Chapter 23
Damon
Three days. I haven't seen her for three days. It’s been three days since I made her adhere to my rules. Three days since something was manifested between us. A set of rules and regulations that will guide both of us.
I need it to be like this. I don't want to lose her too soon. I don't want the same thing to happen to her that has happened to all my other conquests. I want things to remain as foreign and exciting as they are now, even if it changes who I am in everyday life.
It has become hard for me to focus lately. I haven't been this preoccupied, this addicted, in a while. And it has been even longer since my obsession has lasted longer than just a few days. Elene has been on my mind for more than a week now. I've had a first taste, but there's still so much promise attached to her, so much that has yet to be discovered.
Taking it slowly with her was the best idea I ever had. The appeal might already be lost if I had taken her the first moment I could.
Maybe. Maybe not.
There's something about her that I can't quite grasp yet. Something odd and misplaced, pieces that don't quite fit together. Her surreal allure has me mesmerized.
An escort girl who has never had an orgasm with a man? How can that be? You'd think she'd be an expert, not only in seducing men, but also in realizing the realms of pleasure—giving and receiving.
How has she been able to do this job for so long if she doesn't even get the reward of a climax, ever? It's still hard to believe that she has worked as a professional for so long while still maintaining innocence and a lack of experience that almost equals the purity of a young virgin.
She's a walking contradiction. It's no surprise I feel so drawn to her. I've always been mesmerized by the peculiar, by everything that is more than new, more than unique but wonderfully distinct—just like her.
The afternoon sun is bathing my living area in a warm light. I'm sitting on the couch, holding the phone up to my ear. The late-day sunlight bathes the otherwise cool and monochromatic room in colors it usually lacks. I hear Dean's voice talking into my right ear, but I barely listen. The poor guy will have to repeat almost everything he just told me when I see him next.
Just as I decide to tune in and actually listen to what he’s saying, he decides to address a topic that I would love to ban from my life.
"Mr. Cook asked me to remind you of your appointment with him the day after tomorrow at...."
"Five o’clock," I finish the sentence. "Yes. I haven't forgotten about that."
"Ah, yes, five o’clock," Dean confirms. "He said there's a chance for parole?"
I sigh. "The eligibility date is drawing closer, yes."
"Well, that's good news," Dean says, sounding as if he's trying to tutor me.
"Is it?" I wonder out loud. "I'm not so sure."
He clears his throat on the other end of the line, unsure what to tell me. What kind of son wouldn't want to see his parents get out of prison?
"Was that all for now?" I ask, trying not to sound too much like an asshole. I'm on edge, but don't want to take it out on him. Dean is not to blame for the burden my wayward parents left with me.
"Yes, that's all for now," he says. "We'll see you next week, then."
"Good."
My head is hammering when I hang up the phone. I've suffered from a splitting headache all day, and can't seem to pinpoint the cause of it. Do I really lack resilience? Has my life become too smooth of a ride for me to be able to deal with it when stress hits me?
The idea of my parents gaining their freedom does not sit well with me. It may sound harsh and ungrateful, but my life has become a lot easier since they were locked away. It was just a matter of time until it happened, but if they hadn't been stupid enough to get caught another time, I most likely would have ratted them out at some point. I'm glad it never came to that, though.
Watching my parents destroy themselves and their fortune over the years has been frustrating to say the least. Even as a ten-year-old, I already felt like I was the one parenting them and not the other way around.
My early upbringing had nothing to it. It was just the same old story, one of a neglected yet spoiled little kid who grew up with wealth, having everything he could wish for at the tip of his fingers—except for his parents’ love and care. My mother tried. I remember the times she did, and I can count them on one hand. Unlike my father, who felt that his work was done once a male heir was born, she felt a spark of maternal responsibility. She tried to be there for me, and sometimes she succeeded. But the burden of motherhood weighed heavily on her, so much so that she was the one whose usage got so out of control that it sent both of them spiraling down a path that eventually caused them to end up in prison.
Cocaine can turn into a beast disguised as an uplifting friend. My parents were into snow even before I was born, and I'm amazed that my mother stopped long enough to bear a healthy son. I will never forget that. But it also makes forgiving her so much harder. If she was already clean for so long, why did she end up using again? How come they both did?
And why did they have to go too far with it? Why did they lose themselves in it, losing not only most of their wealth but also their sanity and freedom in the end?
And their son.
They got caught with large amounts of cocaine multiple times, but they were always able to bail their way out because of their wealth. Money granted them power others didn't have. But then there was one time too many. Multiple offenses and such large amounts of the drug that they ended up being charged for trafficking, too.
The most ridiculous thing was that they didn't even see it coming. They didn't understand how much trouble they were in until it was too late.
"I'm a productive user," my father used to say when I first accused him as a teenager. "I can still work. I'm just better and faster."
And my mother agreed with him. Where's the harm when you can still do your job? When all it does is make you more awake, more productive, more alert, and able to do more on less sleep?
They both referred to themselves as overachievers. And I admit, it's not completely untrue. Unlike me, they were not born wealthy but had to work for it. My father's company is no longer in our family, but he was the one who built it up with my mother's help. They started using when they were still in the process of establishing the company, working late nights and every single day of the week. We didn't go on family vacations until I was twelve years old, because they were always working, always high, always striving for more.
It was never enough.
I was glad when they were locked up, because it also served as a reminder for me to not let the traits I inherited from them take over. I share the same insatiable desire that drove them into a profligate hunt for more. The next high, the next accomplishment that would cement their belief that everything was okay—that the drugs were merely a means to an end and not something about to destroy their life.
It was painful to watch. And it was even more painful to see myself turning into them. Of course, I tried their stuff. Of course, I stole it from them. They had so much of it lying around the house that they didn't even notice when some of it went missing.
Having sex while high on cocaine is the best. Or so I thought. The high was unbelievable, every sensation so much more intense, every orgasm so overwhelming that I needed several minutes to recover from it. I almost envy Elene for being able to enjoy such a high without having any drugs in her system.
I slammed on the brakes when I saw my early investments exploding. Presented with an opportunity to become more than my parents were ever worth in regard to wealth, I swore not to let my voracious traits take over. I wanted to be different. Stable, in control of my hunger—even if it meant having to let go of a kind of high that is hard to reproduce without using illegal means.
I did pay for it with a sense of boredom that I doubt my parents ever had to suffer from. Everything I tasted, everything and everyone I conquered were all bland and unfulfilling, only lasting for what seemed like a few short moments.
Until her.
Elene may be the one to show me a different path. A path that is plastered with a different kind of excitement that is not defined by short-lived explosions, but by a lasting throbbing that keeps me on my toes. A mellow high, one might say, if mellow wasn't such a lazy word.