Page 3 of Broken Warrior
Seems fitting to cut lines with a symbol of intelligence, a symbol of a thirst for knowledge tainted with the powder and dust of one of the most powerful drugs on the market. Only an idiot would do something as stupid as this.
An idiot who knows better.
A genius with an addiction that has its claws embedded so deep it could pull him under as soon as the next line is snorted and I can’t help but welcome it a little.
I’m not suicidal, not right now, but I’m not against the idea of dying if it means all of this will fucking stop. I can’t do this anymore, can’t keep up with the lies and the distance, can’t handle the everyday battle in a much bigger war.
I just can’t keep fucking doing it.
And yet, here I am, snorting lines of heroin off a fucking vintage hand mirror while my mother’s in-home nurse gives me a blowjob in the middle of my childhood living room.
Fucking pathetic.
My body starts to relax, goes warm and tingly as I slip under the blanket of a false sense of comfort, the drug immediately wrapping me in her soothingly deadly embrace. The now empty mirror slips from my fingers as my hands drop to the beat-up cushions on either side of my hips, my hips that lift and force my dick further down Shelley’s throat.
She gags a few times, coughs around my shaft, and when she lifts her head to come up for air, I see tears and snot running down her face.
“What’s with you today?” Shelley asks as she pumps my cock in her hand. “It normally doesn’t take you this long to get off.”
She’s not wrong.
We’ve been fucking around ever since I hired her to help with my mother, and even if I’d just busted a nut with Lola or whoever else was convenient, Shelley could still suck me off in record time and be out the door before her next shift at the nursing home.
But for some reason, I can’t get there today.
I woke up with this feeling of dread sitting like a boulder in the pit of my gut—inherited Prez’sdoom gutsyears ago according to him and my dad—and it’s made everything I’ve tried to do fucking impossible, including getting off before I go shopping with my family.
But since I’m an asshole that doesn’t need to talk about that with anyone, let alone the private nurse who does nothing but care for my mother when I have to leave, or let me fuck her in one place or another before I go, I just grab a fistful of Shelley’s hair and shove her back down on my not quite hard enough dick.
My head drops to the back of the couch as I start fucking her mouth, the heroin making me less edgy and a little fuzzy, but not out of sorts. It takes a lot of fucking dope to get a guy my size fucked up and since that’s not my purpose right now, I can still think clear enough to know I should have gotten off twenty minutes ago.
Shelley is pretty, not really my type, but pretty in her own way. She’s kind and smart, and real fucking good at her job. Her body is nice, a little too thin for my taste but I’m not trying to date her, just get my dick wet whenever the situation calls for it. She knows it too; knows that despite the years of screwing around, I don’t want anything else from her; knows she’s not the only one I fuck around with, and by all accounts, Shelley is fine with that. Whenever she wants to seriously date someone, we stop whatever we’re doing and go back to nurse and patient-guardian, but in between, she’s always down for a quick fuck or a blowjob.
I didn’t even stop messing with Shelley while I was sort of dating Lola. Partly because I knew she was cheating constantly; partly because I didn’t love the bitch or want to settle down with her. I just wish I’d known she was a fucking mole, using me to get info on my family and wound up causing one hell of war between clubs before I let her completely ruin me.
Everyone thinks I’m still reeling over ending shit with her. Jackal is worried as fuck, Cy too for that matter, but it isn’t the loss of Lola Bridges that has me off-kilter. It’s the guilt of bringing a back-stabbing, two-faced cunt like her into the fold, and the loss of what she supplied me with over the last eight months.
That’s why I’m slowly shutting down, shutting them out, and a big chunk of the doom twisting in my guts.
I already hated myself in a way that would make any psychiatrist cream their shorts, and after all that shit went down on top of it? Yeah, I’d be cool if I accidentally snorted a cocktail that put me out of my misery.
“Spider,” Shelley slurps around my dong. “This isn’t— “
My phone starts screaming from the coffee table, so I lift my head, push her back down on my quickly deflating boner, then lean forward and answer before I even see who it is.
“Yeah?” I drop back against the tacky and worn, puke-orange couch, and try to focus on the way my semi still hits the back of Shelley’s throat.
“Got a situation,” Cy—Zak—whispers into the phone and that shit brings me right back to reality.
I give Shelley’s hair a more gentle tug, and when she meets my eyes, I nod toward the spot on the couch next to me then start tucking my dick back into my jeans quickly with both hands as I press my cell between my ear and shoulder. “What’s up?”
“I gotta make this quick. Theo is trying to put herself back together in the bathroom but— “
“Is she ok? What happened?” I get to my feet, grab my paraphernalia, and start toward my bedroom after a quick signal for Shelley to wait.
Theo, Zak’s old lady, is quickly becoming one of my favorite fucking people outside of the Executive Committee, and after the shit that went down at Prez’s wedding, I’m just as protective of her as my brother is.
Not in the same way though. If anything, Theo is like the little sister I never had, that feisty little blonde standing up for me when no one but the inner circle has. She exposed Lola for what she was, told her off on my behalf, and then fought the bitch in order to defend me as well as our family after only a few hours of knowing us. Blondie proved right then and there that she’s ride or die, a Wulven King to the core, and that’s exactly why I killed for her and would do it again in a heartbeat, just like any one of the rest of the EC or their old ladies.
