Afraid to Fly (Fearless #2) (11 page)

I
VIOLATED EVERY TRAFFIC
law known to man trying to get to Helping Hands. But when I looked up from the view of road through the frame of my windshield, I realized I hadn’t made it back to work. I hadn’t even made it home. I was at The Pink Kitty.

It was if my body had known what my soul needed to mend itself from the verbal assault that had left me open and bleeding. Sex was that healing balm for me. And this was exactly the place where I could find it.

None of the dancers here were prostitutes, and I never paid to get laid. Ever. They fucked me because they wanted me. And I fucked them because I needed them. It was an even trade.

Contrary to popular belief, I didn’t stick my dick in just anything, and other than Cherri, had only been intimate with two other girls there: Skylar, a hot sophomore at UNC Charlotte, stripping her way through college, and Velvet, a tattooed, purple-haired vixen from England who fucked like a porn star and cursed like a sailor.

Right now, I needed Velvet. If anyone could make me forget the last twenty minutes, Raven’s razor-sharp words and myself, it was her.

My legs carried me inside, despite the numbness I felt. I didn’t want to be here, but I needed to be. And once I had the soft silkiness and warmth of a woman’s skin against me, I’d feel a helluva lot better. Luckily, Velvet was there for a day shift, working the lunch crowd in her usual getup of velvet and chains. Today she wore a cut-out thonged romper that left little to the imagination. And that was fine by me. I was tired of thinking anyway.

“Hey love,” she smiled as I approached. Her lips were painted a deep, dark eggplant purple that almost looked black. I’d have the color smeared all over me within the hour, most of it in places invisible to the public.

I didn’t waste any time. I didn’t have it in me to go through the motions and pretend I was here for anything other than sex. I leaned in close to her ear, letting my lips brush her earlobe in that sensual way I knew would get her hot, and whispered, “Back room in 10.” Then I quickly made my way to the bar to slam a shot of tequila.

She was there when I arrived, lounging on a plush loveseat with her heeled boots propped up on the arm. She looked at me with sin gleaming in her heavily lined eyes and gave me a slow, Cheshire grin. “Someone’s awfully anxious today.”

I was already loosening my tie as I stalked towards her and said, “Clothes off, boots on and get on your knees.”

Velvet didn’t waste a second. She slipped out of her one-piece in a swift movement and sank to the floor. The moment I felt her take me into her warm mouth, it was like a thousand pounds had been lifted from my shoulders.

A long time ago, long before I should have, I learned to separate the physical from the emotional and mental. I told myself that just because my young body had been stolen from me and manipulated in ways that would make even the toughest man cry out in agony, I didn’t have to feel it. Not deep down inside. I didn’t have to accept what was being done to me. So I pretended to be somewhere else. I pretended to
be
someone else. I let my mind drift to thoughts of my parents, imagining what they may have looked like, dreaming about happy smiles and warm hugs and kisses on my cherub-like cheeks. I painted pictures of family vacations at Disney World and barbeques in the backyard. I told myself that we would have a dog named Buddy. Mama would tie bandanas around his neck, and Papa and I would take him for walks and play Frisbee with him at the park.

I had built an imaginary fortress, and in it, nothing could touch me. I was safe. I was happy. And I was loved. That was what I told myself, and that was what I held onto every day since to survive.

As I grew older, and was no longer held captive by the physical pain, I was left to face the emotional hurt that no one could see. I was like a pariah to the family that had taken me in. We were related, but they didn’t know me, and what they did know about me was deviant and disgusting. Too awful to talk about. So I suffered silently in my mind until it became necessary to tell myself lies.

Lies like the ones I was telling myself right now.

I want this. I need this.

I’m totally normal.

There’s nothing wrong with me.

Being a man means having sex with as many women as possible.

These women desire me because they need me. They love me.

They love me.

She loves me.

It was the only way I could keep doing this. The only way the shame and disgust and self-hatred didn’t keep chip-chip-chipping away at the fragments of that broken boy. The boy that had grown up to be a shattered man. The man that couldn’t be mended.

Velvet sucked me until I was on the brink of release and for a quick moment, I thought about just getting it over with. But I needed more. I needed that physical connection. I yearned for her touch, her kiss, her smell. It reminded me that I was not like him. I was not what he had hoped I would be. It stated that just because I had been violated, that didn’t make me . . . it didn’t make different. It didn’t make me
gay.
I didn’t want that. I wanted
this.

Spreading those shapely, toned thighs and filling her up until I pulsed in her womb validated me. Every stroke was a confirmation, and the deeper I went, the more whole I felt. But the moment it was over, the moment I pulled out of her, my latex-sheathed cock wet with her gratification, the doubt began to claw its way back in. Telling me that I was dirty—
stained.
Used. Useless.

She smiled lazily at me, the dark kohl outlining her eyes smudged along the apple of her cheek. I brushed it tenderly with the pad of my thumb and told her she was beautiful.

“Oh, Dom. You’re such a sweet gent. Too bloody sweet for this shit,” she giggled, looking soft and girlish. I liked her better that way, untarnished by the hardness of life.

“You think so?”

“I know so. Good guys like you shouldn’t be fucking strippers in the middle of the day. I mean, I’m not complaining—I can still
feel
you inside me, for crying out loud—but, I don’t know. You deserve better.”

I winced at her words, and how much I longed for them to be true. She was just feeding me more lies, and I was ingesting them like candy.

Except this one. This one I knew would never be true. Even if it was the one I wished for the most.

“Nah, I don’t. They don’t call me Dirty for nothing.”

I
’D FUCKED UP. I
knew I had. And it was hurting the one person that I couldn’t fail.

I knew going off on Dominic would cause a ripple effect. I pissed him off, he pissed me off, and in turn, we would disturb the tiny bit of peace that Toby had found in working with him.

Toby had seen everything, had probably even heard everything. And considering that he hardly looked at me after I got into the car, he agreed with Dominic. He admired the guy. I don’t know why, but he had made a genuine connection with him. He actually enjoyed hanging out with him after school, and playing board games. Which was huge, because Toby didn’t like anything. I hadn’t seen him find pleasure in regular everyday activities for as long as I’d had him in my care. And before that . . . I don’t know. I wasn’t in his life then. And while part of me wished I had been, I was grateful I escaped the mental anguish that came with being birthed by Adeline West.

I called her Adel because she told me she was too young and too beautiful to be someone’s mother. And she was too young and beautiful. Just as she wasn’t much of a mother. People called her a free spirit, and free spirits couldn’t be contained. My grandparents couldn’t, so when she was just fifteen, she flew away from the nest of her childhood home. She literally lived by her own rules, refusing to be bound by laws or social etiquette. Meaning that for most of my young years, I was as wild and free as she was.

I remember her laughing a lot and smiling a lot. I remember singing at the top of our lungs during car rides in her Camaro. My mom was the most badass person in the entire world to me, and I wanted to be just like her. I wanted to be ruled by passion and creativity, and not by other people’s perceptions of what was right and decent.

We lived like gypsies for a while, wandering the world in search of beauty, until love grounded us. Gene Christian was the complete polar opposite of Adel—patient, hardworking, level-headed—and he was completely smitten with her. I’d have liked to say that he wooed her, but I think it was the other way around. They both fell fast and hard, and soon our dynamic duo became a trio, and Adel got married. She was happy, so I was happy. And Gene was good to me, providing me with the father figure I had never had. The father figure I never realized I needed.

Gene brought much needed structure to our lives. I couldn’t play hooky from school to go swimming at the lake with Adel on hot days. I couldn’t have ice cream for dinner or brownies for breakfast. And I actually had a bedtime. I was confused at first, maybe even a bit resistant. But then I realized what a difference those rules made in my overall wellbeing, and I was grateful for his intrusion.

I felt the same way when Toby came along. He was a tiny little thing—barely six pounds—but he was easily the cutest baby I had ever seen. Where I took after my mom with my dark locks and ice blue eyes, Toby looked like his dad. His hair was light brown, as were his eyes. And he seemed to hold a warm tan all year round. My skin was pale, and I was lucky just to pick up a little sun on my cheeks without scorching.

Adel was in love with him instantly, but she still didn’t have a maternal bone in her body. She still wanted to sleep all day, and stay up late at night listening to records as she poured over photos in her makeshift black room. She was a self-taught photographer, an artist, and I was enamored by her talent. Even though I was left to the task of caring for a newborn, she was still majestic to me, as most mothers are to their children. We don’t know any better at that age.

We lived happily for years, and for some time, Gene was able to tame Adel. He had found a way to tether her to reality long enough to give us a somewhat normal life.

That normalcy lasted until my freshman year in high school. Then it all fell to pieces like the torn remnants of an old photograph.

When Gene left Adel, it was like he took a piece of her soul with her, and that fun-loving, fancy-free woman we had known ceased to exist. On the other side of that carefree attitude was a darkness so deep and vast that even the love of her children could not fill it. She became completely consumed by her grief, as if Gene was all that had ever mattered in her world. It was like we were just accessories, and without him, nothing fit. And even though she blamed me for Gene’s departure—rightfully so—it didn’t explain why she took her pain and anger out on Toby. Maybe it was because he looked like his father. Or maybe because down to her core, past all the beauty and flightiness, she was a miserable bitch.

And just as I had wished as a child, I was becoming just like her.

I walked into The Pink Kitty Friday night, with a bad attitude and cramps. I was not to be fucked with. I hated working there as it was, but after having words with Dominic, serving drinks to desperate pervs and frat boys seemed even less appealing. Still, the tips were good, especially on the weekend, and we needed the money. A year ago, I only had myself to think about, and could scrape by on part-time photography gigs like weddings, graduations and births. Now, I didn’t even have time to take a selfie with my POS phone, let alone pick up my camera to capture something worthwhile.

Passion didn’t pay the bills. Art didn’t put food on our table. And dreams didn’t take care of my kid brother.

So here I was, gearing up to prance around in short shorts that barely sheathed my ass-cheeks and a tank top so tight that you could see the outline of my nipples. Wedge sneakers on my feet because I refused to strut around in platform heels like some streetwalker. What kinda tacky shit was that anyway?

Most of the girls were cool, with the exception of a few chicks that I knew were trash. I could smell it on them—the desperation . . . the jealousy. Mean girls in glittery thongs and edible body butter. They looked down on me like they were superior in some way, like taking their clothes off for a roomful of strangers made them goddesses. I laughed at them and treated them like the clowns that they were. Maybe that was why they hated me so much.