Green Light by Jescie Hall PDF

OceanofPDF.com  Copyright © 2024 Jescie Hall All rights reserved. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental...

OceanofPDF.com  Copyright © 2024 Jescie Hall All rights reserved. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author. ISBN : 979-8-9889352-3-0 Editor: Jenn Heathers Cover by Jescie Hall PA: Cari Harvey PAA: Annica Smith Contact: [email protected] OceanofPDF.com  To those of you with inboxes full of sixty-year-old sugar daddies... May one of them be a secretly obsessive, tattooed, and tortured anti-hero, craving to defile you on camera. OceanofPDF.com  Prologue Two Years Ago T heintopungent odor of vomit violently assaults my nose, seeping its way my consciousness. I thought I’d lost all sense of self, but in a flash, awareness smacks me dead in the face. Fuck, I'm still here. My mouth tastes like rusted steel, and my shirt sticks to the skin of my chest. I'm hoisted up, my legs like jelly beneath me, as I feel my arm drape around something hard and warm. In the dull black vacuum, sensations are void. Feelings are invalid. Unrequited love—effectively destroyed. But here, I’m trapped in a living nightmare. “Should we take him in?” a distant voice echoes. “Well, we can't leave him here,” another responds. My body slumps into the warmth beside me, working to absorb all I can. “He needs a doctor.” “He needs to get the hell away from the store!” I try with all my strength to open my heavy lids, attempting to put some faces to these detached voices, but my vision is hazy as the sharp pains in the back of my head give way, allowing my surroundings to take shape. The sensation of needles jab into my left foot, but not my right. Peering down, I see I've lost a shoe and am currently balancing on some sort of mosaic blue walkway. But it's not a walkway. Further clearing of my blurred vision determines its clouds. Sharp clouds.  Shooting pain slices through the ball of my foot. I squint, seeing I'm standing in a pile of shattered glass, reflecting the sky from the storefront I'm planted in front of. I must have been lying in the street again. “Call the police, Jean!” Yeah, not happening. I can’t get caught up again. Not after last time. Using my free hand, I check for my wallet in the back pocket of my jeans, but my hand can’t bend. Pain shoots up my wrist. Wallet’s gone. Fuck. I find my feet under me and stumble out of the grasp that’s holding my body up. I make it a few steps before I fall shoulder-first into a brick wall, my cheek scraping against the ragged surface and my fingers attempting to grip their minuscule ledges for stability. How did I get here? Last I remember, Josiah and Wheeter were trying to get me to head home from the stool I was so firmly planted on at the bar. The bar, where after a few too many beers, a few too many lines, and a few Vicodin sold to me by a guy in the bathroom, I saw the ghost of her through the crowded dance floor. A flash of pain had struck me in the chest. Dark hair, chocolate eyes, and a smile only the devil could own. But it wasn’t her. It’s never her. She doesn’t even exist. The one who destroyed me. The one who stripped me of my livelihood, disrupted my peace, and left me with nothing. The one I expressed my deepest and darkest secrets to. The kind I’d only wished to die alone with. The one who promised to make me whole again, yet ripped any chance of a promising future from my grasp. The one who awakened me to a heaven I’d never known could exist, only to force me into the cages of my own nightmarish hell. The catalyst to my downfall. I’m done trying to find her in all the wrong people, wishing like hell she’d come back to me and that my realization of the demon she became was simply a fever dream. I’m done trying to find a small thread of that disgusting emotion that took control of my life, imprisoning me like a hostage to her venom. Drowning me in her affection like the most beautiful, unassuming toxin.  But friends in low places caught me again, ready to help erase these memories, this broken heart, eager to help me tap into the closest form of ecstasy that rivals the love I’d lost through a needle and syringe, a pill, or whatever flammable liquid I could find to consume. The surrounding light fades fast, and my inability to stay conscious is probably because humans are actually required to eat to survive. I don’t think I’ve tasted food in days, and I’m sure my sunken eyes and hollowed face showcases that to the world. My body is functioning purely off of illegal substances and a history of trauma. Any hope I had left for humanity was gone the minute that girl emptied our accounts, destroyed what future I had, and left me with a blank screen, void of identity. She stripped me of everything I am and, in a day, ruined all the good parts left of me that she alone had nurtured. Promises of forever were a cruel joke. As convincing as she was and as cold as she’d left, existence in this world without her felt like an irreversible spiral. It still does. Down the drain I went, never to escape this torture. That dark reality was a place I couldn't survive anymore. I didn't want to. I crack open my only working eye, feeling the cool cement against my cheek now. Maybe I walked here. Maybe someone offered help and I had an entire conversation with them I can't remember. Maybe I told them everything about her and the tragedies of my life. Either way, I guess I’m back on the street again, no voices nearby this time, and by the way the sun is burning my flesh, I’d guess I was amidst the hustle and bustle of the lunchtime rush. Just another junkie gone to the world. That's what they think as they drive past me, walking amongst themselves, entering and exiting businesses, brushing past each other in their suits and skirts as I lie here in my crusted blood, filth, and the pain of my own idiocy. But people are unreliable at best, and hope is a fleeting thought left for dreamers. This life holds the promise of heaven for those naive enough not to realize we were subjected to hell long ago. So I stay planted against the chill of this dirty cement, littered with half-eaten rotting food, rat feces, and an overabundance of sludge and trash of yesterday’s demise. I lie here with my half-open eye, studying the patrons stuck in traffic at the stoplight as they work hard to pretend I don't exist in the same space as them. True to form, the red light flips to green, giving the opportunity for a new set of pretenders to pull up and convince themselves they’re not only happy, but honorable. OceanofPDF.com OceanofPDF.com  1 Montana A tbeing a woman’s core, she knows—there’s a distinct difference between looked at and being seen. Any smart girl hopes to never truly be seen. How can they possibly hurt you if they are without the chance to burrow into the vast cavern within you? Those secrets you hold deep? They're yours to treasure, never to unveil. A woman’s heart isn’t meant to be toyed with. Once touched, it has the power to level cities, make happy homes turn to dust, and obliterate a man’s ego. But I’ve gained a taste for it, you see. The control that comes from capitalizing on being looked at. Deliciously deviant, I’ve become a slave to my own power. I hunger for the way men become weak around me, beneath me, inside of me. They think they’re using me, but I know. I know what it takes to make them fold. What makes them fall on their sword for a taste of the promised land. And I assure you, it isn’t much. Men are driven by their sexual needs. By their need to control and conquer. Giving them the confidence to assume they hold the power is my wheelhouse, my area of expertise. Long gone are the days that men take from me. But this venture ahead of me is something I’ve never dared to do. That is, until my needs outweighed my wants, and injustices were swept beneath the rug of humanity. Life hasn’t set me up to succeed, yet all I do is find ways in which to do so, regardless of morality.  The backs of my thighs stick to the leather beneath me. I readjust my sundress, the couch creaking beneath me as I shift, and I quickly contemplate my life choices. It’s just sex. A meaningless transaction. One in which I can ultimately derive my own pleasure if need be. But this is a job. One I just so happen to be really fucking good at. My ability to become heartless and closed off to human emotion is a skill I’ve excelled at all my life. Being able to remove the self where many can’t find the strength to do so. The room is silent yet comfortingly warm. I assumed it would be frigid and unwelcoming. Fluorescents nearly blind me with their stark white light, but I understand the need for clear, quality shots. My eyes fall upon the sleek wooden desk before me, bare and waiting. Trailing my gaze further, I take in the tripod in the corner, the camera already set on me. Could he already be recording? The doorknob twists and I sit up straight, quietly clearing my throat. It’s just a penis. Just a dick. Doesn’t matter the age or body attached to it. The better I am, the faster this goes, the quicker I get paid, and the sooner I get my answers. The door opens abruptly, and a man brushes past me. As my eyes fall upon those broad shoulders, the confident gait with which he strides, and the scent of designer cologne that almost burns my nostrils with its spicy musk, I can’t help but stare vacantly. He’s not Vince. It’s not possible. This man is surprisingly young, looking only a few years older than me. Dressed in fitted navy-blue dress pants with a brown belt that is the exact shade of caramel brown as his fancy loafers, it’s clear he has money. His crisp, periwinkle-blue button-up is pressed to perfection, and his dark hair is shaved into an extremely low, faded undercut. The entire aura surrounding him reeks of confidence, and the way he holds his head high and with authority makes me assume he is someone of importance. Standing near the desk, he finally leans his hip against it, turning to face me. Piercings and ink litter his face and neck, some of the ink fresher than the rest, which seems to contradict his choice of attire entirely. He offers his hand to me. “Melanie.” My brows lower as I sit in silence, wondering if I heard him correctly. I stare blankly at his bony hand, the enlarged knuckles donning fresh cuts along with scars of old ones, noting more sporadic tattoos. He can’t be Vince. His deep timber startles me as it rattles through my chest again. “Melanie, right?” I shake my head. “Montana.” He pulls his hand back, sucking a breath through his teeth as he quickly rubs his palm over his mouth. He sits on the edge of the desk behind him. “I’m so sorry.” “It’s okay,” I mutter quickly, feeling his discomfort or nervousness, whichever it may be. His pinpoint pupils zero in on my face, and I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. He just stares; a morbid fascination lies behind his gaze. “You’re auditioning with me today?” I ask. “I’m sorry, I-I’m just a bit confused. I had assumed this was a solo audition. I didn’t think I’d be partnered up yet…with anyone other than...” His hands grip the lip of the desk tightly, still staring intently as I trail off. Lips that are full, pink, and pouty sit on a face carved by bone and definition. Hollow cheeks sink into his structured face, while his pronounced Adam’s apple protrudes through the image of some sort of daunting moth with skulls covering it. Hairs on the back of my neck tickle and dance at the stoic look he’s giving me. His eyes are dark and menacing, yet I feel the heat of caged rage existing beneath the still and motionless facade. He is, however, exactly what I would guess a guy in this business would look like—rough around the edges, a few screws loose, assumptions of a massive cock beneath those fitted pants. All the crazy ones have the best dicks. It’s science. I guessed I’d have my chin nuzzled in some geriatrics’s sack by now. I’m not mad at the discovery; I’m simply surprised. Better yet, amused. “So…your name is?” I say, breaking the sudden awkward silence. “Croix,” he answers. “And…is this your—” “I don’t do sentiments.” His tone is cold and altogether void of emotion. My head tips to the side as I study him. I get it, this industry and the need to separate our feelings, but there is still a thing called fucking kindness. Human decency left this one a long time ago.  “I wasn’t asking for a life story,” I say, unable to bite back my bitterness. “Clearly, I don’t need it, nor do I fucking care.” He laughs lightly, dragging his tongue across his lips. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “Let’s reset. I apologize for how that came across. It’s been a long day.” A long day. Great. Before I can overthink what that loaded statement means, he continues, “When I start recording, state your name and age, and we’ll begin.” My hands lay loosely on my lap, my mouth parts, but I can’t speak. He’s not the talent. He’s the agent. “Where’s Vince?” He cocks a brow. The one with sharp slices through the center, like a cat got its claws into him. “Vince is admin. Brings them to the agent. I’m the agent you're working with today.” He presses up and off the desk, growing to his full height again, and walks a few strides toward the tripod. Tight bundles of nerves threaten to dismantle my cool facade, my mind already imagining how this is going to play out. He’s toned by the look of it, lengthy, and the way his ass and thighs fill those dress pants has my toes curling into my sandals. It’s unfortunate that he’s somewhat attractive to me, but there are worse things than being attracted to the guy you’re about to fuck on film. “I saw on your form that you are open to pretty much anything,” he says while futzing with the camera. I clear my throat again, feeling oddly raw and vulnerable as I pull the bottom of my skirt over my thighs. “Uh, yeah, I’m down for whatever…” “So you’ve done this before?” His accusatory tone practically lashes me, almost sounding as if he’s frustrated if that’s precisely the case. He’s fucking delusional. Nice, then harsh, sweet, then psycho. Screws loose. “No,” I state, raising my chin. “First timer here.” He pauses whatever he is doing with the camera to turn his gaze upon me. It’s then I notice just how quiet it is in this room—too quiet, as the blaze of those eyes burn me from the inside out. The darkness he exudes makes me pause. He blinks slowly, then shifts his attention back to the camera again.  “Then don’t say you’re down for whatever when you aren’t even aware of what that entails. Safe word?” I let out a breath, feeling somewhat irritated by the overall arrogance of this man, then shrug. “Red?” He scoffs. “No lack of originality there.” Before I can clap back with something witty and demeaning, he turns to face me again. “Green light.” My brows pinch together. “What?” “You have to say it. In order for me to begin, you need to give me the green light. Consent is of utmost importance in this business.” I grip the edge of my dress with my sweaty palms. Taking a quick, calming breath, I release it and say, “Green light.” His scarred brow twitches as he peers from my eyes to my breasts, skimming my exposed knees down to my sandal wedges. The way he’s assessing me, a demented look in his eyes and a simple smirk slowly pulling at his lips, makes my face flush with heat and my thighs press together. It's clear he views me as less than a person. A mere object to satisfy not only his needs but the consumers’ as well. He presses a button, and the camera flashes a small red light. Flipping my long black hair over my shoulder, I shift personas, becoming everything I need to make this mission happen. No self. No connection. Completely shut down. “My name is Montana Rowe, and I’m eighteen years old.” He stills at the statement, his hand rolling into a fist near his side, and I wonder about the lies other girls have told this very camera. “Very good,” he says softly, the sultry tone of his voice already making my skin sizzle. Taking a few steps, he stands before me, hands in his slacks, his bulge already lengthy and pressing against the fabric of his pants. Is he already semi-hard? I blink up at him from beneath long lashes, using the power of my innocence against him. It seems to work. His rough expression softens slightly as he peers down into their hypnosis. I’ve been blessed with eyes that can strike a man down. My mother once told me eyes were a woman’s most dangerous weapon. Had she used hers correctly, maybe I wouldn't be in the mess I am today. However, I’ve utilized this skill in the past, and at the moment, I understand the true magnitude of it. My golden browns, like whisky in the sun, pull men into my hold as I wrap around them, counting down their demise and raping them of their livelihood. “Montana Rowe,” he whispers my name with such familiarity that a chill skirts across my flesh. His hand rises and his rough palm lands on my cheek, his thumb trailing my skin and his fingers cupping gently beneath my jaw. “You’re a beautiful woman. But you already know that, don’t you?” My lips part as a soft sigh leaves me. I can’t help but breathe in his manly musk. Clean with a dark undertone, hinting at his anything-but-clean lifestyle. There’s a lingering scent of cigarettes, but it's masked by his own unique spice. It’s the kind most men pay money for, but not him. It’s natural. It’s entirely his to own. “I bet you make the sweetest sounds when you get fucked.” His eyes drop to my mouth. “I just know you do.” His thumb glides along my bottom lip, stalling when it reaches the center. I wait for something to happen, but his finger stills in place, his eyes lingering there. His hand vibrates. He’s shaking. “I’m getting ahead of myself,” he states, sucking in a deep breath before his hand drops to his side, curling into a fist again. To my surprise, he backs away from me entirely, taking a seat in the chair behind the desk. I watch anxiously as he opens a drawer, digging through it until he finally pulls out a handheld video camera. I peer at the tripod and back. “I’m sure you’re smart enough to understand that a pretty face isn’t enough to make it in this business, Montana.” He sets the handheld camera up on the edge of the desk, pointing it directly at me while adjusting the screen toward himself. “Uh, yeah. I mean, I understand that you have to see me naked.” “Yes.” He sits back on the chair, placing his elbows casually on the armrests and sighing. “As you know, as an adult actress, you can make up to an average of fifteen hundred to two thousand a day. Depending on your likeability, your efforts, and your willingness to try new things.” I nod, wondering about the accuracy of those numbers. “So we can start by taking a look at you first.”  I swallow, tucking my hair behind my ears. “Would you like me to undress now?” “Yes, that would be helpful. If you could stand and head over to the corner of the room.” I stand, pointing toward the door, and he nods, adjusting the camera. Walking to the corner, I grip the bottom of my dress, taking one last quick breath. Two grand a day. More than enough to get to where I need to be now that Mom's gone. I lift the dress up and over my head, leaving me standing in nothing but my white lace bra and thong set, the wedge sandals still on, my innocence working for me. The stillness in the room has my fingers twisting into themselves. There’s absolutely no reaction from him. He just sits back in his chair, arms folded with that look of arrogance, eyeing my body and ensuring the camera catches it all. “Remove the bra,” he says flatly. I pull the straps down my cold shoulders, reaching back to undo the clasp. It opens and slides down my arms, leaving my breasts to hang full and heavy, my nipples already tightening. “God, you have gorgeous tits, Mel—Montana. Truly gorgeous. What are you, a C cup?” My eyes narrow at the slip of my name. Can’t even remember which chick he’s auditioning? I suppose it’s just another set of tits. Just another ass, right? Which makes the fact that he’s somewhat hard even more peculiar. Viagra. Changing lives since 1998. “34 C.” “Beautiful,” he hums. “Knew it. Alright baby, why don’t you slip out of the underwear for me. Show me what’s under those panties.” His voice is definitely more comforting now. Authoritative, yet soft. I grip the lace material near my hips and slide them down my thighs until they’re at my ankles. I kick them off and stand awkwardly before him, my hands subtly crossed over my lower abdomen. “Is that a…?” “Yes. It’s pierced. I hope that’s not a problem.” His gaze drifts to my navel, my chest, and back to my mouth. “No.” He pauses as if contemplating. “No, that’s not a problem at all. It’s…new?”  I didn’t think it would be a problem, but now I’m worried it’s going to be based on how he’s regarding me. Hadn’t even considered it after being offered a free piercing of my choosing in exchange for a few pictures of my feet in dirty and worn sandals. Seemed like a fair trade. “I mean, within the last year, yes, but it’s fully healed. I assure you.” He focuses his lens as he slides the handheld camera across the wooden desk before him, zooming in as he shakes his head. “That’s fucking gorgeous, Montana. That looks real good sitting there between those pretty pink lips.” “Thanks,” I mutter, my clammy palms rolling against each other. “Do you have any tattoos?” I lick my lips, wetting them before saying, “No. Nothing to identify me.” This man has a strange affinity for staring. He does it after every time I answer him, holding my gaze. I can feel his mind buzzing with thoughts, ideas flanking him left and right. But that’s good, right? All I’ve ever wanted was to provide inspiration in order to conquer. “Alright, now turn and face the door so I can get a better look at your body.” I do as he says while he silently films. “Now bend over for me. Pull those cheeks apart and let me see all of you from behind.” Complying again, I close my eyes and release a shaky breath as I bend down, spreading myself before him. Allowing him the pleasure of seeing every last inch of me. “Yes. That’s good. Open up for me,” he whispers, his throat sounding thick with lust as I readjust on my heels. He hums again. “Fuck, that’s really good.” His praise helps me to feel more comfortable, considering this situation is entirely unnatural. Very unlike the work I’ve done online. I can hide behind a mask there. Become whoever and whatever I want to be. But here, in this room, before this warm-bodied talent agent, it’s nothing but complete exposure. One-on-one flat judgment. “Alright, why don’t you come back over to the couch now, and we’ll have a quick chat.” I peer down at my dress on the floor, and his eyes follow. “We’re gonna keep the clothes off for now. If that’s okay with you, of course.” The way he asks so kindly helps me realize this is all still in my control.  As if sensing my nerves, he says, “This only goes as far as you want it to. The ball is entirely in your court here, okay? At any given moment, you are free to put on the brakes and leave.” My decision. Ball is in my court. I nod at his reassurance and head back to the black leather couch. When I sit down, the cool fabric tickles my bottom, the sensation teasing my sensitive flesh. “Do you masturbate, Montana?” I swallow down the knot in my throat. “Yes.” “How often?” I suck in a breath. “Um, I try to daily, if possible.” “And do you watch porn while you do it?” “Yes.” “Is there a certain kink that you have, something you find yourself gravitating toward when selecting your porn?” “I enjoy many different things. Uh…threesomes, bisexual play, anal, taboo…” “Taboo?” He clears his throat. “What do you consider taboo?” “I don’t know…cheating housewives, cuckolding, age gaps, stepdaughter, any step-relations really…stuff like that.” He smiles adoringly, as if the idea of me liking those things is cute to him. I just realized I’ve yet to see him smile. It's a really nice smile, but there’s something off about it. It doesn’t quite reach his menacing eyes. “That's fantastic, Montana.” His smile drops, and he’s back to business. “Show me how you masturbate.” My mouth goes dry. “Uh, right here?” “Yes, sweetheart.” He suddenly pushes his chair away from the desk, standing as he grabs the handheld camera from the desk. He digs into the drawer again, this time retrieving a light pink vibrator. “Do you typically come by clitoral stimulation or penetration?” Everything he says and how he says it is with such composure and maturity. The boys I’m used to aren’t even aware of the clit, instructing me to touch that ‘dangly thing,’ yet this guy talks like a kitty-connoisseur. He’s very matter-of-fact but oddly kind about it—comforting, somehow knowing I need to feel that. I shrug my shoulders lightly. “Both, I guess.” Rounding the corner of the desk, he makes his way over and sits next to me on the leather couch, leaving me in view of the tripod.  “If you could spread your legs. Show the camera what you do.” I do as he asks, leaning back against the couch, my heels on the edge of the leather as my naked body lies open for viewing. My hand slowly trails down my abdomen, running between my breasts, fingers feathering over my navel until I finally reach my center. My nipples tingle, needing attention, as his eyes follow my fingers, not focusing on the image on the camera like he was previously. I rub my clit in soft circles, toying with the diamond piercing as I do. Licking my lips, I stare into the camera and glide my finger down over my entire sex, my body switching into work mode, finding that rhythm as my slick arousal leaks out of me. “Like this?” I whisper. “Mmm, that looks great,” he murmurs, the muscles in his jaw bouncing. “Continue.” I do as he says, continuing the sweet torture on myself before pushing my middle finger into my wet heat. I drop my head back against the couch, a sigh falling across my lips, feeling less awkward by the second as my body works itself into a frenzy. Falling into my hazy bliss, he watches closely before rubbing the light pink vibrator along my thigh and handing it to me. I rub it all over my slippery clit, twitching at the sensations before pressing it against my aching hole and slowly pushing it inside. He hums in satisfaction as I release a soft breath, reaching up to touch my breast with my other hand while still working the vibrator in and out of myself in a slow, torturous tease. I palm my breast, pinching my nipple roughly, before massaging the tender flesh again. “You’re doing amazing. Such a natural,” he praises, gripping the black leather couch tightly. He’s almost a little breathless. My focus becomes his mouth as I imagine it’s his tongue penetrating me. His jaw is lax now, and the sliver of tongue I can see grazes the corner of his lip, almost as if to distract himself. But after watching for a few more seconds, something about his expression changes, and his face hardens again. “But as you know, it’s more than just how you play with yourself. You have to play well with others.” He reaches up to my face, running his calloused palm along my cheek before gripping my chin, my hand still working the vibrator. “You play well with others, right, pretty girl?”  I nod in his grip. He grins back at me with pride, his eyes so dark and dangerous beneath those defined brows. Up close, I study the two gashes through the right side, his face adorned with ink. Fuck, he’s looking more attractive every second I’m in here toying with myself. His gaze drifts down to where the vibrator is disappearing inside of me, and he shudders. “Time for you to prove it,” he whispers, blinking as our eyes connect again. “You ready?” I swallow. “Yes, I’m ready.” He stands next to the edge of the couch, holding the camera up near his chest. “Get down on your knees. Take out my cock,” he demands. “I’m gonna need to see how you suck.” I leave the vibrator on the seat, then slowly drop to my knees, crawling toward him. Sitting back on my heels beneath him, I work his belt and undo the slacks, peeling them down his sculpted thighs. Words leave me as I stare at the massive strain in his boxers, a wet spot present. He’s so thick and achingly ready. “Do it now,” he urges, his eyelids heavy with harnessed lust. I comply, pulling his boxer briefs down his chiseled pelvis and breathing in his fresh, fleshy scent. He must’ve just showered because his skin smells clean and minty, yet musky. His natural scent penetrates my senses as my fingers trail the light dusting of short, dark hair leading to his groin, passing by more random ink as they do. He shifts on his feet as I smooth over his length, my eyes rounding at the mere width. “Go on,” he urges again. “Wrap that pretty little mouth around me if you can.” His cock is a work of art. It’s heavy and has this slight curve to it that demands attention. It’s the most perfect fleshy tone with large, tight balls right beneath. It’s no wonder he’s in the business. My hands surround his thick base, and a low rumble leaves his throat as I caress my palms to the tip. I lick my lips, looking up at him and the camera one last time before he pushes himself into my awaiting mouth. His taste is clean and earthy. My fingers trail the lightly shaved hair at his apex, black nails lightly scratching along his skin. I suck, kiss, then lick up his velvety length, using my mouth to make love to him as my eyes flirt with the camera he’s holding. Gripping his shaft and working my hand to tighten around his reddened tip, I bend down further and wrap my lips around his balls, sucking them into my mouth, savoring his taste, before running my tongue along the groove between them. His hold on the camera tightens. “Ah fuck, you’re doing really well, Montana. You worship cock like a goddess.” His praise excites me, and the need to be the best overtakes me. My cheeks hollow as I take him in my mouth again, loving his taste and the feel of his warm thickness sliding across my tongue as I coat his lengthening dick with my saliva, making it extra slippery. He inhales sharply, gripping the hair at the crown of my head so tightly I almost scream. Thrusting himself deep into the back of my throat, he holds himself there as my eyes water. I hum around his cock, trying not to panic, and breathe through my nose, placing my hands on his upper thighs. Harsh pants leave his lips, and he loosens his grip, closing his eyes and raising his hand in the air. “Shit,” he says, breathing roughly. “I’m sorry.” It's as if he lost all control for a second. I love that it happened. It was just what I needed to see. “It’s okay,” I whisper, flashing my large doe eyes up at him, feeling the drool spill over my lips and down my chin. “I just wasn’t expecting you to be so good at this,” he adds. I smirk at the comment as my lips surround his tip again, sliding him across my tongue before I take him to the back of my throat again, working to impress. Even he can be controlled. My gag reflex has me choking around his thick base, holding him there as long as I can to prove myself. I cough, my eyes dripping excess tears before I pop off, spit on his tip, and stroke the length while catching my breath. “You make the best little fuck toy, Montana. A true vision in this industry.” His hand palms the back of my head gently, almost petting me. I grit my teeth and bear it. “You ready to show me what else you’re capable of?” I feel a wave of nervousness wash over me again. I know what he’s asking. “That’s something you want to do, yeah?” he asks again. “Be a part of this industry?” “Yes,” I whisper. “Good,” he answers quickly. “Why don't you lay back on the couch and show me how much you can handle.”  How much I can handle. The way he says that stirs my insides into a twist of lustful need. As if knowing sex with him is going to be a challenge for me—my limits will be tested. I lie back on the creaky leather, pushing the vibrator onto the floor. He crawls on top of me, and I part my thighs to make room for him. “Hold this,” he demands, handing me the camera. “Keep it on your face as I enter you.” A shiver runs down my spine at his demand. My belly coils with unease and excitement. I feel as if I’m bound so tight that a simple breeze across my nipple might send me over the edge. I keep my eyes on him and his on mine as he slowly unbuttons his dress shirt. My lip quivers as he peels the shirt off his lean, toned body. The cuts of his torso run deep, and the curves of his sculpted biceps have me ready to see what that strength is capable of. Calloused hands and scarred knuckles rake down his lower abdomen before he grips the base of that thickness again. “Camera on your face,” he reminds me, cupping himself in his palm before rolling over his length. I nod, opening myself up, somewhat fascinated by how he’s touching himself. “You didn’t lie on any of your forms, did you?” He reaches back to the small table next to the couch, where I assume he’s grabbing a condom. He grabs a small bottle of lube instead and begins applying it directly to his cock, sliding his hand up and down the shaft, then rolling his fingers around the reddened tip. “You’re not using protection?” “No. Never.” He stares, waiting for an answer. I shake my head. “I didn’t lie. I’ve been tested since I last had sex. But don’t you need actual proof?” Lines form between his brows, and he looks unsure of my answer but continues, “Alright. It’s fine. Let’s continue.” I position the camera in my hand, my forearm pressing against the back of the couch, still on my face. My clit is already aching and swollen, begging for some friction, and my insides clench with the anticipation of what’s coming. His warm, firm tip rolls over my slit, and my body shudders with approval.  “You ready?” he whispers, leaning over me to place one hand on the couch beside my head. I nod vigorously, my chest heaving as I work to calm my breathing. His eyes fall to my bare breasts, and he reaches up, cupping one. “You sure?” He admires it, palming the flesh before his thumb flicks over my nipple once, then again. I nod again and relax back into the plush cushion beneath me as his warm mouth closes over one of them. I pulse with need with each soft lash and flick of his tongue, those plump lips encasing my sensitive, hardened bud. He leans further over me, bringing his mouth to the shell of my ear. The warmth of his breath tickles my highly alert flesh. “Good. Because I’m about to fuck you like you’re mine,” he whispers, his demonic tone causing my hair to stand on end. “But you’re not. You’ll never be.” His eyes find mine, our faces mere inches from one another’s. The look is menacing. Maddening. Malicious. My brows furrow, my heart pounding so violently in my chest, I’m sure he can hear it. Rising above me again, his restraint seems to buckle. Without another word, he lines himself up with my entrance and presses himself inside. Eyes trained on my body, his mouth drops open as he slowly inches his way further inside me. I tilt my hips, a sharp breath escaping my chest as I open my thighs to help accommodate his size and ease the slight sting. His eyes radiate something that practically sears my flesh from my body. It’s a look of disbelief—one of twisted passion, a look of absolute obsession. My pulse instantly spikes in fear of it. I feel the loss of him as he slowly drags his cock out of me before urging forward again, sinking deeper and deeper. Inch by painful inch, he stretches me until he’s sitting so deep I think I’m going to combust. Head dropping between his shoulders, he blows out a breath, his biceps flexing as his hands roughly grip the edge of the couch. He closes his eyes tightly before opening them again, peering down at me. “Describe it,” he practically hisses through his teeth. “Describe how it feels.” “Hurts,” I whisper, licking my lips and catching a breath. “It aches. Throbs. So good.”  He shifts slightly, barely moving, and I feel myself on the verge of release. I’m already so worked up from the vibrator, but the fullness he’s providing has me warding off an orgasm that's already cresting. I can come so quickly when I'm aroused that it’s practically pathetic. “Oh fuck,” I whisper, internally tightening around his length as my free hand grips his wrist near my head. I feel myself spasming around him, and he senses it. “Are you—” he trails, peering down where we connect. “You want to come for me?” A ragged moan leaves my throat in response. Quickly thrusting again, our skin slaps together so forcefully that I slide up the couch. He gauges my reaction before pulling almost all the way out of me, leaving only the tip. His hand disappears between us, appearing to touch himself, before bringing that hand up to my mouth. His fingers are coated in my arousal. I shudder. Saying nothing, he pushes them against my mouth, watching with fascination. My tongue dips from between my lips, lapping those fingers as his abs tighten above me. I taste myself as he slowly sinks his cock deep within my walls again, his fingers gliding over my tongue. “There was always something about your mouth…” he whispers to himself, fucking me with slow, rhythmic thrusts, his vision centering on my lips. I can’t focus on anything but the treacherous pace he’s setting. It’s slow. Deliriously slow. I need it hard and fast, aching to break the crest of my orgasm, but he’s denying me that. The expression masking his face gives him away. He’s toying with me, working me into a mad frenzy. As soon as I’m on the brink, he retreats and taunts me with his eyes. Testing me. But I’m already so close, and if there’s one thing I can’t control, it’s my release. It builds again, and my body burns with need. My insides tremble, my eyes blurring as he steadies his rhythm, setting an intoxicatingly addicting pace that finally lures out my first orgasm. Harsh breaths fall from my chest as I hum through the powerful break, my moans captured by those fingers still on my tongue. My teeth unintentionally bite down as the intensity of the orgasm tears through me. His focus on my face is paralyzing as he holds himself deep, stilling while he watches with wonder. I clench around him, my body spasming in quick pulsating waves around his cock, squeezing and releasing. Finally, after I’ve finished quivering through the sensations, his fingers leave my mouth, trailing down my chin and my neck, leaving a slippery line of saliva between my breasts. “That was quick,” he comments, almost bewildered. I smile lightly, feeling almost embarrassed by how quick it was when in reality, it’s got to be great for this industry. “You don’t mind coming on camera, I see,” he continues, dick still hard as ever, seated deep within me. He isn’t moving anymore, just enjoying being where he is, coated in the warm aftermath of my orgasm. I feel the slick wetness against my inner thigh. “I don’t,” I reply, not mentioning it’s not my first time on camera. That filming myself only amplifies my sexual needs. Nerves are irrelevant to me in these situations. It’s definitely my first time showing my face, though. “Good.” He withdraws his cock, and it springs up, firm as ever. Gripping my legs beneath my knees, he flips me so quickly I drop the camera. I grunt as he roughly tosses me, my stomach landing flat on the couch, knees bent beneath me, and my ass now tilted up. I look over my shoulder at him, surprised by his forcefulness. “Now it’s time to see if you can get your partner off, too, you greedy cunt.” He leans over my back, groin against my ass, his lips dusting my ear, but my dizziness takes away the ability to reply to his character change. “And I like my pretty girls wearing gems,” he whispers. OceanofPDF.com OceanofPDF.com  2 Montana W alking back to my car, I awkwardly wedge my phone between my cheek and shoulder, digging through my bag for my keys. “So it went alright? You think you’ll like the position?” Wesley, my boyfriend, asks. Position. The position. Which one? “Uh, yeah,” I reply, adjusting the strap of my bag across my chest and unlocking the car door. “I think it’s going to be good for me. Really good.” “Thank God. I was worried sick about you. I know you don’t do so well with certain people…” Opening the door, I slide into the seat, gritting my teeth to quiet the pained hiss that escapes when I sit. Mental note: soak in the bath at the new place, and tell Wesley my period came early. “What is that supposed to mean?” “It just means I know how you are, baby. You aren’t a people pleaser. You’re brash and, quite honestly, a bit harsh sometimes. You get along with some people, but not with most.” I laugh to myself. Maybe not in real life, but online, I’m the definition of a people pleaser, but he’ll never know that. “I don’t mean it in a bad way,” he assures. “I like those things about you.” Like. Not love. Yes, it’s only been a few months, but Jesus, my charms have never failed me before. “Well, rest assured, the interview went great. Hope to get a call back soon with the schedule. An advance is already on its way to my account, and I should be able to start as soon as next week,” I say, feeling my phone vibrate against my face with a message.  I check the screen, seeing Markie’s text come through. Markie Mark: Was the dick good or what?!?! Jesus. Leave it to Markie to be on dick patrol. It’s as if she timed it. She might have, actually. “Love to hear it,” Wesley continues. “Having a stable job while committing to the orchestra and online classes sounds insane, but I know you can handle it.” I can handle far more than he can even begin to imagine. That’s what happens to people who have no other options. They know no other way than to fight through life, pushing setbacks aside. But not once in Wesley Hopkins' life has he had to push through unfortunate circumstances. Not with his family name. Not with generations of wealth built up beneath him. “Alright, Wes, I gotta run,” I interrupt, starting up the old Chevy. It groans before the engine finally revs up. “Going to meet up with Phil on the other side of town this afternoon.” “Ahh, yes. The man who you refuse to call Dad. I almost forgot that it was today. Good luck,” he replies tenderly. “Hopefully you’ll get along, and the rooming situation pans out. I’d hate for you to have to live too far off campus this year. It would make it so much harder for us to see each other with practice starting up soon. And you know I need to see you.” The practice he’s referring to is rugby. He’s the captain of the Titans, the championship team at Vermoitin College in the flourishing city of Montgomery, where my sperm donor enrolled me in general studies. However, my primary focus is the formal audition with the Montgomery Fine Orchestra I have coming up. The goal is to weasel my way into the selective organization and showcase my talents to the conductor in order to become the first chair cellist. The general studies are a side effect of being near Phil. He pulled some strings to get me a head start on my future, as if he actually cares—as if I care. Wesley told me to take the opportunity—to try out college because I’ve definitely got the brains for it. What I don’t have is the drive. I don’t want to put myself into debt just to gain a college degree I can fuck off with. I don’t want a place in Corporate America. My interests have always been a bit darker. Fitting in with the Joneses has never seemed appealing. Yet I always seem to find myself riding this fine line between the two, straddling the prospect of both when the opportunity presents itself in order to appease others. It’s why I can’t commit to tattoos.  Phil’s push for me to move back to Montgomery to be close to him and his new wife after the incident in Perrysville provided this change—a useless father, a cold dead body, a drug dependency, and a sudden arrest all got me here. “I’ll let you know how it goes,” I say, finishing the call. As soon as I hang up, my fingers get to work, texting Markie back. Money Shot: Best dick of my life. Fuck. Me. I pull up to the address, my car engine sputtering sick-sounding coughs through the rusty exhaust, barely making it to my destination as I park. Rechecking my phone to confirm I’m in the right area, I eye the three crooked black numbers on the house, noticing an absent number by the sun- stained space on the siding that highlights where it should be. I check the house next door, 2044—The one across the street, 2043. The only one missing is the house without the number. Fitting. Small single-story homes line the block. Metal fences and overgrown weeds line each property, and a large black dog with pointy ears and a studded collar stands on the dried grass, the hair on his haunches raised, barking in my direction. This can’t be the place. My phone vibrates in my lap. Markie Mark: Better than Wesley?! How’s that gonna work? It worked when you were anonymous and fucking your fingers, but I thought you gave that up? Are you ever going to tell him about it? Are you ever gonna tell me why you left? The guilt I feel is unmatched, yet this is nothing more than work for me. There is a definitive separation between my relationship and my side gig. Besides, Wesley likes me. Croix is just a man I used to get off with on camera to make some spare change. As for my online career…why I gave that up is something not even my best friend knows about. That secret lies between me and the depths of my soul, and it will remain that way until the end of time. A woman never gives up her darkest secrets. Money Shot: Cross that bridge when I get to it. Or when I’m on my deathbed. Whichever comes first. Markie Mark: Well, I need dick detail. Text me the goods after the sexy step-bro meet-up. So many cocks, so little time. If I know anything about Kathy Sinclair, Phil’s new wife, it’s that she has a dweeb for a son. Our parents conveniently met at a Christian seminar while they were both in Vegas. One thing led to another that night, and they found themselves slurring out vows at some drive-through wedding chapel so they could fuck and not feel bad about it. It’s the most outlandish thing either of them have done in their adult lives, yet they are far too proud to admit that. I desperately wish I could call my bestie and talk all things cock and balls for hours, but no. Here I am, in the middle of some suburban dump, ready to make this stranger's home my own. As soon as I scroll to my sperm donor’s number to confirm I’m in the right hell hole, I see his car approaching mine. He parks his shiny new SUV and jogs across the street in his brown slacks and favorite tan corduroy jacket. Apparently, I can’t hide my distaste for this entire situation. “I know what you’re thinking,” he says, bracing himself on my car and leaning down to talk to me through my open window. “But it’s only a few blocks from campus, and you'll be in good company here, unlike Perrysville.” Perrysville. Not alone, like I was with my mom, who was out on benders all night or at home, living in a different drug-induced dimension. I don’t miss the intention behind his not-so-subtle jab. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to stay with just Kathy and me. We’re old and boring.” That’s his nice way of saying, ‘I don’t want my troublesome daughter staining my new bride with her dirtiness.’ His way of politely pawning me off on someone else while still keeping up appearances. I know how hard this move is for him. How difficult it is to accept who I am back into his squeaky clean life again, but he’s trying with the hope I’ll fix myself to appease his new wife. “Hi to you too, Phil,” I say, forcing him to step back as I open the door and get out of the car. He pauses his prepared speech to give me an awkward side hug. “Sorry. Hi.” He forces a smile. “And you can call me, Dad, you know.” My face contorts into a look of pure revulsion, and his smile quickly deteriorates. “But seriously, you can play your cello at all hours of the day and not worry about disrupting anyone. Plus, this way, you’ll have time to genuinely connect with your new stepbrother.” I nearly shiver in disgust at the thought. My new stepbrother. From what Phil has told me, Kathy’s son, Shane, is a few years older than me, misunderstood, but has a great head on his shoulders. Sure. Those two things rarely go hand in hand. Either way, it’s going to be a challenge for me. Immediately moving in and living with this person is a cause for disaster. “He’s a great kid. Working through some stuff, sure, but he’s a very respectable young man,” Phil continues. “I think you’ll get along just fine.” That just tells me Phil has absolutely no idea who this man is, nor does he care. We approach the large black dog with his cropped ears and studded collar, still barking wildly at the gate and flashing his canines at Phil as he nears the sidewalk. “Rocco, down!” he demands, but the dog continues barking, his hackles raised between his shoulder blades and down his back. “I said, down, boy!” Rolling my eyes, I dig inside my purse, pulling out a fresh stick of jerky. Biting the packaging open with my teeth, I spit the bitty plastic piece left in my mouth onto the concrete and drag the meaty stick along the fence in front of the rough-looking mutt. His nose immediately twitches. “Work smarter, not harder, Phil,” I say casually, peeling back the rest of the plastic and tossing the meat stick to the far corner of the fenced-in lot. He grunts, shaking his head, before opening the now guardless gate and allowing us in. The screeching of rusted metal on metal pierces my ears, and then we’re walking along a broken concrete sidewalk lined with overgrown weeds.  GUARD DOG BITES—USE SIDE DOOR is plastered to the front door, printed on an old, wrinkled white paper. “Could’ve told me he had a dog. I’m more of a fish person, myself,” I mutter, scowling at the mutt in question. “Well, technically, it wasn’t his dog,” he says wearily, leading me around the side of the house toward the door by the garage. “Until it was.” I peep the garage, noting two shop tables lined with various tools and car parts and an old push-lawn mower. I’m surprised to see there are also three shiny black motorcycles inside. “Until it was…What does that mean?” I ask, continuing our conversation as I eye the bikes. They’re nice. New. Doesn’t seem like they belong here. Clearly, Phil had certain details he didn’t want to address when he told me about this new arrangement, which was apparently sure to work out great for everyone. “Just…c’mon,” he says, awkwardly holding the door open with one shoulder, my bag hanging on the other. Rocco rounds the corner of the house, and I squeal, hurriedly pushing into the door past Phil. I stumble into the kitchen, catching myself on my feet and holding tightly to the purse strap across my chest. It smells like stale beer, weed, and yesterday’s sex in here. Exactly what I would expect a house of off-campus chaos to smell like. The kitchen is surprisingly clean, though. Aside from a few empty energy drink cans and an old take-out menu, the wooden floors have some shine to them, and there are actually a few dishes in a drying rack near the sink. But just as I’m casually gazing around the space, almost impressed it’s not a total disaster, I spot what looks like a red lace thong near the hallway. “Hello?!” Phil calls out, quickly tossing an old burger wrapper from the counter along with a red solo cup into the trash near him. Just as I’m about to announce how horrible of an idea this is, I nearly jump out of my shorts when Rocco bursts through a doggy door at the front of the house, burrowing his way toward the kitchen. The scrambling of his paws on the hardwood draws my attention to the living room, where a man stands, leaning casually against the frame leading to the kitchen. My spine stiffens, and ice trickles its way through my bloodstream. “Ah, there he is.” Phil gestures toward him. It’s him.  The ice melts into waves of fiery heat that gather in my chest, rising up my neck and into my cheeks. Air. I need air. “Montana, this is Shane Delacroix, Kathy’s son.” Delirium sets in as the blood drains from my face. My pulse pounds in my head, and I can’t hear anything other than the muffled beats of my raging heartbeat. Shane Delacroix? Croix? His mother’s name is Kathy Sinclair. My body nearly collapses with my inability to stand. It’s him. My eyes trace a line to Phil and back to Croix. I’m desperately trying to keep my cool, yet entirely unsure of the worlds crashing together around me. The man, who I'm now introduced to as Shane, takes a step forward, wearing an entirely different outfit than the one he was in earlier. The business attire is long gone, replaced by dark-fitted jeans and an oversized white band t-shirt. A silver chain necklace dangles from his neck, and two lip rings now sit on the outer portions of his bottom lip. More tattoos line his exposed arms and he smells fresh, as if he showered again. After being covered. In me. He gives Phil a quick nod, then holds out his hand to me. “Melanie, was it?” he asks. He’s wearing an easy smile. An arrogant smile. A smile that tells me the little secret between us is one he was already well aware of. My eyes narrow and threaten to gloss over. I want to cry. I want to vomit. I want to freak the fuck out and punch this guy in the throat right here, right now, for one-upping me. But then I would be forced to explain to my father that I just had the wildest, most impure sex of my life with my new stepbrother hours before coming here. Traces of his cum are still coating my skin as I stand here between them. I had been hoping to take a bath after I settled in. “Montana,” Phil clarifies, snapping me from my thoughts. “Montana,” I reply sharply. “Ah, that’s right,” Shane says quickly, his hand retreating. “So sorry about that.” Nothing about his tone is apologetic. This energy in this house is chaotic. It’s the buildup to a storm; the thickness, the electricity, the maddening rage… “I’ve told Shane about your classes and orchestra, so he and the guys know not to be too crazy, and to be on their best behavior,” Phil says, emphasizing the last two words.  Shane cocks his uniquely shaved brow, a lazy grin on his face that insinuates he will do no such thing. “Guys?” I turn to face Phil behind me. “What are you talking about? Guys?” He swallows thickly. “Well, this house is kind of owned by Shane’s friend, Cade Wheeter. But they all stay here, so…” Owned by his friend?! So now I’m truly cashing in on a stranger’s home. This is so fucked. Phil is so lost in this new pussy, this dream of a new life, he can’t even think straight. And honestly, I don’t know what’s worse at this point. Living with my mother, who loved me the only way she knew how, despite her addictions preventing her from being the parent she wished to be, or living with Phil, the man who has his goals in check, so much so that he often forgets he even has a daughter. “I don’t know.” I rub my throbbing temples with my fingers. “I don’t think this is the best idea.” “Well, he and their other friend live here as well. The place may look small, but it has four bedrooms. Plenty of space.” Phil moves to my side, pointing down each hallway where I assume there are two bedrooms at each end of the house. I can tell he’ll do anything and everything to convince me this is the best idea. There’s no place for me in his home. Arguing will get me nowhere. Shane won’t take his eyes off me, looking like a starved lion that just had a thick-ass zebra dropped into his pen. He won’t even blink. His half-lidded gaze peers down at me with some sort of unresolved spite as Phil continues talking to himself. My mouth becomes his focus, his eyes lingering for a half beat before ever so slowly trailing the length of my body. My insides quiver with remembrance. “And while I did forget they had a dog now, I thought I remembered you liked animals. Right Mon?” he adds. My attention falls back on Rocco, who’s drinking water in the kitchen, sloshing the liquid all over the floor. “No,” I say, reverting my glare back to Shane. “I hate dogs. They’re disgusting, needy fleabags with peas for brains.” Shane leans casually against that frame again, crossing his arms over his chest as his eerie glare sets in. “Makes sense,” he says beneath his breath. “It’s hard to like the things that hate us. It’s all about the energy you give off. Yours reeks of self-absorbed brat. Even the dog can sense that.” I open my mouth to retort, but he quickly interrupts. “I saw the face you made outside,” he says. “Place a bit beneath you?” Stupidly assuming we’re getting along, Phil bustles around behind us, loading up the dishwasher with sporadic dishes he finds around the kitchen to let us talk without him overhearing. “Quit pretending you're something special, trash rat. You belong in the gutter with the rest of us,” Shane continues. “And don’t even think about feeding Rocco that crap again. His stomach can’t handle your overprocessed bullshit.” The gutter? Fucking me on camera has placed me in the gutter, apparently. Funny how the man I met at the audition is a far cry from this insensitive dick before me. And overprocessed? The dude’s skin is leaking nicotine. I take a step forward, my frustration overflowing. “Well, maybe you should keep that mutt on a fucking leash,” I retort, louder than I’d planned. I’m losing my cool. “Hey now, Rocco’s not all that bad. He’s just a little protective of his people, aren’t ya, boy?” Phil says, moving to rub Rocco’s side. Shane takes a step toward me, leveling our faces. “Maybe we should keep you on a fucking leash,” he whispers, then glances back at my dad before straightening again. “Huh, Monty?” My blood chills with the sharpness of his tone. Seems like he’d do it, too. Done petting the wild animal, Phil stands, dusting his hands off on his pants, oblivious to the standoff between Shane and me. “I asked Shane if he would show you to your room so you can unpack and start getting comfortable,” he says with a smile, already heading toward the door we came in. “Give you guys some time to get to know each other before we all get together for dinner Monday night?” My eyes line with worry. He’s really just gonna leave me here? With this guy? The guy that I just unknowingly let fuck me relentlessly on camera. The guy that clearly has it out for his new stepsister for reasons unknown. “Don’t worry, honey. I already told Shane about your boyfriend, Joshua, was it? And the fact that he’ll probably be over later tonight. It’s not a big deal to these guys. They have house guests, too.” Shane resumes his position against the doorframe, still gazing at me, looking bored as ever, while I brush off the fact that Phil called Wesley Joshua.  “I gathered.” My face contorts with disgust when I glance over at the red panties lying on the floor. “Where are the other guys, Shane?” Phil asks. He tips his head toward one wing of the house. “Playing Vicon Cross.” I turn to see if Phil has any idea what he’s talking about, but when I look, his brows are knit together, and he’s slowly nodding. Yeah, no idea. “They’re gamers. You won’t see them much,” Shane explains, running his palm across the back of his neck. Knew it. Someone had to be in here beating their meat. This place reeks of excess semen, cigarettes, weed, and stale pizza. “Alright, Mon, I’m heading out. Kathy and I have a dinner date set up, and your old man needs to shower.” He pushes through the screen door, smiling amicably as if he’s happy to have checked this little project off his to-do list. “I’ll grab your cello from the car.” My shoulders sag, and a frustrated mumble slips from my lips. Phil returns with the oversized case, setting it near the door, then departs as quickly as he came. And I’m left standing alone in this house with a man I know nothing about yet can still recall the taste of. I turn to face him, and the slowest, most haunting grin slides across his perfectly structured face as he watches Phil’s car drive down the street. Rocco comes up and sniffs my leg, pausing as his eyes find mine, assessing this new stranger in his home again. A glob of drool and water stains my calf as he lets out a quiet grunt before walking away toward the living room. My gaze shifts back to Shane, and my face floods with heat. His face screams my inconvenient truths—lies, deception, ruthlessness. “Liars and thieves between us,” he says. I work to assess his statement. If you only knew. “Why’d you do it?” I ask, bitterness in my tone seeping through. He simply blinks his dark lashes once, slow and uncaring. “The company. The audition. The fake pay that’s supposed to hit my account by tonight?! My time was completely wasted, and for what? Nothing.” My rage continues to simmer. “Why?!” I yell, unable to hold it in. “You tricked me! Assaulted me! What is it you want?” He rushes forward, startling me enough that I trip over my own feet. His hard body presses me firmly into the kitchen wall behind me, and his palm covers my mouth. My eyes widen with fear, and a panicked cry leaves my throat.  Blinking once more, his lip twitches and he appears to calm himself from doing whatever he initially wanted to. My pulse lashes wildly in my neck. “Watch your fucking mouth,” he says. “Accusing me of assault is entirely irrelevant when I have video evidence of you crying from your thighs for it. Green light, remember? You gave me the go-ahead, and consent is a beautiful thing.” His expression is a warning, ensuring my silence as he slowly and carefully peels his hand from my mouth, allowing his fingers to caress my lips as he does. The act makes me want to vomit. The anger, the rage, the buildup of shame I’m feeling begs to release onto him. “And leverage,” he adds. “What?” “You want to be a sex worker?” He tilts his head to the side, not backing away from our closeness. I swallow thickly, realizing the power he now has over me. My secrets. He has them. But which ones? “Does Daddy know his little princess likes jewels up her ass when she gets fucked?” My back teeth grind together as I work to restrain myself, recalling all of what we did. The echoes of everything he had me begging for by the end ring in my head. Fuck, the power he has now… Shane peers up at the ceiling, grinning, and I study that decrepit moth on his neck again, the eyes bleeding down his throat. “Or better yet,” he continues, his focus back on me. “Does Wesley or his dear old dad, Chief Conductor Hopkins, know the auditioning cellist in the Montgomery Fine Orchestra has a real fetish for having all her holes used and ran through on camera?” That chill of terror grips me again, tension tightening my shoulders. How does he know about Wesley and Conductor Hopkins? This leverage he speaks of is like a boulder running over me. This guy knows the dark parts of me, and now he has video proof, affording him the opportunity to ruin me when and if he sees fit. I have to play his game, and I have to play it right. “Leverage for what?” I question, keeping my cool. “What would a low- level piece of shit like you need to harass a promising young academic for?” A humored grunt crawls up his throat, his mouth curling at the corners, stretching the piercings. “You’re gonna make me a lot of money, sis,” he hums.  A needle-prick sensation slithers along my neck and shoulders, running down my spine at his statement. “Sextortion? That’s your leverage?” I reply coolly. A tone that doesn't at all match my insides. “How very manly of you to use sex against a woman.” His hand comes up again, and I flinch. Cocking his thumb like a gun, he places his pointer and middle finger at the center of my forehead and clicks his tongue, pretending to shoot me in the head. Then his maddening grin returns, and a light chuckle leaves his throat. I stand still as ever as he trails those fingers down my nose, giving that a little pinch. “Doesn’t need to be, sweetheart.” He smiles sweetly. “We can tell him together what you’ve done. Call up Mom and Daddy Dearest before their big date, or wait until Wesley finishes getting topped off by his roommate. It can all be over tonight. Admit the truth about who you are, a gutter rat whore, and we can settle this. Quick and easy.” He shrugs. I knew I was taking a risk by putting myself out there, but I’d hoped my real life and online persona would never collide. Not yet, anyway. “Or,” he continues, “You can earn me all my fucking money back by doing as I demand.” So that’s what it is. “I’m not becoming the pawn for your idiotic money mishaps. What’d you do? Lose a bet to a mafia don?” I scoff. “Your inability to function as a sustainable adult is not my fucking problem. Call Mommy for that, or be a big boy and take the ass-whooping you deserve.” I turn to leave the conversation, but an arm slamming against the wall stops me. Peering at it, my gaze trails to a vein protruding from his neck before meeting his threatening stare. “You’ll do as I say if you don’t want your little boyfriend to hear his girl beg for cock in her ass on her knees like a desperate slut. You fucking owe me.” Owe him? “Trust me, I was surprised as ever to find out my new sweet little sister was willing to take things a step further and sell that forbidden fruit,” he continues, his eyes trailing my body again before he licks his full lips. My chest tightens, and the need to breathe becomes a full-on task. “The best part is you don’t even know what you’ve done,” he whispers, his face more serious than I’ve seen it. Running one hand down along the side of my head, he softly pets my hair. “No idea who you’ve brought to life. But you’re sure as shit gonna fix it.”  His eyes hold a familiar, deathly look to them—a complete lack of humanity. My brows lower as a million thoughts race through my brain. Before I can respond, Shane pushes himself off the wall and walks away from me, heading down the left hall as if he’s already bored with my lack of pushback. I stand there momentarily with my bags, my legs practically jelly, unsure if I should follow him or not. I reluctantly decide to, screaming internally when I realize his bedroom is conveniently adjacent to the one he’s pointing at. “Sharing the wing with my new stepbrother. How remarkably kind.” I approach my designated door. “Just look at us, getting along so well. Our parents would be so proud,” I continue, my expression vacant as I throw my bag onto the bedroom floor with a thud. He leans his head back against the doorframe of his room. “Not the first thing we’ve shared.” I scoff in disgust, pushing my way into the room and slamming the door on him, his stupid words, and this stupid-ass day. It’s time I reevaluate how I’m going to proceed with my plans if I have any hope of making them work. “Or the last, sis,” he promises through the pale wood before sending a fist against it, making me jump. OceanofPDF.com OceanofPDF.com  3 Shane F uckI this cock like you’d die without it. hear the words—the disgusting, diabolical, tasteless language— dripping with enthusiasm from my mouth as I sit back in my desk chair, staring at our video playing on a loop on my laptop. I’ve uploaded the files, made backups, and already have it set and ready to go live on CyprusX. She became the obsession of my nightmares when she so willingly opened up for a stranger on that casting couch. A quick slap to the face, awakening me to whatever delusional dream I had of her. She had once made me feel special. Made me feel as if she was truly enjoying herself with me. Made me feel lucky to own her. A liar till the day she dies. The vile part of myself hoped she knew. One of millions, perhaps, yet here I was, naive enough to assume I was special. That it was me she was always seeking, performing for. As a faceless sex doll, she’d captivated me in ways I’d yet to understand. As a woman beneath me, she’d stripped me of my being, leaving me soulless and aching for her touch. Like a needle to the vein, the moment I entered her, I felt it happen; we were tangled in ways that only true torment and indescribable pain could sever. My body vibrates with that unresolved need again. The anxiety crawls up my neck, crippling my shoulders, and my hand shakes. Nothing can bring me back to that feeling. The feeling that was lost the moment she disappeared and I became nothing to her but another digital entity in a different world. A code. Nothing more.  And yet, I knew her in all the ways you can know a person—every side of Montana, in every facet and every imaginable way that we reinvent ourselves to different people. She’s a jagged gem, cut from her own creation. Her many sides revealing themselves to me only increased her glow. For so long, she was the only thing I looked forward to when my eyes cracked open in the morning. The only thing that gave me some semblance of hope in a world of inconceivable pain. She kept me living—until she made me crave death. The only thing that made me feel anything in this world left me, and the inability to contact her to ask for her reasons built a new rage within me. Anger. Betrayal. A detoxification I was never prepared for. She’d awoken something in me, only to rip it the fuck out of my being, leaving me jittery and unsettled. Settling that restlessness in me was only found through destroying beauty anywhere I saw it. My remedy. I’d lost myself, my life, my future, my family…and handling that was nothing a young man knew how to manage. Titles mean nothing to me. My new stepsister was the woman I’d jacked off to my entire young adult life, and nothing about that was going to change anytime soon. She had no idea of the freak who lurked in the same hallways as her. The same freak that now knows her inside and out. I know it all. Except the reason she ghosted me. I close my laptop on the desk and sit back in my gaming chair. Running a hand over my shaved head, I rub the back of my neck, working to ease the tension settling there. I have no self-control. I desperately want to grab my dick again, to choke it out, squeeze it so fucking tight, any attempt to strangle out the pleasure of the way she felt around me. But pleasure won’t cut it anymore. I need pain to erase Montana. I was a man obsessed. But now that obsession demands I destroy her. OceanofPDF.com OceanofPDF.com  4 Montana D ogs bark wildly at each other outside as children zip past the street on their bicycles. The sun is setting, yet this block is alive with chaos. Someone knocks over a garbage can, and the sounds of broken glass sprinkle across the sidewalk. All the while, laughter spills in through my window. I stand at my small white desk, which I’ve made my own in the past hour, organizing class schedules and receiving emails from new professors. I’ve yet to be bothered by Shane again since our official introduction, even after finally taking one of the hottest showers I’ve ever had in the shared bathroom with no sign of him. I spent my time working to make this room feel like “home” by hanging my clothes in the closet, setting up a corner for my cello and music stand, and organizing my makeup on the dresser. I even tacked a few old wrinkled-up rock band posters to the stale-white walls to make it feel more alive in here. But as I look around, it dawns on me. I’m still the same girl, endlessly moving from place to place without ever being able to establish who I am. Permanence is an idea that doesn’t exist when you’re used to a life of dishevelment. Stability was a word unknown to my mother. All that mattered to her was where her next hit came from, and to be honest, supplying her with the ability to function again became a lifesaver for me as a child. No twelve-year-old should know how to inject heroin into their mother’s blown veins, but I needed her. I needed to keep her alive in whatever way I could in order to survive in my own undesigned way. Something Phil would never understand or even try to. When you really love people, you deal with their dirt and let it become you.  Making my way to the window to shut out the noise, I use all my strength trying to force it closed, but the wood gets stuck and refuses to slide down. Frustrated, I slam my hands on the window ledge, looking at the floor when I think I feel heat blowing against my toes from the vent. Fucking heat! That explains why it’s hotter than shit in my room, even though it’s only high seventies outside. Twisting the tiny fan I found in the closet in my direction again, I sit on my office chair with my arms open as a bead of sweat dares to drip down my face. “Fuck this shit,” I comment aloud, stripping myself of my tank top and shorts. Pulling out my phone, I text Markie. Money Shot: I’m in a hostage situation. The hot-boxing has begun. This asshat has the heat on. I’m nearly naked. I send the message, sitting in nothing but my black thong and pink under- wire bra. Markie Mark: Hot step-bro ready for round 2 already?! That mf got rebound like crazy. I’d laugh at my stupid friend if my face wasn’t melting off. I explained to Markie in great detail shortly after my realization that my stepbrother had set me up with the bullshit agent scheme. She found it amazingly attractive and is currently pushing me to go for round two. Money Shot: I’m burning alive in my room by means of pure torture. He’s trying to force me to go into one of the general areas to get some much-needed AC after being in here for hours. I just know it. I won’t do it. Send a custodian to mop up my remains. It’s clear what’s happening here is planned torture. I had my suspicions. I knew from the three sentences Phil ever said about Shane that he was going to be a trip. I can read between the lines. But the depths to which his hatred plummets are completely irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. A few seconds later, my phone vibrates again. Markie Mark: Please tell me you’re still in solid form  I type back. Money Shot: Markieeee, I can’t take this anymore. Wesley said he isn’t coming until eleven if he can even make that happen, and I just can’t go out there and face the dickhead that knows the face I make when I come. I might die in here. Actually. Markie Mark: I think Mr. Step-bro just likes to see you wet. Money Shot: You fuck face. Markie Mark: Don’t you dare use my love of eating women out against me. Just check and see if he’s even there. Maybe they’re all busy playing with each other’s dicks or thumb-wrestling in each other’s assholes. I bark out a laugh at her humor. Markie Mark: Just peek out the door and see if anyone’s out there. At least get yourself a glass of water or something. Dehydration is a real thing. I stand from my chair, tipping my ear against the door to see if I can hear anything or anyone. Money Shot: You still working on your thesis? I ask, switching the subject, genuinely curious to know. She’s supposed to be researching, but the rate at which she messages me back says otherwise. Markie Mark: Why Social Media is the Breakdown of Modern Society isn’t hitting well with these new-age professors. I swear some of them seem younger than me. Money Shot: Let me know if you need me to sleep with one of them for ya. Or at least send a tit pic.  Markie Mark: Their IG profiles declare they are indeed part of the problematic generation. Ill-timed joke, Money Shot. Knew that would get her. Money Shot: Yeah, too soon, huh? Markie Mark: You know that angers me more than I’d like to admit. Money Shot: Listen, Mr. Dobson promised Korn tickets and that B- if I sucked him off. I couldn’t pass that up. Plus, I was bored with the schoolboys. They don’t know how to eat. But Mr. Dobson, oof, he knows his way around the clit. Markie Mark: Again. Not funny. I continue texting, changing the subject again. Money Shot: It’s truly too bad we didn't meet earlier in life. Why did we have to waste so many years before finally becoming friends through our shared love of modern rock bands? Markie Mark: It’s one of life’s greatest mysteries. Years were wasted. Life had no meaning. I can practically hear her dry sarcasm lashing me. Markie and I met online through an Alternative Grunge fan page. We commented on each other’s posts, which stirred up a further conversation about who the more iconic band was, The Foo Fighters or Red Hot Chili Peppers. My love for Dave Grohl set me on the other end of the spectrum on the topic, but we had a healthy debate before our shared love of rock bands had us chatting for hours. Now we have a friendship I wouldn’t trade for the world, even if we live across the country from each other. She’s the only person I’ve ever exposed selective pieces of myself to, and that means a lot coming from a person like me—someone whose underlying traumas have entirely closed themselves off to the world.  Money Shot: Alright, I’ll text you later. I’m finally going to venture out into the land of dirty frat boys before getting a practice session in. Markie Mark: Proud of you. I mean seriously, who learns cello in less than two years and works their way up to pushing out elite and established, lifelong members of an orchestra? A fucking thug. That’s who. I chuckle to myself. If only she knew my reasons for the undertaking. Markie Mark: Although, I do enjoy the darker Money-Shot who dabbled in dick. Money Shot: Porn pays well, and this cello cost me my ass. Literally. Markie Mark: You’re a twisted fuck. Money Shot: Love you too, Mark. I toss my phone, quickly throw on an oversized t-shirt, and pad my way over to the door. Slowly, it creaks open, and cool air feathers across my face. I sigh in relief before peering at Shane’s door. It’s closed, and there are no sounds emitting from it. I tip-toe out into the main area, the kitchen only illuminated by a dingy yellowish light above the stove. This place and its occupants are still so foreign to me, and not knowing what could be around any corner is causing unnecessary anxiety. At least at my mom’s, I knew there’d be random men lying around, and I’d found ways to avoid them when I could. Making my way to the fridge, I crack it open, searching for something to quench my thirst. A sliver of golden light casts its way across the kitchen, leading to the nearly black living room I passed when I first came in. I spot a water bottle sitting on the top shelf, humming in pleasure as I grab it and down the contents immediately. As I’m finishing the last drops, the wood floor behind me creaks and groans, and when I turn, I gasp, my heart pounding when I see Rocco standing a few feet away. His eyes glow green in the fridge’s dull light, and my spine straightens with unease; I’m questioning if I should be fearful of this beast or not. Food. He loves food. Peering back into the fridge, I see a block of cheese sitting near a half-full case of beer. The second I grab it, Rocco’s nose fires up, and when I unwrap the plastic, he steps a few feet closer to me. “Peace treaty?” I offer, holding out the chunk of cheese. He gazes into my eyes before snatching the cheese from my hand and trotting off into the darkness of the living room. I shrug to myself, not wanting to leave the refreshing cool air escaping the fridge, when I hear what sounds like a frustrated groan echoing from the other hallway—the hallway where my other roommates live. Curiosity gets the best of me, and before I know it, I’m sneaking toward the sound and resting my head against the wall near the door to one of their rooms. Muffled sounds of guns firing and voices screaming permeate from what I’m assuming are headphones, followed by another exacerbated moan. My hand falls to my chest, my head pressing closer to the wall as my heart rate picks up. “Fuck, you know how to make it so hard,” a strained voice whispers alongside sloppy, sucking sounds. I skim my teeth over my lip at the man’s lust-filled voice. Silently scooting closer to the door, I gently push the ever-so-slightly cracked-open white wood, grateful it doesn’t make a sound. “I’m not gonna make it,” he rasps. “Ah, fuck.” Bright flashing lights from a computer monitor hit the opposing wall, illuminating the silhouette of a man in a gaming chair with someone on their knees before him. The sucking sounds continue as the man in the chair continues playing some shooting game, guns firing, while voices randomly scream out into the headphones hanging sloppily off his ears. I nearly jump out of my skin when the gaming controller falls to the wood floor with an obnoxious thud. He rests his head back against the chair, face tilted toward the ceiling as one hand reaches forward, holding someone’s face to his groin, the other gripping the back of the headrest. I swallow nervously when I realize what’s happening, continuing to watch the two partake in oral sex, enjoying the voyeuristic element. I know those sounds. The throat fucking. I hear the gagging continue before I see another man’s hand palming the armrest of the chair. Seconds later, a head of pink shaggy hair pops up from his lap. “I won,” the man on the floor taunts.  A large red X appears on the monitor, fake blood dripping down until the entire computer screen is covered, and the game is presumably over. “You got lucky,” Gamer Dude says. “Knowing damn well I can’t defeat Micron with your tongue wrapped around my cock. Fuck.” I should walk away while I can, sneak back to my room before I get caught, but I can’t when I hear them continue. “Lean back, Sigh,” the guy on his knees whispers. “Give it. Finish for me.” The man I’m now labeling ‘Sigh’ leans further back into his chair, his thighs spreading wide as he groans loudly. “Ah, fuck meee,” Sigh moans, the skin of his knuckles taut with tension. My thighs tighten together, my palm against my chest as I hear him come apart. Loud, gasping moans fill the darkened room as his body spasms, his legs rigid. After he’s finished, a low laugh rumbles through the man on the floor’s chest. “I always win.” “Yeah, yeah. Here’s your fucking medal. Now clean me up, bitch,” he says before ruffling the man’s uniquely colored hair. Slippery sucks and light groans continue to pulse through the room as I imagine him licking the cum off of this Sigh guy’s body. My hand unknowingly sweeps across my breast, over the tightened bud, and I nearly buckle. I feel the throb down below, that constant neediness that keeps me primed and ready, aching for another explosive orgasm. Like the one I had with— “Enjoying yourself?” I gasp, falling back into the wall at the sound of Shane’s raspy voice behind me. Turning back to the room, I find both men now looking in my direction. “What the fuck?” Shane pushes the door the rest of the way open with a hard thud, his arm bracing over me as we stand in the frame together. “Croix, what the fuck?” The guy known as Sigh says again, focusing on me. “Got ourselves a stalker,” Shane declares. “I was just…sorry, I—looking for the bathroom.” I hang my head, peering down at the floor in the hallway while absentmindedly rubbing my elbow. The man on his knees rises, wiping his face with the back of his hand, and takes a few strides forward to reach me. “Wait. Melanie, right?” He holds out his hand, looks down at it, then retracts it immediately, wiping it on his jeans. He has a hard-on protruding through the denim, a huge grin on his face, and cum on his hand. Shane stands there, amused as ever, looking back and forth between the two of us. “Montana, actually.” “The new step-sis,” Sigh comments from the chair, grabbing his controller and facing the screen again, disregarding me entirely as he starts up another game. Pink hair must sense my annoyance because his face lights with a smile. “Don’t mind Sigh, he’s a dick.” Shane tips his head, still staring at me like a psycho. His eyes trace my bare thighs, and I pull my shirt down lower to cover as much of myself as I can. “Josiah, the dick, and I’m Wheeter, the dick sucker,” he says with the biggest grin, running his other hand through his Barbie-pink locks. I can’t help but choke at his words. “It’s nice to meet you…” I say, looking back at Josiah, who’s ignoring my presence entirely, his focus back on the game. “Both.” “So, I’m assuming you’re tagging along, then?” Wheeter asks, his eyes lighting up. “I just have to say…” He studies me momentarily, his blue eyes raking me, a grin growing. “I had this insane dream last night about this eager woman who was begging on her knees for a taste of my cock. She wanted to lick it, suck it, smack it, stick it in her ass…looked just like ya! But with red hair and a nose-piercing. Fuck me! She was hot. You were hot. With red hair. Not that your hair isn’t hot, it’s nice. But the red was wild! You're coming, yeah?” This man is as rapid-fire as a machine gun. Spewing shit from his mouth with no aim, talking all fast and abrupt. I cock a brow before Shane quickly answers, “No.” “No?” Wheeter asks, perplexed. Shane’s dark eyes flicker with something before he continues, “Nah, she’s not ready to roam the streets with us wolves yet.” He says it like it’s a challenge, somehow knowing challenges are my thing. This, however, is one I’m more than willing to pass up. Josiah’s menacing laugh rumbles from his desk as he reaches to turn off his monitor. “My boyfriend is actually on his way over,” I explain to Wheeter, the only seemingly nice roommate. “Yeah?” Shane leans against the doorframe, looming over me, closing in. “You’re hot, and you got a boyfriend?”  Josiah joins us at the door, throwing a hat on backward over his black locks before pushing past us, seeming completely disinterested. “Let’s go.” “Wait, I’m trying to get to know—” “Let’s go,” Josiah reiterates after receiving a bland, uncaring look from Shane that makes my skin crawl. The dynamic between these three is confusing the hell out of me. There’s a natural hierarchy here, and the biggest asshat, Shane, appears to be leading their pack. Surrounded by guys, Shane at my back and the other two before me, I make my escape, dipping around Shane into the hallway. I press my back against the wall to let Josiah pass while Shane, the cattle dog, herds them out like sheep. “Thanks for holding down the fort, gutter rat,” he taunts, departing last. Trailing them to the kitchen, I glower at his decided nickname for me. “There’s pizza from yesterday in the fridge if you want some!” Wheeter tosses behind him, following Josiah through the side door. “Make yourself at home!” Shane turns his focus to Wheeter before glancing back at me. I watch silently as he approaches the fridge, pulls out the pizza box, and opens it. “It’s okay, really. I’ll probably just—” He reaches for something in his back pocket and turns, stabbing a switchblade into a remaining slice. As if that wasn’t enough, he leans over the box and spits onto the remaining food. Facing me, he says four little words that pack a punch while the most emotionless eyes meet mine. “Eat your heart out.” The old screen door slams as he leaves, and the loud hum of motorcycles starts up in the nearby garage, shaking the circular clock hanging from the kitchen wall. Rocco barks once, causing my body to jolt, and before I know it, I’m surrounded by silence and a spit pizza. OceanofPDF.com OceanofPDF.com  5 Shane “S he’s hot,” Wheeter says before taking a sip of his beer. “Like an innocent-as-apple-pie, yet let-me-step-my-boot-on-your-neck-while- you-cum-on-the-floor type girl. I’m getting masculine energy vibes.” “Who’s hot?” Lana asks from my lap, inhaling a blunt as I sit back deeper into the broken-down couch. “Masculine energy?” Rocks, another one of our friends, a druggy-turned- jock-turned-druggy, coughs. “Like she lifts more than Matt?” “Yeah, not like manly, but like…masculine.” “He means she possesses traits that society sees as masculine. Persuasive, strategic, opinionated, ambitious, intimidating…however, we’ve yet to conclude,” Josiah corrects Wheeter with an eye roll. Not a bad assessment. He’s always been the brightest in the group. Far more intelligent than Wheeter in more aspects, but Sigh lacks the ability to properly socialize outside our tight-knit circle. Well-versed in technology, with zero emphasis on interpersonal connectedness. “Okay, I just mean she’s got this aura of ruthlessness beneath those cute little dimples and that chocolate-hued hair she flaunts. She’s a cold killer. I’m sure of it.” If they only knew just how ruthless this chick was. We’re at Troy Digman’s place again, drinking and partying with the twenty-some college kids who’ve decidedly crashed as well. His house is closer to campus and has always been labeled the “stoner” house, so the slew of scum bags around this town tend to collect. “Who’s hot?” Lana asks again, clearly only hearing that. “Who are you talking about?” I peel the blunt from between her black, cat-like fingernails and take a drag, allowing the weed to infiltrate my lungs, sending warmth throughout. “His new stepsister,” Sigh chimes in from the loveseat, scrolling through his phone, “A bit nosy, but she’s not horrible to look at, I guess.” “A fuckable face for sure,” Wheeter adds dreamily. The girl sitting next to him frowns. “You have a new stepsister?” Lana directs the question at me, the insecurity already dripping from her. “When were you going to tell me?” I ignore her question entirely. “A hot one,” Wheeter continues, lining up some coke on the end table with his Walmart credit card. “Living with us.” Lana repositions herself in my lap to face me, settling herself right on my cock. “Guess I’ll have to keep my screams to a minimum now, huh? Maybe now you can use that gag on me.” Her tongue trails up my neck, licking and kissing along my dragging pulse, but I don’t feel anything. I’m numb to it all, and these drugs help with that. I haven’t felt much of anything for years. Disconnected and dissociated from my old self. Well, until this afternoon, when I got my first satisfying taste of revenge. Sent a spark right through me. But the thought of Montana finally alone in the house, about to fuck her boyfriend… My phone vibrates in my pocket as I take another long drag of the joint to continue my calm. When I’m done, I cash it out on the end table nearby, lifting Lana off my lap and placing her on the couch next to a half-awake Troy. “What the fuck, Croix?” she whines, her tits practically falling out of her black corset top. I ignore her and head for the door, walking through party-goers, desperate for some fresh air. I can’t yet process these emotions that are working to resurface. I thought I’d finally fuck her over, and the release would leave me lighter. But here I am, still tethered to the anchor that pulls me deeper into the darkest of waters.  Making my way off the porch, I settle myself along the side of the house, leaning against the crumbling siding, and pull the cigarettes from my back pocket. I need clarity again. I need calm. But after years of wasting my life away, becoming nothing but another troubled delinquent, I’m immune to it all. Emotion. Care. Empathy. Calm is only found through chaos and violence to drown out the constant scream. Fucking with an innocent boy's heart can manufacture a grown monster. My thoughts continue to drift to her being fucked by someone else. Does she put on an act for him, too? Does she confess her adoration and fill his jock brain with deceptive love bombs? Do her screams make him hard? Does she come for him? Who is she with Wesley Hopkins? My right hand shakes like it always does now. I curl it into a tight ball, fighting the urge to fuck someone’s face up again, but I pull out my phone instead. To my pleasant surprise, there’s a new message. I open it immediately, seeing an image of a slice of pepperoni pizza, shiny with spit, and an opened mouth, the sexiest tongue lapping it up. This fucking girl. She got this number. Sending me this image to truly plant herself beneath my skin. A big fuck you back. She better watch out. She’s playing with fire. I’m not like these other men, willing to drop to my knees and surrender to the dirt of the earth for her scheme of seduction. I’ve already had her. The healthy purr of a BMW interrupts my thoughts as it pulls up alongside the curb and parks, and the shriek of a woman laughing assaults my ears when the engine shuts off. I turn my attention to them as I put out my cigarette. If I had a sense of humor, I’d have laughed out loud seeing that it’s little Miss Gutter Rat’s pristine boyfriend strolling into the party along with a few other boys. A blonde circles up beside him, smiling as she hands him a small baggie, which he tucks in the back pocket of his jeans. Taking my lighter, I flick it on and run the flame along the length of my forearm, feeling the comforting scalding sensation along the length of the scar he gave me. The best gift he could give me, he said. A parting gift, kind compared to what he wanted to do to me. I’d always been given a choice before that day, which form of punishment I preferred—cigarette, belt, or fists. I always chose fists. Not because it was easier to take a beating versus a burn or a sharp lashing of a belt, but because I needed direct contact with the man who created me. Wanted to watch as his knuckles cracked and bled from the impact of me. I ached to be the cause of his pain, too. Had I been the reason for their divorce? Possibly. An entire IRA depleted and drained didn’t help an already crippling marriage built on a foundation of lies and abuse. And maybe I did deserve the effects of his internal pain and turmoil, but the root of everything—the primary catalyst to the chaos— stemmed from the deceptions of one girl. One destructive, dishonorable whore. If not for Montana, maybe things could've been different for me. Maybe I would have kept my scholarship and gone to school.