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I haven’t talked to Dad about Shane yet. I don’t want him more upset. I also don’t want to get upset if he’s not upset. He hasn’t asked about him.
Apparently, Shane got his hands on a homemade shiv in jail and stuck his own throat, his leg, and his belly with it. A guard wrestled it off him before he could do more damage so now Shane is heavily medicated and in a psych ward while also being treated for his injuries. He’s got stitches but didn’t hit anything vital, thankfully.
I wasn’t allowed to see him, spent hours trying to get his lawyer to do something after being ignored when I raised concerns on the weekend and given a shitty excuse about the lawyer being ‘slammed with a heavy case load.’
I’ve written angry emails, sat on hold trying to talk to the guy’s superiors, and I’ve even done a phone consultation with two different lawyers to find out if I can somehow remotely afford some sort of defense lawyer. And I can’t afford one.
It’s been a frustrating few days. I do not need to deal with Austin on top of it. I can’t process anything Austin-related right now including the fact that I had sex with him in the kitchen the other day while I was stress-cleaning.
I’m tucking all that deep into an off-limits compartment for now. To be reviewed and dissected later. Or never. Yeah, never sounds good.
I look around at the house I grew up in.
The house itself is covered in dust, filled with old newspapers, and only the bare minimum is being done. Dad doesn’t dirty a lot of dishes because he usually eats frozen dinners with disposable plates or has dinner at the bar a few blocks away. I have no idea when he last vacuumed the rugs in the living room or on the stairs, never mind mopped the floors.
Mopped. Yeah. That gives me a belly dip.
I’ve already decided there won’t be any more Miss Sweetheart and Mr. Groucho games. I can’t. I did it in the kitchen because I was weak and it felt good to give in, to let him take over and tell me what to do. Feeling him, and hearing his sounds, smelling his scent. I just gave myself over to experience what he could do to my body and let myself indulge in the beauty of making him come. Yes, for those few minutes, I forgot my worries about Shane and my heartbreak about Austin, but once I was lucid again I felt worse than ever. My heart can’t take it, so I can’t do it anymore. I have to be strong and say no.
I have to stop kidding myself that I can do this sex only thing with him.
I don’t want to be the girl that cries in the bathroom after sex, feeling ashamed. I don’t want this to continue to stifle my creativity – meaning all I can write about is him and what I want from him and can’t have.
Dad goes to bed at 11:31 after a loud beer belch without saying goodnight to me and I make sure the house is locked and head to my old room to crash. It’s empty, mostly, just my old bed and dresser in there but none of my personal effects.
When I’m ready for bed, I stare at the ceiling that’s covered with glow-in-the-dark star stickers and just one lonely tear rolls down my cheek before I fall asleep.
46
Austin
I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be sitting in Jada’s room on her bed with her laptop open reading from the Austin Smut document.
But that’s what I’m about to be doing. She’ll pick this laptop up tomorrow, so I figure it’s my opportunity.
I should put it down. I should walk away.
God knows I have other things I could be doing, particularly if I really mean to not get in any deeper with this girl.
Instead of shutting the lid, I scroll to chapter four, and start reading, thinking that she should’ve learned her lesson and added a password to her computer. But I’m glad she didn’t.
My gut churns as I read the scene and it begins just like that night in her room with me showing up with the squeegee and the Windex. Only she didn’t call out ‘hard limit’ with me. Instead, she told me she was scared, and I looked into her eyes and asked her to trust me as I kissed her hand, and then she did. She trusted me while I fucked her against the glass and described it as the best orgasm she’d experienced with me so far because she knew she could trust me to keep her safe. And she described her fear. She described it in a way that I felt my stomach dip, feeling like I was dangling off a ledge staring down at traffic. The girl can write.
