Page 69 of Overdose
But I haven’t used. Not since that night. Not since he touched me like I was his, like he could drown out the high with his hands, his mouth, and—fuck—that pierced cock. Yeah. Thatone’s still branded into the inside of my skull like some twisted, horny watermark.
He didn’t just fuck the craving out of me. He wrecked it. Rewired it. Replaced it with something sharper. Dirtier. More addictive.
The worst part?
Thinking about it now—about him buried deep, about the way those little metal bars dragged over my walls like a promise I wasn’t ready for—makes my thighs clench tight like my body’s trying to chase that ghost all over again.
Dagger was the high, and I haven’t stopped twitching since.
Until now.
Now he’s off handling “shit” (his words), and I’m left staring at the ceiling with my brain chewing through its own wires like a starved rat.
Nope. I need air.
I throw on the jean shorts I wore yesterday, grab the flip-flops I got from the gas station—beach chic, don’t judge—and yank the little crochet top over my head. The one I bought off a sunburnt girl on the boardwalk last week when Dagger took me for overpriced shrimp and a walk along the sand like he was trying out a new personality.
I crack the motel door open just enough to peek out. The guy Dagger posted up to babysit me is still out front, holding down the world’s saddest bodyguard post like some budget Bond villain. His name’s Ruck. Or Ruff. Or something equally testosterone-scented. Sleeves rolled, tattoos out, toothpick dangling from his lips like it’s a weapon. Real subtle.
He’s got one of the girls from Room 14 giggling at him like he’s the second coming of James Dean. Bleached hair, six-inch heels, and the kind of laugh that says she’s either really into him or just trying to distract herself from her tragic life choices. Honestly? Relatable.
“Hey, sweetheart,” she coos, twirling a fried-blonde curl around her finger. “You got a smoke?”
Ruck—or Ruff, Reek, Regret, whatever—grins. “Only if you got a light.”
Wow. Shakespeare lives.
Perfect. I’m invisible. Not that I mind.
I slip past, light on my feet, flip-flops smacking the pavement with just enough noise to keep it interesting. Sneaky in that “teen-girl-breaking-curfew” kind of way. I cut across the parking lot like a ghost with a death wish, past the busted vending machine that looks like it’ll electrocute someone one day (fingers crossed it’s Ruck), and head toward the boardwalk.
The beach is mostly dead, just the hiss of waves and the occasional hum of distant neon. Even the air feels low-effort tonight. Lazy wind, all salt and secrets and maybe a little melted sugar from the popcorn stand that’s been shuttered since nine. The moon’s hanging there like a swollen bruise, low and orange and dramatic as hell. Honestly, same.
I keep walking until the pavement turns to sand. Until I’m far enough from the flickering lights and idiot men that the world softens, like a lens blur on a bad memory.
Then I sit.
Because honestly? Where the fuck else am I gonna go?
Just me and the stars and the waves and the goddamn silence.
Brynn loved the beach.
She used to say it made her feel small in the good way. Like the world was big enough to swallow our problems if we let it.
We used to sneak down here after midnight, wrapped in towels that still smelled like fabric softener and rebellion. Warm beer clutched in our hands like it meant something. We’d sprawl out in the sand, stare up at the stars, and make up stupid stories about the people we were gonna be.
Brynn always said she wanted to be wild—like, untouchable, legendary wild. Said she’d marry a rockstar one day. Because, in her words, they were “bad boys with money and issues, which is basically hot guy currency.” She used to say she wanted her heart broken at least once—just so she’d have something to write a sad song about. Like trauma was some rite of passage.
Funny how that worked out.
I guess she got that wish. In the worst possible fucking way.
I pick up a shell, run my fingers along the ridges. My chest tightens, and my throat aches.
I haven’t let myself cry for her in a long time. Not really. Not the messy kind. The kind that makes your face go hot, your nose run and your chest collapse like a house of cards.
But tonight, in this stupid little slice of sand, I do.
