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When I gently slide the guy back down, his thick brows twitch a few times, drawing my attention to his face. To the square jaw and thick hamburger lips, offset by a slender nose that’s maybe slightly upturned, but definitely not hooked...
I’m sunk though. Sunk on him. On the harsh angles of his jaw bone, the way they seem to bracket his chin as if emphasizing the space around his sexy mouth. Intrigued am I, by the ebony gages in his ears and lush dark hair, coiffed to the side. Smooth, effortless, soft. If my hands weren’t keeping his blood inside, I’d confirm my hypothesis.
Probably not the most opportune time to check a guy out, but fuck me sideways if this isn’t Karma getting her kicks. Mama Rosa had mentioned the two of us together so many times, that I found myself wondering about Styx on lonely nights. Inventing, imagining, what he’d feel like at my fingertips, on my lips, pounding inside me. It was easier to create a leading character out of someone I never met, than someone I had.
And, oh the memories. The naughty, naughty memories— completely fictional, of course, but he starred in many a good night.
Prodigal son—The“Oh, God”Remake.
Cinderella and the Glass Dildo.
Bad Boy Meets Nut Job.
I’m the Nut Job, in case I haven’t made myself clear.
Regardless of his imaginary presence in my theatrical porn dreams, which I will never voice aloud or admit to anyone, what the hell was Styx doing here?
I allowed myself to fantasize about him for one reason: Styx would never come back here unless he wanted to die.
He looks too... hot for someone with a death wish.
What guy conditions his hair and takes the time to shave so they can look presentable for their murder? There’s not a single blackhead on the skin, pimple, or scar. His lips and cheeks are hydrated and appear velvety soft—with a lack of glow at the moment.
That’s not so good.
From my experience, drug dealers don’t normally have defined trap muscles that accentuate the neck, nor deep clavicle bones. Styx takes care of his appearance and has great shoulders for someone so...
So...
Dead.
Almost dead.
Styx exhales so loud, as if defying my inner voice; it catapults my heart into my throat.
Then his eyeballs move. Left, right. Left, right.
But I don’t see his irises.
“His eyes are dancing,” I scream out toward the phone, my voice cracking toward the end.
“Try to remain calm, Neve.” The monotonous tone helps, sort of.
“Um. Okay.” The sting in my eyes forces them shut.
Seizure, spasms, brain damage.The list of possible reasons for the rapid eye movement floats to mind, not making the situation any easier. Given that my hands are occupied, to release some tension, I roll my neck around and swing back and forth, from shoulder to shoulder.
“Neve,” the dispatcher pierces through the little moment of relief. “Can you tell me what the blood flow is like?”
“That means I have to open my eyes.”
I didn’t mean to say that aloud, but the operator responds anyway, “It will be helpful, yes.”
“It’s not stopping, but the back...” I follow the stream of blood down to my red knees.
It’s touching me. It’s on my legs. On my hands. “Oh, God. I’m going to puke.”
“Neve, stay with me,” she talks me through. “Tell me, rough estimate.”
