Zane (Inked Brotherhood 3)

ls.

Oh, fuck’s sake, Zane.

I pull the blonde into the twilight zone behind the last tables and into the dimness. That’s my territory, my domain: the dark. I slow down to let her catch up and then swing her around, pushing her back to the wall. She yelps, teetering on those ridiculous heels.

“I have some rules,” I tell her. “Non-negotiable.”

She nods, her eyes wide.

“You don’t touch me. Only I touch you. You don’t put your arms around me, don’t even fucking think about touching my back, and no kissing.”

“Okay, babe. Whatever gets you off.”

For some reason, her eager submissiveness—and the pet name—pisses me off. Which is sick, since submissiveness is what I want from her.

“What’s your name?” she asks. “I’m Linda.”

I don’t reply. Not interested in her name, or in conversation of any kind. I grab her wrist with my other hand and slap it into the wall. She yelps again, giving me a wounded puppy look.

“You like it rough, huh?” She licks her red lips. “I don’t mind.”

“Shut up.” I brace one hand on the wall and look down at her cleavage. Familiar motions. Only problem is, my body isn’t acting very interested, and I don’t feel like touching her breasts, or any other part of her anatomy, for that matter.

Dammit. This isn’t working. I release her and start to pull back.

“What’s your hurry?” She slips her arms around my neck, pressing up to me.

Fuck. My heart jolts in my chest, and I jerk. I shove her off, slam her to the wall. “I said, rule number one: don’t fucking touch my back!”

“But I thought—”

“You thought wrong.”

And so did I.

I thought life would continue as before. Same places, same actions, same results. But nothing is the same anymore. This world I’ve built around me is made of glass, and it’s already cracking.

***

It’s morning. Late morning, perhaps. Something stupid is playing on TV, a talk show, people dressed in fancy clothes. I’ve turned off the sound.

I’ve also turned off my cell phone, but there’s pounding on my door. It comes and goes. I let it. It’s a counterpoint to the pounding in my head.

Sheets of paper are strewn around me, covered in my drawings. I thought it’d help me relax, but I guess it wasn’t enough. My eyes feel dry and gritty. Spent all night trying to get the anger on the paper, and it wasn’t fucking enough.

My glass is empty again. I give it a disgusted look, before I reach for the bottle. Problem is, it’s on the coffee table. Too far. Can’t remember why I put it there.

I slide off the couch and land on my ass on the carpet. The room spins, and I blink, trying to clear my vision. The bottle seems to sway on the table, and when I reach for it, it’s splintering, refracting into a prism of dancing colors.

Whoa.

I reach through them and wrap my fingers around the solid, cool bottle. Somewhere along the way down to the floor I’ve lost the glass, but who needs one? I unscrew the lid and take a swig. I’ve been drinking since last night. Dimly, I’m aware I should stop. Someone should stop me. But the pounding on the door has ceased, and it’s easier to just drink some more and work on forgetting. Not that I’m having any success, but I’m not known for giving up so easily.

I work hard on my self-destruction.

This strikes me as funny, and I start laughing, then realize it ain’t funny at all, and I choke down some more whiskey. No idea why my eyes burn like this.

A chime sounds, and I look up, confused.