Page 15 of What if It's Us

I didn’t have a loving father figure in my life.

I didn’t have anyone teaching me how to fight my battles.

I didn’t have anyone calming the demons in my head.

At least not in the early childhood years when I needed it most.

The only thing I know of my father is that he killed my mother and that’s what put me into the spiraling do-se-do of foster families until I was thirteen. And the constant dance was what caused me to get into all kinds of trouble at any school I was forced to go to.

I became the troubled kid.

The angry one.

The one who would pick fights with other kids.

The one who got blamed for everything because it was easier to just accept fault and punishment than it was to argue my innocence. At least when I was being punished at school I was put by myself. I didn’t have to worry about what other kids were going to say or do then.

I was the one who would get suspended from school and then end up locked in a bedroom while my foster parents did God knows what during the day. Some of them went to work. Some of them slept all day so they could work at night. One of my foster moms had sex numerous times a day and always with different men.

That wasn’t fun to listen to.

So yeah, I blame my birth father for everything bad that happened to me before I found my forever family. And obviously if he was a terrible enough man to actually kill my mother, I don’t ever want to be like him.

And I don’t ever want to know anything more about him.

But what if I’m more like him than I know?

It’s one of my biggest fears now that I’m an adult.

What if he passed on all of his horrible traits and they’re just suppressed and waiting to explode out of me?

I don’t want to pass any of his attributes to a helpless child.

Where’s the fairness in that?

If I don’t have kids, then any negative killer-like tendencies can die with me.

My back sufficiently red from the heat of my shower water, I glance down at my now very limp dick resting in my hand.

Well…guess that’s not happening now.

My phone dings in my bedroom so I turn off the shower and grab my towel, wrapping it around my waist. I go through my regular nightly routine of brushing my teeth and going to the bathroom one last time and then refill the empty glass on my nightstand with water.

I don’t bother slipping on a pair of boxers since I’m all alone tonight, much like every night thanks to my irrational fear of starting something with Marlee coupled with a complete disinterest in any other female who isn’t her. Flipping off thelight, I finally fall into bed and then reach for my phone to check the text message waiting for me.

Marlee

Hey Ledger, I've got quite a plea. Like a slapshot, it’s quick and carefree. I don’t need a loan, just some sperm of your own. Would you donate your orgasm to me?

I know full well this message should not be giving me the visceral reaction it’s giving me but seeing a text from Marlee Remington asking me for an orgasm has my dick harder than an ice rink on game day.

I bolt up in my bed and lean against the headboard, studying the text message and reading it over and over again.

What the hell is she doing?

Wait…could this be a prank?

Is that actually Marlee’s number?

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