Page 17 of Inevitable Destruction

I open my mouth to take a swig directly from the bottle but immediately slam my jaw shut when a deep ache radiates through the back of my jaw and down my neck from clenching and grinding my teeth without realizing.

I slump forward and press my clammy forehead to the backs of my hands. My mouth falls open, and I breathe through my parted lips. The air tastes of sweat and cheap beer. I can’t fucking stand it.

I shove my stool back, and the sharp notes of metal scraping across wood pierces the air. I feel a few pairs of eyes burning into my back as I stumble to the door, but I ignore them in my desperation for escape.

Once I push through the door, and the cool, damp Oregon air caresses my overheated skin, I let out a sigh. I fall back against the brick building, pinching my eyes shut in a pathetic attempt to push the very vivid images I have of Dominik Reed out of my head.

Not knowing why he’s consuming my every thought is driving me fucking crazy.

He’s no one.

Except he’s not. He’s the son of the two people who killed Dad.

An agonizing groan pulls from the deepest pits of my stomach and out of my mouth before I can stop it.

“Goddamnit.” I push off the wall and throw my fist into it. I wish I could feel the crack of my knuckle. Or the split of the tattooed skin covering them. But I don’t. My entire body radiates unsettling numbness. Everything except my mind.

I shove my mangled, bleeding hand into the front of my pocket to grab my phone and type out a text to the only person with hope of getting me to forget it all. At least while my dick is inside of him.

Me: Where are you?

I stare at my screen, repeatedly blinking my eyes to keep the screen from blurring. After seven minutes of waiting, I’m about to lose my fucking mind when my phone finally pings, the now black screen lighting up. It takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust before I can read his words.

Seth: It’s Friday, so I’m at the house.

Me: Are you alone?

He must be waiting for my text because three dots pop up seconds later, telling me he’s responding.

Seth: You’re being bossy…

Me: I’m not in the mood to play games, Seth. Answer.

It takes me twice as long to type anything, the keys appearing smaller with my inebriation.

Seth: There’s a party, but I’m alone… Why?

Me: I’m coming over.

Seth’s text back is immediate, but I ignore him as I step up to the road, and somehow manage to order an Uber without issue. I ignore the sight of my Harley. I’ll get a ride here tomorrow to pick it up.

Once my ride is on their way, I pull our conversation back up.

Seth: What do you mean you’re coming over??? We don’t do that.

Me: Well, we do now. Be waiting for me.

I punch each key with a little more aggression than is necessary, but Jesus fucking Christ. Does he not want to see me?

Well, too fucking bad. He doesn’t have a choice in the matter.

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