Page 47 of Nocturne
I’m standing in the kitchen, bare feet on the cold-ass floor. The only light comes from the TV flickering in the living room, casting yellow and white shadows on the walls — a twisted-ass reflection of the chaos starting to eat me alive from the inside.
My whole body’s throbbin’. And it ain’t just the high. It’s that filthy mix of pain and want. The punches I took still leave these hot, purple marks, pounding under my skin. And the worst part? The weed turns it all up. The pain. The tension. And, fuck, the hunger.
It’s like my body’s been hijacked by a need that don’t make no fuckin’ sense. It starts low, deep in my gut, and explodes between my legs — urgent, wrong, desperate.
My dick’s gettin’ hard inside my boxers, solid as a fuckin’ rock, throbbin’ like it’s ready to rip through the fabric. It’s always like this. When the high hits, my body acts like it needs to cum just to keep functionin’. Like sex is the only way to shut off the overflow inside me.
I grab it over my boxers, hand tight, fingers pressing down on the pulse. A chill runs up my spine and I let out this rough, muffled moan. Hoarse. Empty. Almost sick. The kind of sound that ain’t got no name, just need.
Blood’s rushin’ in my ears. Chest bouncin’. Breath short. My head’s floating, all fucked up. And the heatbetween my legs? Yeah. Ticking’ time bomb.
My eyes shoot toward the door the second the bell rings.
Fuck.
That sound yanks me outta the trance, hard.
It’s the money. Of course it is. It always is.
Real life knocking while I’m standing here, dick hard, smoke still sticking to my tongue, and my head twisted beyond repair. Half man, half fuckin’ beast.
I don’t give a damn about my hard-on, so I open the door without hesitation, eager to get this shit over with. And then the ground drops from beneath my feet, like the earth cracks open and swallows me whole, no mercy. I squeeze my hands until my knuckles turn white, while my heart’s pounding madly in my chest. Fuck. It’s him. Again.
I don’t know if this is some sick joke, a cruel coincidence, or if he’s just hellbent on torturing me. I swear, I don’t know. Fuck.
Maybe the beating I gave him wasn’t enough? Or he just wants to test how far I can take it, thinking I wouldn’t have the balls to kill him if he crosses my path again? Gotta admit: he’s way too damn brave.
The memories burn — him lying on the floor, my fist hammering mercilessly, blood dripping from his split lip, his eyes lost, no will to get up, a ghost that keeps coming back.
I open the door expecting some other gang member, but no. He’s there. Standing firm, right in front of me like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like showing up here at this hour, with that face carved out ofirony and testosterone, is just part of the game.
His hair’s a mess in a dirty kind of way — thick, dark, falling over his forehead like chaos is some kinda charm. His face still hits like a punch without warning: jaw tight and strong, features sharp like they were sculpted in anger.
He’s got that look — dark, dull, cutting right through me, digging through everything I try to hide. He’s carrying those money bags with the irritating calm of someone who does this every damn night, like it’s just another dumb chore.
The tattoo on his neck catches my eye even when I try to look away. His broad shoulders, covered by the leather jacket, fill up the tight hallway, and for some dumb reason, the air feels hotter around him.
He says nothing. His tattooed hands, steady, almost touch mine, and that already puts me on edge. Near him, everything weighs heavier than it should. Even a simple cash drop feels like a provocation.
The last time we stood face to face was at the gang warehouse, blood on the floor, my fists digging into his face. I hit everything — face, stomach — and shove him against the wall like it could erase what he found out. The sound of the punches still pounds in my head, mixed with his shaky breaths and blood dripping from his split lip.
But he didn’t stay still. When he fought back, it was a clean hit. A few punches, but each one a hammer. Hard. The kind that leaves marks inside. One punch knocks me off balance, another tears a metallic taste outta my mouth. And still, what hurts most ain’t the physical pain — it’s theheavy silence after, full of what we never say.
Because now, every time he looks at me, it’s like there’s still blood flowing between us. And there is.
The rage tries to take over again, but I’m still high, tired, just wanting this night to end. “Fuckin’ hell,” I spit, “you gotta be messin’ with me.” He blinks, face unreadable, and drops the four bags at my doorstep.
“Wasn’t my idea,” he blows out, “I just do what’s gotta be done. And you should put some clothes on.” He points at my boxers, my dick still hard. I shake my head, ignoring him.
“Cut the shit,” I yell. “You don’t gotta act like that. You’re a crazy motherfucker who chases me, provokes me... and looks like you like it, huh?” I start and can’t stop, the words come out natural, repressed anger, ‘cause we never talk, just exchange looks, silences, and punches.
“You’re the golden boy of your gang. If you wanted, you could send anyone here. O’Connor and Carter don’t just trust our crew, they got others. But nah. You choose to come. Look at me like that, after I beat the shit outta you. Doesn't make sense.”
He watches me, loses his gaze on my body. I ignore it. He studies me like he’s got a lot to say but keeps it all inside.
“You still ain’t used to it, huh?” He lets out a crooked smile. “Don’t gotta imagine shit, I came ’cause it was necessary. And what they ask, I do. And I need this...” He hesitates. I frown.
“I need to get outta that place, breathe a little. And like it or not, I do it to protect you. That’s what I want,nothing else. You can hate me, I know you hate me ‘cause of your brother, and I’m sorry for that.”
