I fumble for my phone and pull up the picture she sent me the first time we spoke on the phone. “Jesus, Gracie,” I breathe, devouring the high globes of her ass, that supple curve of her breast, the flirty little glance she’s giving me over her shoulder. “Goddamn. Look at you, beauty. Look how sweet and hot.”
Panting now, I grind my cock up against the edge of the passenger seat and start to rock, closing my eyes and imagining she’s sitting there with her legs spread open, gasping every time I give her the full length of me, in that way she always does. Her cunt is moist and welcoming and tight as a motherfucker, her graceful fingers buried in my hair, blue eyes leaden with lust. That beautiful ass of hers lifts off the seat to meet my pumps and we start to get frantic. We always do. Can’t help it. I fall on her and it becomes about getting my dick as deep as I can—and that’s what she wants, too. It’s why she’s wailing for her Daddy, her hands yanking on my ass, thighs opening wider. Wider.
But I open my eyes and I shouldn’t have.
I shouldn’t have because she’s not really there.
With a bellow of misery, I pitch forward onto the seat, slamming my forehead into the cushion over and over again, the picture of her on my phone having gone dark. My cock is still stiff and aching, but I don’t deserve to come. I lost her. I lost the right. So after a moment, I gather myself up as much as possible and shove my erection back into my shorts, vowing then and there never to touch myself again. Never to allow myself pleasure in any form. My punishment for failing to be everything she needs. For failing her. I’ll suffer now. I’ll suffer for her if that’s all she’ll allow me.
With blood drying on my face, I drive home numb on the outside, while on the inside, my mind roasts over an open flame in hell.
And somewhere deep down, I know it’s impossible to go on like this.
Grace
I reach down and test the knob of my bedroom door, unsurprised to find it locked. Over the weekend, I was forbidden from leaving this room. Then for the last three days, I was sent upstairs right after school, armed with extra-credit work my father arranged through my teachers.
I’m in hell.
I want to tear off my skin. It’s hot and cloying and doesn’t feel like mine anymore. Not without North to touch and kiss it. Why have it at all?
My father took my phone. I have nothing. Nothing. And what would I even do if I had a way to call North? I can’t. I’d be putting his life in jeopardy.
With a stuttering breath, I pace back and forth in front of my window, the sunset making me think of him. Making me think of holding his hand and walking across rooftops in South Boston. Did that magical night really happen? Did any of them? I want to go back. I would go back and live those nights over and over for the rest of my life, rather than live one more day like this. I’m dying. I’m dying, right?
I find myself kneeling on the floor and I have no idea how I got here.
My arms are wrapped around my middle and I’m rocking, saying words that don’t even make sense. I can’t go on like this. I can’t breathe. Even at school, I can barely make it between classes, my legs weighed down by cement, my heart gasping for air in my chest. I want to curse and rail at my so-called friends for what they’ve done. Can’t they see they’ve murdered my soul? But I can’t locate the energy. All I can do is stare straight ahead and try not to shatter.
Where is North?
What is he doing?
I crave the taste of salt on his skin. I crave his huge body on mine, above, inside and behind me. His growls in my ear. The way he cradles me after I have an orgasm, telling me I’m beautiful and we’ll always be together. What happened? What happened? I feel like someone has taken a chainsaw and cut me straight down the middle. I can’t do this.
Losing power over my muscles, I crash forward and bawl into the rug surrounding my bed, my ribs throbbing from the amount of crying I’ve done since Friday. My eyes are swollen, my chest desolate. If it’s possible to die from a broken heart, I need to be taken to the emergency room. I wouldn’t go, though. I wouldn’t. I’d refuse treatment.
Just let me die.
At first, when I hear a faint rapping on my window, I think it’s raining. Or maybe my bereaved mind is playing tricks on me. But it continues long enough that I realize it’s real. North? Is it North? Is he outside?