Page 30 of Isle of Beauty

“It’s Lana. You know, my best friend? Lana Moretti? I’m sure I’ve mentioned her before. She’s dad’s business partner’s daughter, and as heir of both our families, it makes sense for a strong alliance.”

A high pitched noise fills my ears and the sound of his voice falls to the background. I almost drop the phone. Time stands still. I stand still.

You can call me Lana.

That’s impossible.

She’s a ghost. She’s gone.

My heart starts to pump faster and my stomach burns with unwarranted jealousy, nausea roiling in my gut. The skin of my hands gets clammy and I’m having a hard time drawing new air into my lungs.

“Congratulations. I’ll call you back.” I hang up on my brother unceremoniously and rush to sit down, head between my knees. Darkness recedes too slowly. I rake my fingers over my dark locks, pulling at the roots to come back to my senses.

Impossible.

I force myself to breathe deeply again. Getting back control over my body, I start to see clearly, to think.

She’s always been so fucking close. I start shaking uncontrollably, laughter bubbling up my throat until it’s raw and my abs ache. I don’t know if it’s from pain or relief.

It’s official, I’ve lost the fucking plot.

I go back to the living room, prepare a Gin Mare and sit on the couch. I feel exhausted, the three years of poor sleep catching up to me in an instant.

I found her.

And she’s marrying my brother.

They’ve probably been together this whole time. Did she writhe with pleasure under his touch as she did mine? Did she laugh freely with him? Did she warm him with her soft touch and kind smiles?

I was jealous of Julian before for love and attention I never got but it has nothing on the green monster taking form in my heart.

For a moment, I imagine him lying in a ditch, a cruel smile spreading to my face. Lana’s crying on my shoulder at his funeral. I hike up her black dress after the burial ceremony and roughly fuck her on his tomb stone.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

The more I drink, the more vivid the image becomes. The alcohol that burns my throat hurts less than the disgust I feel at my fucked up imagination. My cock stiffens in my slacks and I resist for all of two minutes before sliding the zipper down and taking it out, gripping myself at the base and squeezing, imagining it’s her tight little cunt.

I stroke myself harshly as if punishing myself for both wanting her and hating him for having her. Yet, I can’t stop. It’s petty and depraved.

Her face is twisted in pleasure as much as it’s stained with tears she gave my brother. Tears she should cry for me. Her make-up runs down her face; she’s never looked more beautiful as she moans my name while on hands and knees on his tombstone.

My grunts of fucked up pleasure fill the space around me. I’m delirious when I withdraw from her and shoot my load on her ass and the stone underneath her, staining his name and his wife with my cum.

When I open my eyes and witness the aftermath of one of the best solo orgasms I’ve ever had all over my dress shirt, I let out a disgusted sigh. Shame tastes acrid on the back of my tongue.

“Fuck,” I yell into the void of my flat.

I tuck my dick back into my pants but don’t bother closing them and make my way to the bathroom. My head droops between my shoulders and when I look at myself in the mirror, I punch my reflection until shards stick to my bleeding knuckles. The pain grounds me and relieves the self-loathing for a moment.

My brother’s the best thing that happened to me and I don’t deserve an ounce of grace and love he’s given me. Despite the distance between us, self-imposed on my part, he cares deeply for me and I for him. And here I am, having fucked up fantasies about his fiancé, about his death.

I’m pathetic, yearning for someone who was never mine and taking my rage onto my brother and my furniture.

But I can’t let him marry her. I won’t fucking survive it.

I step into the shower and scrub at my skin until it’s red raw, hoping to remove any trace of frustration and anger tattooed with invisible ink on my body. When I’m done, I dress in a custom grey suit, adding golden cufflinks in the shape of little theatre golden masks.

Dressing the part of the respectable businessman always helped me bury the darkness. Maybe if I do the same in my own home, I can believe I’m in control.

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