Page 38 of Heavy

UGH!

Will you come have drinks with me tonight?

No. Don’t drink and drive or I’ll beat your ass.

I ignore the follow-up “fuck you” text and move back to Ken, typing out my response.

Yeah, I’m free. Send me the meet-up location

Would I rather go out to drinks with Calista? That’s a complicated question.

Since the week after that dinner at her mother’s, I’ve struggled not to make any move on her. It’s this sense of control and domination, not necessarily physical. I want to see her drop to her knees and beg foreverything.

Does she want to take a shower? Beg for it.

Does she want to have a cup of coffee? Beg for it.

Then when she forgets to do it, I want to see just how pale her ass is and turn it red under my palm.

Just because I’ve not allowed any man or woman to touch me, doesn’t mean I’ve denied myself the pleasures I crave. Most give me what I want with their eyes off of me, hands and knees smashed to the ground, giving me all they are good for: a hole to fuck. That allows me to be satisfied, because that’s all sex is—a hungry beast, always waiting to be fed.

The need these days to satiate that craving with Calista has been incredibly difficult to ignore.

What’s different is I want her flat on her back so that I can see her face turn red with shame at me coming all over her chest and face. To use my fingers to gather my cum and shove it into her mouth, cause her to gag while I force her to swallow what I give her.

I want to make her cry, scream, even try to run. I want her to feel the fear, to see the monster I am. I need her to stop looking at me like I’m some broken thing, something that just needs patching up to fit society's version of “redeemable.”

And yet, there are moments when I want to let her touch me, to see if her fingers wouldn’t hurt, or without stirring that violent feeling in me. In those times, I wonder if it’s possible to feel anything other than hate.

It’s those exact feelings that brought me here, ditching Ken to sit in this godforsaken bar, beer in hand, watching Calista chat with her friend.

Her friend’s pretty—no surprise, considering Cal is too. They both look like they’d be the popular cheerleaders in high school, which explains the attention they’re getting from nearly every guy who walks in.

I’m going to chalk up my decision to come tonight to my concern over her so-called ‘rough fuck’ from a few weeks ago, or maybe a need to see who said designated driver was. To say I was grateful it wasn’t some guy, is an understatement. The relief that washed over me was foreign.

I’ve been here about an hour now, ignoring Ken. I didn’t completely ghost him—I’d intended to go help him, but the pull to be here was stronger. So I told him something came up, that he’d either have to wait or call someone else, then silenced our texts. I didn’t want distractions.

From this distance, I can’t make out much of their conversation, but Calista says something that makes her friend toss her head back, laughing.

I finish off my beer just as a group of guys move in on them. My blood simmers. Talking is fine; but they’d better keep their hands off Cal.

She’s had one… no scratch that, five too many drinks, and I can see in the soft droop of her eyes that she’s far too drunk to make good choices. I’m not here to be her hero, but I’ll be someone’s villain if needed.

I’m grateful her friend appears to be the responsible one. She’s only had one beer, and now is sipping on water.

For the most part, the four guys keep it respectful. One of them leans over the table and snags a chip from the basket that’s been sitting there untouched for the better part of half an hour.

Calista says something, and her friend points a finger at the guy, probably telling him to fuck off. They all laugh, shoving each other playfully. But then one of them makes a stupid move, and I find myself wondering if this place has cameras.

He rests his hand at the curve of Cal’s shoulder, fingers edging toward her neck. She tries to swat him away, but he insists on staying too close. I keep myself in check—until she tries to pull away again, and he still won’t release her.

Then she hits him. Not a slap either; that firecracker goes straight for a closed-fist, jaw-cruncher. The guy barely staggers back, probably more stunned than hurt. I’m edging out of my chair the moment his hand goes for her arm.

This is exactly why I’m here.Villain it is.

When Cal’s friend stands up and hurls the rest of her water in the guy’s face, one of his buddies grabs her wrist.

The screech of my wooden chair scraping against the floor is drowned out by the blood rushing in my ears. I weave through the crowd of onlookers until I’m just a few steps away from them, and that’s when her chartreuse eyes lock onto mine. Her mouth opens wide, but I can’t quite read her expression. For some reason, she shakes her head, almost pleadingly.

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