Never Been Loved(15)

Maybe I should just cut off my cock; that way, she can’t blast her way through my life and shit on me, no matter how good the sex is.

“I want you out of here,” I say. I inject all the asshole in me into those six words, and fume when she doesn’t even move.

“I want rounds two and three. You owe me that,” she says, green eyes piercing me with their cattiness. How did I never see it before? Also, she’d look fucking horrible in glasses. She’d probably buy those awful eighties lookalike things because they had the brand name. Typical.

“Get someone else to get you off, Aly. I need you to leave. We’re done here.” I start following the trail of discarded clothes on my floor. Black lace thong and bra, check. Skin-tight jeans, check. Sheer blouse, check and check. I shove them all at her, stifling my laugh when she starts sputtering. She doesn’t do indignation well.

But she does sit up, long limbs arranging themselves so that she gets her clothes in order. She stares at me like I’m the problem.

“Baby, we both know I can make you feel good in another twenty minutes. You’re okay for then, right?”

“Sugars, Aly. Ask about my sugars like a real fucking person.”

Her mouths sets into a tight line, and I see her ugliness. “Give me a little while, and I’ll roll my tongue around your cock, baby. Have you spill down my throat.”

Fuck, pulling out the big guns. No. Not this time. “Stop with the sweet talk. I want you out of my home. Now. Or I will shove you out as you are, completely naked and lock you the fuck out. Decide.”

“It’s that little fucking shit, ruining everything!” she shrieks, and I know, I know Matty heard.

Something dark and dangerous spreads its wings inside my chest cavity, and blocks out rational thought.

I grab her clothes, pissed off that she got her panties and bra on quick enough that I couldn’t totally humiliate her. I manhandle her, hand wrapped around her upper arm, and shove her out into the hall. I toss her shoes out as a convenience, along with her purse. Wouldn’t want her missing her phone so she comes back.

She screams for a good twenty minutes after I lock the door. I make Matty promise me he won’t open the door for any reason while I go take a shower. When I’m done cleaning her off me, I don’t hear her screaming when I shut off the water.

I get dressed and make Matty those eggs he wants. The little guy gets the ketchup from the fridge and plops it on the scarred kitchen table. The thing’s second-hand, like everything else in here, since it’s all I could afford after I moved out. Whatever’s become of my inheritance is padlocked in an account that I’ll only use for emergencies, medical catastrophes and for Matty’s college fund.

“These are delicious!” Matty mumbles over fried egg. So easily impressed.

I smirk and grab a napkin to wipe off the red smile the ketchup has left on his face. He mops up the yolk from his plate with a piece of brown bread, and slobbers it all over himself. He’s going to need a bath, and after my little bout of sexercise, I’m fucking exhausted. I needed that nap before, and now I really need it. Shit.

“Can I have some cake now?” Matty asks. I look at him, and watch him fidget in his chair. He knows the answer, and yet he asks after almost every goddamn meal.

“No, kid. You can’t.”

“How come?”

I can’t tell him he’ll die if he has it and won’t let me inject him with insulin. He’s been finicky about that lately, wanting to inject himself, trying to gain a little bit of independence with the needle. He’s still too young, and he doesn’t understand that yet. Which means I’m going to get another tantrum in five seconds.

Christ, I just want to sleep.

“You just can’t have any, all right?” I say through clenched teeth. Matty shuts up, and his shoulders hunch up like a turtle.

“Okay.” The word is tiny and small, like him, in the face of this thing called diabetes. He doesn’t really understand yet how different he is from the other kids, and I never want him to. How people look at you differently, and how most of them don’t understand what your body’s going through. I rub my face with my hands, trying to wake myself up.

“Look, I’m not having any cake, either. You know we don’t eat junk, Matty.”

“Okay.” Now I feel even worse, and it’s his fault.

“C’mon. Why don’t we go to the park for a little bit? I’ll push you on the swings, yeah?”

Matty’s eyes are hopeful, blue and bright as he waits to make sure I actually said what I said.

“Yeah, kid. Wipe your face, go wash your hands, and get your shoes on.”