Thoughtful(57)

I kept picturing her and Denny together while I drove. I pictured their mouths pressed together, their hands on each other. I visualized him thrusting into her over and over again. And because I was a sick son of a bitch, I even pictured the looks on their faces when they climaxed together. Fuck. Denny could be coming inside her right now. My pain transformed into jealousy as I thought of his seed covering mine. By the time I arrived at my destination, Sam’s house, my jealousy had shifted into anger.

That fucking bitch, whore, slut.

Grabbing my whiskey, I got out of my car and slammed the door shut. Then I reopened it and slammed it again. That little fucking cunt. She teased me for months, finally got me to fuck her, then went right back to him like it was nothing. Like we were nothing. She was the biggest fucking whore I knew. And I knew a lot of whores.

I paced Sam’s walkway and started taking long pulls, two- or three-gulpers. I was going to finish this fucking bottle and slip into fucking oblivion. The rage would end. Then the jealousy would dissipate. Then the pain would stop. I gagged a couple of times but kept forcing the whiskey down. I couldn’t take this ache in my chest. I couldn’t handle the way every muscle in my body felt tight. I was shaking, and I felt like I might throw up. Why did I have to care about her? Why did she have to do this to me? Why couldn’t she just love me the way I loved her?

I kept drinking until eventually my body rejected the alcohol. While I lay there, inhaling and exhaling deep, controlled breaths, I heard a voice say, “What the fuck is this?” Sam was home. He kicked my boot. “Kellan? That you? What the hell are you doing here? And…did you throw up on my roses? Goddammit.”

Sam sighed and then helped me to his car. Not being overly gentle, he shoved me inside. I kept my eyes glued on his glove box. If I didn’t move, I didn’t feel quite so sick. Sam got in on his side, and I wanted to tell him not to take me home. Take me to Evan’s, take me to Matt’s, just don’t take me home. I was wrong about her. I was wrong about everything.

He didn’t listen to my unspoken request though, and back home is where I ended up. Sam opened my door, then helped me out. My legs felt like rubber; he had to prop me up to keep me standing. We made it to the door and Sam started pounding on it. I wondered which one of my roommates would answer. The girl I’d just fucked, or the guy she’d just fucked? Either way, I was fucked.

As fate would have it, Kiera opened the door. I wasn’t looking at her, but I could tell it was her by her feet. And her legs. And her hips. Such luscious, sexy hips. Too bad they welcomed the whole entire world. Slut.

“I think this belongs to you,” Sam stated as he started moving us inside. I wanted to protest his words. I didn’t belong to her. I didn’t mean anything to her. That was the problem. Sam led me to the living room, then unceremoniously dumped me into the chair. I slouched over, because it was all I could do…





I slept like shit. I tossed, turned, my stomach heaved, and I swear my body was vibrating. None of the physical pain compared to the images that flashed through my brain though. I saw Kiera and Denny in all their I-love-you-forever glory. I watched them make love a thousand times, over and over. I saw her face when he brought her to the brink. I heard them whisper their feelings for each other. It was torture, but it was worse when I replayed Kiera and me together. My head ran through the entire encounter, trying to find one moment that was blatantly fake or forced. I couldn’t find a second where Kiera wasn’t fully and completely into it though. There was nothing about the moment that didn’t feel genuine, but I knew in my heart it wasn’t. She hadn’t been having sex with me; she’d been putting a Band-Aid on a wound.

Giving up on the sleep that wasn’t happening, I sat up in bed. My head was pounding, and my throat was completely dry. The last thing I clearly remembered was Sam driving me home…and Kiera. She’d been awake, she’d opened the door. I couldn’t remember much after Sam dumped me onto my chair, but she must have helped me get upstairs and into bed. Why the fuck would she do that?

My head almost hurt too much to use it. Glancing at my floor, I saw my damp shirt, and I recalled walking into the shower fully clothed. Shit…she’d helped me shower. She’d cleaned me up, helped me to my room…Why?

I had one crystal clear memory then, of saying, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell him.”

Even wasted I’d known she was just being nice to make sure I stayed silent. Well, I didn’t need her fake sympathies. I wasn’t going to tell him, because I had no desire to hurt him. I was inconsequential anyway. I was a tool she’d used when she’d needed something fixed. Nothing more. The hammer doesn’t complain when it’s put away after all the nails are driven. And the hammer doesn’t squeal to the screwdriver.