Hush (Pandora's Box Book 2) Page 4

  So, I close my eyes and shake my head while I grind down on top of him again. I roll my hips forward, but my pants are becoming too much of a problem and I'm growing more and more frustrated. I sit up again and quickly shift to pull them off my legs, but he leans forward and helps as well and in a split second I'm straddling him without anything in between us.

  My hand falls between us as I pull his cock free of his briefs and begin stroking him. He's so fucking ready, and his hips begin thrusting through my hold while he fucks my hand. I know I'm ready too; I'm wet and aching and practically throbbing to let go of this fucking release.

  But something isn’t right at the same time, and I'm struggling to fight back the images flashing through my head while we do this.

  I shift up and drag his cock along my pussy while I push back against him. "Fuck," I moan, just as his head begins stretching me open. "Yes, that's it."

  He thrusts up at the same time as I sit back, and suddenly he's fully seated inside of me while I cry out at the size of him. His hands fall to my thighs as he grips me, working his hips in and out while I'm on top of him. He controls this rhythm and for a moment, I think it's enough for me to get off.

  But when I open my eyes and see he's the one below me, everything changes. That orgasm I'm racing after seems even farther away, and when his sounds fill my ears I feel myself falling.

  No, no no. My head spirals, straining to hold on to the arousal I've been drowning in since the fucking bar.

  There she is.

  The bar. The bathroom. Her lips. Her touch. Her tongue. Her hair. Her voice.

  All of it, it crashes through my mind in heated visions of our bodies colliding together. Suddenly, it isn't Trevor's lips moving over mine when I lean down to kiss him. It isn't his hands gripping my thighs while I ride him. It isn't his body underneath mine while I moan and writhe and reach for my own release.

  "Please," I beg, and it's not even for the orgasm that I so desperately need. It's for whatever this energy is building inside of me. It's a need for this fulfillment, this strange and anger ridden addiction I have to her aura.

  I don't dare open my eyes, I don't want to lose this. Whatever it is. Even though I hate it and it's toxic and it's not what I should envisioning while I have sex with someone else.

  It's the only thing I can feel in this moment, through the alcohol and drugs and anger.

  She's the only thing I can feel anymore.

  I move faster, and cling to the release building inside of me. It's a storm, churning and whipping through my blood while K and I devour each other in my mind. It's the realest experience I can hold on to, and I can make it mine in ways that our history doesn't allude to.

  Another moan slips from my lips and I'm just about to fall forward as my orgasm crests inside of me. I want to call out her name, feel the word on my lips while I come but suddenly, everything halts in the moment while Trevor holds me still and against him. His fingers bite into my flesh and his body flies upwards while my eyes immediately snap open.

  His expression is haunted, his skin ghostly white and his eyes wide as he stares behind me. I turn my head over my shoulder and everything in the air turns frozen. I should feel surprise and fear in the person who stands behind us. His arm is raised toward the two of us, a gun poised in his hand aiming directly for our frames.

  But I don't feel afraid, and maybe that's a bigger problem than I currently realize. Because for a split second, I feel relief.

  Relief over being free of this bitter resentment. Freedom of nights spent wasted on stages and in dances.

  Freedom of the self-hatred and memories of what was taken from me.

  Free of the anger I'm currently holding on to because the images I just got off too. Because even while I loathe her, I can't help but fucking want her.

  But the relief is gone in that same moment, and the swell of fear finally builds in my chest. I shift away from Trevor a fraction, so I can turn to face our intruder before speaking.

  That's when he does it. That's the exact moment he pulls the trigger, the silencer on the gun keeping the explosion minimal. Before I can even comprehend what's happened, Trevor's blood spills from the single bullet hole in his forehead and splatters across my neck.

  I gasp, the sudden loss of oxygen restricting my lungs while my throat closes shut. I fall backwards at the same time Trevor collapses on my bed.

  He's dead.

  Dead.

  My heart races and slows in the same instant. Everything changes. Everything clears. Everything clouds. I can't see anything and yet I can see every droplet of blood as it stains my sheets. My eyes fly back to the man who stands at the other end of my room, his eyes colliding with mine while his expression stays blank.

  I fall off the bed while I continue scrambling away from both Trevor and the killer. I'm trying to breathe, struggling to catch my breath when my back slams against the wall next to my bed. I have nowhere else to go, and I don't know how to escape before I'm the one slaughtered next.

  The man steps toward me, and I instinctually want to scream through the fear ripping through my mind. But I'm afraid he'll shoot me if I make a sound, so I slam my hand over my mouth while tremors overtake my body.

  No. Please, no.

  * * *

  He moves slowly, each intentional step toward me is another moment of my life flashing before my eyes. It happens so quickly even though everything feels so incredibly slow. How can I fathom two frames of time in this moment?

  Suddenly, he's before me, crouching on his heels as his head tilts to the side and he watches me in silence. His eyes are piercing through me, in both interest and curiosity while I fall apart in front of him.

  His hand darts out as he grips my chin and tilts it up, forcing me to meet his gaze while my own hand falls from my mouth. I can't even believe who I'm looking at. He was supposed to be gone. He wasn't supposed to come back here.

  "Dom," I whisper the name on quivering lips while terror and confusion rip through me.

  He looks at me with what seems to be pity. As if he feels sorry for placing me in this situation, but I know the truth. I know he doesn't care for anything but himself.

  "Sunflower," he speaks my nickname from years before I ever met K. The name my family had gifted me, the name I was only known of by very few people. I didn't grow up in the same way Aura did. But my family was connected to the Nation in ways I have forced myself to forget.

  I don’t speak with my parents anymore. I refuse to remember those terrifying nights, the traumatizing decisions they made. The ways in which the Nation ripped my family apart while my parents did absolutely nothing.

  Not a damn thing. Except agree, perform, and sacrifice.

  Ascension…right? I thought I was spared.

  "You've been called into service, Calypso."

  My head is in a million different places. Constant, scattered thoughts fleeting around like stray bullets, missing the target and spilling into a new thought. This is how it always is. It's why I'd rather focus on everything other than feel the emotions I'm experiencing.

  Because then I'll have to face the truth—that something is missing. There's this current running along my skin, itching and begging to release itself. But I don't know what that is. I'm unfulfilled, I'm aching for more, and at the same time, nothing feels like it could ever satisfy me.

  I snap my fingers at Skilla, who's rushing behind the bar as she makes several drinks. "You know what I want," I shout over the chatter of customers around me. She glances over her shoulder, an annoyed expression crossing her face but nods just as quickly. She'll prioritize my order. She always does.

  I turn my head to the side, staring toward the stage while the next girl saunters onto it. She's familiar, but I don't know her name. We have a pretty steady rotation here at the club. There's always auditions, several new girls every few weeks. So many think this is what they want, but actually hate it. Or they can't handle the pressure of the crowd when they fuck up.

&n
bsp; It makes sense. Some people aren't cut out for this life.

  I love it though, and I can already tell that the new girl with long, rich brown hair loves it as well. She moves effortlessly. Her lithe frame dips and spins with graceful strokes. Her hair is down, the long strands spilling across her shoulders and falling to her lower back while she dances around the pole. She's had to have done this somewhere else, because she lifts into different tricks as if she's done it a million times.

  Her eyes fall to me while she moves, instead of focusing on the circle of douche bag guys throwing money her way. She doesn't seem to care, honestly, and instead, solidifies her gaze to my own when I turn and face her directly. I lean back against the counter, resting my elbows on the edge while I watch her move.

  Someone sidles closer to me, and I briefly look to realize it's a tall, older man with a gut to support his clear drinking habits. His disheveled blonde hair falls over his forehead in a sweaty mess, clinging to his skin in awkward places. I wave my hand at him, shooing him away while bringing my eyes back to the dancer.

  I know everyone realizes I'm a stripper here. My black cut up panties and matching cropped tee are staple items for me. I'm always in black, or at least darker, muted colors. Unless it's green, I'm a slut for a bright, neon green. Black symbolizes fear, evil, death, authority. Green embodies life, renewal, energy.

  Conflicting emotions, contrasting ideals. Fitting, really, for what lives inside of my mind.

  "How much for a private dance?" His deep, raspy voice infects my space and pulls me from my thoughts.

  My eyes dart to the side and collide with his vacant gaze. For fuck’s sake, he's hardly even present. His body sways to the side while his hand haphazardly holds his beer. It sloshes over the side of his glass while he shifts his elbow forward on the bar, supporting the heavy weight of his body while he tries to maintain eye contact.

  I scoff, my eyebrows shooting up while a laugh builds in my throat. I look to his right hand, finding the gold band of a wedding ring on his fourth finger. Figures. "For you?" I ask mockingly. The audacity this dude has. But I can't be surprised, he isn't the first drunk and lonely husband to stumble into a place like this. He definitely won't be the last. "Ten grand, buddy. Good luck." I pat him on the shoulder and shift to stand up, just as Skilla places my drink next to my arm.

  I reach for it and nod to her in acknowledgement, I'll pay her later. Probably in orgasms, it's an easy give and I know she'll take it from me. Stepping away from the bar, I intend on moving toward the stage to continue watching the new girl. She's holding my attention, and that's a surprising feat as of lately.

  "Done."

  My steps falter, and I look back over my shoulder to find the drunk standing a bit taller against the counter. He's wasted, and I don't trust him for hell to give me ten fucking grand for a dance.

  "Liar," I say, a pathetic smile pulling on my lips while I lift my right hand and pull my hair to one shoulder. I lift my drink and take a sip, anxiously awaiting the ridiculous response this guy will have for me.

  "I'm not a liar. I'm a drunk, there's a difference," he replies and although his words slur and his eyes drop to my chest, he sounds honest. I can usually pick out a liar rather easily. It's in the way they speak, in their energy.

  Lies are heavy in the lips that hold them. I would know.

  My eyes narrow and I cross my arms around my chest while I tap my foot. The clubs loud music blasts over my head, colliding with the chaotic hoots and chatter from everyone who's here tonight. It's a busy evening—Saturdays always are. People stumble in here after experimenting on the other side of the club in the kink rooms.

  After they've spent themselves, they come here to spend their money.

  "What if I bet on you? What would you say to that?" His voice drops a little lower, a few decimals quieter. But the authority and strength in his tone are far more present. Goose bumps break out over my shoulders and spiral down my spine.

  I sway momentarily, just before pulling myself together and taking a step toward him. My heart pounds a rapid beat that threatens to knock me on my ass.

  How the fuck would he know? Is he referring to what I think he is?

  "What the fuck did you just say?" I grind the words out, keeping my voice low while I move closer.

  "That's what you do, right? Kidnap, steal, deliver." His voice drifts louder, intentionally drawing attention when I throw my hand forward and grip the collar of his shirt. I yank him toward me because he's drunk enough he can't maintain his balance. He stumbles forward, and the rank stench of his breath has me recoiling in disgust.

  "Shut the fuck up. You have no idea what you're talking about." This can't be happening; he can't know whatever the hell he thinks he does. No one does. Not a single fucking person and I've always been good about keeping it that way.

  "I do though. Word on the street is that you're the one who outlasts everyone else. You're the one to beat." He waves a shaky hand toward Skilla as he chugs the last of his beer, motioning for another one. Jesus, he's about to pass the fuck out as it is. She responds though, and nervously glances between the two of us as she reaches for another beer. I smile at her, hoping she takes my false confidence for an assurance that I'm okay. I don't need anyone else getting involved in this.

  "Listen to me." I shift my face closer to his and drop my hands to his shoulders. I push him back against the bar and bring my body flush against his own. It's disgusting, and every nerve in my skin is aching to get away from him. But I refuse, the rush of anger and power flowing through my blood is the source of strength I need. "You don't know what you're talking about. You're a pathetic, worthless drunk, escaping your home and family for a few fleeting moments of pleasure." I roll my body against his, feeling the way his hands fall to my hips and his fingers move against my skin. I want to roll my eyes and pull away, but I know what I'm doing. I know the power I hold over someone like him.

  He's weak. I can say whatever I want and he'll listen because all he wants is this. The physical satisfaction of having someone like me touching someone like him. Shit, I can already feel him getting hard, and I drop my hand in between us to brush against his thickening cock.

  I want to throw up. Memories of moments I've given other people that were never meant to be theirs flash through my mind. But I shove it down, the moments, the emotions, the feelings behind those experiences. I'm past that shit and I know who the fuck I am now.

  I'm powerful. I'm better than all these fucking people, all these men and women who think they can own any fucking piece of me.

  I belong to no one.

  His eyes stay glued to my face but fall to my lips as I dance against him. I catch movement from the corner of my eye and the shift in the air in the same instant. I glance to my left and find Calypso standing at the other end of the bar. I knew it the second she stepped into this space, and I can feel her confused gaze while she watches us.

  Something feels off with her. But I can't focus on that now.

  I turn my eyes back to the drunk and run my hand along his shoulder. I trail my fingers along his jaw before gripping tightly and turning his head to the side. I hate every second of this, but I drop my lips to his ear, grazing my tongue along his flesh before delivering my final word. "Come near me again, threatening your knowledge of what you know nothing of—and I'll kill you. You know I will. I'll find you and deliver you exactly where you deserve."

  I drop back on my heels and smile sweetly, his eyes boring into mine in a way that sends shivers along my skin. But I ignore it, he's a fucking nobody, and step away before turning my back on him completely.

  An entirely new slew of problems race through my mind. How the hell did he know anything about me? My heart pounds through my chest while quieter thoughts remind me of Calypso and how she's been looking over the last few days. I don't have time to worry about her though, I need to figure out who has been running their fucking mouth.

  I feel numb.

  "You've been allowed fr
ee of The Nation long enough, Sunflower. It's time to put in the work you've avoided."

  I shake my head, Dom's words replaying over and over again. The muffled music inside pounds through my ears in rushing waves of distortion. I don't hear the words. Nothing makes sense, nothing penetrates the wall of vague colors surrounding me.

  God, I'm so fucking high.

  I lift the joint to my lips and take another drag. I'm supposed to go on next, but I don't know how I'll manage standing on the stage, let alone fucking dancing. Maybe, if I keep getting high, if I keep drinking or taking a couple more pills, I'll be detached enough to work without thinking about any of it.

  Because I'm no longer alone in my little apartment in the city. I've seen something so disgusting, so painful, that I can't tear the image from my thoughts.

  Blood. Silence. The thud of Trevor's body as he hit my pillows.

  How is this my life? Called into service by the fucking Nation. I thought I was free of them. I thought they had gotten what they wanted when my little sister was given. My family was—

  Fuck. I can't even think the word. I can't even fathom the ways my family felt this was necessary.

  My family was chosen.

  Because of what happened when my sister and I were young, I was allowed free of the Nation to grow and live my own life outside of them. My parents have been devout members of the Nation for years. Dedicated sacrifices, accepted success and status in society.

  Money. It’s amazing what people will do for money.

  What a fucking joke.

  No one knows of my involvement with the Nation. It was part of the deal when I was gifted this secular life. They promised more would be taken from me if my family ever shared what happened, if I ever revealed our history.

  For my parents? That meant me, and they couldn’t handle losing another daughter, no matter the justifiable means. For me? That meant my parents, and while I don’t speak to them anymore, I can’t imagine attending their funerals and standing at their graves.