God, he’d look good there. Dressed up tough for enforcing but looking up over the top of his glasses at me, and then swallowing my cock down like it was the only thing he wanted to do.
I jerked myself faster, heat curling low in my belly as I imagined his tongue working over my cock, the heat of his mouth, maybe even his throat as he sucked me down. His plush lips stretched around my girth. I imagined curling one hand into his hair, then using my grip to set the pace as I fucked into his mouth.
The image was so vivid. I gasped, abs tensing as I kept jerking myself off, my cock leaking precum making it feel better and better, until my toes were curled in the sheets and my fingers snarled in the fabric. Then, with a gasp, the pleasure pulled into a tight coil before releasing in a flood of sensation as I came.
I slumped back flat onto the mattress, my muscles loose in the aftermath of the orgasm. I rarely came so hard from a regular jerk-off session—just the thought of Nix kicked the experience up higher. I glanced over at my phone, abandoned next to my head on the pillow, and saw Nix’s selfie still pulled up on the screen.
I grabbed my towel and wiped myself off, then grimaced at the sweat beading on my forehead and temples from the intensity of the orgasm. So much for my shower earlier. I felt relaxed, loopy, still a little horny—I considered sending Nix a selfie. Or even calling him. I wanted to hear his voice, see his face, anything.
But immediately I doubted myself. What if he really was busy on his shift? I didn’t want to interrupt him or seem needy. So what, I didn’t have any plans tonight? What was the big deal? Why was I so incapable of just—existing on my own?
The good mood brought on by the orgasm didn’t last. The boredom was quickly creeping back in, and boredom was a dangerous emotion for me—it always led to spiraling into gloom and doom. Made me antsy, uncomfortable in my own skin, itching for something to stimulate me, or just for something to focus on. Booze always made the sensation a little more bearable—took the worst of the edge off.
Well, if I was stuck at home for the evening, at least I could treat myself with a drink or two. I stood up, threw some pajamas on, and then paced to the fridge. I grabbed my third beer of the night and cracked it expertly with one hand. So, I’d had one when I’d gotten home, and then another in the shower—they were spaced out enough that I could barely feel the effects. It was just part of the routine. But it was the part that kept me sane and settled in my skin.
I glanced at my phone again, still debating calling. But if Nix wanted to see me, wouldn’t he have suggested something? Despite all the texting, he hadn’t actually asked me to get together with him one-on-one, which I would’ve gladly done, even if it was just for a quick cup of coffee in passing. I knew we were both busy, but… did I want more time together than he did?
He’d said he was my boyfriend, but maybe that had just been to ease my discomfort after that whole conversation about being lonely. Maybe he’d just felt bad for me, and had wanted to be nice about it all, make me feel more comfortable about coming to the club on Thanksgiving.
Because Brennan’s boyfriend didn’t seem to have trouble finding time for Brennan despite their busy schedules. Brennan had already texted me back earlier that evening, with yet another apology and explanation that he was spending the night with Joker. Brennan didn’t want to hang out, and neither did Nix, and that was basically my entire social circle. My mood, already souring, went darker.
Maybe I deserved to drive out to Tempest tonight, cheer myself up.
I took a sip of my ice-cold beer—which immediately made me feel a little better, comforting and familiar—and turned the thought over in my mind. I’d spent nearly every night this week out at Tempest, since I couldn’t hang out at Ballast. And I hadn’t told anyone I’d been going to Tempest, so I didn’t run into anyone from HAC there.
The Empire guys who ran the club were fine. I’d had a few decent chats with the bartender and played a few rounds of pool with a couple of the guys. They were friendly enough, served cold beer, played good music. But I didn’t enjoy my time there nearly as much as I enjoyed my time with the Hell’s Ankhor guys.
And when had that happened? Why did I miss spending time at Ballast just shooting the shit with them?
How had I let things get so fucked up?
I scrubbed a hand roughly over my hair. Right before I was about to grab my keys and head to Tempest, my phone pinged again. Embarrassingly enough, my heart flipped in my chest, and I pulled it out quickly, hoping to see another message from Nix.
No luck, though. It was my mother.
Just as fast as my mood had risen, it sank again. The message was short, as they always were: “Where r u? Need help.” And, as always, she didn’t mean help. She meant money. She only ever reached out to me when she was really, truly broke, because she knew she’d have to put up with me to get it.
But for as much as she frustrated me, I couldn’t ignore her. The guilt at leaving her alone—even when she was nothing but difficult—hurt more than the interactions did. At the end of the day, she was still my mom, and I wanted to make sure she was at least alive.
With a disappointed sigh, I abandoned my beer on the counter, grabbed my keys, and hurried to my car.
Mom’s apartment wasn’t far, thankfully—it was in Elkin Lake on the west side, in a complex of small one-bedrooms that hadn’t been updated in far too long. I parked out front and picked my way up the dark, cracked sidewalk to her front door. I knocked. No answer. With a sigh, I turned the handle and found it unlocked.
“Mom?” I called. “It’s me.”
I stepped inside and immediately wrinkled my nose at the state of the place. Every time I visited, the apartment was in a worse state than the last. The threadbare carpet was covered in stains, and the beige walls were stained with cigarette smoke—the combined odor of cat piss and smoke nearly knocked the wind out of me. Mom was sunk into the center of the ratty old couch, with a cigarette in hand and a bottle of whiskey nearly empty at her feet. She was looking thinner than usual, with her graying hair in a bun and her sweatpants fraying.
“There you are, Dawson,” she said as I walked in. “Took you long enough.”
I sighed. “You said you needed help, Mom. What’s the problem this time?”
“The electric company called—they’re cutting off my service.” She took a drag of the smoke. “Help me with the bill this month, will you? It’s high, from running the heat.”
“Well, don’t run the heat so high,” I said.
“And let the cats freeze?” she asked. “Don’t be an asshole.”
“Jesus, Mom,” I said with a shake of the head. “You spend your bill money on booze again?”
“It’s none of your business what I spend my money on,” she snapped. “Are you going to help me or not?”
I sighed again, then took her phone from her hand to pay her electric bill online with my card—careful not to save the information in her phone, I’d made that mistake before. “Mom, it looks like shit in here,” I said. “Why are you letting the cats piss everywhere?”
“They do what they want, they’re cats,” she argued, but I knew she’d probably started neglecting the litter boxes in lieu of more time spent on the couch with the bottle. Probably didn’t even think of it most of the time.