Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
His face remains expressionless. “Did you always hate him this much?”
I don’t answer.
Fuck, I’m not even sure I know the answer.
Removing the candy cigarette from my lips as if it were the real thing, I pretend to blow smoke rings. The motions are all so realistic that I swear I can actually see the O’s floating in the air towards his glum mug.
“Your first drug. What was it?”
His question causes me to place the candy back in my mouth on a slow headshake. “You wouldn’t believe me if I fucking told you.”
“Impress me.”
For a moment, for an actual fucking moment, I wonder if I should.
It’s been ten fucking years. Ten fucking years, and every time I think back to why and how I ended up here, really fucking ended up here – this point in my existence where I don’t know what’s more damaged my body or my soul – the answer is always the same.
The. Exact. Fucking. Same.
Part of me doesn’t wanna let it go.
Part of me won’t.
Can’t.
“Collins, I’m not in the habit of repeating myself. That makes for a weak individual, and I am far from weak.”
Nodding that I understand, I remove the candy and blow out the imaginary rings once more.
Well, fuck me silly. I actually respect this asshole. Maybe because he scares the shit out of me. Or maybe…maybe it’s because he’s the first person I’ve met in years who looks like he wants to hear what I’ve got to say rather than just filling in the blanks with the usual bullshit of “rich kid woes” and “spoiled brat bullshit”. There’s something about Doc that’s declaring he wants to hear more than what’s written on the page or covered in the textbooks. That he wants to see for himself what sits in the space in between the clichés. Fucking truth is, I need someone to look there. I’m beginning to believe that’s the only place the Ryder Collins I wanted to be ever truly existed.
“Boring me is not an acceptable alternative to impressing me.”
The answer rolls off my tongue in a cryptic fashion, “Blue Dream.”
“Marijuana.”
I helplessly scoff, “That shit is not just marijuana.”
“It’s a hybrid strain. Often said to have a blueberry taste to it. Four hundred an ounce depending on the dealer and the authenticity of it all – authenticity that often requires dark market testing to protect both the buyer as well as the seller. To those who can afford it, asking for four fifty to five hundred isn’t unheard of, although the continuous competitive market has the price steadily increasing.”
Facts and figures like that only come from those who grow or sell it. Those weren’t fucking Google search numbers. Those were insider numbers. It was something ZD MC prided themselves highly in growing and distributing. Their network was vast. And their chokehold on high class weed – to this day – is the shit that makes the cartels antsy.
I swallow the new taste of bitterness overpowering the chalk flavor.
There’s something oddly disgusting yet soothing about talking to someone you know without a doubt has done more fucked up shit in their life than you have. As twisted as it is, it’s nice not to be in a room with someone who has a Brady Bunch Bachelor’s degree and whose biggest shame is which of Hollywood he hasn’t bedded yet. In a fucked-up sense, it’s almost like being around my own kind. Not because I was an MC member – fuck being a prospect and double fuck being locked that deep into shit despite how tempting it seemed – but because I’m not squeaky clean. Fuck, I’m closer to the bird shit he accidentally stepped in outside. With the other shrinks, it felt like shit to know that, but with Doc?
That shit actually seems alright.
Doc’s body stays still yet his mouth begins to move again. “The high you get from quality product like that is remarkable-”
“Exactly.” I slyly remove the stick. “That’s what being with her was like. Like having Blue Dream running through your system, all day, every day. Pumping through your blood like it had replaced it. Like it was the only state of fucking being you ever knew. She was my first high. That one you never stop chasing.”
For the first time since he sat down, I see his face move, proving he’s capable of showing emotions. Doc’s eyebrows dart down in curiosity. “Who?”
“Her name was Presley Morrison…”
--
Her wet tongue eagerly rolls against the underside of my shaft. The second it steals an unexpected stroke of my tip, I can’t stop myself from gripping her thick strands tighter at the same time I start coming.
Fuck, I love everything about coming with her.
The way her mouth hugs my cock like it’s thanking it for giving in. The way her dark brown hair falls around her light chocolate face, hiding her from the rest of the world that isn’t me. The pleased moan that never fails to leak out of her when my balls are clapping. All of that shit…all of that shit makes me come even fucking harder. And there’s never any “light” busting with Pres. When she sucks a fucking orgasm out, it’s always like she’s sucking my soul out with it. Sucking it out of me and deep into her. It’s like she’s always trying to rewrite herself with love for me. Like love from me is the shit.