coverage. I’m also not a pussy...which most of them seem to be. What is it with pussy-ass, ugly white dudes getting all the fucking screen time?

Is it because I don’t come from wealth?

That’s probably it. I grew up an orphan with two piece-of-shit parents. The media knows people don’t eat stories like mine up, simply because I don’t have two privileged white parents by my side supporting me.

Figures. My one chance at notoriety and my parents are still fucking things up for me.

Paul, my bitch-ass lawyer, tells me it’s a good thing that the media hasn’t picked up this story. He says when the media grabs hold of shit, they spin it a certain way, and the judge feels more compelled to hand down a stronger sentence. To make an example. Makes sense, I guess, but I’m not sure Paul realizes what an effect I have on people. I’m fucking charismatic. The media would love me. And then Sloan would be forced to follow the story because it would be on every news channel every time she turned on the TV.

Fuck, I did it again. I let thoughts of her enter my head. I’ve been trying to listen to my psychiatrist...trying not to think about her. Every time I think about her it feels like I’m an overweight old dude with sky-high cholesterol, dropping dead from a heart attack. Hand clenches my heart, knees want to meet the ground.

I choke on my own nerves, just thinking about what she did to me.

My Sloan.

It’s my own fault. I should have known not to love something as much as I loved her. But I couldn’t help it. It was like she was made for me. It was as if she was put on this earth to make up for all the shit I endured growing up. For a while, I thought she was God’s apology to me. Like he pushed her straight down from the heavens, saying, “Here, Asa. I’ve created this ray of light to make up for all the darkness cast upon you by your parents. She is my gift to you, child. With her, your pain will vanish.”

And it did. For more than two years I had my own little piece of heaven whenever I wanted it. Sloan was like Eve before the fucking serpent corrupted her. She was sweet and innocent. Untouched. My own little angel in human form.

Until Luke.

Luke is the Satan to my Eve. The serpent. Tempting her with his apple, introducing her to sin. Corrupting her.

When I think of Sloan—which is every fucking second of every goddamn day—I think of the pre-Luke Sloan. The Sloan I loved. The Sloan who lit up like a fucking Christmas tree any time I’d pay her even the smallest amount of attention. The Sloan who made me coconut cake and spaghetti and meatballs just because she knew it would make me smile. The Sloan who would sleep in my bed every night, waiting for me to come wake her up by making love to her. The Sloan who would express her love for me by caring for my house like the good women do. The women who aren’t whores. I fucking loved watching her clean. She never complained about all the pigs who didn’t respect my house. She would just clean up after them, because she knew how much I loved a presentable house.

I miss her. I miss how much she loved to love me. I miss when she was innocent...my angel...my very own apology from God.

But now...after falling for that fucking serpent...I want her dead. I want them both dead. If she’s dead, I don’t have to think about how she isn’t the same person I fell in love with. If she’s dead, I don’t have to think about the sounds she makes when she’s being fucked by Luke. If she’s dead, I can move past the hatred I have for this post-Luke version of Sloan that took over all the parts of her that I once loved.

I’ve wondered if I kill Luke—if he’s out of the picture—can she change back to the Sloan I know is still there? Sometimes I think about giving her one last chance. Maybe if I were to kill Luke first and give her time to readjust to life with me again, I could learn to love her the way I used to love her.

It’s wishful thinking. He’s been inside her. Not only her body, but her head. He’s made her think that he’s better than me, that he can offer her more than I can. I’m not sure I want to forgive her for being that fucking stupid.

Her shine has worn off. She’s a dull toy now. Too many kids have played with her.

Damn shame.

It won’t be long, though. I’ve figured out where to get to them. It’s just a matter of how.