I fucking love this shit.
I love the way it dulls everything but my attention. I love how it heightens my awareness while still turning everything else black and numb.
This is where I am comfortable. Drifting here into this nothingness, this obscurity.
Coke makes it easy to exist in the emptiness.
I run my fingers through the traces of the remaining powder and slide it along the skin of my erection before grabbing the girl by the back of the neck. I shove her head back down and she opens her mouth willingly. This is most definitely not against her will. She wants to be here.
Especially now that I have fed her habit.
Especially now that she can lick her habit from my dick. If she moans now I’ll believe it because she’s getting something out of it, too.
“Finish,” I tell her. I stroke her back while she moves and I can’t feel my fingers.
Her head bobs for a few more minutes and then without warning, I come in her mouth. Her eyes widen and she starts to pull away as my ejaculate seeps from the edges of her lips, but I hold her fast by the back of the neck until my dick stops throbbing.
“Swallow,” I tell her politely.
Her blank eyes widen, but she swallows obediently.
I smile.
She gags, but she doesn’t heave.
“Thank you,” I say, still polite. And then I lean past her and shove open the passenger side door. It creaks as it swings wide, evidence that cars were still made from iron back in 1968. I pull out my wallet and hand her a dog-eared twenty.
“Get yourself something to eat,” I tell her. “You’re too skinny.”
She’s got the look that girls on nose candy get. The way-too-thin look. That’s one downfall of the stuff. It’s good for drifting away into oblivion, but it’s hell on your appetite. If you don’t make yourself eat, you’ll waste away and start looking like shit.
This girl doesn’t look like shit. Yet. She’s not ugly. But she’s not pretty either. She mostly looks hardened. Mousy brown hair, pale blue eyes. Bland, stick-thin body. I can take her or leave her.
And I’m leaving her.
She glares at me as she wipes her mouth.
“My car is in town. Aren’t you at least going to take me back to it?”
I look at her and note how there are three of her that blur into one, then back into three, before I shake the blurriness from my head and try to focus again.
Nope. Still three of her.
“Can’t,” I tell her, dropping my head heavily against the headrest. “I’m too fucked up to drive. It’s not that far, anyway. It’s not my fault that you wore five-inch stripper shoes. Just take them off. It’ll make it easier to walk.”
“You’re a fucking asshole, Pax Tate,” she spits angrily. “You know that?”
She grabs her purse from the floor and slams my car door as hard as she can. My car, Danger, shakes from her efforts.
Yes, I named my car. A 1968 Dodge Charger in pristine condition deserves a name.
And no, I don’t care that this coked up little bitch thinks I’m an asshole. I am an asshole. I’m not going to deny it.
As if to prove that point, I can’t even think of her name right now even though it only took me one second to recall the name of my car. I might remember the girl’s in the morning or I might not. That doesn’t matter to me at this point. She’ll come back. She always does.
I’ve got what she wants.
I strip off my jacket and lay it on the passenger seat, zipping my pants back up as I watch her stomp away. Then I open my own door, dangling one black boot over the doorsill, letting the cool breeze rustle over my flushed, overheated body.
The landscape up and down the coast is jagged and rolling and wild. It is so vast that it makes me feel small. The night is inky black and there are barely any stars. It’s the kind of night where a guy can just disappear into the dark. My kind of night.
I rest my head against the seat and allow the car to spin around me. It feels as though the seat is the anchor that is holding me to the ground. Without it, I might drift off into space and no one will ever see me again.
It’s not a bad notion.
But the car is spinning too fast. Even in this state, I know it’s too fast. I’m not going to worry about it, though. I simply pull out my vial and take something to slow things down. My vial is like a magician’s hat. It’s got a little bit of everything in it. Everything I need; fast or slow, white or blue, capsule, pill or rock. I’ve got it.
I wash the pill down with a gulp of whiskey. I don’t even feel the burn as it slides down my throat. I consider it for a minute, the speed that things are turning and blurring around me. I decide I should take another pill, maybe even two. I put them in my mouth and take another slog of Jack before I toss the bottle onto the passenger side floor. I realize that I don’t know if I put the cap back on or not.
Then I realize that I don’t care.
The drug-induced fog blurs my vision and all of the blacks and grays swirl together and I close my eyes against it. I still feel like I’m moving, like the car is spinning round and round.
The night swallows me and I am propelled into the darkness, far above the clouds and into the night sky, sailing through the stars, past the moon. Reaching out, I touch it with a finger.
I laugh.
Or I think I laugh.
It’s hard to say at this point. I don’t know what’s real or not real. And that’s just the way I like it.
********
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Courtney Cole, The Minaldi Legacy - (Of Blood and Bone & Of Darkness and Demons)
(Series: # )
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