Page 71 of The Truths We Burn

There isn’t a single feature I’d noticed about this girl. I don’t think I’ve even read her name tag. I don’t know her eye color or if she has missing teeth. None of that matters.

All I need is the hair.

My zipper imprints on my cock so aggressively that it’s painful. It throbs, twisting my guts as it begs for release. My balls ache from the heaviness, my erection so hard it would make some men cry.

I haven’t given myself the pleasure of release in months.

My cock hasn’t been inside anyone’s body or mouth. It had barely touched my own hand.

If my father did one thing in this life, it was instilling the need for repercussions.

Discipline.

Penalties for when you do things out of line.

He beats me and preaches scripture for what I did to my mother.

And I do this as a way to punish myself for Sage and what I let myself become with her. I had allowed myself to believe the world wasn’t a cruel place, that it wasn’t a fucking cesspool.

I deserve this for believing in her.

So, here, in the dark corner of this shady, smoke-filled bar, I watch this waitress with strawberry blonde hair and think about Sage.

The only place I allow myself to think about her.

The way she felt against my body, all small and warm. How my cock felt on the inside of her hollow cheeks and inside her tight walls. I thought about her smell on my clothes after, sugary like candy.

Sweet like syrup.

She always talked about how she felt like she was constantly drowning.

Now I’m the one shoving her beneath the surface of my memory.

I block it out when I’m around the guys, when we are planning homicide or sneaking around campus. I leave this form of torture for when I’m all alone.

I come here, knowing the redhead is going to be working, and I watch her from the shadows like some type of predator.I push myself to the brink of insanity till I’m so worked up I can barely breathe, and I sit there in that suffering, until I think I’ve had enough. Until my body quits playing my sick mind games.

“You can’t smoke weed in here,” she says, her arms tucked behind her as she rocks back and forth uncomfortably like the last thing she wants to do is tell me what to do.She motions to the shisha that is normally just flavored tobacco, however, I’d packed mine with some devil’s lettuce.

Apparently, they’d gotten tired of me breaking the rules and sent the lamb to the lion’s den.

I incline forward, raising an eyebrow at her, offering a challenge.

“Mh, you going to stop me”—I drop my eyes to her chest— “Emma?”

My punishment is ruined now that I’m having to look at something other than her hair. Although her face is pretty, it’s not what I need or what I want.

We make direct eye contact for maybe two seconds, and I think she might meet my confrontation. I wonder if she’s going to call me out on staring at her constantly. If she’s going to tell me that secretly she likes it.

Instead, she does what they all do. She backs down, looking away from me.

“I-I, um—I.”

“Spit it out,” I demand.

“I-I’m sorry. My boss hates the smell. I don’t care, it’s co-cool.” She stutters over her words like the answer is the difference between life and death.

“Tell your boss if he has a problem, he can take it up with me next time, yeah?”