Afraid to Fly (Fearless #2) (20 page)

“However, I heard you met my friend,” she beamed, placing a whiskey sour on my tray.

“Your friend?”

“Yeah. Remember . . . my mate with the golden cock. The one that makes me all quivery inside. The guy that shagged me so good, I very nearly fainted.”

“I got the point, V.”

“Well, he saved me the awkward introduction, apparently.”

“How so?”

I turned to tend to my tables, and she was right on my heels. “Your rescuer, you twit! Was that purely coincidence, or do you know him from somewhere?”

I paused so abruptly that she ended up running into my back, causing the drinks to slosh all over my tray. “What did you say?”

“Dominic? Better known as Dirty Dom? He’s the guy I was telling you about. Don’t you know him?”

Dirty Dom? Dom was fucking Velvet too?

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. How the hell could a guy who had more lovers/girlfriends/fuck buddies stashed around than Hugh Hefner, have had time to eat crappy spaghetti and meatballs at my crappy table, and allow me to carry on about my silly hobby on the rooftop of my crappy apartment building? Obviously, his hope was to make me just another bunny on the ranch, but that didn’t explain his reaction. He was remorseful for kissing me—fearful even. Seeing the look of horror on his face actually had made me feel sorry for the guy. So it didn’t make sense that he was so . . . generous . . . with his body in one breath, yet so sensitive with his heart the next. A guy as promiscuous as he wouldn’t give a damn about kissing someone like me.

“No. I don’t know him.” I said, resuming my walk to a tableful of thirsty, faceless customers. “I don’t know him at all.”

I
WAS JUST SHY
of thirteen the first time I experimented with my sexuality.

Naturally, I’d always had questions about who I was . . . what I was . . . but I had no one to guide me through the confusion. And honestly, I didn’t want anyone. I couldn’t relay the terror, the shame, to another living soul.

The state had taken me out of my uncle’s house after he’d been arrested, and I’d been placed in a group home until they could find a reliable family member to take me in. It was positively hellish, but it was an upgrade from going to sleep in my own blood and filth every night.

I was smaller than I should’ve been at that age after years of malnourishment. It wasn’t that my uncle wouldn’t feed me. I was just too sick with fear and revulsion to keep food down, sometimes for weeks at a time. On the outside, everything seemed normal. I had clean clothes, a roof over my head, and I went to school. But the truth was, I was being held captive by a rapist that I happened to love, as sick as it was.

Many of the boys at the home taunted me or ignored me all together. However, there was one boy . . . Matthew. He didn’t just talk to me; he was nice to me. The other boys called him a sissy . . . a fag, they said. I didn’t know to care. I was just glad that one person didn’t see me as a pariah.

Matthew was sixteen and had more privileges than me. He went out every evening and sometimes didn’t come home until very late. I asked him what he was doing when he left. He told me he was seeing friends. I asked him if I could come too, but he told me that these
friends
were older, and wanted to hang out with him alone.

Some nights, Matthew came home with treats for me—candy, soda, cookies. Sometimes even wine coolers. They tasted sweet and made me feel more mature when I drank them, so I asked Matthew to bring me more. I asked him where he got all this stuff—he didn’t have a job, yet always had money. He told me he got it from friends.

It was late one night, and everyone had already gone to bed. Matthew snuck in with a six-pack of hard lemonade and a bag of Swedish Fish. We shared them both, tenting a blanket over our heads and whispering under the light of his cell phone, another gift from a friend.

“You ever kissed a girl?” Matthew asked when we were two Mike’s in.

I didn’t know where that question came from. We never talked about girls, although I would have expected it, considering his age. I just shook my head, telling him the truth.

“You want to?”

I shrugged. Did I? I should, right? But I didn’t know if I
could.

“You ever have sex before?”

I stayed silent at first. I knew there had been rumors about what had landed me here. Since I was a minor, my case was kept quiet. However, nothing was ever really a secret. And even though my file was supposed to be sealed, I didn’t doubt that there had been chatter amongst the adults who were supposedly helping me.

I nodded. I don’t know why I was honest about it. All I knew was that Matthew was my only friend, and I didn’t want him to be mad at me. I didn’t want to disappoint him.

“With a girl?” he added on. I knew he knew the answer, so I didn’t bother responding this time.

“Did you like it?”

A sick, sinking feeling roiled through my gut. I assumed it was the alcohol, but I didn’t stop drinking it. I would need all the help I could get with this line of questioning.

“It’s ok if you did. I won’t tell.”

I wanted him to stop talking. I wanted to tell him to get off my top bunk and go to his bed below. But, I stayed quiet, just as I was taught. Speaking up made people angry. I couldn’t stand when people were unhappy with me.

I don’t remember what happened afterward that had motivated Matthew to kiss me, but he did. His lips were firm and warm, his breath hot and sweet with a tang of citrus. I stayed perfectly still, and when his tongue swept the roof of my mouth and began to move, I didn’t reciprocate. But I didn’t push him away either.

I had thought that it would feel natural when it happened. I thought it would be the moment that would define me and give a name to what I was. But it didn’t. It simply . . . numbed me. All my emotions had shut down, and only my body was present. No feelings of warmth and acceptance stirred in my chest. No ravenous hunger overcame me, causing me to give over to my desires. I just sat there and let him do what he pleased. Wasn’t that what I was supposed to do?

After Matthew pulled his lips away, he smiled at me, satisfied with himself. Then he told me he wanted to give me a massage. Since we were sitting knee to knee, I didn’t understand how he expected that to happen. But when his long, thin hands began to knead my thighs, I realized that he didn’t want my back. He wanted my front.

His hands were firm, and his touch was confident, like maybe he had experience . . . massaging people. I was wound so tight and rigid that it was a surprise that his fingers didn’t ache. He just kept kneading, slowly moving upward. And when his hands reached the tops of my thighs, he stopped.

“I have to pull down your shorts to massage the rest,” he said.

I was perfectly still, perfectly silent, as he pulled my pajama shorts down. I was compliant. That was what all good boys were.

When he wrapped his hand around me, I expected to feel . . . something. Whether it be joy or desire or disgust, I wanted my body to make the choice for me so my heart and mind didn’t have to. It was easier that way. But instead, I felt nothing. And looking down at my limp penis in Matthew’s palm, he could tell.

That only made Matthew more determined. I hadn’t objected, so surely I was willing. But why wasn’t I aroused?

He massaged and caressed me, twisting his wrist, going fast, going slow. I knew he was getting annoyed with me, so I tried not to look at him. Instead, I closed my eyes, and thought of the Dominic Trevino that still lived in a parallel universe with his mama and papa. He was in 7
th
grade, just like me. But that Dominic made straight As. And he was class president. And a star athlete. Everyone knew him and loved him. He’d walk down the halls of his middle school, and classmates would shout out, “Hey, Dom!” and “Good game, superstar!” and “School dance this Friday night . . . Can’t wait to see you!” He was popular, smart and beloved by all. Especially his parents, who were his biggest supporters in everything he did.

Mindlessly, I let myself look down, and realized that I wasn’t flaccid in Matthew’s hand anymore. I wasn’t numb anymore. Yes, my mind had managed to block it out and trade my reality for a fantasy, but my body could feel him. It was responding to what he was doing to me, and Matthew was overjoyed.

No.

No, I don’t want to feel it.

I don’t want to like it.

This feels wrong.

Wrong and disgusting.

But it also feels okay. And it doesn’t hurt.

It doesn’t hurt, so that means I like it.

But I don’t want to like it.

I didn’t speak up. I wanted to, but I didn’t. So maybe that meant I wanted it.

Maybe it meant that this was okay.

That his hands and his mouth and his skin were okay . . .

I jerked awake in a pool of my own sweat. I was panting, shivering, and I wasn’t alone in my bed.

“Shhh, shhh. It’s ok. I’m here. I’m right here with you.” Her familiar scent washed over me, and I felt her small arms around my frame, squeezing with all her might. “I’ve got you, baby. I’m here. It wasn’t real. It was just a dream . . . just a dream.”

Angel was soothing me, holding me close to her body and absorbing my pain. My face was wet and salty, but it was not with sweat. I had been crying. Just like she said I’d been doing for the past week or so.

I nestled into her bosom and just let her hold me until I had calmed myself enough to speak. I didn’t like this weakness; I didn’t relish the fact that I needed her to take care of me. That had been my job. And now . . . now I was that little boy, willing to do any and everything just to feel loved.

Angel rubbed my back until the movement lulled me to sleep again. This time, I didn’t dream, and when I woke up, it was well past the time I was due in for work.

I jumped up like my bed was on fire. “I already called. You have the flu,” Angel rasped, her voice heavy with exhaustion. She was lying beside me, but I could tell she had been up for some time. A big mug of what I suspected was coffee was on my nightstand. There were only three bold, black letters printed on the mug—U, N, T. However, the handle was also painted black, fashioned into a C. If that was indicative of the type of day that was ahead of us, I was in deep shit.

“This is the third day I’ve missed this week. I have to go in.” I ran a hand through my sweat-dampened hair. The moment I lifted my arm, I realized how achy I was. Maybe I did have the flu. That would have been much easier to explain than the real reason I had been avoiding work, or the entire world for that matter.

Angel sat up, shaking her head. “Amber insists you take another day and come back refreshed next week. She doesn’t want to risk getting the kids sick.”

Of course. Always about the kids and their well-being, as it should have been. Too bad I hadn’t just kept it just about the kids. Nope. I had to go and fall for Toby’s sister. And she didn’t want me. She had rejected me. Not only that though. She was
repulsed
by me.

And all that only solidified what I had felt inside for years. I was disgusting. I was flawed. I was ruined. A girl who worked in a strip club to raise her mute kid brother and lived in one of Charlotte’s sketchiest neighborhoods, looked at me like I was scum. Like I was a monster.