The devil inside, p.16
The Devil Inside, page 16
“Don’t you fucking dare, Oakland. You stay away from me. Are you listening? Stay. Away. I don’t fucking need you. I never have.”
But he’d hung up. I stared at my phone.
He was coming, and in the faraway reaches of my mind, I wanted him there. I’d lied. I’d always wanted him there.
THIRTEEN
Oakland
I shut down the computer and stared at the blank monitor for a minute, processing the phone call from Jameson. He was slurring-his-words drunk and screaming at me with a fury that came straight from his core.
But he’d called me.
When I’d left my number on his windshield, I was certain it would wind up in the garbage.
I did a quick Google search for the location of Salutations and the name of the street sign he’d barely been able to read. They were a few blocks apart so I had a general idea of where he might be—if he stayed put. I was a good fifteen or twenty minutes away.
The house was dark and quiet. Amanda had gone to bed hours ago, but I’d been restless. Since I’d told her everything, we’d done our best to work out the next step in processing an amicable end to our marriage.
We’d started with me moving out of the bedroom and sleeping on the futon in the computer room.
I snuck into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, brushing Amanda’s hair from her eyes. “Mandy?”
She slept on.
“Amanda?” I gave her a gentle shake.
She came awake with a start and blinked up at me in confusion.
“Hey. I have to run out. I didn’t want you to wake up and freak out because I wasn’t here.”
“Out? Where are you going?”
I swallowed a thick lump. Although I’d shared a bit more about my past, I hadn’t told her Jameson was back in my life or that I couldn’t shake the old feelings that had returned. “A friend called. He needs help.”
She reached out and touched my face, stroking my cheek and studying my eyes. “Get an Uber. You’ve been drinking all night, haven’t you?”
“I’m fine.” I wasn’t. Between the pills and the whiskey, I was half-sedated, and she knew it.
“Oak, please. Don’t drive like this. It’s dangerous. You’ll end up dead or in jail.”
I clasped her hand and brought it away from my face. “All right. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
“Okay.”
The worry remained on her face as I slipped out of the room.
I took an Uber to the general location where I assumed Jameson had been when he’d called. It was a busier part of the city, and people were crawling out of the bars and heading home. Loud drunken chatter and laughter filled the air along with a steady stream of taxis and busses up and down the road. The city never slept—especially not on a Friday night.
I checked the area where the Uber dropped me off, weaving down alleys, peering around corners and in the nooks of storefronts. I didn’t see him anywhere. With how long it had taken me to arrive, he could have wandered away.
I took out my phone and hit the call back on his number. It rang and rang and rang. When his voicemail kicked on, I hung up and tried again.
He answered, but didn’t say hello. There was fumbling and clattering like he’d dropped his phone.
“Jameson? Jameson, it’s Oak. Where are you?”
“Hello? Fuck, I broke it. Hello? Is someone there?”
“It’s Oakland. Where are you?”
“Fuck me. Oak? I don’t need you. Why the hell are you calling me?”
“Where. Are. You?”
“I don’t know,” he hollered. “I’m drunk and lost, okay.”
But his voice carried to me from somewhere nearby. I glanced around and spun in a slow circle. He was here somewhere.
He continued to yell into the phone, and I let him, listening for what direction it came from and following his anger.
There was a small dark walkway between two buildings, and I was sure he was somewhere at the far end. I shuffled down the tight space, shoulder to shoulder with a building on either side, following his ranting. The walkway ended on a service road behind the stores where dumpsters lined one wall and large steel doors provided access for delivery trucks to unload their goods.
Jameson sat against a concrete wall ten feet away. His phone was in his hand, and he kept smashing a finger against the screen.
“There. Goodbye, motherfucker. Fuck you.”
“Did you just hang up on me?”
He jerked around, startled, then dashed a quick glance at his phone like my appearance didn’t make sense.
As the pieces fell into place, his face morphed from surprise to rage. He threw his phone aside and scrambled off the ground, barreling toward me, stumbling on unsteady feet. I held my ground when he shoved my chest, trying to knock me down or push me away.
“It’s all your fault.” He pounded my chest with a weak effort.
I caught his wrists before he could push me again, and he yanked and tugged, doing all he could to get free. I might have been tipsy, but he was over the edge.
“Calm the hell down.”
When he saw it was hopeless, he chest bumped me and got in my face. “You’ve ruined everything.”
“I didn’t ruin shit. If things in your life are fucked up, it’s on you, not me.”
“Let go of me, asshole.” He fought to free his hands, and I let him go, shoving him away. He stumbled, catching the wall for balance.
“Let me get an Uber and get you home. You’re fucked up.”
Jameson wavered and glanced around, shaking his head. “I had a beautiful woman practically humping my fucking leg tonight. She was a real nurse too, not a fucking twenty-one-year-old hooker trying to play the part. But you know what?” He washed a hand over his face. “Do you know what?” he hollered. “You”—he stabbed a finger in my direction, approaching me again—“you made it impossible for me to even consider taking her home.”
“Dude, I didn’t do shit.”
He fisted my T-shirt, growling as he threw me against the wall, the force resonating through my bones and making me grunt. “You did so. I hate you, Oakland Corbitt. I. Hate. You.”
“Jameson. Let me take you home.”
“No.” He slammed me against the wall again. “Say it! Admit it. You stained me. You ruined me.”
“Fine. Is that what you need to hear?” I yelled, matching his tone. “That it’s my fault? Fine. I ruined you. It’s all on me. Are you happy? Now let me take you home.”
He tugged my shirt, sending me off-balance. When I thought he was going to slam me into the wall again, my momentum didn’t change, and I collided with his chest.
He kissed me before I could suck in a breath or make sense of what was going on. His teeth clashed with mine. His tongue speared into me, and the strong taste of alcohol filled my mouth. He bit, he growled, he grabbed my face and tugged my hair. He held me right where he wanted me and wouldn’t let go.
All his anger and rage and venom went into the kiss. Then I hit the wall again, my head smashing against the concrete, but his lips never left mine. It was painful, and his torment seeped out of him and into me. Consuming me.
I couldn’t catch my breath, but I didn’t want to. I took hold of his hair and fisted it, holding him closer, eating at his mouth, desperate for this thing I’d been avoiding for years. Wanting. Needing. Yearning.
He broke us apart, his gaze searing. Wrenching the button free on my pants, he growled, “If you wanna pull my hair, you fucking pull it, you pansy-ass bitch.”
I increased my grip.
“No!” he roared. “Pull it, Oakland. Pull it like you fucking mean it!”
I jerked his head back, fearing I’d rip it from his scalp, wrenching his neck until it strained. He cried out, then laughed. It was maniacal. Psychotic. “There you go. Yeah. Make it hurt. Make me feel it.”
I increased the strain on his neck, and he sucked air between his teeth. He fought to lift his head up as he sought my eyes.
“Now, you’re gonna fuck me, and you’re not gonna be gentle about it. Do you understand, Oakland?”
My grip loosened as I studied the crazed look in his eyes. My heart jackhammered against my ribs. What the hell was going on?
“Do you understand?” he yelled, spittle covering my face, the wild look in his eyes growing more intense by the minute. He was drunk. He didn’t know what he was saying.
All I heard was that he wanted me to fuck him, but I knew that wasn’t right. My blood turned cold then hot then cold again. Irrepressible urges surfaced. I had barely come to terms with being gay, now Jameson, the man who’d been my first and only gay sexual encounter a long time ago, the man who had told me repeatedly he wasn’t queer, was demanding to be fucked—in a dark alley in the middle of the night.
“Are you a pussy? You preach all that gay shit at me and can’t follow through, huh? Do it, Oakland. If you’re so fucking gay and proud now, then do it. Show me who you are, you fucking faggot. I said, fuck me. Right here. Right now.”
Firming my grip in his hair, I yanked him forward, crashing our mouths together again. I groped at his pants, undoing his belt. He had mine open in a flash, palm pressing against my growing erection. Once his zipper was down, he shoved away from me and pushed his pants over his ass. Swaying, he almost lost his balance, but I caught his arm. He threw me off and dug in his coat pocket. He pressed a condom into my hand, his eyes full of animosity. Borderline lunacy. He’d fallen off the rails, and I should put a stop to all of it.
“You’re gonna fuck me hard. Hard, do you hear me? Do not be gentle, or I’ll fuck you up.”
“Lube?” I croaked.
“That’s gentle, asshole.” He shoved my chest, snarling. “No fucking lube. Spit in your fucking hand, and don’t think twice about it. I want it to hurt.”
Then he faced the wall, legs spread, arms braced, head hanging.
My mind raced and spun. I stared at the condom, at Jameson, exposed and ready, then I glanced down the alley in both directions.
“I swear to God, Oakland, if you don’t do it, I’ll find someone who will. There are plenty of men who’ll give me what I need.”
That sparked a fire within me. Like fuck I was okay with that.
Hands trembling, I pulled my cock out and gave it a few tugs. I was stiffer than I expected, and staring at Jameson’s bare ass was only encouraging my blood to flow south. It was true. This was proof. For all the times I’d beg my body to respond to Amanda, it couldn’t because this was what it wanted—the hard, rough edges of a man.
I had a brief moment of concern that I was cheating on my wife, but hadn’t I told her? Hadn’t we decided to end our marriage? It was over, right? She knew I was gay, and she knew I was moving out.
I shoved those thoughts aside.
Ripping the condom wrapper open with my teeth, I plucked it out and rolled it on. I spat into my palm and coated myself. It wasn’t enough. Fifteen years might have dulled the memories, but I knew what lube meant when it came to this kind of sex. Even with it, the experience had been painful the first few times. Unbearable. Spit and no preparation were going to be agony.
“I swear to fucking God, stop thinking about it, and do it.”
I added more spit, shaking my head at the entire situation. Checking the alley again, I shoved a hand between Jameson’s shoulder blades, pressing his face against the wall.
“Don’t be gentle with me,” he said through gritted teeth. “If you want to break my face on this wall, do it. If you wanna make me bleed, do it. I deserve it. I deserve all of it.”
I fisted a handful of his jacket, yanked him away from the wall, then used all my strength to slam him back against it. He grunted. I moved in on him, pressing my body to his, my mouth near his ear.
“JJ.”
“Don’t call me that. Not now. Don’t fucking talk to me. Fuck me,” he yelled. “Just fuck me.”
My heart bruised my ribs as I lined up. Instinct told me to go slow. This wasn’t kind or sexy or how I ever imagine revisiting sex with a man. This man.
I worked on catching my breath, then closed my eyes and jerked my hips forward, shoving into his resistant body without holding back.
Jameson grunted and cried out, his voice cracking, eyes pinched against the pain. His body went rigid, and his fingernails scraped for purchase on the concrete wall. His nostrils flared, and he panted, jaw ticking, teeth gnashing.
Every part of me trembled. The heat of his body surrounding me made me lightheaded, and my knees grew weak. It was overwhelming.
“Fuck me, Oak,” he yelled through gritted teeth. “Now. Don’t wait. Don’t give me mercy. Goddammit, Oakland. Please.” He was almost begging. His voice cracked with emotion.
So I did. I fucked him without mercy, without care for his wellbeing. And it had to hurt. There was no way it didn’t. The noises he made confirmed it. He thumped a hand against the wall more than once and pinched his eyes closed, punching out unsteady breaths.
I didn’t talk. I held his hip with one hand and kept him pinned to the wall with the other. The sound of slapping skin echoed all around us.
“Harder,” he grunted.
He wanted more pain. I was torn between giving him everything he needed and stopping because it felt wrong. But it was Jameson, and I couldn’t deny him.
I grabbed his hair again, wrenching his head back so his neck strained. Hovering my mouth near his ear, absorbing his scent, I asked, “Like this?”
“Yeah.”
I licked his stubbled neck and bit into his earlobe. His grunts of pain shifted to something else. His body relaxed a fraction, accepting me.
I picked up my pace. Fire sizzled in my core. Heat gathered in my balls and along my spine. My orgasm hovered near the surface. Unable to help myself, I kissed his neck, his jaw, nipping, needing, tasting, wanting.
Through his jaw-clenching grunts, he tipped his head, providing me access. An invitation to keep going. I made out the words “more” and “harder.” Jameson let go of the wall and took himself in hand, stroking his cock until he screamed with his orgasm. His voice bounced off the walls and reverberated through my bones.
His body spasmed and tightened, and that was all it took to send me over the edge. I sank my teeth into his shoulder until I tasted blood, pulsing waves of pleasure making my insides quiver.
I barely had time to come down off the high and get my bearings when Jameson shoved me away. Tripping on my pants, I grappled for the wall, catching myself before I fell.
Jameson refused to turn around, but I felt his torment from where I stood. He slammed his fist into the wall three times, hard enough to break bones. With a growl, he jerked his pants back into place and did them up.
I stumbled to the other side of the alley, tossed the condom, and fixed my pants too as I kept half an eye on him.
Chest heaving, body vibrating, he scanned the alley in both directions before glancing at me. A look of disgust crossed his face, and he spat at my feet, a clear indication of his views on what had just happened.
Then he limped away, his pain not hidden, his abused body protesting his escape.
I didn’t follow.
FOURTEEN
Jameson
Everything hurt. My ass protested sitting on the hard pew, my head protested the hymns echoing around the tall arched ceiling of the church, my stomach protested the toxic residue of yesterday’s liquid meals, and my body protested being awake at this ungodly hour.
It was my penance. No matter how miserable I felt, I deserved it.
The worst of it was my thigh, which protested the six new cuts I’d made yesterday morning when I’d woken up in a puddle of drool and realized what my Friday night had entailed.
A thick film coated my mouth, and my eyes felt filled with gritty sand as I zoned out, performing actions and repeating words by rote because I’d been doing it my whole life.
I could almost see God Almighty glaring down at me, ashamed I was one of His children. I clutched the cross around my neck and prayed for forgiveness.
Again.
Mom’s high soprano set my teeth on edge. She sat beside me, Dad on her other side. I didn’t attend services as often anymore, but that Sunday, it was necessary. My resilience had been at an all-time low. My sense of abandonment was high. The world was caving in from all sides, and I was walking a thin line.
I kept one hand on my thigh, adding pressure to remind myself I was a failure. My soul was empty, hollow. The poison had eaten away all that was good and left nothing behind. “Why?” I prayed. “Why me?”
I scanned the parishioners, wondering what it was like to feel welcomed and loved. To feel normal and untainted by these kinds of sins. Did the devil sit on their shoulders every day? Did he whisper in their ears?
My mother nudged my arm, jarring me from my head.
“Do you see that girl over there? Dark hair and lavender blouse. Third row up. The pretty one.”
I followed Mom’s subtle gesture. The woman was in profile on the other side of the church. “Yeah. Why?”
“She’s a pharmacist. Good head on her shoulders. Charming young woman, and much closer to your age than that young hussy of yours.”
“Lauren wasn’t a hussy.”
“Who’s Lauren? I’m talking about Janet.”
I scrubbed the back of my neck. “Janet. Whatever. She wasn’t a hussy. Can you even say that in church?”
Mom tsked and scowled.
I’d informed my parents that morning that Janet was no longer in the picture. Mom couldn’t have been more relieved.
“Anyhow, her name is Elma Peterson, and her parents come to bingo on Wednesday nights. She’s not seeing anyone, and I think she’d be a good match for you. She’s intelligent, hard-working, funny, and closer to your age, Jameson.”
“Can you not set me up with people. I’m barely out of one relationship. Give me some breathing room. Please. I wanna be on my own for a bit.”
Mom huffed and sat back. “You’re not getting any younger. It takes time to court a woman, fall in love, plan a wedding, marry, and have a family. I want grandchildren before I’m too old to enjoy them.”
