Page 4 of Consumed By Desire
“Was that her in here earlier?” a voice catches my attention.
“Yep, that’s the little bitch,” another voice says, and I am thrown back to high school instantly. The voice tormented me for almost my entire high school career. The way children with disabilities were treated and dealt with thirty-plus years ago and how they are dealt with now is night and day. Trent went out of his way to torment me, stuff me in my locker, beat me up, give me wedgies, and embarrass me every chance he could find. The summer between junior and senior year, I grew more than a foot and gained about thirty pounds. Kruze helped me learn to fight, but on my first day as a senior, I learned Trent was transferred to a private school, and I never got to confront my childhood bully. But as I stand here, it’s his voice that has made its way to my ears, standing right next to me. I look at the reflection on the fish tank to confirm my suspicions and confirm it is Trent standing there.
“This is the first time I have seen her close up, and I must say she has a lovely ass and a nice set of tits that will do her well after I reduce her to nothing. She can use them when she is on the street corner giving blow jobs for twenty dollars,” he says, and I squint my eyes as I begin to worry about who he is talking about.
“Damn, what did she do to you to piss you off to this point?”
“That’s between me and the tight-assed whore. You know, before I put her to work on the corner, I’ll let her keep my dick wet; she’ll be a good bed wench. I’ve always wanted to fuck a colored cunt, and Shannon looks like she has a juicy twat,” he says, laughing, and I see black; red isn’t adequate.
I had thought he was talking about Shannon, but his saying her name solidified it. Stan sets my bottle on the bar top just as I turn to tap Trent on the shoulder. As soon as he turns around to face me, I draw back and punch him in the face as hard as I can. I hit him again and again until he took a bottle from the bar and hit me along the side of my face, causing me to stagger back before hitting him again. Soon, hands are pulling me off of him, “Legend! What the hell, man! This isn’t some dive. Both of you can leave,” Erik says, pissed off. Luckily, there is no recording at York.
“Legend?” Trent says through two busted lips and a fractured jaw. “Legend Morehouse?” he asks, squinting at me. He laughs at me like he used to back at school, “You’re going to regret that.”
“Yeah, you will, too,” I tell him, snatching the bottle of Macallan 72 off of the bar and storming out.
I have never been so mad in all my life, I think as I take a swig from the bottle, the liquid burning a path down my throat. I walk down the street with no real destination, trying to calm down. After a while, I look up and realize I have been walking for over an hour, and I am a long way from home, and my bottle is all but empty. I throw my hand in the air when I notice a taxi driving down the road and watch as it stops before me. I get in the car and give the first address that comes to mind as I sit back and continue drinking from the bottle.
“You can’t drink that in here,” the cabbie says, prompting me to pass several hundred-dollar bills to him before I tell him, “Drive.”
I reached the destination. I leave the car and take a second to get my bearings since the ground is moving beneath me before I enter the lobby. “Hello, Mr. Morehouse,” Mitch, the concierge, says when I stumble inside.
“Mitch,” I slur out as I hit the button for the penthouse suite, getting on the elevator after the doors slid open. I wave to him as the doors slide shut, I have only been here once when Kruze asked me to pick up Trinitee for him, but it was the first place I thought of when I got into the cab. Once outside the door, I take the last swig of whiskey, using the bottle to knock on the door hard. I wait a few minutes, and when I do not get an answer, I knock again. I rest my head on the door and wait, preparing to knock again if I need to. I raise the bottle to knock when the door is ripped open, and I almost fall flat on my face.
“Legend! What the hell are you doing at my house!?” Shannon says as she catches me and stops me from falling.
CHAPTER2
Who the hell is banging at my door like they don’t have good sense? I think as I hop out of bed, throw on my robe and slippers, and stomp my way to the door. There are times when I let emotions override good sense, and this is one of those times when I don’t bother to look through the peephole before snatching the door open and catching Legend in my arms.
“Are you crazy?” I ask him as I push him off of me. “It’s almost two in the morning. What would make you think coming to my house at this time of night is acceptable...|” My rant tapers off once I get a good look at his face. “Oh my god, Legend, what happened to you? You look a mess. You have dried blood on your face! What happened to you?”
“I was hurt defending your honor, milady,” he says, slurring his words, saluting me with the empty bottle in his hand, hitting himself in the head again, opening up the wound that was starting to scab over.
“What are you talking about defending my honor, and you’re bleeding again! “Come in the bathroom so I can take a look at you,” I tell him, taking his hand and leading him into the bathroom.
“That’s smexy,” he shakes his head, “I mean it’s sexy,”
“Legend,” I say to him.
“Oouu is this one of your hats?” he asks, grabbing a glass abstract-shaped bowl, flipping it over, causing the glass balls to drop and shatter all over the floor, before setting it on top of his head. “Look!” he yells causing me to flinch from the sudden noise. “I’ve freed a village of little glass people!” he points at the glass that has scattered over my floor.
“You’re going to replace those,” I say before snatching the bowl off his head none too gentle before setting it back on the table while avoiding the broken glass on the floor.
“Sit,” I say after putting the toilet seat down. “Talk,” I tell him once he sits down.
“Why did you take my hat, Shanley, Shandon,” he laughs a little, “Shannon?”
“Did you drink that entire bottle?”
“I am not drunk if that’s your implynin,”
“Oh yeah, not drunk at all,” I say as I run the water and wet a washcloth to begin cleaning him up.
“He was right,” he says to me once I am cleaning him up.
“Who was right?”
“Tucking Frent,” he says, getting worked up again.