Levi's P.O.V
One Month Later:
I watch her sleep: Sasha.
I note the similarities between her and Baileigh. There are a few, mainly their facial features: nose, plump lips, the almond curve of their eyes, but there are so many vast differences.
Where Baileigh had a carefree, relaxed persona most of the time – her rage and pain only coming out in bursts when she felt too broken to shield them – Sasha’s pain is laid bare, especially as she sleeps. Even I don’t believe she knows how readable she is.
She fights sleep. Her body is restless, but not in a jerky, dramatic way. It’s subtle movements. I have to observe closely to note, but they’re there; A twitch of her brows, a frown that touches her lips and dips them downward a moment, a sharp gasp here and there.
She’s filled with it, and I believe sleep thins the barrier between those painful memories and reality.
It’s silly to watch her protectively. My past has proved my ability in that category pathetic – I couldn’t save her sister – and I almost couldn’t save her. Yet, I’m unable to pull myself away.
I sit between her and the bedroom door of our small apartment in the Colorado mountains, graciously extended to us by Silas. The poor fucker who’s gotten himself into something awful with Jesse’s daughter – the stuck-up, unfathomable bitch. I’ve dealt with her enough to know Silas and her are opposites. She’s the easily instigated, and Silas is the provoker. It’s a fucking recipe for disaster and yet it was the solution to my misery.
Truly, if anything, he was the one to save Sasha. Not me.
The thought makes me bow my head shamefully.
I should’ve sacrificed more.
The sound of slight movement makes me snap my head up and narrow my eyes, the moonlight the only thing illuminating our bed.
Her eyes are open, observing me with a curious expression. I’ve come to learn that regardless of my rugged exterior, she can read me. She understands the pain.
She is better suited for me than Baileigh ever was.
With Baileigh, I pretended.
I pretended my pain wasn't as palpable as it was.
I fucking pretended I could hide for however long it took for her to remain mine. Look what fucking good that did her.
With Sasha, I didn’t pretend. Not in the same ways. I was discrete, but I never suppressed the monster within me, not fully.
And yet she flocked to me. It seemed like the more uncontainable my rage, my masochistic tendencies, the more she clung to me.
I didn’t understand it. I wouldn’t let myself for so long, because something that fits so perfectly in my life couldn’t possibly exist. I didn’t deserve it, and I still don’t.
“Stop that,” She breathes, the first words to leave her lips as she’s continued to observe me from across the room. Her eyes flicker between me and the door, and she bites her lip thoughtfully. “I can tell you’re upset with yourself…”
“How?” I goad, curious to see if she’ll fail, if this pretentious idea that she’s perfection will waver and reality will resume, the reality where I realize she is not my missing piece, but her response does the opposite. It solidifies the comfortable fit of her at my side.
“Because I’ve known you long enough to note the source of your pain. The biggest source of it. Self-loathing.”
I lick my lips, a ghost of a bitter smile moves onto my lips before I sigh.
“You should rest,” I comment. She rolls her eyes. I won’t get rid of her scrutiny that easily.
“No.” She shakes her head. “Not until you do,” she counters, knowing I won’t be asleep for hours. I run a hand through my hair, fingers flexing to pull at the locks, but I’ve learned to control my urges a bit more than usual. I don’t want to bring her stress, but I still crave the pain as much as I crave the pleasure. It enlivens my soul; reminds me I am human.
When I was a child, I felt less than human. So much so that I tried and failed at killing myself.
I had to harness my own pain so that it didn’t weaken me to that point again, it armed me instead.
I’ve come to believe I’m more powerful with it.
She rubs the bed, sitting up and waiting for me to give in to her and climb in. She knows it won’t result in me falling asleep, but her prolonged wakefulness – the culprit of why she’s become so tired these days.
“You won’t sleep,” I reply dryly.
She swallows and shakes her head. “I don’t care.”
It isn’t an argument I’m going to win. The past month has proved that. I press my palms against my thigh, firming my lips as I shake my head at her.
“Fine,” I gripe before I stand and move across the room to the bed. I climb in, and she snuggles up against me, her head resting on my chest as she begins to draw patterns into my skin. It’s always the same thing. Her sister’s name, but with each passing day, she doesn’t seem as affected by it.
It’s more a respectful remembrance.
I grab the hand she traces the letters with, and raise it to my mouth, the glint of the ring on her finger is amplified by the moonlight. It’s something I had left of Baileigh’s. Sasha insisted it wouldn’t bring her pain, but comfort.
I catch her staring at it throughout her day, and I observe her expression and despite the hurt that I see in the way her expression is marred, I find that she ends her nostalgic viewing of the ring by touching that hand to her heart.
I kiss the ring on her ring finger.
Marriage isn’t in the cards for us.
Normalcy eludes us even in the most mundane of circumstances like now.
We won’t have children.
As I’ve expressed my disdain of the possibility, and surprisingly, she has expressed that as well.
We are enough broken pieces that fit together to make something whole.
Breathtakingly twisted.
It’s enough for me.
***
Excerpt from Season three Gentleman's Club: Silas
As if to mock me he lays beneath the comforter of a bed I don't want him in. He lets out a deep breath that is accompanied by a slight hum of amusement rolling off his tongue at the tension within my body.
He knows I'm annoyed and it fucking arouses him. I've had enough of his sarcasm. I've had enough of how he taunts my body as if I am a slave to the desire he conjures within me - the same desire I am determined to deny - but I know he is plagued with it too. I can see lust within him gleaming in his eyes when he toys with me.
I shove the blankets off the top of me, they bunch around my calves. I glare at him as he twists his head curiously to watch me. That notorious smirk he holds always hovers at the corner of his lips.
"Something bothering you, Jasmine," he asks, amusedly. I seethe with anger potent enough to make the walls crumble in this haughty home he's built.
Wordlessly, I spread my thighs and yank the thin, cotton shorts to the side. Exposing my pussy proves easy without the barrier of lacy panties I wouldn't bother using to entice my "new husband." I could laugh at that... new husband. The only thing real about this marriage is hatred.
His eyes move down my body to where my fingers splay, hovering above my mound. I watch him swallow and see that hint of longing, the kind that's painful, but addicting. I gasp when my fingers make contact with my slit, and I'm surprisingly wet for someone who wants to murder the man lying beside her. My fingers glide easily along my pussy, my arousal contesting my pure disdain for the man beside me.
I rub relentless circles on my clitoris, coating it like a treat, from my juices. I don't deny myself the pleasure it brings, because I've been denied enough as a result of this god-awful arrangement. His breathing hitches in his throat, and I know if I pull back the blanket I'll see the intimidating outline of a cock that's straining to be dipped between the chocolate of my thighs.
"Something bothering you, Silas?" I parrot, tauntingly. Silence follows my question - rare where he's concerned - he always has a snarky comment, but I love the deafening sound of quietness. It amplifies the gravity of this moment because with each passing second, my pussy flows from the pleasure I'm inducing until the sound of my wetness drowns out all.
I can tell he's struggling to resist me, he's struggling to remain unaffected. Now, who's powerless to their own desire?
"Listen to me moan, Silas. Listen to the ample juices of my pussy as I play with myself, hell, watch my fucking fingers glisten and know you will never have a taste of this."