Piece by piece.
I would welcome it.
I deserve it.
I shake my head, hating the look on Cara's face as it flashes through my head. Sadness, worry, anger.
Regret.
That one hit the hardest.
I knew it was coming from a mile away, though. I barely remember what happened last night, but I do remember screwing the shit out of Cara. I remember how she felt wrapped around me like she was tailored for my fucking cock or something.
I couldn't help myself, and I know that's a terrible excuse because—come on—I'm a guy with a dick and it controls me more than my two fucking legs do. But at the end of the day, I know I could have stopped it before it went as far as it did, and I didn't.
I didn'twantto.
She looked at my back and touched it with such sympathy that I feltrage. Rage that I've never felt even an inkling of that kind of comfort in my entire life. Rage that Logan had that type of comfort in his life from his parents, andthenhe gets someone like Cara, too?
Fuck me, I must have been some John Wayne Gacy fucker in my past life to get this short end of the stick.
Anyway, I knew it was wrong and I did it anyway. The line between right and wrong was blurred heavily with all the liquor and green I consumed last night, but I knew.
Then this morning I woke up and felt phantom pain like no other on my back, and I knew I was fucked. It was wrong, I was wrong, and I was so, totally, fucked.
So, I kicked her out before I got the poor, pity, Jackson speech. Fuck it, and fuck Cara.
Not like she even really sees me anyway.
No one sees me.
That's okay, because I'd rather sleep in the shadows anyway.
I just wasn't expecting to see sadness on her face. Sadnessforme.
Why?
I hear the door slam, and I stiffen. I pray it's Cara coming back for another slew of insults, but I'm never that lucky. The heavy footsteps leading towards my door make the automatic response of me wanting to curl up inside of myself. I'd get hit for that, too. Now that I'm a man, I can't act likesome pussy, is what my dad would say.
I thought once I got older, I could start standing up for myself. But over the years, he has just gotten more ruthless. I know if I were to ever talk back to him or raise my fists against him, he wouldn't hesitate to bury a bullet so deep inside of my skull it would never come out.
The door flies open, banging on the wall and then squeaking to a standstill.
"Was that who I think it was?" He stands in his suit, looking polished and so unlike how he used to look during my childhood in his faded blue jeans and too stretched out wife beater.
"What?" I play dumb, leaning over to pick up my only nice button up that I tossed on the ground last night.
"Look at me, Jackson." I look up. "Leaving our trailer, was that the neighbor girl? Logan's girlfriend?"
His eyes tell me he already knows that answer, so I don't know why he wants me to tell him. To see if I'd lie? To get a response out of me? If I tell the truth, I'm fucked. If I lie, I'm fucked.
Lose, lose.
"Yeah."
He runs his hands down his smooth face, no doubt trying to reign in shoving me in a fucking closet like the good ol' days. "So, I'm sitting all night with my business partner and good friend, while here you are on the other side of town, sticking your dick where it doesn't belong?"
I look at him, knowing that whatever answer I give him will be the wrong one. No sense in prolonging the inevitable.