Page 36 of Tortured Eyes
Fifteen
It’s getting cold out now. I stand on the porch, bare feet eventually walking down the steps onto the lawn, and smile. Winter’s here. Frost lays heavy on the ground around me, frigid air assaulting my bare chest and toes as I wander through the grass. Bitch was a good fuck—like it meant something to me. Like Samuel does. Either that or my head’s so screwed up I can’t think straight.
I laugh and pull some smoke into my lungs, part of me happy to be in this state of near delirium. Good shit. And she was good on that shit. Another chuckle falls from my lips, eyes looking at the sky. Pretty. Blue and bright. Where’s a cloud?
“Logan?”
Who the fuck is that interfering with my chill? I look back towards the house, the world throwing all kinds of spiralling circles at me. I haven’t been this out of it since… whenever. I don’t fucking remember. Or care. A hand grips my wrist, damn thing trying to haul me somewhere. The arc of my fist smashes straight into flesh, the body letting go of me instantly because of it, but then a hit lands on my skull so damn hard I fall to the grass below me.
My lips mesh with the dirt and wet grass, another chuckle leaving me. What the fuck happened then? I smile and try pushing to my knees, amused at everything, and then can’t be bothered. I end up turning onto my back, letting the cold sink through my bones to try energising myself, or make me give the fuck up.
“Get up, Logan.”
No. I’ll stay here a while, watch the sky and remember my dick in her pussy,her body getting involved in my kind of fucking. And then I’ll go back and finish it off, fill her full of more of the good shit and lie there with her. Might even bring her out here. Fuck her on my lawn. Choke her maybe. Never killed anyone like that. I laugh again.
“Get the hell off the grass.”
Something grabs me and starts hauling again, hands gripping tight to my wrists as my body rolls across the grass and then begins to batter on the gravel. The sharp stabs bring me out of my haze as my mind starts remembering where the hell I am. I grunt and reel over onto my front, knees and feet connecting with the ground so I can push up from it. One aggressive pull and I yank my hands from whoever the hell has hold of me and look up.
Carter.
He sways in my line of sight. Or maybe that’s me. Fuck. I shake my head, trying to get back to clarity. Not that I want it. Clarity means remembering and I don’t want to remember a goddamn thing other than being inside her for a few hours. Forgetting, but the sight of Nate's bloodied body assaults me again, followed by those last coughs and splutters for breath. Dead. Gone. Left this fucking earth and left me, too. My fault. Hers. Emilio’s.
Water suddenly sluices me from the side, a torrent of it pounding my ribs and chest like a bitch. I half fall and falter, feet pushing me upright again to work out what the hell is going on. I blanch, whipping my head around to try getting away from it, but it just keeps pounding on me. Face, shoulders, body.
"Jesus Christ. You get Nate killed and think getting off your head is the answer?"
My hands go up, trying to keep the water away from my mouth. Nothing stops it, though, and eventually, I pull out of the fog. I push into the heavy stream, eyes finally seeing Carter standing there with the goddamn hose aimed at me.
“You back with me now?” he shouts, dropping the spray. Fuck him. I storm forward, every fibre of my being pissed. The hose is up and in my face before I get there, more water smothering my nose and mouth, nearly fucking drowning me. The fist that connects with my jaw knocks me back, my ass landing on the ground. “If you didn't mean something to me, I'd kill you for what you've caused,” he snaps, switching the spray off and looking over me. “You're damn lucky I haven't already. Get your shit together, Logan. Or get back in there and kill something other than yourself. You're better than this."
He abandons the hose and he’s left me before I can get a damn word out of my mouth, let alone retaliation.
"Fuck you," I mutter. Asshole never did know how to have a good time.
I walk back into the house and scowl around the area. My head’s still a haze, but he’s right. Kill something. Emilio. I’ll get that done first. Finish him. And then I can play some more.
Kill her.
The second I’ve thought it, Samuel’s in my damned head again, messing with it and telling me it wasn’t her fault. It was, though. She was there. She started it. She did. She deserves nothing but the same. Death. Vengeance. I’m smiling as I think of her, though. Smiling at the way she felt under me, on me. Hot as fuck. And angry. Her whole body was angry and lethal, like she enjoyed riding the fuck out of me. Never felt a woman like that on me, never damn well wanted to before her either.
That’s a fucked thought.
I knock my head with my hand and rub my fingers over my chest, letting them ride over the scratches she caused. Little bitch is in my head, fucking with it. Trying to stop me killing her. I should call Samuel. Tell him about her. Let him hear the kind of shit I get into with women rather than him. I never do. We never talk about the others I fuck. Just about the two of us. Not that it's worth discussing. There's nothing but the moments we’re in when we're together.
Never will be. Fucking priest.
My feet trudge through to the office, my hand picking up the phone before I’ve thought anymore about it. He answers on the fourth ring, and my wet ass lands in the leather seat to listen to his voice.
“Logan?” he asks. I don’t even know why I’ve called him. I half-laugh at myself and keep listening to him breathing. “Logan? Are you alright?” Still, I don’t speak. I don’t want to talk. I just want to listen to him speak to me, have him bring some sense back into my mind while I listen to his familiar tone. “Shall I just talk then?” he asks. I nod to myself, arm splaying out on the side of the couch and my head tipping back to stare at the ceiling.
“Yeah, just talk.”
“Alright. We have the kids from Brooklyn in today, the ones I was telling you about. You should see them, Logan. They’re going mad around here. I’ve had to turn disciplinarian on them.” I half-smile at that, imaging his soft, stoic voice when it turns forceful. “They’re good kids, though. Would be if the district gave them a chance, anyway.” Silence settles, probably as he tries to work out what’s wrong with me. He’s always doing that, trying to save my ass from something even though he doesn’t know what that might be. “You sound upset. Did something happen?” he asks.
Yes. And now I’ve got another funeral to go to, one that won’t involve him this time. The thought makes me level my head and look at my father’s dice on my desk, imagining the whole fucking scenario when it plays out.
“My uncle’s been killed,” I muse, standing up to get those ivory cubes. “I’ve got them, though. They’re paying for it.” There isn’t a gasp on the line, nor is there a sense of disbelief on either count. He knows me well enough, knows how my mind works when someone’s pissed me off. He also knows well enough that in my life, with my family and the associations I’ve grown around, there is always the threat of death hanging over all of us.
