Page 27 of Seven Sons (Gypsy Brothers)

I take him all in, as far as my mouth will open, and he suddenly tenses. “Ohhhh,” I hear him say as hot cum hits the back of my throat. It takes every muscle in my body locked rigid so that I don’t choke. I am suddenly overwhelmed by a claustrophobic, trapped sensation that goes from my mouth all the way down to my stomach.

Dornan staggers back, a sated smile on his handsome face. I swallow thickly, looking around the room for something – anything – to get the taste of him out of my mouth. I spy my half-drunk coffee from the morning, sitting innocently on the nightstand. I have no idea how it got here. I reach for it and take a swig of the cold liquid, sighing as it floods my mouth with sugar and bitterness. My eye notices something on the cup and I look closer.

I shudder.

A fine mist of blood coats the Styrofoam, and I drop the cup to the floor as if it has burned me.

I turn my hand over to see that some of the blood is flecked on my palm. Disgusted, I wipe my hand on the dark bed sheets. I look up to see Dornan has already passed out face-down on the bed in the space of about ten seconds.

I finish wiping my hand and fish a pair of skinny jeans and an oversized black t-shirt printed with a skull and crossbones out of my suitcase at the end of the bed. I dress quickly and tiptoe out of the room as quietly as I can. Making my way to the roof, I take the stairs two at a time. I need fresh air in my lungs or I will scream.

Pushing the fire escape door open, I am panting audibly. I am two steps outside when I realize my error in choosing to visit Michael’s place of execution. I try to back up when I discover I’ve forgotten to wedge the fire escape open. Fuck. I am stuck out here, with the afternoon sun beating down on my skull, blood at my feet. At least they took the body away.

I can’t look at the floor or I will throw up, and I’ve got nothing left in my stomach. The concrete is still damp with someone’s efforts to hose the blood away, and I cringe as I think of the poor boy’s blood now coating the entire roof floor in microscopic detail. I focus on the sea breeze ahead of me, the glare of the afternoon sun overhead, the ocean lapping lazily at the shore a few blocks ahead. I am so preoccupied with the view, leaning against the waist-high wall with my palms digging into sharp brick edges, that I almost fall off the side of the building as I hear a crash behind me.

I startle, turning to see where the noise has come from. It is Jase. He looks worried. When I see him, I almost cry. But I don’t. I swallow back bitter tears and turn back to the view of Venice Beach, unable or unwilling to look at him – I’m not sure which.

I feel him take up a spot beside be and flinch when he passes something in front of my face.

“Hey,” he says, steadying me with the slightest touch of his palm on my shoulder. “I cleaned your sunglasses. Don’t fall off the roof, okay?”

I take the sunglasses and put them on, relieved that the throbbing sun is now a little less intense.

“Where did you go?” he asks.

I press my fingers into the sharp bricks, to keep myself from breaking down.

“With your father,” I bite out.

Now I am the one shaking. My skin is slick with sweat and heat radiates from me, but I am so cold, my teeth are chattering.

“Hey,” Jase says, and I can hear the worry in his voice. “Come on.” He presses his hand in the small of my back, as if to lead me away from the edge, and I flinch, backing away from his hand. He holds his palms up in a supplicating gesture and shrugs.

“I was just going to get you a seat, that’s all,” he says. “You hungry? I can get you some food.”

Food. My stomach decides for me. I follow him blindly towards the greenhouse, stumbling in bare feet and too-long jeans, tiptoeing around the wettest part of the concrete – the place where Michael Trevine bled out.

“Here.” He points to a worn, brown leather chair that wasn’t there yesterday. “Sit here. I’ll grab you something to eat. I can hear your frigging stomach growling from here.”

I sink into the chair, thankful for the weight off my legs. I grip the leather armrests and time passes, how much I’m not sure. The only point of reference I have is the sun, which has moved from overhead to in front of me. I estimate that it’s about five in the afternoon when a thought suddenly slams into my brain like a freight train.

Elliot.

Shit. I need to call him. I need to go to him. Right fucking now. The urge to flee this place has me itching all over. I want to get out. I want to get out. Iwanttogetout.

Jase returns after a while, balancing a plate of what looks like some kind of meat casserole with mashed potato. It smells like my childhood.

Fuck. I can’t do this.

“Carol was serving dinner to the boys,” he says, handing me the plate and a fork. I take the plate, my hunger beating the emotions I feel at the prospect of my mother cooking this meal for the Ross brothers a few rooms away while I was giving my father’s murderer a blow job. I demolish the plate in record time and briefly consider licking it clean. If I were alone, I definitely would.

I set the plate down at my feet and stare ahead blankly.

“Are you okay?” Jase asks me, his voice tinged with fear.

“No,” I reply.

“I told you, my dad can get pretty obsessed sometimes. Just … be careful what you say to hi

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