Page 10 of Reckless Hearts
Chapter 6
Past
I kept having a recurringdream about them.
Every night once I allowed my body and mind to relax and fall asleep, they’d come to me in the best, most erotic dreams. Ones where I was with London and Cam, together.
Touching, and kissing, and fucking. It was hauntingly beautiful.
And then somewhere in the middle of all the hot stuff, it would turn violent. All the colorful images of bodies and sex would be inked in black and red. Blood and death. I’d wake up and want to scream but would instantly remember where I was and stifle it back down, racked with tremors from the excruciating horror of the nightmare.
I’d lay back down on the top bunk, throwing off the flimsy, scratchy sheet, and shiver in the cold sweat that drenched me from head to toe. This happened every night for months.
It was worse when I’d picture Cam, decked out in his boot camp fatigues that I’d never see him in, sweaty from his drills, as he’d step into the empty bathroom where I’d be waiting.
In my imagination, I’d be right there to help him. Naked and hard for him. I’d watch as he removed his combat boots, then his socks and whip off his T-shirt, sweat-stained and smelling of him. A perfect combination of perspiration and masculinity.
“Let me help you,” I’d murmur, my hands landing at his belt buckle and slowly unclasping the metal buckle, pulling it from the loops and throwing it to the ground. “I want you in my mouth.”
Cam would wiggle his eyebrows and smirk, flexing his muscular biceps and arms as he’d lift his arms at his sides, allowing me room to maneuver.
Kneeling in front of him, I’d unbutton and unzip his camouflage pants, pulling at the flaps and dragging the material down and over his heavy erection. His hard cock would spring free, standing at attention like the soldier he was. My fingers let go of the material at his ankles and trail up his calves, enjoying the sensation of the coarse hair tickling at my palms, as I mapped out the terrain of his thick thighs.
I’d tease him mercilessly, enthralled with every sigh and moan out of Cam’s mouth, as I placed kisses everywhere other than his dick. He’d growl with displeasure and frustration and I’d chuckle at his impatience. Because I knew that deep down, Cam wanted me to make him feel good. He longed for me to take him in my mouth. To cup his balls. To make him come down my throat.
Even if in real-life he rejected me. Turned against me when all I wanted to do was to love him. I’d fallen in love with Cam when I was thirteen years old. That love had to be disguised and kept hidden in the dark recesses of my heart out of fear of losing his friendship. From the sheer panic over losing him as my best friend.
“You’re such a faggot ass queer, boy.”
My father’s icy-cold voice hits me across the jaw as forceful as if he’d taken a swing at me with a fist.
His dark, imposing figure hovers over me in my childhood bed. I’m fifteen years old again and he’s in my room, stumbling drunk.
I’d never come out to my dad, or anyone other than London. She just knew it instinctively. Understood that I found both girls and boys attractive and didn’t have any preference. But I never knew how my dad determined I was queer. I’d read up on the terminology, and found I identified more as a bisexual boy than gay, liking both girls and boys.
One boy, in particular.
Cam.
Maybe my dad just thought his insults were a way to hurt me verbally rather than being bound in truth. Who knew? My dad was never someone I’d understood or figured out.
He was just a drunken loser who failed at life, yet his voice rang out in my head as if he were still right there in front of me.
“You call this succeeding, boy? You’re in a fucking prison cell for killing me. You’re no better than me, you little shit.”
He’d always be there, taunting me from inside my head. Laughing sardonically at my circumstances.
I woke with a start once again, gripping the edges of my hair in my sweaty palms, my breaths loud and staggered.
Knowing I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep, I jumped out of the bunk, careful not to wake Clem, my cellmate, a sixty-year-old lifer. I sat down at the desk chair, sifting through a stack of letters I’d never intended on opening.
Letters from London.
It’d been a year. A fucking wasted year since I told her to leave me. To move on with her life. The irony of it is that she took my advice and did just that. She moved on and I stayed in the same hell hole.
London had told me about a guy she’d met at school named Clay. He was two years older, a senior about to graduate. He was attending Columbia Law School in New York in the fall and London was considering transferring to NYU to be near to him.
And away from me.
