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EIGHTEEN

Zzz - Diggy Graves

‘You’ll be okay, fucker,’ Buffalo whispers in my ear. ‘You’ve always saved yourself. So do it fucking again.’

I clear my throat. Logan has stepped out of the bedroom. I know he’s still here because I haven’t heard him leave, but I’m not sure what he’s doing. “Hey, uh. The bed is nasty.”

Silence.

“Please, I’m sticky. I hate being sticky.” I can feel it all over my skin. The cum has since dried, and it’s sticking to me, stretching my skin in the way I hate. The blood is still dripping, leaving sticky trails down my chest, and it makes me want to itch my chest off. The sticky feeling is worse than the pain.

“Please,” I try to add inflection to my voice to make it less monotone. “Can I at least wipe down?”

Nothing.

I try another route. “I can smell the puke. It’s…making me sick.”

There’s a harsh groan, and then I hear movement. Logan comes back into the room, and I’m struck by how smoothly he moves. He’s all power and strength coiled up into a tall, 6’2 frame. It makes me want to fight him, but fighting him hasn’t worked.

Let’s be honest. When has fighting ever worked in my life? It’s just gotten my ass beaten harder. So, it’s time to take a different route. Even the thought makes me feel sick.

‘You’re still in control,’ Buffalo says. ‘It just looks different.’

It doesn’t feel like control. It feels sickening.

Logan walks up to me and grabs at my left cuff.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

“Shut up.”

‘We can shoot out his pretty eyes later.’

Buffalo may be an ass, but he’s my ass.

There’s a snick, and Logan looks down at me. “It’s just to change your sheets. Don’t get any ideas.”

Oh, ideas will be had. But I nod.

Once my left hand is free, Logan moves down to my left ankle. Slowly, so as not to piss him off, I move my hand to my stomach and scrub at the cum there. Relief floods me as some of it flakes off my skin.

“Stop moving,” he barks.

Reluctantly, I slow. “Sorry. It’s just…it’s sticky.”

“Jesus, okay, princess.” Logan throws the soiled blankets on the ground. The sheets under are also soaked in puke. He makes a huff and pops the corner sheets. Moving to the other side of the bed, Logan yanks at the sheets to get them out from under me.

“Roll,” he demands.

I do as much as I can. As he moves, I see a tattoo on his wrist at the edge of his blackout sleeve. It catches my attention and looks like the symbol of a video game that was popular when I was a teen.

Logan moves to the bathroom, and when he comes back, I see it again. I didn’t play the game much, but I latch onto something, anything to talk to him about.

“You a gamer?” I ask.

Logan tosses a wet pillowcase at me. “Wash.”

I grab it eagerly, scrubbing at my stomach. “I used to play. I couldn’t get past the level with the horse.”

Logan glances down at his arm, then scratches at it like he wants to get rid of it.

I look at him. Really look at him. His other arm is covered in tattoos up to his sleeves. I imagine they go farther up onto his chest.

Logan says, “Stop trying to suck up. Face your death like a man.”

Pain lances through my chest, and my face starts to get red. Suddenly, I’m a kid again, and my parents hate me. And I can’t do anything about it.

It fuels my rage. My body gets hot, and I tense up. But, like always, I can’t do anything about it.