One Word | H.S.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Pretty Boy's POV

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Blue.

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It never stops.

The firing of the barrel never leaves my brain, my demented thoughts constantly punctured with past bullets.

No amount of whiskey will ever numb me from the haunting sounds, the complete tormented home that I'm forced to reside in.

There are moments I'm freed, my torturous mental being put up for lease only moments at a time.

But, it's never long enough.

My body sits on the edge of the mattress, my cheeks hollow as my brain is too full. This is how it has been since the night at the club, days long with empty stares.

-

The line goes dead, my heart sinking to my empty stomach as I rush out of my caved room. My boots sound throughout the entire apartment as my fists bang on Cade's door, "Unlock the fucking door!"

They always want to meet at a fucking strip club, their minds stripping of any intellect as they choose Sugar's.

Are those men that fucking horny? They have been meeting at that damned club for weeks, changing their meeting place from that dive bar close to Milo's.

Not even the infamous Mary grabs my attention. I mean, aside from that one time.

Was weak that day, don't know why.

Cade doesn't open the door, my heart racing as my fists bang harder. I'm sure this will bruise, and I really don't want to explain myself to anyone. Rather not be put on display for the world to see. 

The muscles in my arm pulsate, a loud 'fuck' escaping my lips as the front door opens. I twist my body, the blonde Jesus-wannabe standing dumbfounded as he holds another case of that fucking Bud Light.

The pussy beer.

He wearily drops his keys onto the counter, his eyes narrowed to slits as he takes in my frantic body, "What's going on?" His voice cracks, worry of both the current situation and my manic self settling in.

Cade has been like this for the past three years, constantly acting as though I'm on the verge of shattering, my mental state being glass that will fall to pieces if dropped even slightly.

Usually, when he tries to help, I slam the door in his face or curse him out, but he refuses to stop. There have been times that he's cracked the door, peaking his head through as he ensures my safety.

It's fucking annoying.

I lunge forward, grabbing his phone from his hand, "Presley, is she at work?" My fingers unlock the screen, his dumbass-self keeping the same code since we were eighteen.

He deserves to get hacked. I mean, 1234? An embarrassment.

His face drops quickly, his hands ripping the phone from my grasp as I stretch my arm to retrieve it, "I don't know. Why? Is she okay?" The words fumble out his mouth, his face formed with worry as the possibility of tonight's outcome burns my body.

When those men are present, everyone in the room is at risk of danger. They never seem to control their temper, the end of each meeting ending with confrontation and the stopping of a heartbeat.

Just like his. 

The intensity of both our stares causes the walls to close, "Call her," I demand, my incessant worry shocking me as the words stumble out faster than the movement of Cade's fingers.