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Melody
I was drowning in my secret, living with my consequences.
I had one last chance at college, but something is wrong.
I can sense it in the air.
It’s dark and twisted, and his name is Valen Vikiar—the notorious bad boy of Kenyan.
Despite warnings to stay away, despite the little voice in my head screaming at me to run, it was too late.
I couldn't resist.
I'm addicted to the rush and danger of being with him. He consumes my every waking thought, drawing me deeper into a dangerous game where desire and power collide.
He is evil.
I am...forbidden.
I walk into Dr. Wick’s office, close the door behind me, and sit, late for my first therapy session of the year since the semester started. Everything is riding on this year. I'm captain of the swim team. I have to get married once I graduate to a bitch I hate.
"So you've started school, and it's your senior year here at Kenyan."
"It is."
"How are you doing?"
I grin. "You mean, how many random women have I fucked?"
"If that is how you like to refer to it, then, yeah. How are you coping with your impulsivity?"
"By coming, Dr. Wick. I cope by coming on a woman's face, stomach, or throat." I chuckle. "Kind of like you and Dillion." She squirms in her chair, but I don't miss how she squeezes her thighs. I notice she wears pantyhose that hide the little varicose veins on her legs to appear younger and the short skirts she wears just for me.
"I'm not here to discuss me, Mr. Vikiar."
"Oh, Dr. Wick. We're past last names. Except I like yours. It rhymes with dick."
"How clever. Did you think that up all by yourself?"
"I did. Did you know that a male sex addict is a master in making himself come to reach euphoria? Like your pussy, it gets wet every time I'm in here, and you begin one of our sessions, so you go back and take it out on poor Dillon, thinking of all the ways I could fuck you. I bet you think it's me sometimes fucking you with your legs over the handles of this chair spread open while I go to town on that middle-aged cunt of yours, making it come so many times you pass out."
"I think this session is over."
"I think not… I need something from you."
"What can I do for you?"
I lean my head back on the wall, looking at the ceiling. "So there's this girl…"
The sun is setting by the time I pull up to the dingy old trailer I’m renting two miles from Kenyan University.
After the second day of sleeping in my car, I was driving down this road looking for a cheap spot to eat when I saw the old trailer with a FOR RENT sign stuck on the grimy window. I pulled off the road when I saw Mr. Colby outside. I struck a deal for four hundred bucks a month, as is.
I turn right on the graveled drive and spot Mr. Colby working on his old car. His stringy hair barely covers the bald spot on his head. His gray beard is long. You can tell he doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t bother cutting it.
Brock Colby looks about to get ready for his sixty-ninth winter. He glances around the raised hood of the old car. His black pants are held up with suspenders, and his old tank top has seen better days with a stain of sweat that looks like the Panama Canal down the center.
“Melody,” he says, right before the scream of shutting my driver’s side door, followed by a loud clang.
