Page 14 of Theta

"When she met Uncle Val, she really freaked. Like, big freak out.” I adopt a high-pitched whining tone. “Your dad is the Nicholas Harris and you didn't fucking tell me? All this time you're worth fucking billions of dollars?’” His voice goes high-pitched and mocking. "Never mind the argument that I'm not worth shit, financially, my parents are, and Mom and Dad aren’t worth actual billions, just close. Dating when you're the kid of someone worth the kind of money Mom and Dad have comes with certain challenges."

“Gold diggers are real, huh?" I ask.

"Fuck yeah, unfortunately. It's hard to know what someone's real motives are. That's why I was never too broken up about the security protocols that make it hard to bring people over—I don't want friends who are only my friends because of the stuff. Y'know?" A pause. "But I suppose you don't."

"No, not really. Mom and Dad are comfortable," I say. "In the sense that people say, oh we're comfortable as a way of minimizing the truth. But there's a vast ocean of difference between that and the kind of wealth that your parents and Cal and Corinna's parents have."

"Helena couldn't get over that," Killian says. “And then, while she was there, Cal and Uncle Puck and Dad and Uncle Val wanted us to go to the range to do some shooting. When she found out I'm fully trained with firearms and all that other shit? Oh fuck, man, the freakout was epic." I draw the last word out into a deep, guttural thing.

"But why?" I ask. "Why is that something to freak out over?"

"She's a pacifist and vehemently against gun ownership as an entire concept."

“Oh. That's…a pretty big gulf to overcome."

He laughs. "Yeah, no shit. And, like, I get it. I really, really do. I'm comfortable with guns, but I don't think everyone needs to have one, and the vast majority of people have no legitimate reason to own any gun, even a hunting rifle, let alone handguns and assault rifles. But one thing that I know was instilled in you as much as me is the responsibility that comes with carrying a firearm. We, more than the average gun owner, understand the weight and cost of taking a life. You especially." He pauses. "She couldn't get over the whole package that is me, I guess, once she saw the full scope of where I come from, who my family is, what my life is like. She thought I was just some other average American rich kid raised in the Bahamas, when nothing could be further from the truth. I think, if she saw a future for us at all, she saw it as being…" he trails off, hunting for the right way to finish the statement.

"A lot smaller than your life is going to be?" I suggest.

"Smaller doesn't feel like the right word," he says. "Her life wasn't small, it was just… drastically different than mine, and the future she saw for herself didn't jibe at all with who I am and how I was raised. Just too big of a fundamental difference."

There's carefully hidden pain in his voice. "You really cared about her, huh?" I ask.

He sighs. "Yeah, I did. She didn't even stay on the compound for four hours. She came, she saw, she bolted. Veni, vidi, vamoos." He chuckles. "That was a terrible joke, and I formally apologize."

"It really was terrible."

"It didn't matter that I tried to show her who I am before I showed her all that stuff. It was just too much."

I stifle a yawn behind my hand, then. "I'm sorry, Killy. I don't mean to yawn while you're baring your soul, I'm just exhausted."

He shifts closer and then scoots down a touch, and suddenly his shoulder is at exactly the right height to rest my head on. "Then rest. I've got a feeling we're gonna be doing a lot of talking before we find our chance to make a move."

3

The Most Beautiful Torture

I wake up in darkness, stiff and sore and discombobulated. The metal of the container floor is painfully hard underneath me, and it's stiflingly hot, and despite the shirt over the bucket, the smell of stale piss is overwhelming.

I blink into the darkness, taking stock of the non-visual cues: the ship is still rolling gently so we're still sailing somewhere. I hear a voice yelling indistinctly above and behind me but it's too muffled and faint to make anything out.

Other than being hot, achy from sleeping on a metal floor, and sick to fuck of the darkness and the unending boredom, there's not much to take stock of.

I can't even express how great it is to have a companion in here, although I know it's shitty of me to be glad someone else has been kidnapped. It's a confusing feeling, let me tell you.

Speaking of confusing feelings: I'm lying down on my back, and there's a warm weight on my belly. Story. Her ear is on my navel and her breath huffs hot on my skin. Her hands are tucked under her face, stuffed between her cheek and my belly.

I clench my jaw and focus on breathing, focus on thinking about anything at all other than how close Story's face and hands are to my crotch and the mindless, ravening beast contained therein. She's asleep. She's not thinking about that, now or ever. She doesn’t feel about me the way I do about her, and there's no point dwelling on my feelings.

Tell that to my dick, though. My brain is aware that the placement of her face and hands is completely meaningless and irrelevant to her feelings regarding me. My dick, however, is insisting otherwise, contrary to all evidence, because as everyone knows, penises are stupid.

I close my eyes and just breathe. Meditate.

Don't think, don't feel.

I am without desire.

I am without thought.