My corridor to nowhere curves, following the stone wall for a time, indenting to a garden and continuing along, giving the illusion of a home with eight sides instead of four. The place would make a decent compass rose with cardinal directions—north, south, east, and west—as the focal point and intermediate points the crown to the optical illusion he wants. Or, maybe, it’s Cassandra. I can see her wanting to turn an ordinary four-sided house into a fucking nightmare like this.
Swearing if I don’t come upon another trail that might lead to a freestanding garage, I’ll abandon my search, I round another corner. I believe I’m at the eastern-most side, but that thought slips away as I blink at the huge pool and all the lights. The heat is stifling. I can’t wait to get to my house on the outskirts of Denver, when the American leg of the tour is over.
“Sloane, Sloane, I see you.” Georgie’s voice floats above me and my eyes flash towards the sound. She’s balanced on the balcony railing, gripping a balustrade.
I’m aging a decade with every passing second. Every beat of my heart. She’s naked. Her hair is loose, long, a cascade of midnight. Her breasts are high and round, her waist narrow. Pussy hair is fashioned into a landing strip.
This goes through my mind fast. But, still, too slow. Before I can move or talk, she’s flying through the air, hands spread, and crashing into the pool.
Chapter Three
Sloane
She hits the water at high velocity, bobs her head once, her skin pale in the darkness. When she dips under again, she doesn’t resurface.
I wait. Count to ten. Nothing. No sign of Georgie.
Fear slices through me. I rush toward the pool, already yanking off my boots and shirt. I dive in. The thought that this is the deep end clicks in my scared brain. There’s enough water here where Georgie won’t have broken her neck. Paralyzed herself. Or killed herself.
She hasn’t reemerged, though.
It’s dark and the lights near the balcony aren’t breaching the surface. I kick hard, knowing I’m in the general spot she landed. My hand touches something. Hair. I grab her and propel us upwards. It seems like she dove in hours ago. Logic tells me it’s been only a few minutes. Three? Four? Five?
I lay her poolside, close to the outside sconces. They gleam around us in irregular squares, obliterating the slivered moon that mocks me in a sad parody of a lunar smile. Georgie resembles a beautiful corpse. She’s cold. Unmoving. Not breathing.
Fuuuucccckkkk.
I press upon her, counting out, in my head, the chest pumps I’m administering to her. A bit of water pops out of her mouth.
“Come on, baby.”
I don’t know this girl except to recognize she’s all kinds of fucked up, a lost little lamb with no guidance. I can relate. In her, I see me. My pain. My hurt. My self-destruction.
I pump again, worried that I might break her ribs. More water bubbles from her mouth, so I shut off my racing thoughts and focus on her.
A third time and she begins to cough violently then turns to her side, vomiting. Unlike her deathly stillness from just seconds ago, she’s trembling viciously now.
I cover my face and rest back on my haunches. The night has fucked my head up and tempts me to call my dealer. I have one in every city and they keep their contact information up-to-date for me, counting on the day I tumble again.
Instead of being happy that Dad hadn’t been able to keep his freak call with Parnell and Cassandra, I’m suddenly furious. I didn’t need her pussy. I had pussy earlier this morning and I’ll have a bunch of pussy after my concert tonight.
Fingers touch my legs, grabbing my attention. I stare at Georgie. Reddened eyes fill with tears. Fear. Confusion. She draws in heavy breaths.
“You need a hospital,” I whisper to her, tangling my fingers through her wet hair. She leans against my hands. I pull away. Just a little while ago, my hands had been shoved in her mother’s cunt and ass. My tongue had lapped Cassandra’s clit. I’m an excellent pussy eater and I put it to full use on Cassandra’s pussy.
As I showered her scent, taste, and juices from me, she’d climbed in and sucked my cock. Not talking. Just on her knees servicing me.
Now, as she sleeps—or whatever—and Parnell is lost in thoughts of my aunt’s pussy, I hold their daughter. Ignoring her curves. Her beautiful breasts. Her strip of pussy hair.
She’s stirring something inside me. I have no clue what. Perhaps, she’s humanizing me and reminding me of my descent to the bottom of my drug hell.
Maybe, she’s touching me because I’ve dealt with her globhead father and miserable mother for the entire evening. It’s a convincing attempt to gloss over an objectionable attraction that began last night when I believed she was eighteen.
It’s small consolation that I really have no respect for her fucking father and little for Cassandra. When we were fucking, her attention kept straying to Parnell, wanting him, not me. He kept dick in hand and jerked off. It made her fuck me harder. All she has to do is walk the fuck away. Open her fucking mouth. Tell Parnell to go fuck himself since he’s such a fucking expert.