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Chapter 11

I slam the door as I storm into the motorhome. I throw myself down in the chair and stare out the window at them. I can't believe that guy… he touched me and wanted me to… eww, gross, I think to myself, but I'm not convinced I actually mean it. My skin still burns where he touched me.

I watch them out of the window, glaring daggers at them as they start to clean the bike off. They're both shirtless, and my mouth salivates as Ryder throws the hose and soap around his muscles, flexing. The other guy is covered in tattoos, and he is hot, but Ryder is on another level.

I shake my head. What the hell is happening? They continue to flick water at each other and rub their hands down their chests through the soap, and the water gleaming on their bodies is not helping my situation. My mouth suddenly becomes dry as I think about what he said about me being on my knees for him and my lips being beautiful. My cock is hard in my bottoms, and I scrub my hand into it, trying to release some tension, but it just aches. I can't take my eyes off him. Ryder… he's… he's… he's so beautiful. I wish I felt as free as he does. I wish I had friends like he does, a dad like he does, and… a boyfriend like he does. No, no, not like he does. I want him. I want Ryder, and I slide my dick out of my bottoms and squeeze it as I watch them soap up and splash around. It's erotic, it's hot, and I groan as I realise I'm already sliding my hand up and down my shaft, thinking about him, about his friend, about being on my knees, and I cum hard and fast. It takes me by surprise; it pulses out of me, spraying over the table, but I don't take my eyes off them. I can't. I just try to calm my breathing, but as I do, I look down at the mess I've made, and the embarrassment kicks in before the anger takes over.

I rip my top over my head, wiping up the mess on the table before storming into the shower. I turn the water to cold and stand under the spray, trying to make sense of how I'm feeling, the confusion, the disgust, the turmoil. I can't seem to shake it. I'm not gay. "I am not fucking gay!"

I scream into the wall and lean against it, resting my head on the cold bite of the tiles, giving me something else to focus on. I squirt the shower gel into my hand and turn the water slightly warmer as I start to scrub at my body. I scrub my arms, my legs, and everywhere else, avoiding my dick at all costs, but it's traitorously calling to me.

I try to ignore that throbbing feeling I have, and I close my eyes, but all I can see are dark eyes staring back at me behind thick, dark lashes. He blinks, and I dart my eyes down to see that wicked smirk that he flicks at me, and I feel hot. I feel breathless as I picture him stepping towards me. I slide a hand down my chest, and I screw my eyes closed tighter. It's his hand as he runs it down my body, sliding his hand over my abs.

My breath hitches as I touch a sensitive spot and groan as I wrap my hand around my sensitive shaft. I can't help but bite down on my lip, and I slide my hand backwards and forwards in a slow, tight grasp.

He winks at me again, and I can't take my eyes off him. He's sexy, and I groan again as I reach up and squeeze my nipple between my fingers. I gasp as I roll and tug. My hand speeds up, and I moan as I start to thrust into my hand faster and faster. It's not the images that shock me. Mostly, it's when my voice rasps out his name as I cum again. I've fucked a million girls, and I've never cum this hard. I swallow harshly as my heart is hammering out of my chest. I stutter another breath as I slide down the wall of the shower, cupping my head in my hands, and I cry.

Ican't remember the last time I cried, but right now, I'm confused. I'm distraught, but most of all, the only person I want to talk to is the guy who I've made hate me. I don't know what to do, and I have no one to turn to or talk to. I'm all alone. I'm ashamed, and most of all, I don't know how to make things right. As soon as I see him, I want to destroy him, and it's because I want to be like him, but more than that, I want to be with him.

I don't know how long I cry in the bottom of the shower before I realise what I'm doing. I storm into the bedroom and get dressed. I need a drink. I pull on my crisp white polo shirt. I slide on my chinos and slide my feet into my Converse. I grab my V-neck cable knit jumper from the back of the chair and wrap it over my shoulders, joining the sleeves across my chest. I comb my hair, slick the strands down and push out of the motorhome. It's a short walk to the pub. I order a Jack and Coke and slip into a booth at the back. After about four or so drinks, I hear ruckus laughter getting louder as some newcomers push through the doors. It's them, Ryder and the guy who was with him today.

Ryder is wearing his hair wet. It looks like he's just run his fingers through it. It"s black, shiny, thick and wavy on top. His dark eyes and the lashes that frame them are so fucking soul-destroyingly dark and dangerous. He has on a worn, grey, tight, muscle-hugging t-shirt peppered with small holes around the neckline. Dark grey jeans that look like they were once black with a hole in one of the knees. His tight jeans hug every muscle in his thick thighs, and they're stuffed into scuffed combat boots. He's wearing a worn leather jacket. His friend looks just as hot in blue jeans and a white t-shirt, but it's Ryder I can't take my eyes off. He's like the total opposite of me. I'm clean-cut, pristine. My clothes are designer and expensive; my Converse are the cheapest things I own, but I like them.

He swaggers with an air of bad boy about him, a ‘fuck around and find out' mentality, which I know is not him. I know he's a nice guy, just not to me, but then I've only got myself to blame. As a glass collector comes by, I slip them some money to grab my drinks so I don't have to move. I don't want them to see me, but I do want to see them. I can't take my eyes off them. They're so at ease with each other, and I wonder if they are together, but then I don't think they are, and I'm even more confused.

I see Ryder telling a story, and he's so animated, confident, and happy in his own skin that I can't help but wonder what that must be like. I dress this way because that's how Father dresses. I act like I do because that's how Father acts. I treat women like I do because that's how Father treats Mother. I've been given everything I ever wanted except love. The nannies rotated fast through our home. Later, I realised it was because Father fucked them all.

I don't think he necessarily waited for consent, either. I was around eleven the first time I saw him with the nanny, and looking back now, it wasn't consensual if the tears streaming down her face were anything to go by.

My relationships have been based on scare tactics at school. People were my ‘friends' because I had an element of standing, and I could raise theirs or destroy them at my will. They did what I said because of what I could offer them or what I could take away, not because they liked me. But because they feared me.

My mind starts to reel, and the room starts to spin. I look down, and at least eight glasses are on the table. I push up to stand, but the axis tilts, and I crash to the floor. I try to push myself up, but I drop back down, so I just stay there.

I feel weightless; my arms are suspended up high, and my head lolls around. I can feel the front of my shoes scuffing across the floor as I feel like I'm flying. As I'm carried out of the building, the fresh air hits and my eyes roll. I expect to be dropped on the floor; it must be bouncers dragging me out, but when I hear the voice, it"s deep and gravelly, but it's soft, too. The smell encapsulates me. It's fresh but sharp, like the ocean air. My head lolls back, and I'm staring at the sky. It"s dark, but I'm moving, although I can't feel my legs moving. I try to lift my leg to walk, but then it flops back down, seeming useless. I loll for a while before I feel someone tugging in my pockets.

I groan and try to say no, but it comes out garbled, "N-no."

My head jerks like it's going to fall off. "I'm alone." I retch. "No one cares," I manage to stutter out, and the hand pulls out.

I hear a door click and the weightlessness again as I'm dropped on something soft. A bed? My bed? My shoes are taken off. I hear hushed voices as I'm rolled on my side, and groan as I pass out.