Page 7 of Savage Keepsakes

“Least you could do is to be wet for me,” he grumbles.

I lay my face sideways in my hands. There’s always a problem with me when it comes to our sex life. I am too wet or not stimulated enough. I do too much or too little. The biggest part about Miles is his inconsistent and unreasonable expectations.

He spits between my thighs, the warm liquid dripping down, and my skin crawls. When his dick slides into me, groans fill my ear as we go through the motions.

As he thrusts into me, I pretend to enjoy it. I’m too exhausted to even touch myself. I rest my head on my hands.

My mind wanders. Starting over in a new place means I should have left him in the past, but I felt obligated to bring him into my future since he’s stood by me.

“Such a beautiful bitch you are.”

Miles smacks my ass and pulls out of me. I forgot to fake it, and it doesn’t seem to matter. He leaves the room soon after.

I can’t even be bothered to get myself off. Exhaustion seeps through me. I grab my oversized tee and put it on. Slipping on the shorts, I make my way to the bathroom, the cool floor sending a shiver up my spine.

Rounding the side of the shower, I find Miles facing the sink. His reflection in the wide mirror vigorously jerking off.

“Are you looking at porn?” I ask.

He turns, his cell is in one hand.

A picture of Leah, the bitch I hate from my work, is on the screen. Miles’s fist doesn’t slow as his stare shifts from his phone to my reflection in the mirror. He jerks into the sink, the spurts of come coating the basin.

“What the fuck are you doing?” My voice is shrill.

“You’re not blind,” he says. His hand grips the counter, glancing down at the white release before tilting his head and staring at me. “You just don’t do it for me anymore. I mean, look at her and look at you.”

Miles uses two fingers to scoop his come up before he wipes it down the side of my face. Shame curls around me as rage boils through my veins. Years of emotional abuse have prepared me to be calm at this moment.

“We’re done. I’m done with you and your bullshit.”

He darts to press me against the linen closet, his face twisting in utter disgust. “I’ll tell you when we’re done.”

“Get out of my house.”

“When I’m ready,thenI’ll leave. You’re my cash cow.” He sneers at me, then stalks out of the room.

I run the water, scrub my face, and use the toilet before heading to the bedroom. Miles isn’t in bed, and I’ve never been so fucking thankful for that.

Calling the cops would be useless. They didn’t help when I was a child. Every year in school, they told us we could always depend on an officer, but every time I told someone what was happening at home, I was left in that trailer to rot with my useless parents.

I lay on my side and my mind races, causing thickness to well up in the back of my throat. Silent tears run down my face.

Three

Billy

The sun has started to set as I park in the lot across from Meaty Burgers, easing back in my seat. Brute was finished and picked up earlier than intended, so I’m here early.

I twist my moustache to soothe myself. My body is ready to jump out of its skin, waiting. Drumming my fingers on the steering wheel doesn’t do enough, and I open the centre console to pull out a cigarette. I roll down my tinted window as I light it.

After a few drags, I sit up. Burger Boy is walking out of the building wearing jeans and a button down. He waits on the sidewalk as a woman with multi-coloured hair leaves the paramedic station next door and runs up to him. Her petite frame is dwarfed by his. They laugh together before he walks to her car, and she drives away.

He gets into his Honda Civic and pulls out of the lot. I follow him. He arrives at a seedy motel about fifteen minutesout of town.

The neon sign is broken, leaving only theOandELglowing in the dim evening light. A pay-by-the-hour joint, the type you shoot up in or bring your skank.

Miles parks, and soon the same girl pulls in beside him. She steps out, and they hold hands before entering the front area. That’s not very boyfriendly of him, fucking prick.

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