Page 8 of Mine

Had her parents really named her Pepper?

Her coat had been so fucking expensive. A five-thousand-dollar coat. She reeked of the kind of wealth I would never see. I imagined coming on her face and watching her pink tongue dart out to lap up every drop, even watching it drip down to her luxurious coat, staining the fine wool.

“Fuck,” I grunted, giving one final pump.

Cum burst from my cock, the endorphins swallowing me up in their waves of pleasure. The thoughts of the stranger faded with the orgasm, my moans melting along with the rest of my body.

I breathed out, basking in the momentary relief.

Just a few seconds of bliss.

My mind didn’t allow me to feel content for long. Instead, all my problems came flooding back in once my cock stopped throbbing. I stood still for a moment and then reached for my soap, washing down quickly.

The numbness set back in, colors leached away. I flipped off the water and dragged the shower curtain back, snatching my towel from the bar on the wall.

I hated this bathroom. I hated this house. The last time I was here was seven years ago, the night I’d run away from my father for good. It’d been the last time I saw him alive, too.

I dried off quickly, stepped out of the shower, and opened the door to let steam swirl out. While I knew my father was dead, every single muscle tensed in my body as I thought about all the times I’d been scared to leave the bathroom. All the times I’d been yelled at or hit.

The mirror reflected my misery. I sucked in a breath, trying to pull it together.

It’d been six months since I’d gotten the call that he died. After years of alcoholism, his body had finally given out.

That part didn’t shock me.

What did was the fact that he’d left the house to me, along with all the money he had in the bank. Not that it’d been a lot, but it was enough to help me bury him properly.

I’d let the house sit empty for three months. I couldn’t bring myself to walk through the front door at first, but then my apartment lease was up, and I’d needed more space for the band to practice. Doing that in a house instead of an apartment made a lot more sense, and I wanted us to be as perfect as possible.

So, I’d moved in. And I was looking forward to the day I could move out.

About a year ago, I started posting videos online of songs I’d written. I never dreamed it would go anywhere. Music was just an outlet for me, a way to pour all of my dark parts into something healthy. In fact, my therapist was the one who’d recommended I do that.

But then people liked it. They liked it a lot. And I started having fun with it, bringing all the stuff I enjoyed most to my songs. Sex. Fucking. Kink.

And people really,reallyliked that.

Now, I had a band and was playing Nashville. I wasn’t sure how long I’d be able to make it in this house, but for now, I had to stay.

One day, I’d sell it for good. I’d have enough money to finally leave the ghosts who haunted these broken and bruised walls. I’d be able to get rid of the guitar my asshole father gave me years ago, and buy something shiny and new.

It was fucked up that the one thing he’d given me, aside from multiple broken bones and a sadistic streak, was a love for music.

Music kept me alive years ago, and it kept me alive now.

I stepped out into the hall and stood still for a moment, listening for the creak of footsteps, as if his ghost lingered. I’d seen his body put in the ground, but the fear I harbored while living here stained the walls like cigarette smoke—permeating the floorboards, the ceilings, the windows.

I wasn’t sure how he’d managed to keep the house. I thought about that as I padded down the hall to my bedroom, picked up my guitar, and sprawled out on my bed, fingering the neck while the fan made lazy, squeaky laps.

My eyes closed as I played, my fingers moving on autopilot. I needed to text the band. Jack was my bass player, Tyler was my drummer, and Eric was my pianist—and making sure they were ready for the show tomorrow was a priority. I needed to plan some thirst traps for my social media accounts. I also needed to put together a fresh setlist, something that had a mix of original work and familiar songs to keep the crowd engaged.

Being a songwriter in Nashville was the equivalent of being a shiny penny in a fountain. We were all used up wishes waiting to be picked up and dried off, or forever forgotten.

Regardless, I still wrote my songs. And enough people liked them now that maybe, just maybe, I’d be able to grow into something substantial.

Wearing a mask and being shirtless on stage helped.

That reminded me, I needed to finish making the leather harness I’d started a few days ago. I sighed, trying to wade through the clouds of stress. Normally, I didn’t feel this way, but being in this house made me feel like I was suffocating.

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