Blood to Dust (15 page)

I stare at him blankly. I know Beth.

“She wants to fuck your brains out. Know how you talk to her about poetry and shit?”

“It’s not poetry, it’s fiction.” My wry voice is clipped. Which only sends Frank into a fit of even crazier hoots.

“Poetry, fiction, the goddamned weather. Don’t matter, pretty boy. She doesn’t give a damn. When you talk, when she watches your lips move, all she thinks about is how they’d feel on her lips. And I ain’t talking about the ones on her face.”

This makes the old schoolers cackle like hyenas.

I’m not a virgin. I had plenty of sex before coming here, with so many girls I can’t even try to count. Everywhere I go, women ogle me, slip their numbers into my pocket and send their giggling friends to stutter some bullshit about how they never do this. Which is why I’ve never been overly occupied with women in the first place. One never appreciates what he has in spades.

“She told me about that book.” Frank’s face grows serious. “We made it work.”

Later that night, I get my first prison tattoo by a guy called Irvin. He ties an empty pen barrel to a motor from a tape player before the needle kisses my skin. I chose a Kerouac quote. Left shoulder blade.

“My fault, my failure, is not in the passions I have, but in my lack of control of them.”

Since I have no passions, I pray that one day, this’ll make sense to me.

So far, passion failed me. The only thing I ever did fervently was killing the man who broke my Mama’s arms in a drunken fit to prevent him from hurting her again.

For now, though, I’ll make do with this quote. I like the jagged pain that escorts being marked. I like the white noise of the machine, and decide that by the time I get out of here, I’ll hide most of myself with bad ink.

Well, half of me, anyway. The other half I’ll keep clean and pure. Who knows? Maybe parts of me are still redeemable.

I wait impatiently for the night, knowing that I’ve made real progress with Nate.

But when the crickets start to chirp, my heart sinks.

Tonight is different than any other night.

I hear a commotion upstairs, followed by strange noises. Feet that are not Nate’s army boots nor Irvin’s Crocs. (I figured Ink is Irvin—who else could it be?)

I hear cheap heels clicking like the safety of a gun, and sneakers and boots dancing together. I hear music cranking up to full-blast. Chatter. Voices clashing like swords in my ears. Laughter. I hear women shrieking and giggling and
aww
ing and
ahh
ing. Men swearing, spitting and drinking. There’s a party upstairs, while I’m stuck here, rotting on my own stupid plans to break free. I’m terrifyingly upset with Nate, even though we’re not friends. Even though I’m nothing but his victim and, if things go according to my plan, he’ll soon be nothing of mine.

I confided in him, told him everything I’ve been through, and this is what he does?

A jolt of hatred slices through my gut. I despise every single woman who is partying up there, and I don’t even know them. The idea of Nate nuzzling, kissing, straddling—even choking—someone else makes me want to scream. I’m petrified and possessive of him at the same time. Why?

Jesus, what’s happening to me
?
I should be shouting from the top of my lungs, hoping someone would notice. But I can’t bring myself to do it. The illogical part of me tells me to wait. Maybe he’ll come for me. Maybe I can still make my way out of this place with him in tow.

Nate.

He hasn’t come down to check on me tonight. Haven’t had my meal yet. My shower time.
My Nate time.
One party and he forgets all about me?

Men. They should never be trusted.

I munch on stale chips, lying on my blanket as anger brews inside me. Tonight was not supposed to go down this way. He was supposed to come over, have dinner with me and crack completely.

I throw the bag of chips on the floor and scream into the darkness, the music swallowing the noise.

Iggy Pop is begging “I Wanna Be Your Dog” upstairs. Downstairs, I feel like a caged up pet. I knew there was going to be a downside to hearing everything through these paper walls, down to the persistent humming of their old fridge.

The music is so loud, I don’t even notice when in the midst of the wild party, the door cracks open. I jump to my feet when I see the light pouring from the inside the house into the basement. Maybe the person who opened the door is a stranger looking for a case of beer and I can ambush them. Alas, I’m greeted with the Guy Fawkes mask, and Nate is standing there, a white and dirty muscle shirt clinging to his body like a slutty fangirl. His black, ripped jeans ride low, offering a glimpse of his stupid
V
, his full sleeve of monsters spitting fire crawling up his muscled arm. He is holding an open bottle of beer and a plastic plate with junk food piled high. Pizza, coleslaw and greasy fries. I turn around and toss my hair.

“Oh. You.”

“Yeah, me.” He sounds playful, jovial and
tanked
. He’s been drinking. And by the slur I’ve already picked up, a lot more than one should have. “Who were you expecting? Donald Trump?”

“Honestly? I was wishing for a fucking cop.” I still don’t look at him, for a reason beyond my grasp. It’s not a good time to be sulking. He’s mumbling incoherently, drunk to oblivion and in all probability, breaking some pretty tough parole rules. The party, the alcohol and the stinking weed that’s on his clothes. This is when I should be making him break even more rules. Work harder to dig my way into his heart, not push him away until he’s on the other side of the planet.

Seduce. Take. Destroy. Treat men how they treat you, Prescott.

“Brought you food and booze,” he offers, his muscular arm dangles the beer bottle. I don’t budge from my place at the corner of the room, still moping like a two-year-old who just found out that the world doesn’t spin around her.

“Leave it there.” I nod my head to the table. “Now, don’t let me stand in the way of your fun. Go back to your party.”

Okay, who is this girl speaking from my mouth and what has she done to the ballbusting Prescott? This jealous girlfriend nonsense is not me. Ever since Camden, I’ve been very careful about not getting attached. Other than a handful of disastrous one-night stands I engaged in, just to prove myself that I could still do it, I haven’t really paid any attention to the male population for the past few years.

Nate takes a step into the room. A sliver of a chill breaks down my skull, moving down my spine and tickling my toes.

“Turn around. I’m blindfolding you.”

“What have I done now?” I throw out my arms in despair, huffing a blonde lock away from my eyes.

“Sassed around way too much for my liking,” he answers with a teasing bite, clarifying. “I wanna hang out with you, Country Club. That means I’m taking off this mask. You can’t see my face. I wish you fucking could, but God has a plan for me, and I don’t want it to be cutting my dick off and giving it to Seb as a souvenir,” he snickers. I’ve never seen Nate so buzzed. So intoxicated. So agreeable.

He hovers closer, grabs my hand and jerks me to his body. Then he spins me around and wraps the black cloth around my eyes tightly. I smell the beer and salty BBQ snacks as he exhales a charged breath on my skin, his lips brushing the nape of my back fleetingly. I roll my head backward as the sound of the plastic mask hitting the floor fills my ears.

“Better?” I purr, losing myself.

He leans into my body, his skin sticking to mine. “Much. I like you blindfolded.”

“You like me regardless.” I bite my lip, not sure if I’m trying to convince him or myself. I need him to crack if I want to be out of here soon. The good news is that whatever temptations Nate has upstairs, his focus is solely on the girl underground. “Help me take a sip?”

He grabs me by the waist and turns me around so that I face him. Nate leads us both to the corner of the room, where we sit down. The party is still alive, but I’ve learned a thing or two about Nate, and he doesn’t need people around him. He needs silence, and maybe a good story to listen to. Parties were meant for people who run away from their minds, not soak in them until drowned by their thoughts.

“Ink’s party, huh?” I elbow him, and the beer he placed in my hand sloshes over the rim of the bottle. A dash of cold liquid spills on my bare thighs, and I can’t see it, but I can
feel
his eyes drop to my wet skin, heating my flesh with desire.

“How’d you figure it out?”

“Beware of those who seek constant crowds, they’re nothing alone,” I quote Bukowski, and hear his breaths pick up speed. He gets hot on poetry. A freak who takes comfort in other people’s words. Just like me. “You don’t need cheap entertainment.”

“I told him he’s stupid as fuck. You could be pounding this door down screaming bloody murder,” he says, testing me. I run my tongue over my front teeth.

“Well, I didn’t. Because, Beat, I know that I’m walking out of here before Camden and Godfrey get to me. Remember my offer yesterday?” My heart pounds faster. I’m still embarrassed about being victimized. I don’t want him to see me as weak. I want us to be equal.

“Are you a mother?” he slurs. I frown.

“What?”

“Are. You. A. Fucking. Mother?”

It feels like a punch straight to my chest, a painful memory that he’s slapped me with, and I’m glad he can’t see my eyes through the black fabric of my blindfold.

“I’m not. Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” Hiccup. “So you don’t have a kid?”

“No.” I grit, trying not to fume. “Already told you, Beat. It’s just me in this world.”

“What they did to you. . .Jesus, Prescott. That’s so fucked up.”

Nate is drunk. Oh-so drunk. A huge blessing, wrapped in a red sateen bow. I take a sip of my beer, the liquid washing over my throat and offering the kind of comfort only booze can, and lick my lips, knowing his predatory eyes are on me.

“That’s the ugly truth,” I nod.

“Then tell me something beautiful,” he croaks. “I have enough uglies for a lifetime.”

“There is nothing to fear except the power you give to your own demons. Sally Gardner said that.”

“Good quote.” His voice smiles. I smile back at it.

“Can I feel your face?”

He snorts another laugh from the shit-drunk variety. “No.”

“Pretty please with a cherry on top?”

“Nope.”

“I’ll scream.”

“I’ll gag you with the extra pieces of bondage and shove the rest of the cloth down every single hole in your body. Don’t tempt me, ‘cause Ima enjoy it.” His tone is flat, sincere, and not at all pissed off.
Peaceful.
Why is this a turn-on for me? I never had it too rough. But with Nate? I actually
want
him to hurt me. In the best, worst, most possible way.

“You’d never hurt me,” I retort.

“Never ever, Country Club,” he promises softly. “Unless it’s fun for you, then all bets are off.”

“And we’ve already established that you like me.”

“No. You said that.”

“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine. Let me touch your face, and I’ll let you touch me.
Everywhere.
”

“I’m not like them.” His voice turns to steel. “I’m not the taking kind.”

“You’re not taking. I’m giving. Gladly.”

Silence.

Contemplation.

I part my lips and lick them.

Persuasion.

Nate sighs in return.

He’s in.

“Make it fast.” He pulls both my wrists into his huge palm, placing my hands on his warm cheeks before muttering, “Silver Spoon, you little perv.”

The first thing I notice are his cheekbones. They’re so high, they’re level with his ears. Cut, prominent and glorious. He has a Tragus piercing poking out of his left ear, which I almost yank out, because instead of an earring, he has a safety pin.

“That’s rad.” I grin blindly, and by the stretch of his skin, I know there’s a smirk playing on that perfect face too.

“Of course you’d think so, CC.”

“CC?”

“Country Club.”

My hands move down to his square chin, brushing over his lips. Dear God, his lips. So pouty and soft, they feel like two pillows. My hands hurry to his nose. Just as I suspect, it’s straight and narrow. My index finger runs over the smooth bone, and much to my embarrassment, I suck in a ragged breath.

“You’re spectacular, aren’t you, you little bastard?” My voice shakes.

He grins and softly bites one of my fingers.
Straight teeth
. “You ain’t too bad yourself.”

Heart stuttering in my chest, I knot my legs together, feeling warmth tickling between them. That’s the first time he’s said something nice about my appearance. I bite down a moan as my hands continue roaming his face, drinking in every piece of flesh, thirsty for much more than what he’s offering.

“Kiss me,” I hear myself plead. I’m not sure how much of it is me recruiting Nate to my team, and how much is me lusting after this boy-man.

I feel his throat bobbing with a gulp. “Fuck, Pea. You’re going to get me into so much trouble, and I’m already in deep.”