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I close the damn thing, toss it on the small table next to the chair, and look down at my dick.
I’m hard.
Fuck.
Chapter Thirteen
Three days. Three days of waking in a fog and staying inside of it. I have exhausted my body physically and killed the rage and the anger that lies just below the surface.
Three days. Three fucking days, I have fucked my hand, thinking about that woman and trying to avoid those pills. But fucking my hand doesn’t do shit. Coming doesn’t do shit.
Three days. Three motherfucking days, I have taken two of the fucking pills and still I fall asleep to the same vision. My old man’s eyes, disappointed and confused. He never understood, and I never understood why he pushed.
Three days. Three fucked up days, his eyes changed to hers when mine closed, and I saw the same in hers.
Hell, I even tried to write it out of my system; tried to play the fucking pornographic Mad Libs she started, hoping to get lost, to no avail.
No more. No fucking more. I will never let my guard down again.
Fuck being used. Fuck being anything but who I am.
I have two pills left and no hope in finding a different way to crash.
Most people wake up from a nightmare. I go to sleep to one every fucking night of my life. It’s blue lips, disappointed eyes, people I once considered friends talking shit about who I was, men trying to fuck with me, me flying out of control, and me sitting in a solitary box, caged with the damn demons in my head and behind my eyelids.
Hell is what I deserve, and I fucking got it by the barrel.
I flop onto the mattress, exhausted from the beatings I took and the ones I gave to the heavy bag.
Jagger and Tatiana have been prying, asking about the girl, Tatum, and I have been less than receptive. They have opened for three days. Jagger says it’s how it’s supposed to be. Me, three days; then him, three days. I’m well aware of the agreement, but we never adhered to it. Until now.
They are both spewing shit about wanting to take off for a couple days. Then I can do the same. Where the fuck would I even go? I can’t leave the state without permission. And honestly, I’m not too damn sure anywhere is far enough away to run.
I mean, how many miles do you have to travel to get away from your past? That’s like the chicken crossing the road. It’s not a straight fucking answer. Therefore, I’m stuck in my hell until death takes me and shoves me to the literal hell. One that I think is probably paradise as opposed to this fucking life.
I close my eyes, wanting to fade into nothing, but that’s a joke, so I sit up and grab the journal. I read about the man Jonathon, jealous of him, me, whoever, until there is a knock on my door.
“Come in,” I call out, pushing myself up off the fucking mattress and wait for Jagger to come in.
When the door doesn’t open, I stand up and say it again. “Come in!”
Nothing.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumble as I stalk toward the door and fling it open. “I said, come in.”
Brown eyes, pink lips, a look of terror, and a quick step back.
“Dammit, Tatum, be careful,” I snap as I grab her arms before she goes ass over tea kettle down the stairs. Now she is snug against me, looking up, as if she’s frozen. I am looking down, doing the same.
When I get my shit together, I step back and let go, asking, “What are you doing here?”
“Well, I, um... I...” She pauses and shakes her head, then sighs and whispers, “The book.”
“I don’t have it,” I lie.
There is no fucking way she’s getting that thing back. I will burn it first. Too much of my soul is now on those pages. My fantasies are not for her or anyone to read. Writing in there for her was a mistake.
She looks around me and points. “It’s right there.”
“Well, you can’t have it.”
“But it’s mine,” she says, her brows knitting slightly.
“Get a new one.” I cross my arms in front of me.
“I want that one.”
“No.”
She sidesteps me, which shocks the shit out of me, and then she takes a step toward it.
I get between her and the book, and she puts her hands on her hips defiantly.
“Woman, are you out of your mind?”
“Are you?” she snaps back then points at the book.
“You aren’t getting it.” I turn around and grab it, then turn back to her.
Just like a few nights ago, she jumps at it.
I hold it higher and ask, “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking, I’m getting my book back.” She glares at me.
