Nate

I bang my head against the wall behind my bed in a systematic tempo.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

I took it hard when she made me hard. I took it hard and I took it out on my walls and bed and stereo and laptop. It was unfair, yet made uncannily perfect sense that I’d want to fuck the only person who I shouldn’t.

Finally, I was physically attracted to someone. But having her meant getting killed, and with all due respect to my cock and Silver Spoon, I’m sure she’s a good lay, but not worthy of my head.

Then she started talking and my lame reason to keep her captive became even lamer.

She’s hurt and broken in her own, fancy-ass country club way.

And I’m hurt and broken in my own, broke-ass ghetto way.

I know what she’s feeling, but I shouldn’t.

“Shut the fuck up, or I’m sending Ink to shut you up for me,” I grunt when I hear her shuffling downstairs, muttering something about the moment she got on the plane to London to meet Godfrey’s son. Irv’s not even here. He works night shifts at a local fast food joint, but she doesn’t need to know that.

Prescott zips it.

I sigh in relief, raking my bloody palms through my face and hair, leaving red stripes like war paint. God’s girl. Country Club. Silver Spoon. All these nicknames won’t do justice to the dancing flame that’s trying to blaze her way out of my basement.

Pea.