Shadowman (Alabaster Penitentiary Book 5), page 18
Ugh, it really steams my biscuits. Where’s the sense of loyalty?? If not for O’Malley, then for me!
I’m crunchier than a bag of Fritos, and I’m not trying to be. I hate coming off as jealous, but this just stings, like salt in a wound.
I lost all of my friends. O’Malley, Dash, Luthor, Ren, Joy… They’re either dead, gone, or preoccupied. And it’s all thanks to that prissy little shithead Felix Darcey.
So excuse the hell out of me for not wanting to chill with the guy. He fucked up everything.
I’m seething while simultaneously cowering inside. And no one cares… Not a single person in this room full of people is worrying about me, wondering if I’m okay.
“Hey, you want the rest of my juice?” Luthor’s voice cuts into my deep wallowing, and I glance up to find him smiling at me.
I release the tiniest bit of hostility and stop feeling sorry for myself for just long enough to shake my head. His smile slips off, and he nods. But because he is a good guy, he doesn’t stop there.
“You still got that deck of cards?”
I clear my throat, working up the energy to converse with him. He’s trying, and I shouldn’t blame him for the way I feel. Yes, I’m annoyed with him for siding with Darcey, and I’m disappointed in him for climbing right back up Ren’s ass like he has amnesia or something. But he’s still my friend, and I should at least try giving him the benefit of the doubt.
“Uh, yea…” I mutter, sounding every bit as unenthused as I am.
“Cool,” he chirps. “You should bring it tomorrow. We can play Texas Hold ’Em.”
“That game sucks,” Ren groans, resting his head on Luthor’s shoulder. “Let’s play strip poker!”
“Babe… shut up,” Luthor grumbles.
I almost crack a smile. But then I remember I’m pissed and force it away.
Resting bitch face: activate.
“What about Blackjack?” Luthor asks me specifically, eagerness on his face.
Now I feel like a child of divorce whose dad is dating someone new and is trying to make up for missing my last however many baseball games by being extra present.
It’s the pity, man. I can’t stand it.
I don’t need anyone’s fucking charity.
“It’s not fun with only two people,” I grunt. “One of us has to be the dealer.”
“Well, we could invite someone else to play,” he suggests with hopefulness in his green eyes.
“Like who?” I squint at him. He shifts and parts his lips, but I cut him off. “Don’t you dare say Darcey.”
“I wasn’t going to say Darcey…” He frowns. But I can tell he was thinking it. “What about… Simmons?”
“Man, I hate that guy,” Ren gripes. “What’s up with his laugh?? He sounds like a creepy clown in a haunted maze…”
“Why are you such a downer?” Luthor snaps at him.
But Ren just grins and pinches his cheeks. “We can’t all be beautiful, glowing rays of sunshine like you, baby boy.”
Luthor’s face visibly flushes, and he bites his lip to cover that enamored former-virgin smile he’s been rocking lately. My jaw clamps, and I can feel the hatred I’m about to spew everywhere. Before it happens, I stand up and grab my tray, unable to help the scoff that flees my lips.
Dumping the rest of my food into the trash, I linger by the doorway, wondering if anyone would even notice if I just walked out…
Glancing left, then right, I inch toward the door.
“Where you think you’re going?” Joy scolds, though her lips are slanted into a small smirk.
I sigh. “Nowhere. Are we done in here yet?”
Her brows zip. “You got someplace to be?”
No… Nowhere to be, no one to see…
“I’d just rather be in my cell,” I gripe. “It smells like crusty asshole in here.”
“You paint a very pleasant word picture, you know that?” She huffs, then nods. “Come on. We’re going to showers.”
I stay with Joy the whole way there, avoiding walking near Luthor and Ren, because if I get tangled up in their incessant need to hold hands everywhere they go, I might rip their arms off.
I’m all pent-up aggression with nowhere to direct it. We haven’t been down to the rec room in forever, and I could really use the exercise. Being able to move around in a space bigger than a ten-by-ten, sparring with Joy…
She probably gets enough cardio now that she has two huge boyfriends.
“What’s up with you?” she asks me, smacking her billy club into her palm over and over. “That time of the month again?”
“Fuck off,” I mutter, and she chuckles. “I’m just… whatever. It’s prison. We’re supposed to be miserable. Isn’t that the point?”
She gives me a look, a studious one that has me feeling exposed. Especially when her eyes shift behind me to Luthor and Ren.
“You know what I think?” She inches closer. “I think you need to get laid.”
My eyes spring to hers. Her grin widens, and I scoff, phoning in some cocky overconfidence to avoid feeling like she might be right. “You volunteering your services?”
“Please. You could barely handle what I used to throw your way.” She winks. I roll my eyes.
Refusing to admit that on some level, she might be right.
Once we’re settled in the showers, I can’t help mulling over Joy’s words. I know it’s not the only reason I’m hating life right now… But it’s definitely a side-effect.
Being one of Ren’s consistent Luthor-proxies gave me access to semi-regular orgasms. Losing that was a hit to my prison sex life, though I refuse to admit it. Looks like we’re back to my hand, or nada.
Stepping under the flow of water, I let it wash over my warm skin, peeking right. Remembering a time in this exact location, nearly three years ago…
When I first laid eyes on my very own black-haired, blue-eyed replacement…
A throaty chuckle and a soft whimper drag me out of my memories.
I peer right again, but unlike in my memory, Luthor and Ren are together, under one shower head, soaping each other up.
Biting the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood, I force myself to ignore them.
Ignore how good it looks… How much I want that.
Stop it. You’re not fucking gay, and you don’t need a boyfriend.
Whatever I thought I could’ve had outside of here is irrelevant. Because outside doesn’t matter anymore. Inside is all we have, and my inside is fucking empty.
Alabaster Pen is the world I’m living in. Where a hole is just a hole, fucking is just fucking, and when it’s over, it’s just… over.
I don’t need a new pretty boy with dark hair and bright eyes and a killer smile. I don’t need another Michelangelo.
This heartless fighter will be just fine on his own.
“Why so serious?”
The first time I followed someone, I was sixteen.
I was coming home from school after staying late for detention, traveling as slowly as humanly possible because I knew the kind of horrible berating I was about to endure from my father. He did not tolerate his children slacking off in school, let alone receiving detention for smoking a cigarette in the bathroom.
Man, you’d think he was Buddha him-fucking-self the way he acts like he’s never made a single mistake.
Anyway, it was getting dark, and I was just entering the park when I saw this girl. I could tell right away she’d been crying based on the way she was wiping her eyes and sniffling as she shuffled ahead of me, clutching a backpack over her shoulder.
Naturally, she didn’t see me. People rarely did, unless I was directly in their eye-line. It was just this quality I had; this uncanny ability to fall into the background. Call it a symptom of my quietness, or maybe a coping mechanism formed around my desire to be alone and not have to deal with people’s constant, nagging questions.
“What’s wrong??”
“Why are you so quiet?”
“Is everything okay?”
“Why so serious? Cheer up, kid! It’s not all bad!”
Um, yes. Actually, it is.
I swear to God, if one more person told me to smile, I was gonna go all Heath Ledger in The Dark Knight on them. Let’s put a smile on that face… You know the line.
Because of how over it I was—the constant, nattering vocal spewage—I had somehow manifested myself into an actual shadow. A lurker who could effortlessly fade into the background and just watch.
I didn’t mind. In fact, I liked it. Most of the time…
It could get lonely, or isolating, but I told myself if and when someone came along worth stepping out of the shadows for, I’d do it. And hopefully, they wouldn’t look right through me like I was made of cellophane.
The sad girl couldn’t have been more than eighteen. She had auburn hair with this cool streak of blonde running down the front. I liked it. It made her look unique. So I kept walking behind her, keeping my steps light, so she wouldn’t hear me, leaving just enough space between us that if she did, she wouldn’t think I was some creeper.
And it worked. It worked so well, in fact, that once we got to the exit of the park, I wound up going right, following her, instead of left, toward my house.
There was just something I related to in her energy. She was lonely too, I could tell. Maybe that was why she’d been crying…
I felt a connection to her. Like a kinship… A need to protect. For some reason, I needed to keep following her to wherever she was going, just to make sure she was alright.
I followed her for a while, and not once did she notice me. But it was okay. I didn’t mind being her shadow, if it meant neither of us was alone.
She eventually went into a building, which I sincerely hoped was her home, but you never know. I remember going back there a few times after that and just waiting outside. Hoping to see her again, maybe happier than last time. But I never did.
It didn’t necessarily mean anything… That was just life in New York. It’s not a small town where everyone knows each other’s business. You can’t know what’s going on with someone unless you’re directly involved in their life. And even then… we all have secrets.
After that day, I started following people who interested me; people I wanted to know, or observe, or keep an eye on. It was my secret hobby, and I loved that no one knew about it. Keeping the secret was half the fun. Maybe more.
Pair sneaking around with keeping a secret, and you’ve got a recipe for a pure, wicked thrill.
For that reason, I was blissed out beyond all rationale in the weeks leading up to my arrest. Because I’d been keeping a deliciously sneaky secret. The kind that’s so good you want to bury it within the deepest crevices of yourself to prevent it from ever being discovered, while also fighting the desire to shout it from the rooftops.
Since that first life-obliterating night, I’d been back to Michelangelo’s place four more times. Each visit under the guise of breaking in and assaulting him. Of course, we both knew that wasn’t really what was happening. But we did a pretty damn good job of acting like it was.
I wasn’t sure what was wrong with Michelangelo Russo; if there had been something from his past that made him crave the rape fantasies, or if it was just his secret kink. Regardless, I was all the way on board. No shade whatsoever. His need to be tied up and degraded by a sexy stranger worked perfectly with my need to be that character.
The only slightly confusing part was that we were both straight—at least as far as the rest of the world was concerned.
Due to the nature of our weird little arrangement, we didn’t talk much, outside of the pure filth that would exit my mouth sometimes when I had him zip-tied to his headboard. Other than this one, we weren’t exactly swapping secrets, and that meant I hadn’t the slightest clue what Michelangelo’s deal was. But based on the way he behaved sometimes—and the quick, boring sex I’d seen him have with women—I was willing to bet he was gay.
It was none of my business. But I couldn’t stop wondering if maybe his father, Governor Russo, was the reason for him keeping his sexuality under wraps. If it were true, I hated that for him… Just like I hated it for myself.
I still wasn’t sure if I was really bisexual, or just experimenting. All I knew was that every day since Michelangelo had come into my life, I’d been feeling more and more human. I finally felt alive and real.
Something was working. And that something was sneaking into the home of our governor in the middle of the night and having dirty, sweaty, morally ambiguous sex with his son.
I was in no rush to confront my sexuality hang-ups anyway. It wasn’t like I could ever come out to my family. They wouldn’t get it, especially my father. I refused to think about his reaction, but I knew it wouldn’t be acceptance and proudly displayed rainbow garb.
I was better off keeping the secret. For now, it was just good, and I didn’t want to ruin it by overthinking. I’d much rather enjoy the best orgasms of my life, thank you very much.
That said, I often think back to this time and wonder if it was inevitable…
It was a crisp Friday evening in May, and I was at the gym. Hands and feet taped, punching and kicking the bags while my mind flickered through memories of the night before…
When I’d crept into his townhouse and up the stairs to find him in the shower…
We’d both sort of come into our own with the act. He’d gotten better at fighting and pretending he didn’t want it, and I’d become better at playing the sadistic monster he wanted me to be. It was enticing, albeit a bit more difficult to subdue him. But I pulled it off, and the next thing I knew, I was in him up to my nuts and he was clenching that hot, quivering pressure around me.
Pausing my blows to catch my breath, I had to peek down and check my pants to make sure I didn’t have a visible hard-on from the memories. Sure, I was the only one in the kickboxing studio, but still. I didn’t wanna be that guy.
I could barely help it, though. I never knew just how fucking awesome it’d feel to fuck a guy in the ass. I’d been nervous about it at first, but judging by how he fell apart in my arms, I’d say he was just as into it. If he came in two minutes, then I was convulsing into him approximately twenty seconds later.
I was just so curious to know if this was really all about Michelangelo, or if it had been in me all along—lying dormant and waiting to erupt. I wondered if it had been his first time with a guy too… But I didn’t have the stomach to ask. Mainly because I didn’t like how violent it made me to think about him saying it wasn’t.
Practicing my spin-kick, I got lost in the memories of gushy wet tightness and skin slapping…
“Fuck, you feel so good…”
“Unngghh… please. P-please… s-stop.”
“I don’t think you mean that, spoiled little slut… Your pretty cock is leaking everywhere. That means you like it…”
“N-no…”
“Yes…”
“No…”
“Yes…”
“Oh fuck, oh Jesus… Ghost… Rider… I’m gonna c-come.”
“Come for me, you greedy bitch. Open that hole up and swallow—”
“Excuse me?” A sudden voice burst into my reverie, startling me into almost toppling over.
It was instantly familiar… And when I whipped around, I came face-to-face with the exact scrumptious specimen whose ass I was just remembering coming in.
Michelangelo was there. In the gym. In my gym, standing in front of me, blue eyes sparkling, dimples deepening as he grinned at me.
I blinked heavily.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” The grin grew. So did the dimples.
Fuck me, he’s so pretty, I thought. Then scolded myself to act straighter.
“It’s fine…” I cleared my throat, fidgeting in place.
Did he recognize me? He’d still never seen my face without the mask on. But we’d been fooling around for weeks…
Couldn’t he tell? Would I??
“I was just wondering if you could show me how to do that.” He pointed to my knuckles wrapped in tape.
It took another generous moment for me to break out of the awkwardness of seeing him in a real-world setting—outside of my stalking, or our secret rendezvous. This was really him… Michelangelo Russo, standing in front of me, Byron Kang.
I had nowhere to hide, and it had me feeling all kinds of vulnerable.
“Uh… sure,” I croaked. He was giving me an intensely curious look, so I spun away and went for the tape. “This your first time?” I balked at my question, stammering, “I mean, um… boxing? Or kicking… kickboxing.” Jesus, man, get it together.
He chuckled. I loved the sound when I heard it in secret, but it turned out it was even better when he was knowingly giving it to me.
“Uh, yea, you could say that,” he answered. “I took karate when I was a kid. Figured I’d get back into it. This’ll make good practice, right?”
Swallowing hard, I glanced down at his hand, hoping he’d catch on to what I was too frozen to ask. He didn’t, so I had to grab his hand myself, and the contact was… intense. I caught his pupils dilating, but I clenched my jaw and focused on taping his knuckles.
“So are you trying to… defend yourself… against someone?” My eyes lifted to his. He smiled again.
“That would be wise, I’m sure…” he hummed, brilliant blue gaze falling to my mouth for a split second. “But no. I’m auditioning for a small part in a movie that’s super actiony, and I listed karate as one of my skills.”
My eyebrow cocked, and he laughed.
“I know, typical struggling actor lying on his resume. Anyway, now I have to actually pretend like I know what I’m doing…”
“Isn’t that acting?” I quipped without even thinking.
He laughed again, a softer, more rumbly one this time, teasing, “Wow… If you weren’t helping me right now, I’d storm off.”
I bit the grin off my lips. “You know, I’m actually a Tae Kwon Do instructor…” I flinched. “Sometimes. I mean, I’ve done it before.” If I focus on wrapping his knuckles, I won’t have to see him looking at me like the uncool loser I so clearly am. “Just saying, if you ever need a trainer, or something…”
