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I’m so motherfucking fucked. Not twenty minutes after I swore I wouldn’t kiss her again, I let her crawl in my lap and dry hump my dick until she came.
And it was fucking amazing. Better than any other sexual experience in my life.
When I’m finally calm enough to drive home, I turn my car around and head toward my apartment. I may have told Molly several white lies. I don’t want to move into Remy’s place, because once she turns eighteen, I want to be able to spend time alone with her without her brother in our business.
Does that make me a creep? Maybe.
A shitty friend? Definitely.
CHAPTER THREE
Griff
You’d think my aching balls would keep me awake on the short drive home, but fatigue and bone-weariness follow me to the small brick apartment complex.
I park in my regular spot and stop to check on my Harley at the edge of the parking lot. I really should start storing it at Remy’s. Too tired to check anything major, I make sure it’s in one piece, then head into the building. My mother’s place is on the bottom floor, and I stop there first.
I knock softly—not that she’s probably even lucid enough to comprehend what the sound means. I press my ear to the door. Nothing but the faint hum of a fan reaches me. A cold trickle of fear slides down my back as I use my key to open the door.
It’s only a matter of time before I walk in and find her dead.
“Ma?” I call out as I step over the threshold. The fan whirring in the corner does nothing to clear the stuffy air. The apartment reeks of sweat, desperation, and chemicals with a sickly undertone of puke.
A blue-and-white glow flickers from the television, illuminating the room. I glance at the screen. Intervention. The sound’s off, so none of the messages can sink into her drug-addled brain. Pity.
I’d laugh at the irony of how much my mother loves watching desperate families trying to get their loved ones sober if it didn’t piss me off and depress the hell out of me all at once.
A pile of worn blankets are heaped on the brown, nubby couch. Then the pile moves. A pale, white arm flops out from underneath. My mother’s face comes into view. She moans, sighs, and licks her chapped lips.
My mother was beautiful once, on the outside. Now, she’s more like a husk or outer shell of a person. Her face matches the ugliness that’s been inside of her since I was little.
“Why are you on the couch?” Why do I bother? Doubt she’s even aware I’m here.
Her arm slides off the cushion, landing on the dirty carpet with a thud. A needle, still stuck in her skin, pokes from the crook of her elbow. A trickle of dried blood trails to her wrist.
My stomach rolls, bile burning the back of my throat. Taking a beating in the ring doesn’t bother me. Needles and the destruction they cause do. Every damn time.
Disgusted, I pull the needle free and try not to retch. I toss it in the small trash can next to the couch. When she started, it was only popping a few harmless pills. Then snorting oxy but now, she’s injecting herself as often as possible.
“Griff?” she slurs. “That you?”
“It’s me.”
“Sorry, baby. I had to.”
I don’t even bother asking. I just don’t care anymore. “You pay your rent?” I ask instead.
“No. Lemme borrow some money?” she asks without opening her eyes.
I pull the wad of cash I’d earned from the fight out of my pocket and stare at it.
“Where’s Larry?” Her loser boyfriend usually disappears around the first of the month, then shows up a few days later. Since he tends to keep my mom’s habit in check, I tolerate his presence. It’s nice to let someone else deal with her crazy for a change.
“Out,” she mumbles. “Leave the cash on the table.”
Yeah, that’s not happening.
I plod into the kitchen, the shadow of sleep following close behind. Since she never eats, the kitchen’s semi-clean. I find a glass, fill it with water, and bring it into the living room.
