The Mute and the Menace Page 4

  I'm jostled awake as the mattress moves, and the body next to me starts grabbing at my body with needy hands. I smile at first, so happy that Logan is with me.

  My eyes spring open.

  I open my mouth to cry, but nothing comes out besides a painful breath. Jackson lifts me up, tearing off my dress that's been bunched over my waist since the bathroom. I'm deposited on top of his cock, and I slide down, feeling like I need some more liquor to numb the pain. I'm definitely feeling sober now, and it's not a good feeling.

  Not good at all.

  I move up and down, wanting to fuck the pain out of me like Jackson did earlier. I ride him hard, slamming down each time and letting out a little moan. Jackson lifts up on his elbows, leaning forward and licking my cheeks. It's not until he pulls away that I realize I'm crying.

  What… he's licking my tears?

  He leans back on his pillow, his brows furrowed as he licks his lips. He places his hands on my waist, letting me take the lead but still keeping some control.

  My eyes can't stop crying.

  The burning heat ignites a fire between my legs. My chest feels like it's tearing in two. My head feels like it's pounding so hard, I'm going to crack open. My eyes stay focused on Jackson, and as I cry, and cry, and cry, Jackson stares deeper and deeper into me. Soon enough, we both tumble off the edge, together this time, and I weep, falling on top of Jackson and curling into his chest. I burrow my face underneath his arm and seek any kind of comfort and safety I can get.

  Hesitantly, Jackson curls his arms around my body, caging me in and settling into a comfortable position. I stay there, curled into the nook of Jackson's arm as sleep takes me a second time.

  When I wake a second time, it's to an empty bed and cool sheets. At least I know where I am this time. My body feels sore, well used. I stretch and if it weren't for the peek of light coming from underneath the darkened curtains, I would think it's still the middle of the night.

  Jackson stands near those curtains, looking down at his phone with not a care in the world. When he notices movement on the bed, he glances up at me.

  No furrowed brow from last night. What I thought was an inkling of emotion has been wiped from his face and in its place is his usual blank stare.

  "Hi." I whisper. What now?

  He bends down, and when he stands back up, my dress is in his hands as he tries to hand it to me.

  I take it with a frown, looking at it, to him, and back to my dress. "Okay…" I sit up, pulling the comforter over my chest to cover myself. I suddenly feel very, very unwelcome.

  He fucking started it.

  I slip on my dress silently and don't say a word. Once I'm dressed, I look over at Jackson. I open my mouth to say something, but I'm not quite sure what to say.

  He nods his head at the door. "Go."

  Go.

  That's the first thing that he's said to me since Logan died. He screws me until I can barely walk, and when he finally speaks, it's telling me to leave?

  I balk. "Fuck you."

  His lip curls up, baring his teeth. "Leave." He growls.

  My eyes start to water. I'm not usually this much of an emotional loon, but I'm feeling all over the place mentally and Jackson is not helping.

  I stand up, grabbing my phone off the floor and leveling him with a look. "Fucking soulless bastard." I sneer.

  "Fucking leave!" He squeezes his hand into a fist and pounds it into his wall, and I swear the entire trailer shakes with the force.

  I bite my lip to keep the tears at bay and lash out. "You weren't even a great lay anyway." I stick up my pinky, hinting that he has a tiny dick and running out of there before I get murdered. His bedroom door slams right behind my ass, and a moment later I hear a slam of something.

  Not sure what, since there is absolutely nothing in his room.

  Grabbing my heels, I book it out of there. The tears start creeping up again, but I run my hand over my face to wipe them away. I was lying about Jackson not being a great lay. He was fucking phenomenal, but I'd never actually admit that to him.

  Or anyone.

  Fuck, I can never tell Rose.

  I run to my house barefoot, wincing every time my feet run over an especially sharp pebble on the ground.

  Once I get into my house, I slam the door shut and lock it, leaning up against the back of it as I calm my breathing.

  Shit, I can't believe I just did that. I can't believe I slept with Jackson. Logan's best friend. The thought of Rose sleeping with Logan if something were to happen to me is so painful, I want to rip these thoughts out of my brain and stomp on them with my knock-off heels.

  I feel a heavy presence in the room. Looking over my shoulder, I know I'm not going to see anyone. I've been alone in this trailer for a long time. I'm surprised it's still standing.

  The feeling gets stronger.

  Is it… is it Logan?

  Nope.

  I drop my heels on the ground and rush to my kitchen. I just can't, mostly after what happened last night. I reach up and grab the bottle of Vodka from the kitchen cabinet and race to my bedroom, slamming the door and leaving out the feelings and the presence that lingers in this house like a bad fucking demon.

  Leaving me alone, as usual.

  With Vodka.

  2

  Jackson

  Before

  Shit.

  Fuck, shit, fuck, shit, fuck.

  I don't know who hates me more. Logan, or myself. I wouldn't blame him if he dug himself out of the solid casket, crawled his way all the way to my house and tore me apart.

  Piece by piece.

  I would welcome it.

  I deserve it.

  I shake my head, hating the look on Cara's face as it flashes through my head. Sadness, worry, anger.

  Regret.

  That one hit the hardest.

  I knew it was coming from a mile away, though. I barely remember what happened last night, but I do remember screwing the shit out of Cara. I remember how she felt wrapped around me like she was tailored for my fucking cock or something.

  I couldn't help myself, and I know that's a terrible excuse because—come on—I'm a guy with a dick and it controls me more than my two fucking legs do. But at the end of the day, I know I could have stopped it before it went as far as it did, and I didn't.

  I didn't want to.

  She looked at my back and touched it with such sympathy that I felt rage. Rage that I've never felt even an inkling of that kind of comfort in my entire life. Rage that Logan had that type of comfort in his life from his parents, and then he gets someone like Cara, too?

  Fuck me, I must have been some John Wayne Gacy fucker in my past life to get this short end of the stick.

  Anyway, I knew it was wrong and I did it anyway. The line between right and wrong was blurred heavily with all the liquor and green I consumed last night, but I knew.

  Then this morning I woke up and felt phantom pain like no other on my back, and I knew I was fucked. It was wrong, I was wrong, and I was so, totally, fucked.

  So, I kicked her out before I got the poor, pity, Jackson speech. Fuck it, and fuck Cara.

  Not like she even really sees me anyway.

  No one sees me.

  That's okay, because I'd rather sleep in the shadows anyway.

  I just wasn't expecting to see sadness on her face. Sadness for me.

  Why?

  I hear the door slam, and I stiffen. I pray it's Cara coming back for another slew of insults, but I'm never that lucky. The heavy footsteps leading towards my door make the automatic response of me wanting to curl up inside of myself. I'd get hit for that, too. Now that I'm a man, I can't act like some pussy, is what my dad would say.

  I thought once I got older, I could start standing up for myself. But over the years, he has just gotten more ruthless. I know if I were to ever talk back to him or raise my fists against him, he wouldn't hesitate to bury a bullet so deep inside of my skull it would never come out.

  The
door flies open, banging on the wall and then squeaking to a standstill.

  "Was that who I think it was?" He stands in his suit, looking polished and so unlike how he used to look during my childhood in his faded blue jeans and too stretched out wife beater.

  "What?" I play dumb, leaning over to pick up my only nice button up that I tossed on the ground last night.

  "Look at me, Jackson." I look up. "Leaving our trailer, was that the neighbor girl? Logan's girlfriend?"

  His eyes tell me he already knows that answer, so I don't know why he wants me to tell him. To see if I'd lie? To get a response out of me? If I tell the truth, I'm fucked. If I lie, I'm fucked.

  Lose, lose.

  "Yeah."

  He runs his hands down his smooth face, no doubt trying to reign in shoving me in a fucking closet like the good ol' days. "So, I'm sitting all night with my business partner and good friend, while here you are on the other side of town, sticking your dick where it doesn't belong?"

  I look at him, knowing that whatever answer I give him will be the wrong one. No sense in prolonging the inevitable.

  "Yes."

  In the next second, his shadow looms over me and I have excruciating pain in my side. He hits me directly in the kidneys, and I can't do anything besides stand straight and let him fucking kill me. Because the moment I crumble, I'll be useless to him and the entire business I'm working for.

  "You're a fucking disgrace to this family. That doesn't surprise me, though. You've always been a disappointment. I should have had your mother swallow you when I had the fucking chance." He does one more punch to my side, the rings he's wearing digging into my skin with each jab.

  I go to the dark place inside of me where I know my father can't get me. I hear nothing. I see nothing.

  I don't even exist.

  When I come to, I'm alone in my room. Thank fuck. My dad knows that when I go to that place, I don't come out for anyone. He tried to beat me for hours one time. No one is breaking through when I go to that place, not even Randall Shaw.

  The pain in my side is barely tolerable, but enough so that I can hobble over to my bed and lay down.

  I lean into my end table and grab my bowl and lighter. I light it up, take a hit and nearly fall into pieces as I cough through the pain.

  I so badly want to go out into the kitchen and grab the liquor from the kitchen. Mixing them two together will give me the best high and I won’t feel a damn thing. But I don't want to run into my dad again. I also don't want to run into my mom, but it's not like she'd do anything. I don't even know if she stayed here last night. Maybe she was in her room the entire time, coked out to hell as she laid in bed and listened to me fuck the neighbor.

  She's as worthless as a broken shoelace.

  I could go to school, but then I risk running into Cara. That, and I'm not sure how well I could walk without wincing. My fucking back hurts.

  Doesn't matter. It's just another day.

  Instead, I'll lie here and drown out my life with music, and fade into the shadows. Just like I'm good at. Where I don't have to do anything. Where I don't have to speak.

  Where I don't have to exist.

  3

  Cara

  Now

  I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  Walking down the street, I near the bar where I know my mom stays. In no way do I want to confront her, but for the first time in my life, I really need my mom. The last time I walked past this bar was one of the worst days of my life.

  I lay my hand over my stomach. I’m not sure if I want to protect my unborn child or stop the rolling of my stomach.

  Yes, I’m pregnant.

  I’ve been holed up in my house for the past four weeks. I have to be somewhere around three months pregnant by now. I don’t know, because I haven’t gone to the doctor yet. I don’t know what my plan is, but ever since I told Jackson about the baby, I’ve been pretending it doesn’t exist. Jackson’s reaction to the pregnancy made me revert to my pre-Logan self. I don’t want to leave my house. I don’t want to talk to anyone.

  Just thinking about the day, I found out I was pregnant makes me start to cry. But lately, everything seems to make me cry.

  "Shit." I roll over in bed and shove the pillow over my head, trying to block out the sun from glaring in my eyes. When I roll over, my stomach rolls with it. Suddenly, I realize how nauseated I am.

  "Oh, no." I fly off the bed and into the bathroom, barely making it before retching the liquor and the little food I had in my stomach the night before into the toilet. Once I'm finished and my stomach is completely emptied, I curl up into the fetal position in front of the toilet and cry. I hate getting sick. I hate being nauseous.

  I'm all alone in this house and all I want is to be held when I don’t feel good. There's just no one to hold me. No one even wants to hold me.

  My life is so different now. I don’t know what happened, but six months ago I was living my best life. Now I feel lost and alone. I have Rose, but she’s so wrapped up in Easton and I hate feeling like the third wheel.

  Then there’s Jackson.

  Jackson, Jackson, Jackson.

  My biggest regret and my worst enemy.

  The man who sucked me into his web of silence and desire. Something inside of me melted when I saw the scars on his back and felt the desperation in his touch. One moment my life was turning at lightning speed and the next it screeched to a standstill.

  Ever since Logan died, we have been a rollercoaster of lust and hate. He kept drawing me back in with his green eyes and his touch. It drew me in like a light and made me forget the worst parts of life. There’s something tantalizing about him that continues to bring me back. But no more.

  Now, every time we cross paths, he sneers at me or completely ignores me. It’s like I don’t exist in Jackson’s world.

  I hate him.

  I hate him for making me feel something when I was a pile of dust on the ground, and then sucking up every ounce of life left in me.

  I groan through my nausea, hating that I still feel sick, even laying here now. I don't ever get sick after drinking, so I don't know why I feel this way... Is it something I ate? I try to think back, but all I ate last night was a PB&J, and I know for a fact, none of it was expired.

  Maybe I have a bug? Except I don't feel feverish or sick by any means. I just feel… bleh.

  I roll over in an attempt to get up and flinch when my boobs press into the floor, then freeze. My eyes grow wide as I stand there and stare at the wall.

  Thinking.

  Wondering.

  Fucking praying that something like this isn't true.

  But I just know. I know it is.

  I get up, breathing through the nausea as I walk over to the sink. I turn on the faucet, sticking my head underneath and rinsing out my mouth to rid the acidic taste.

  I know what I have to do, and that's get my ass to the store and pick up a pregnancy test. Another wave of nausea rolls over me at the thought of having to do this. I could call Rose and ask her to come with me. I know she would in a second and not even ask questions. Well, wait, she would ask a million questions. But she would still stand by my side the entire time.

  No. I'm not going to go through the trouble of asking her to come with me when it might all be in my head. She's probably preparing for the big fight tonight. I haven't been paying much attention to the upcoming fight, instead spending all of my time and energy hating Jackson with every inch of fury inside of me.

  I refuse to do that anymore, mostly if what's in my future is a little jellybean. Shit, I don't know if I can do this. I don't even know if I want this. I can barely take care of myself, let alone another human.

  I brush off these thoughts. I can't even think about these things when I don't even know if they’re true. I'm going to go to the store, pick up a pregnancy test, laugh at myself for thinking I could be pregnant, and then go to the fight with Rose tonight. If I'm extra lucky, maybe I'll find a hot guy to help me forget my
train wreck of a day.

  Yes.

  With my new plan in place, I walk into my room and throw on a sweatshirt over my tank. It's the middle of the summer, and sticky outside and in. There is no air conditioner in the house, only those window units that blow colder air in from the outside. Not like those ever do anything for this tiny house. Every room is so closed off from the next, it's impossible for any air to circulate through this hot box.

  My house is similar to everyone else's on the block. One area with a kitchen and living room combined, then one side is a closed off master bedroom with a bathroom. On the other side of the trailer is my bedroom, which is so small the only way to get from one side of the room to the other is to go over the bed. I've got a lot of clothes, and no closet, so over the years I've grabbed as many free chests and dressers from the side of the street as I could find. Nothing matches, but it holds my clothes. I guess that's all that matters.

  Where would a baby go?

  I look around my room, trying to imagine a crib in here and knowing it would be absolutely impossible to fit one in here.

  "What am I going to do?" I whisper to myself, reaching down and feeling my flat stomach.

  I don't want a kid, and to be honest, I don't know if I could ever see myself having a kid. And with Jackson being the father?

  Holy hell, no.

  I slip on my Nike's and pulling my hood low over my face, I leave my house. It's cloudy today, warning of a heavy storm to come. Minnesota weather is always unpredictable. If they say we're getting a bad storm, we get sunny skies all day. If they say we've got a slight chance of thunderstorms, we'll get full blown tornado warnings by noon.

  Like I said, unpredictable.

  I start my walk, giving Jackson's house a heavy scowl on my way past. I blame him, even though he's not the only one to blame. I'm as much at fault right now as he is, but I'm too much of a stubborn ass to ever admit that out loud.

  Walking to the store takes me about ten minutes. When I pass the bar where my mom frequents, I stop and take a look inside the window. It's empty, but when I look up, I see the apartment that sits right above the bar. The lights are on, and I know that's where my mom and stepdad are living. It's sad. The fact that they're able to write me out of their life so quickly. Not step-douche. I don't give a shit about him.