Page 28 of Broken Highway (Cult Boys #1)
NOAH
Days gone by, eating away at my body and mind.
If this lovely holiday they call Ascension wasn’t on the cusp, I think I’d die in this cell.
There’s no clock, no way of knowing how fast the minutes tick by as time winds down to zero.
The light that filters through the hole across the hall is the only thing I can use to try and decipher how long we have left.
An hour or two, at most. Three, if this god of theirs wants to drag out the suffering any longer.
I’m not afraid to die. Not after having spent so long contemplating it. It’s the idea that my death is out of my hands that pains me, grates me, pisses me the hell off. I’ve spent so long making sure I’m always in control that going out on someone else’s terms is the worst fate imaginable.
The stone floors are still damp from our showers this morning.
And by shower, I mean the cold water from a hose sprayed at us while we scrubbed our naked bodies in front of our keeper.
Seven quipped that the man was enjoying the show and shook his dick at him.
Now, we’re dressed in our Sunday best—white button-up shirts, black slacks, and ties that are yet to be tied.
The door at the top of the stairs creaks. Sunlight filters down the narrow entrance as the same stoic man brings us our food. The same man who released Seven’s sister from her cage.
Seven says his name is Rory, but Rory doesn’t ever respond when I try to talk to him, when I ask questions, when I scream at him.
He slides another tray of slop underneath the iron bars.
The tray collides with the rest of them, landing with a clink.
A nine-tray pileup of biscuits and gravy, but the only casualties are wasted food.
He tosses a bottle of water through the gaps between bars.
He does the same for Seven, sliding him a portion of food and a bottle of water that will remain untouched. Seven is in his hunger and thirst strike era, claiming the offerings are most definitely poisoned.
Rory departs without so much as a word, taking the sunshine with him when he slams the door. When he’s gone, I grab the bottle of water, twist the cap off, and down it in one chug.
Then I look over to my own personal sunshine, sitting on the opposite side of the iron bars that separate us. Seven, ever the sharer, gave me the complete rundown of his relationship with Silas. Every little bit, most of which I had no interest in hearing.
He’s not sunshine anymore. Gone is his smile, his questions, his wit. What remains is a hollow shadow of the boy that brought the sun back into my life. He reads the letter his sister wrote for the hundredth time. Bangs his head against the stone wall behind him, lost in thought.
“You’re going to give yourself a concussion,” I scold him. “That’s code for fucking stop it.”
His eyes shift sideways with a barely audible laugh. “Yes, Daddy.”
“And don’t forget it.” I whip my dick out, aim at the rusted metal toilet, and unload a stream of dark yellow piss into it while glancing over my shoulder. “Did you decipher some hidden code? Is there a secret escape scrawled out in random capitalized letters?”
“I’m trying to think.”
“You’ve been thinking for three days, and where has that gotten us?”
“No questions, she said.” He thumps his head against the wall. Again.
I zip up my pants and point a finger at him. “Punk, I swear?—”
“In case you ever wanted to know, Senya is the reason I ask so many questions.” He drops a hand, dangling the note between his legs.
“She taught me the importance of asking questions. She never believed in taking the words of others at face value. Somehow, somewhere along the way, she stopped asking questions. Look where that got her. Now, she’s demanding that I let her die.
Look me in the eye and tell me how I’m supposed to do that. ”
I gesture with both hands spread outward. “For starters, we’re locked in cages. I don’t think you’re going to have to try very hard to not save her.”
“I promised Mother that I’d always protect her, so I’ll find a way.”
He’s not getting it. No matter how long he sits on his ass, reading the same note over and over again, we’re not in control here. I grip the iron bars at the front of the cell and shake them. Scream into the abyss.
“I don’t know what planet you’re from, but steel bars aren’t exactly breakable.”
“That’s the point, Seven.”
“So you think I should just lie down and die? Lie down and let my sister die? Do you think I don’t know this is all my fault?”
“This isn’t your fault,” I say with a sigh. “This is your boyfriend’s fault.”
If looks could kill. “I’ve never had a boyfriend before. Certainly not that fucking creep.”
“I’ve been married, which you know.” I move to the back wall and brace myself against it. “I’ve had trysts. I was even going to run off with a guy once, but I’ve never had a boyfriend, either.”
“You’re the closest I’ve ever gotten, but you?— ”
I step to the iron bars that separate us. “Say it.”
“I don’t know what I am to you.”
“You’re my punk.”
He jumps to his feet and meets me on the other side of the bars. “Yeah, that’s not fucking enough.”
He’s pleading for me to give him just the smallest thing, and it’s fucking impossible to say.
I bow my head, unable to look him in the eyes. I’m not good with this shit. Not good at expressing my feelings. I’ve never had to choke on those three words because I’ve never wanted to say them before. The limits of my emotions have always been expressed in grief and rage. “You know what I mean.”
“Actually, I really don’t. I don’t know anything.”
It builds like a storm. A gentle breeze in the gut, a swelling of the heart, and rumbling thunder as it escapes my throat, “I fucking love you!”
The silence deafens. With the prison bars between us, we might as well be a million miles apart. And yet, his lips curl into a smile. Eyes that have been dead for days come back to life, widening and gleaming.
“There,” I stammer. “Are you happy you got the big ol’ closed-off baby to admit it?”
He smirks. “I’d be a lot happier if you change your tone.”
I narrow my gaze on him. “You are completely incorrigible.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“I wouldn’t have you any other way. ”
He sinks to his knees, but his gaze remains fixed on me. Even when he unbuckles my belt. Even when he pops the button of my slacks and pulls the zipper down. I’ve had my dick sucked at a glory hole at a rest stop, but this has to be a new low.
Or high.
He fondles the length of my cock. Strokes it gently, and then takes every inch into his desperate mouth.
I grip the iron bars tight enough to make my knuckles turn white.
His mouth is warm as ever, but not as wet.
I blame that on the parched state we’ve found ourselves in.
Rory isn’t dropping off enough water to keep us hydrated and Seven wouldn’t drink it, regardless.
But he sucks my cock like he always does, with an incurable hunger. One hand twists at the base as he swallows me whole from the head until his lips graze his fingers.
Yeah, it’s definitely a new fucking high.
My slacks fall down the remainder of my legs, landing with a clank of the metal buckle against the stone floor.
Seven pulls away as he continues to stroke.
I’m near the point of no return, can feel my balls pulling taut and a rush of semen being loaded into the chamber. Pre-ejaculate leaks from the tip of my cock, dripping like thick rain onto the stone floor.
Every time he reaches the base of my cock, the friction of his grip pulling at the skin, I shudder. He continues to stroke me as he stands. Waits for me to meet his gaze. Waits for me to watch him push his pants to his knees, his hard cock swinging forward.
I pump forward, longing for his touch. Thrust through the space between the bars.
Craving, needing his touch. So fucking close.
There’s no doubt in my mind these last three days of celibacy are the longest I’ve gone without coming since the first time I dry-humped the body pillow on my bed when I was a teenager.
“I want you to whisper it in my ear, what you said earlier.” He pulls his feet to his waist and tears off the pants. Turns in a circle and cocks his head over his shoulder as he backs his naked ass against the bars. “Want you to whisper when you’re inside of me.”
I reach through the bars and caress his bare ass. “There’s no lube.”
“Spit will do just fine.”
“I haven’t exactly been drinking enough water to produce enough spit.”
He bucks his ass backward, grinding over the length of my throbbing cock. Impatient. Desperate. Insatiable.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I pant, even as I thrust against his flesh.
“Babe, there’s a good chance we’re going to die. What do you think will hurt more? Your dry dick or the pain of going to the grave knowing my sorry ass didn’t get dick on his last day alive?”
Still feels weird when he calls me babe. Doesn’t sound wrong, just weird. It’s a four-letter word in my mind.
I conjure up what little spit I can produce and slick the head of my cock.
Hold a hand firm at the base as he arches back.
He sways back and forth, gritting his teeth as he tries to accept the pain of his hole stretching around me.
He’ll back that ass up until he meets me where I stand.
Back it up all the way, even if it tears a literal hole inside of him.
I break away from him and turn in a quick circle, my hard cock smacking the iron bars. I grit my teeth and check for damage, but the entire fucking organ is swollen and purple, anyway. I look around the room for something slippery to use. Gravy. Biscuits. Butter.
That’ll do. I grab the stick of butter. It creams around my fingers as I slather it over the length of my cock. Messy. Greasy. Softens enough to form a cream, but there are still tiny chunks.
“Do you think that’s safe?” he asks as I approach.