Page 36 of Heavy

The frustrating part is that I can’t drink alcohol to get her out of my head—not as frequently as I did during the first couple of weeks here. I’d love to blame it on the way it gives me the wrong kind of high I’m seeking. Lately, the alcohol hits me differently, probably because I haven’t consumed it this consistently in fifteen years. It leaves me with a persistent headache, and the “drunk” feeling I get is more like death knocking at my door trying to say hello.

But that would just be an excuse. The real reason I’ve stopped is my concern for Cal. The way she came home that night has me on edge, and I can’t shake the fear that it might happen again. If I’m drunk and she feels the need to call me, I won’t be able to help her…

I groan loudly. All I want to do is fuck her, not exude any hero-tendencies. I’m anything but that, especially when it comes to her.

I’ve been staring out of the garage when the door opens behind me. Speaking of the fallen angel herself. As if she expects me to engage with her, Calista points at her phone and dashes right out, heading straight into the thicket.

My eyebrow raises in surprise as I watch her go. Must be too loud in here for her, or maybe she’s on a top-secret phone call. Part of me wonders if she has a boyfriend she hasn’t mentioned. The odds seem slim, though—I can’t imagine her mother wouldn’t have casually asked how he was doing or where he was right now.

I think I’m beyond caring at this point. I’m intrigued about what her pussy tastes like and if she makes sweet, innocent noises when she comes.

Grabbing my cock and adjusting myself, I take a few steps out of the garage and let the soft breeze hit me. I should probably rub one out before I accidentally do something we both regret.

A loud ‘kree’ pulls my attention upward, just as a hawk flies overhead. It’s repetitive, and I imagine some would find it annoying, but oddly enough, not me. It lands onto one of the many blue spruce trees. As though it can sense me staring, it looks down at me.

I hum softly and tuck my hands into my pants. I’m not entirely sure how long I stand here having a staring contest with a bird, but when feet crunching on gravel catches my ears, I blink rapidly and turn my gaze downward.

Cal is approaching slowly, and her eyes are trained upward right where I was looking.

“A Ferruginous Hawk,” she offers.

I don’t return my gaze to it, just keep my attention on her. I’m not entirely sure why I’m so in tune to this… girl, but clearly something has upset her. It isn’t just that her cheeks are red and lips are swollen, no it’s deeper than that. Sort of like an energy I can feel.

“Everything okay?” I have no idea why I even ask.

“It will be.” She hugs her phone to her chest. “You like hawks?”

Clearing my throat, I finally look back at the animal still perched in the tree. “Birds remind me of freedom.”

“Oh…”

I chuckle softly and turn to head back inside, wanting to avoid diving too deep into that statement. The last thing I want is for her to start looking for ways to “fix” me.

“Wait, I’ll go inside. You can stay out here.” I halt and turn to face her, and the sadness she tries to mask with a smile overwhelms me with emotions I didn’t know I had. Why do I feel this sudden urge to comfort her?

Damn her.

Without saying anything, I give her my back and head into the house.

12

Ronan

Thefeelingoftheneedle driving back and forth through my skin is like a scorching flame I'd walk through without hesitation. I’ve been under the tattoo gun for hours, but the pain barely registers.

Since being free, I’ve drifted in and out of myself—some days are better, some worse. I keep half-expecting something to happen, for cuffs to snap around my wrists, and for some cop to haul me back to a cell that once felt like my only place of protection.

When I got out at twenty, after going in at seventeen, I knew I'd be going back. This time it was no different, I was sure of it. Now, though, something has shifted. A strange worry shadows me with the thought of going back, like a storm gathering on the horizon, heavy and tense, but refusing to break.

As the tattoo artist leans in closer to inspect her work, she shuts off the machine and squirts saline solution, wiping away the excess ink and blood. She’s working on a spot on my upper thigh, as my upper body is scarce of room.

This kind of contact, tied to the sting of the needle, is the only touch I can tolerate without wanting to strangle the one doing it. It’s a discomfort, a physical sensation that’s manageable, unlike the emotional weight that comes with an unwanted touch.

Before my appointment, I instructed her not to touch me besides what was absolutely necessary. Outside of selecting her due to her talent with color, she’s a lesbian. I stalked her social media before making the appointment. I’m not in the mood to dodge flirting right now, and as much as I really need to fuck a hole, it isn’t hers I’m interested in.

“Looks great,” she comments, drawing the paper towel once more across it.

Until now, I haven’t had a single colored tattoo. I’ve always preferred them dark, like my attitude toward living. However, I feel like it’s fitting since recently I’ve started to see a bit more pigment in my life.

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