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I hated the quiet. It reminded me that the dream was the only place I could see her face anymore. My mother, who’d loved Greek mythology and called me her Achilles. My mother, who’d tried for so long to hold onto life but lost the battle too soon.
That evening, there was something else in the still space, something different. A faint perfume of strong, generic-brand laundry powder and clean female skin. It wasn’t an expensive smell, or even one that was worn on purpose. It was simple, plain. To me, it was an exotic, alluring scent.
Eve.It was a scent that could never be bottled and held a hint of something indescribable.Her.Expensive perfumes turned my stomach. The natural scent of Eve Martino didn’t. I didn’t know what to make of that.
I forced myself out of bed and scrubbed my hands over my face, then threw on some clothes. I could never get back to sleep after the dream. It was impossible. I reached for my stash and popped a few pills. It had become my routine. I cycled through benzos and Oxy, turning to coke when I needed a pick-me-up before practice. Shit was so much easier with a chemical calm. Add in some pot on top, and life was a party for one. A party no one knew about but me and my dealer.
After a few minutes, warmth flooded through my cold muscles, thawing the frozen cavern in my chest where a heart should beat.
Comfortably numb was my preferred state and one that I’d been retreating to more and more often. I only needed to be sharp and clearheaded for hockey. Everything else could be done in a daze.
I headed downstairs, sighing at the sound of loud, nervous laughter. Colette was holding her monthly book club. The members of her coveted inner circle were terrified of the ringleader but still flocked to her meetings like masochists. I had no time for my stepmother or her gaggle of sycophants. I knew exactly who Colette Anderson was, and her friends were no different. I couldn’t stand to be around them.
I passed through the upper hall, having no choice but to pass by the doorway of our smallest drawing room.
“Beck! You’re home!” Colette voice was loud and full of malice.
She knew I hated her and her cronies, and for that reason, she was always eager to trot me out whenever she could. It was one of my father’s rules not to openly show disrespect, and I didn’t fight him on it. He always threatened to get me barred from joining the HHU Hellions by writing to the dean, and I didn’t want to fuck around with him on that.
Hockey was the only thing that mattered to me anymore.
“Oh! Is this Beckett? I’m so pleased to meet you in the flesh, young man. I saw you play a few months ago, and I must say, I was impressed that someone your age was so… developed…as a player.”
Colette smiled indulgently at her drunken cougar of a friend. The women watching me ranged in age from Colette’s own mid-thirties, all the way up to my father’s mid-fifties.
When I was seventeen, and my build had caught up with my dramatic height, I’d put a stop to any ideas Colette might have had about pimping me out for the thrills of her bitch friends. Still, even now, they ran their gazes over me, desperate for a little interaction with a man other than their boring husbands or the staff they paid to give them compliments.
My skin crawled at the feel of their vulgar gazes. Worse than that, it was like their lewd intentions had infected every other part of my life.
Because of them, I’d started taking the edge off life with pills, and the desire for sex had basically disappeared. An unexpectedbut not unwelcome side effect. Considering my father was up my ass constantly about keeping my reputation clean, not to mention my stepmother and her twisted proclivities, it was better this way.
Now, I didn’t have to date. I just wasn’t interested. Women weren’t on my radar at all, thanks to my pill habit that kept my body compliant. I didn’t notice girls in my classes or at parties. I didn’t get turned on. A lazy jerk-off session was the most I needed lately to satisfy any biological urge for sex.
“You might have a hard-on for making my life difficult, but you’re completely forbidden from carrying out your petty little plans…impotent.”
Eve’s earlier words ran through my head. She had no idea how right she was, except I really didn’t care about making her life hard. Lately, I really didn’t care about anything.
“I’m going out,” I told Colette.
She made a show of checking her watch as if she had any say in the matter. “Really? It’s getting late.”
“I wasn’t asking.” I turned away and headed toward the door.
“My, Colette, he’s so very angry, isn’t he? Though, I wouldn’t mind feeling that wrath up close and personal.”
A tinkling round of laughter echoed behind me, and my gut heaved. If my cock had had any ideas about getting hard, that kind of comment would have killed it. I’d rather die than stick my dick in a woman like my stepmother, with her carefully calculated words and surgically perfect beauty. She was half silicone and filler, half sly witch, and I’d chew my own dick off before I’d put it near anyone of her ilk.
I wished I could take another pill, but I had to be careful. Too many, and I’d be tired while I was driving. Tiredness, or a too-dulled reaction, meant a fiery end at the highly illegal street race I was about to participate in.
I slung myself into one of my cars – a black Mustang, one of my favorites for drag racing – and popped another pill regardless.
When it was your time to go, it was just your time. The thought didn’t worry me much these days.
The location for racing changed on a nightly basis. Tonight, it was near the port that lay along the right side of the bad part of town. The Martino house wasn’t far from the start of the track. Not that I went there often. I got Asher to hang out at my place more often than not, where there were no distractions, like twin sisters wandering around in shorts and knee socks.
The usual group was gathered, sitting on top of cars, waiting for more people to show.
“Beckett, been a while,” Sammy called out. He was a staple of the scene, running bets on races and organizing most of them.
