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Tossing a towel to her to clean herself up, I answer, “Because I like to.”
She can see my dick, ass, legs, and arms. But no one sees my back, especially not anyone as unimportant as Stephanie.
I like Stephanie. She’s…nice. But I don’t want anything more from Stephanie than this. Which has been clear to her since day one.
As she cleans up and gets dressed, I try to stop the inevitable question by saying, “There’re snacks in the kitchen if you want anything before you leave. I’m taking a shower.”
The bed frame creaks as she moves to the edge of the bed. “Cam, I can wait for you. Can we grab some food?” she asks pathetically. It’s almost cute.
Twisting the knob on the bathroom door, I roll my eyes to the comment I was trying to avoid. It’s awkward every time.
They usually get the routine down by the second hookup. But Stephanie asks me the same thing; it never fails.
Don’t get me wrong; she’s sweet, and she has that whole damsel in distress thing going on. But I have no feelings for her at all—nothing against her.
She wants everything that I won’t give. Which is probably why when I text her to come over, she does, hoping this will finally be the time I ask her out or something.
I’m not leading her on at all. I set the rules from the get-go. Sex, sex, and only sex. No sleepovers. No breakfast after. No showers together. Nothing that would give her the idea I want anything other than sex. But I think she still somehow found her way there anyway. Which is why this is the last time I’ll invite her over. It’s better to cut it off now before she catches any real feelings.
“Thanks, but you know that’s not how this works. I’ve got plans. Can you make sure to lock the door on your way out?”
Turning my head, I see the look of defeat in her furrowed brow.
One that I hate I caused, but a necessary one regardless. I don’t want to hurt her any more than I want her to develop feelings for me.
“Okay,” she sighs.
I shut the door, leaving her to see herself out, with a slight sting in my chest for the pain I know I caused her.
I turn the water on as hot as it will go. My muscles are so sore from last night’s practice, and fucking Stephanie for an hour didn’t help. But I couldn’t get my brain to shut off. I needed an outlet before practice tonight so I wouldn’t take someone’s head off.
Which was when I texted Stephanie to come over. I should have cut her off a while ago—she’s always been a little too attached—but I was desperate.
And when I’m up late at night and I need to expel some energy in order to sleep, I know I can text her and have her in my bed within fifteen minutes.
I quickly wash my hair. Grabbing my sponge and soap, I lather up my body and rinse, loving the feeling of the hot water run down my body. The slam of a door sounds through my house not five minutes later. Shutting the water off, I wrap the towel around my waist and step in front of the mirror, looking at my own foggy reflection.
Quickly, I swipe my hand over the mirror, clearing the view.
Wet strands of my dark brown hair stick to my forehead. My dark blue eyes look empty, like no thought or emotion exists behind them. I often look in the mirror and feel like I’m looking at someone else entirely. Like a version of myself, but never really me.
I don’t know how to explain it. The person in my mind and the person in the mirror don’t match. A complete disconnect some days. But unfortunately, one version cannot forget the other, no matter how hard I might try. I catch glimpses of the me I keep locked away in my head sometimes. When I do, uncontrollable dread and pain tear through my body.
When I turn, one of the long scars on my back catches my eye.
That feeling, the one I do my best to push away, is already latched on to me before I can shake it, its teeth sinking deep into my neck, sucking out my sanity.
My heart’s on the floor, tingles shoot across my shoulders, and a sour taste forms in my mouth before my father’s voice echoes in my ears as the flashback slams into me.
“Piece of shit. Worthless. Just like your slut of a mother. Are you going to be good, or do you need the cuffs tonight?” He demanded a response.
Placing my hands in my lap, I stayed quiet and prepared for the first slash of pain.
“You earned these. Actions have consequences. What are the consequences of a missed shot?” he asked me.
I stayed quiet—I’d learned that the hard way. Without hesitation, the whip cracked in the air and sliced into my back. Liquid poured down my back, but I didn’t yell, didn’t scream. I took my consequences, every single one of them, until he reached four lashes. One for a poor pass, one for a penalty, one for a missed shot, one for a missed game winner. Sometimes, there were bonus ones thrown in when he felt I was lazy or had an attitude.
But as long as I kept taking them from my dad, he wouldn’t lay a finger on his beloved wife—my mom.
