Page 50 of From Best To Bested

He seemed to slither from one end of the room to the other, following Roman as he made his way through partners. More of the crew had shown up than expected. Not at first. It was Roman and Ezra and Jake. Roman was happy they were happy. Then it was Roman and Jake and two men. He remembered Jake insisting on another kiss. Remembered chanting. Encouragement. Roman shook away the thoughts.

Jake wanted to have fun. Jake wanted Roman to be fun. Roman wanted Ezra to have fun. Ezra kept insisting Roman could help everyone have fun. But whenever Roman looked at Ezra, in the flashes of sweat and kisses and grunting and sex and everything else, Roman couldn’t recall once finding Ezra happy. His eyes were angry. They were trained on Roman, and he kept trying to make him happy. Kept listening to his suggestions. Jake’s suggestions. The room spun. Everyone laughed. Roman laughed. Maybe.

If he did, that might explain why his teeth ached so much. Not the same as his throat, which had been reamed raw, or his jaw, which had been stretched wide for what must’ve been forever.

Roman lay in bed, ignoring the loud flashes of memories that clawed at his head, the same way hands clawed at his flesh. He couldn’t get the images of hands raking over his skin, slapping him, squeezing him, caressing him. He didn’t want to remembereverything he’d done, everything he’d agreed to, everything he craved while the room swirled and Roman’s mind danced free.

When Roman finally had the energy to stand, he made it to the other side of the room and saw his mortifying reflection. Bloodshot eyes. Red marks on his face. A permanent marker had been used to fill in around his eyes to make Roman look like a raccoon. He recalled that moment. Not specifically with his eyes but the marker itself. Someone had written something somewhere else; he wasn’t sure where now. He’d laughed it off, though, and playfully told them to stop.

Roman huffed, exhausted at the idea of how long it’d take to wash off.

He supposed the marker was better than the bruises on his neck. At one point, Jake had wrapped an arm around his throat, holding him close, pinning Roman in place as he bucked behind him, both panting in union with the rough thrusts. When Roman whimpered, Jake only rutted harder into him, strengthening his chokehold. But Roman didn’t think the grip was that tight. He’d been in worse headlocks during actual fights. Hell, he’d lost his title thanks to a chokehold. No, opening his unbuttoned shirt revealed the source and reason for the bruising.

“Bruise me/Use me Daddy” was written across his chest in marker and served as a welcome invitation last night. It wasn’t the only thing scrawled across his abdomen. Words written in various handwriting covered him everywhere his eyes flitted, and he knew there was so much more written on the parts of his body not exposed in front of the mirror.

‘Cum Slut.’ ‘Cheap Toy.’ ‘Hole For Rent.’ ‘Good Boy.’ And so much more he ignored after he read ‘bitch’ written below his ‘Bested’ tattoo as if to cement where he’d ended up full circle, much in the way Jake always promised.

“Take it, take it all,” Jake had panted, breath eating away at the back of Roman’s ear, the hot heat of his breath on Roman’sface, the loud command from across the room as Roman worked. Everywhere he went, Jake commanded him.

The worst part was Roman had said yes. He held onto that stretched truth, ignoring the twine of reality quickly unraveling. He allowed this. It only happened because he allowed it. That was what this was, what he repeated, so he didn’t choke on his own breath.

“Fuck,” Roman groaned as the night’s events surfaced one unwanted fragment at a time.

He couldn’t stay here. His skin was clammy, his body was sore, his insides burned, and he was a complete and utter wreck. Roman grabbed his things and headed to the showers, hoping no one would be using them at this time of day.

As he undressed in the showers, he got a closer look at his body and his fun night. Welts, bruises, and more phrases trailed in every direction of his torso, arms, and legs. Roman’s ribs hurt when he lifted his arms to adjust the shower nozzle. It was like he’d been punched in his sides. A lot.

The cold water was too much, so he waited for the warm to finally run through. He rinsed and washed and scrubbed and did it all again and again, taking his body one layer at a time. He must’ve scrubbed his face ten times over before moving to his chest, before tackling his arms one by one. Nothing felt clean enough. He didn’t even want to work his way past his waist. He knew what waited for him. He knew what he’d done.

Carefully, he rubbed his butt and winced when his hand went over a fresh sore. Not a sore. He craned his neck and caught a faint glimpse at his new tattoo.

A tattoo of tally marks ran across the right upper cheek of Roman’s butt, and his chest nearly fell through the floor. It came back in waves. With each flash, the sharp sting.

“It’ll be fun, sweetness,” Jake had insisted. “Gotta ink you up. Way to remember the party.”

One for every guy. Roman held his breath. He touched the tender skin and bit his lip from the hot pain radiating off the tattoo. They were black tallies, seven in total, and pooled with as much dried blood as they were with ink.

The last tally was further off. He remembered adding the seventh for Ezra. Even though Ezra wasn’t in the mood to celebrate, wasn’t in the mood for fun, he’d had fun with Roman many times before. They all had. They all would. Jake kept telling Roman about how much fun they were all having. Roman agreed. Roman kissed Jake again and again to inhale more fun.

Each tally was more jagged than straight; somehow, they’d added the ink while still moving around, still using Roman, still having fun. Roman remembered the tattoo started on the bed. At some point, he was standing and complaining about it. Then Roman was bent over Ezra’s chair, face buried in the cushions, finishing the tattoo, only Ezra wasn’t there anymore. He’d come and gone, from what Roman recalled, or maybe he’d just moved around the room. It was so crowded inside, and Jake seemed to take up all the space, standing everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Every time a memory of sex surfaced, every time he remembered a new voice, a new order, a new encouraging request, Roman’s stomach twisted into tighter knots. He wanted to hurl. Wanted to throw up everything left over from last night, throw up what remnants of the pills bubbling in his stomach remained. He raced out of the shower and over to the sink, but when he started dry heaving, the memories of puking up his guts last night returned.

Roman had said yes to Jake. All he thought was how it’d make Ezra happy. Roman had agreed to two of Jake’s friends. Because what was the big deal of having fun with a few friends? Ezra always wanted Roman to treat his friends well. Somewhere along the way, though, somehow Roman had accepted more.

More fun.

More men.

More sex.

He’d tried everything with everyone, and the flash of Jake’s kisses came crawling back to him. The pills he’d passed, the little song he’d hummed about swallowing a drop of fun before swallowing a lot of loads. Roman couldn’t remember how many men he’d blown. He hoped the number didn’t fair much higher than what they’d tattooed on his ass.

“It’s a party,” Jake hissed, kissed, missed Roman’s lips more times than not. “You having fun, sweetness?”

Roman didn’t say yes. It hurt to speak; his throat was as sore then as now. Most of the time, when someone asked, he couldn’t exactly answer that given second, occupied, busy, helping someone get off.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Roman.” Levi’s voice hit like a battering ram, bulldozing through the last shreds of stability Roman had left.

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