Chapter Eight

 

 

 

He’s frustrated, even days later. Unsatisfied. Still. He’s convinced he’s going crazy. But maybe...he takes a deep breath and gets out of bed one more time. Maybe this is the kind of crazy he knows how to fix.

He doesn’t think too much as he pads around the bedroom and pulls on a pair of jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt. He finger-combs his hair into something faintly stylish, quickly smears a line of black beneath his eyelashes, and pulls on his creepers. He wants to look the part - the part of what, he’s just not sure.

Fully dressed with his jacket thrown over his arm, Scott stands at the bedroom door, watching Layla sleep. She’s calm, peaceful in her deep sleep, and Scott loves her.

“I gotta go,” he whispers, low enough that she can’t hear him. “I’m sorry.”

Carter’s car keys are by the front door. He takes them and his wallet and nothing else.

It feels weird to sit at a bar without his phone in his hand. He’s used to burying himself in a game, or scrolling through his endless twitter feed, and without that little bit of separation between him and the rest of the world, he feels awkward and exposed.

He’s two drinks in and getting restless, impatient. He looks at the door every time he hears it open, scanning the newcomers for some unquantifiable potential. He’s honestly starting to get worried that he won’t find what he’s looking for - he doesn’t even know what that is. He brings his thumb to his mouth and nibbles at the edge of his nail, flaking off a bit of black nail polish.

There’s a man at the door who reminds him of Carter: tall, dark hair, strong torso. But he’s with a friend - a boyfriend, by the looks of it. Scott’s heart sinks. Then someone taps his shoulder and he whirls around, startled.

“Hey,” says a tall guy in a black leather jacket. Scott’s gaze automatically skips down his body, lingering on the slice of skin that’s visible between the dude’s shirt and jeans. “Haven’t seen you before,” he continues, and Scott has to wrench his eyes back up to the man’s face.

“Never been here before,” Scott tells him.

The man leans close. “You should definitely let me show you around, then,” he says. “I’m Brian.”

“Okay,” Scott replies.

“What’s your name, kid?” Brian asks. He’s looking at Scott like Scott’s a little stupid, and Scott bristles.

“I don’t think my name is what you’re interested in,” he says coolly, and Brian arches an eyebrow at him. It’s so like one of Carter’s expressions, and Scott stares, fixated on Brian’s face, on the cut of his jaw and the curve of his bottom lip.

Brain suddenly grins, flashing his teeth, like he just decided to be amused. “Oh, mystery,” he says. “I like that. You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?”

“I could be,” Scott answers, even though he thinks the question was probably rhetorical.

“What do you say we get out of here, then?” Brian asks, leaning close, and all trace of amusement has disappeared. He looks like Carter looked last night, like he wants to eat Scott alive.

Scott swallows again and licks his lips. He nods. Brian smiles slowly, confidently, and slides his hand around the back of Scott’s neck to lead him out of the bar.

Brian fucks him on his knees, and it’s nothing like it was with Carter, no overwhelming eye contact, no orders he’s expected to follow. No falling asleep wrapped around each other or waking up just as close. Still...it’s better than being with Layla, and if it doesn’t quite satiate the nameless desire inside him, it at least damps it down for a while, makes it easier to bear.

Two nights later, he’s back at the bar again, and this time Brian ignores him. A few guys hit on him, though, so Scott has his pick. He chooses an older guy with sandy blond hair and a thick accent, which is pretty much the exact opposite of Carter, but Scott figures he should test the waters in any way possible. The man’s name is Sean, and he fucks Scott’s face, nearly choking him when he comes without warning. He’s not nearly as big as Carter, though he is fairly thick, but Scott’s throat feels bruised and sore anyway. He tells Layla he might be coming down with something and she makes him chicken soup. He can hardly keep it down. His stomach churns with guilt.

The very next day, he goes to the bar right when it opens and spends the entire evening there, waiting and drinking and picking at the bits of nail polish still left on his fingers. He meets Johnny and Jeffrey and Sam, but he doesn’t go home with any of them, and he’s feeling both proud of himself and like he failed somehow. At the end of the night, Scott can barely stand up straight - he can’t, in fact, without holding onto the bar. Nobody’s caught his interest, and he’s kind of sad about that. He says as much to James, the thin, wiry bartender who’s been serving him all night, and James gives him a slow once-over.

James takes him home and kisses him sloppily, and Scott has to hang on for dear life because he can’t keep up - probably couldn’t even if he’d been sober. He ends up straddling James’ skinny hips and riding him, leaning back against James’ bent knees and grinding down on James’ cock, taking what he thinks he needs because he’s not sure James can give it to him.

The next time Scott heads to the bar, he doesn’t even make it through the door before catching a glimpse of a guy standing outside, smoking under the neon sign. He’s actually kind of tiny, even shorter than Scott, and with more tattoos, and Scott grins. It’s the first time he’s seen someone here he’d want to talk to even if he wasn’t looking to get off. He wanders over to stand next to the guy, leaning back against the brick wall behind them and putting on his most unaffected look.

The guy glances over at him, then asks, “You need a smoke, man?”

Scott shakes his head. “No thanks. I don’t really do cigarettes.”

“Oh, are you looking for...” The guy glances around. “Seriously, out on the street like this? Come inside, we’ll talk.”

His name is Frank, and he plays guitar. Scott’s pretty sure he’s in love. They get pretty drunk at the bar, and then they stumble over to Frank’s apartment the next block over, with the promise of weed and more beer. Frank puts on some obscure demo tape from a band Scott’s never heard of, but he likes their sound. Frank says they’re on the rise and to keep an eye on them. Scott can’t even remember the band’s name two minutes after Frank tells it to him; he doubts he’ll be keeping track of their career.

Frank lights up as soon as they get settled inside, and Scott’s eyes almost roll back into his head at the first hit - it’s been way too long since he had the sweet-sour taste of pot in his mouth. He’s floating contentedly, almost not even caring about the beer next to him, or the way Frank’s teeth catch on his lip ring, when Frank’s voice cuts through the fog.

“Hey, asshole, you let that beer get flat and I’m gonna steal it back,” Frank says teasingly, reaching for Scott’s half-full can of Bud.

Scott snatches it up and holds it to his chest protectively. “No! Mine!” he whines. It’s been a while since he’s been this wasted - last night’s buzz hadn’t really gotten a chance to wear off before tonight started - but fuck if he’s gonna let free booze out of his hands.

“You are so fucking shitfaced,” Frank says, giggling. “Bet you can’t keep up with me, drink for drink. Lightweight.”

“I so can,” Scott shoots back. “I’m a fuckin’... I’m a fucking... champion beer drinker.”

That sends Frank off into another wave of giggles and he takes a while to recover. By then, Scott’s finished his can of beer and pulled another from the cooler situated between the two recliners.

“Falling behind, Frankenstein,” Scott says, and has a little giggle fit of his own. That sort of rhymed. He is awesome. He has seriously missed smoking up.

Scott thinks he’s doing pretty good until he’s actually puking, leaning over the arm of the recliner and clutching his stomach, which is twisted up in knots. He has no control over his mouth, and he realizes that he hasn’t eaten much of anything all day when all that comes out of him is liquid. He feels awful while it’s happening, but as soon as it’s over, Scott sits up again, panting for breath and trying not to concentrate on the disgusting taste clinging to his mouth, and he feels almost fine. Still drunk, but that’s probably good, because otherwise he’d be trying to disappear into the furniture in embarrassment.

“Dude,” Frank laughs. “Fuckin’ lightweight, what did I tell ya.”

“Fuckin’ lightweight,” Scott mumbles. “Your face is a fuckin’ lightweight.”

Frank giggles shrilly and leaps up from his chair. “Come on, man, I can’t fuckin’ look at that all night, it’s disgusting. We are moving this shit to the bedroom.”

He grabs Scott’s hand and yanks him up, and Scott’s stomach turns again, but he doesn’t feel sick, just dizzy. He stumbles along after Frank down a narrow hallway, and Frank stops short and shoves him through a door on his left.

“You smell like ass,” Frank says. “I have mouthwash.”

“Fuck you,” Scott mutters, but mouthwash does sound really good right now. He opens the mirrored cabinet and grabs the bright blue bottle, and he considers just chugging it, washing the foul taste out of his mouth and his throat and his nose, and out of his stomach too. Out of his body completely. He just wants everything out and clean and perfect again, and he can’t remember when things changed so much, when he stopped being clean inside. He takes a mouthful and swishes it around, cringing at the icy-hot mint flavor burning his mouth, but it beats the alternative by a long shot.

He stays hunched over the sink after spitting for a long time, leaning hard on his hands, feeling too unsteady to get all the way back on his feet again. And then Frank’s right there, standing behind him and wrapping tattooed arms around Scott’s middle, laughing and saying something too loud for Scott to understand and pulling him toward the bedroom. Scott makes it most of the way, but his feet get tangled at the end and he falls back onto the bed in a boneless sprawl, legs splayed, one arm hanging off the edge.

Frank bounces onto the bed, half on top of Scott, and kisses him like he wants to pull that horrible minty-fresh taste out of his mouth. He grabs Scott’s hair and his chin and holds him steady, and right when Scott’s getting into it, giving over to the intensity of Frank’s style, Frank’s gone again, tumbling off the bed and grabbing at Scott’s ankles. He yanks off shoes, socks, then Scott’s pants without even unbuckling his belt, and when Scott’s lying naked on the bed, Frank strips with casual efficiency, obviously comfortable in his own skin.

He has more tattoos than Scott even imagined, and he reaches up automatically to touch the lines crawling over Frank’s chest in a spiderweb of black.

Frank grunts low in his throat and stares down at Scott. “Way too fuckin’ pretty,” he complains, and Scott almost wants to apologize. But then Frank is kissing him again, and pressing his body down into Scott’s, lining up their cocks and moving his hips ceaselessly, a faster and faster beat.

Frank’s hard, and his body fits better against Scott’s than anyone he’s been with yet, and his kisses are just the right amount of overwhelming. He reaches down, going for Scott’s cock, and it’s not until he gets his hand wrapped around it that Scott realizes he’s not hard. Not even a little bit. Frank squeezes him too-tight, too-much, like he’s trying to coax it out of him, but it hurts, and Scott’s suddenly sure that it just isn’t going to happen tonight. Too drunk, too high, too fucked-out, he doesn’t know. Maybe it’s a combination of everything.

“You not into this?” Frank asks breathlessly, still massaging Scott’s cock but more gently now. “I thought-”

“I am, I really fucking am,” Scott says, and it’s too much. The humiliation and the emptiness and the throbbing bruises from the entire week, and Frank looking down at him like he’s disappointed, and Scott chokes up, his eyes welling with tears. “I’m sorry,” he gasps. “I want it, I promise, I do. Please, Frankie, I need you in me. I want to feel you.”

Frank sits up, bewildered and swaying a little, and he touches Scott’s face like he’s not sure the tears are real. “But you’re... Are you sure?”

“I’m sure, I’m so sure, don’t even...just...fuck me. Please.”

Frank’s eyes narrow, and he leans close again, and his breath smells like pot-smoke. “You want it that bad, that you’re fuckin’ begging for it? You’re so fucking easy, Scott. So fucking desperate for my cock, aren’t you.”

Scott moans and bares his neck and spreads his legs. Yes. Finally. It’s so, so close to what he’s been looking for, and he can’t let it go now. “Dying for it, Frankie, please, please, don’t even want your fingers, just do it. Fucking do it, fucking take me.”

Frank shoves three fingers into Scott’s mouth and Scott’s glad of it, doesn’t want to keep begging, even though it hurts his jaw to hold it open so wide. At least this time he doesn’t have to be so careful of teeth, and they drag against Frank’s knuckles and catch on his skin and Frank moans, curling the tips of his fingers to push down against Scott’s tongue.

He gets lost in the taste of Frank’s fingers, smoke and sweat and salt, and when they disappear he almost whines, feeling empty without the solid weight of them between his lips. But Frank is back in an instant, pressing his hands into Scott’s soft, bruised thighs, spreading him open. Frank ruts up against him, sliding his slick cock against Scott’s thigh, and reaches down to position himself.

“Fuck, fuck,” he gasps, and backs away completely. “Need a condom. Fuck. Hold on.”

“No, fuck, come on,” Scott groans, but Frank doesn’t listen to him. “Come on, hurry. Need you.”

Frank rolls off the bed and crosses to the dresser, pulling open the middle drawer, then the top one, and digging through it with no thought to the socks flying out. “Shut the fuck up, hold on.”

Scott closes his eyes and lets his hands wander slowly over his body, shivering a little, suddenly cold even though it’s warm in the room. Even the touch of his own hands is almost too much on oversensitive skin, and he gasps when he reaches his cock, soft and small. It’s so fucking weird, to be this turned on and not be hard. He’s never felt like this before, and he runs his fingertips up and down the length experimentally, wanting to feel more. But when Frank finally digs up a condom and turns around, Scott whips his hand away, like he’s doing something wrong and doesn’t want to be caught at it. Instead, he looks at Frank through his lashes and says, “Fucking took you long enough. Come on, come on...”

Frank clambers onto the bed, pushing Scott’s legs apart roughly and shuffling forward on his knees until his cock is pressed up right against Scott’s balls. Frank reaches for Scott again, strokes his cock like he can’t even believe Scott’s not hard, and Scott can understand that. His body feels like a battle inside, half of him wanting so badly to come he’s shaking with it, and the other half just wanting to curl up in a ball and sleep. He bites his lip, breathing hard through his nose until Frank lets him go and slides his hands down to his own dick, which he lines up blunt and perfect against Scott’s ass.

Scott stares up at him, waiting, hoping, and he watches Frank lean back, his hips thrust forward and holding Scott’s legs so wide his thighs start to ache. Frank presses his lips together and makes a face, and it’s on the tip of Scott’s tongue to ask what’s wrong, why he isn’t just fucking yet, when Frank curls forward and spits on Scott’s ass. Scott gasps when the wet glob hits him, slides down his skin until it reaches the spot where Frank’s cock is touching him, and then Frank reaches down to rub the wetness around Scott’s asshole. And then he doesn’t waste any time before pushing his cock in.

It’s hard and fast and it hurts - Frank’s nowhere near Carter’s size, but Scott’s not really ready and it’s not wet enough and it shouldn’t be good at all. But Scott throws his head back onto the bed and pounds his fists into Frank’s back and pleads with him for more until his mouth goes dry and he can’t speak any more, just breathes through it, lets all his muscles go limp and gives himself up to Frank’s breakneck pace. He can feel a familiar blackness starting to creep in around the edges of his eyes, pulling him under, and for a while every thrust brings him up a bit, keeps him there, present. But eventually, the pull is too strong, too much alcohol and not enough clean blood, and Scott can’t help but let the world fade out, Frank still moving inside him, spitting curses and digging his nails into Scott’s ass.

He’s not sure how he gets home after - he doesn’t remember calling a cab, so maybe Frank did it for him - but he’s glad Layla’s not home when he stumbles into their bed and passes out with his clothes still haphazardly zipped and buttoned wrong around him. When he finally wakes up the next afternoon, he spends a long time looking in the mirror, at the red crescents Frank’s nails pressed into his ass, and he’s surprised to feel so guilty. Frank was obviously a decent guy - he didn’t deserve having to deal with Scott’s shit. No one deserves that, he thinks.

He resolves not to go to the bar again.

Three days pass before the craving gets too strong, and he greets the glowing neon sign with resignation. This is who he is, now. There’s nothing else he can do.