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It’sclose to midnight when I finally cut through Fawkner Park. I’ve been wandering around for what feels like hours, avoiding going home. Everywhere I look, people are huddling under trees to keep warm. The blankets and cardboard boxes provided by a local charity are a great idea, but they’re far from ideal in this kind of weather. It’s fucking nauseating that I can live in such a nice, affluent suburb, yet still be surrounded by things like homelessness, drugs, and crime. Emptiness fills my stomach, because I feel so fucking helpless. It’s the same sensation that’s been crushing me for years. It’s like a heavy weight that I just can’t shift off me and it all goes back to my sister, Rachel.
The first few months after she ran away, I spent most nights like this. I’d wander through parks and streets, looking into the faces of everyone I laid eyes on, searching for her. In all the time I’ve looked, she’s never turned up. No doubt she’s some Jane Doe in some cemetery somewhere, some unidentified dead junkie whose family didn’t claim her because they didn’t know where to look for her in the first place.
Eventually, when I realized she didn’t want to be found, I slowly stopped looking, but the hope never went away. I still look into the eyes of every woman I pass, wondering if she is my sister. Would I even know her if I saw her? I’d like to think I’d feel some pang of recognition like those sappy stories on daytime soaps I’d seen out of the corner of my eye while walking through the teachers’ lounge. In those shows, people always just know they’ve found their soulmate or their long-lost parents, or their disappeared siblings.
In those shows, though, the lost or runaway personwanted—secretly or otherwise—to be found. Deep down, of course, under lies and excuses, they admit they hoped to be found. I spent a lot of years wondering if Rachel wanted to be found or left alone, and the answer in my heart offers no solace. Hell, I don’t even know if she’s still alive.
With a grunt, I scan the darkness around me and come to my senses. People I pass refuse to meet my stare, or they gaze off into space, glossy-eyed and too fucked up to even recognize I’m another person, much less that they’re on earth. The stench of piss and body odour fill my unwelcoming nose and I blink hard as I walk a little faster.
I’d rather think Rachel’s gone than hold out some aching hope that I’ll find her someday. I’d rather think she’s beyond pain, or cold, or those feelings of being unloved or unwanted. Besides, the dark secret that chased her away and had her turning to drugs haunts me, which means those same reasons must eat at her. The thought of her suffering on her own kills me.
I should have helped her back then. I should have done something for her. But I’d been so focused on my own survival that I let her down. Maybe that’s why the thought of Chloe struggling to live on her own keeps lingering in my brain.
Maybe I want to save her because I couldn’t save my sister.
* * *
Ten minutes later,I arrive back at my double storey brick home, but I don’t go in. The last thing I want to deal with is Marissa’s attitude for leaving her and Kelsie back at the restaurant. I knew her parents or sister would drive them home, which is why I didn’t think twice about leaving the way I did. Still, that won’t stop her from going off at me, which is something I can’t deal with right now.
Sneaking around through the side gate, I collapse down onto the deckchair overlooking the perfectly manicured garden. I’m determined to stay here until I know my wife is home, in bed and fast asleep. She never comes out the back, so I’m confident I won’t be caught out.
Lying back, I gaze up at the sky and let out a bitter laugh. Is my life so fucked up that I need to hide outside in the cold rather than face my wife? I’m stuck in a rut, and I have no idea how to break myself out of it.
Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with me?
Here I am, having a pity party for one when there are so many people in worse situations than me. People like my sister. And Chloe. Here I am, feeling sorry for myself when that poor girl doesn’t even have a safe place to sleep. How self-indulged can I be?
* * *
At some stage,I guess I fell asleep because when I wake up, it’s hours later. Just after three in the morning, to be exact. With a grimace, I pull myself to my feet and stumble inside. The fact that Marissa hasn’t tried to call or text me to see where I am says it all. She’s never been one to cave first.
Upstairs, I crack open the bedroom door, relief flooding through me. Marissa is asleep, nothing more than a foreboding lump of blankets on our bed. I check on Kelsie next and find her dead to the world, curled up in her bed. I give her a soft kiss on her forehead and then I head up to my office, locking the door behind me.
My wife was right about one thing; work is the last thing on my mind when I retreat to my office. If I’d known the bitch was checking up on me, I’d have covered my tracks a little better—wait, who am I kidding? I would need tocareabout our marriage to go to that much effort.
Opening my laptop, I undo my pants and pull out my cock. I scroll through my usual haunts to find something worth jerking off to, hesitating when I see a thumbnail of a young woman, blonde, dressed in a skimpy schoolgirl outfit. There's almost no resemblance to Chloe, but when I see the image, she’s the first thing that filters through my mind.
Her warm smile and soft voice, the way her scent still lingered in my car long after she got out of it…the way she'd smirked at me when she caught me staring at her bare thighs…
A chill races through my body, and I’m not sure how to interpret it. Christ, it's been a long time since I got any action that wasn't my hand, and the way I'm acting proves it. I shouldn't be thinking of Chloe, but fuck it.
Thoughts are just thoughts, right?
I’d never act on them.
And the way she smiled at me when she caught me looking at her thighs…
With a low growl, my hand tightens around my shaft. It thickens against my touch, arousal taking over. I close my eyes and imagine myself back in the car with Chloe. The way she looked at me through her long lashes. Part of me wishes I had the balls to have done something, like reach across that seat, grab a handful of that long, dark hair and forced my stiff cock between those luscious, cherry red lips. Fuck, I can just imagine how good that would have felt, how warm and inviting her mouth would’ve been as I made her take as much of me as her pretty little mouth could handle.
“Fuck,” I hiss as I come into my fist.
With a groan, I sink back into my chair as I release harder than I have in a long time. I try not to think about my choice of subject matter, because Lord knows I don't need yet another reason to feel guilty. Getting myself off with my wife in the next room is one thing, but picturing a student?
That makes it so much worse.
CHAPTER3
SAM
