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He’s got his hand down over his dick, which I realize is tenting his pants. "What, so you can jerk off?"
"My balls hurt like hell, and you can't touch it,” he snaps.
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want you to." His hand comes over his face.
"You don’t want me giving you a blow job?" I grin, suddenly feeling wicked.
"No." He blows his breath into his hands. My stomach drops, cause I could feel this coming.
"What is it? This thing run its course, got boring?"
"Get out, please."
"You didn't ask me,” I say, referencing what he just did at the old ball park. “Maybe I shouldn't ask you either."
He moves his hand off his face, giving me a wary look. "You should."
"Can I blow you, Sir Masters? I'll do a real good job. I promise."
He throws the Jeep into reverse and peels out of the cemetery, the Jeep’s tires kicking gravel and dust up behind us. As he hangs a right onto the narrow road that runs through the historic district, he shifts his hips, and I see his dick pushing at his shorts.
As he goes for the compartment where he keeps his ear buds, I reach over his lap, sliding my hand into the leg of his shorts. He ignores me—stubborn fucker—as he drives toward the house. I start to tug on his balls…push them aside and brush my finger over his taint. His hips jerk.
"Pull over,” I tell him with trepidation. I’m so fucking confused and consumed. “Up here on the right, pull over at those townhouses and park under the weeping willow behind them.”
I’m shocked when he does what I say, steering the Jeep so far under the willow that he almost hits its slim trunk.
I find his dick harder than I’ve ever felt it—a turbo cock with bulging veins and a big, fat head. I look forward to how I know the thing will hurt my throat. When I go down on him, I do it just the way that he did back at the ballpark: with no fucking mercy. I blow him like a machine, going at him hard until his body spasms and he blows with a low groan.
I swallow it all, and lick around his head when I’m done. Then I tuck him back into his boxers, straighten his shorts, and lean my head against my headrest.
After that, he's quiet. I think of asking why he’s fighting this—when we both clearly want it. What does he think he’s proving? He can have the best intentions in the world, but at the end of the day, he’s still jerking me around. And off. But more around. For the first time ever, I have the thought that I’m not sure how long I can stand it. Wanting him…and getting pushed back. Craving what we had briefly, and getting angry blow jobs instead.
My chest feels tight, my throat too thick, as he parks in the driveway. I get out without a glance back. As I walk up the porch, I hear him peel off.
Sixteen
Seventeen
Ezra
In the dream, I stare down at my journal.
21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31
It’s Halloween, I think. It’s Halloween. The 31st.
I look up at the walls of the closet.
I have no more Wrath
I have no more Wrath
I have no more Wrath
Dream me knows I didn’t write that yet October 31, but it’s a dream, so timeline doesn’t matter.
I don’t like the red light in here. I asked for a light, but red light is worse than no light. Makes me want to claw my eyes out.
I’m writing more. They said to fill the wall. In real life, I didn’t, but in the dream, I’m covering every square inch of the closet’s wall with my handwriting.
I have no more Wrath
I have no more Wrath
I have no more Wrath
I’m writing, but my legs won’t hold me.
I’m lying on my side, my hipbone pressed against the hard floor, my shoulders curled toward the wall. I lick my cracked lips.
In the dream, I’m on my mom’s couch—jade green with floral pillows. I’m watching Archer on TV. I’m thinking about the actor’s voice. I’m thinking that I like it.
I’m not crying. If I’m lucky, I just sleep. When I wake up, I try to think about good things. Mountains. Fog on lakes. The way the air smells when it starts to get cold for fall.
But I don’t feel good.
I start to cry before I know I will. But it turns into I can’t breathe.
I wake up alone in my room at Dad’s house, hyperventilating—and I’m gonna pass out before I can get the Xanax! I roll off the bed and fumble for the Xanax. Not Xanax. The bottle blurs. Amitriptyline. Black spots swim in my eyes, and my hands shake so much, I can’t get the top off.
