Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Lars lived down the road from me. His mother was one of my father’s many victims. She came by our house to pick up whatever toxin my father was selling. She stood shaking by the kitchen door while her fingers scratched deeply into her flesh, adding to the scars protruding along her arms.
At moments like this, I was relieved my mother injected between her toes and only did enough smack to keep herself level. She would’ve gone over the ledge, but my father caught her chasing the dragon a few years ago and beat her so badly it set her straight. Sort of. She moved from heating and inhaling heroin to shooting it between her toes. Less messy and a hell of a lot more undetectable. So you could say that Lars and I already had something in common. Two junkie mothers.
One Saturday, Julianna Morgan, Lars’ mother, had been in such a rush to get high that she hadn’t even told Lars where she was.
“You’ve seen my mom?” he asked.
His voice startled me. I was lost in the music, tinkering with my grandfather’s busted-up guitar. I loved music and had no issues creating rhythm, even with rocks and sticks. But the guitar was a different beast. The sounds I pulled from the instrument were offensive to my ears.
“You mind?” Lars asked.
He held out his hand, and I gave him the guitar. He hoisted the instrument to his chest and strummed. My heart jumped as I gazed at his fingers gliding effortlessly along the neck as he plucked the strings, making life-altering sounds.
“Where did you learn to play?” I asked.
“My dad had one. When he died, I picked it up and messed around. I hear melodies in my head and used the guitar to get it all out.”
“Maybe you can bring your guitar over sometime, and we can mess around.”
Lars’ face fell, and he quickly shoved my guitar in my face. “Can’t. My mom sold it a few years ago to buy crack.”
I couldn’t look at him. I had issues talking to the kids of the junkies who came by. It was hard being civil to people when you knew your father was the reason their lives had gone up in smoke.
My gaze flickered between the guitar and Lars before I shoved the instrument back at him. “Take this one. The ax isn’t my thing, anyway.”
Lars shook his head. “No. My mom would pawn it. She pawns anything if she can get a few bucks for it.”
“You can keep it here. My mom’s too scared to touch any of our things. My dad would kill her.” I shoved aside to make a place for Lars to sit.
“Your dad doesn’t touch the stuff, huh?” Lars asked as he sat beside me on the cement steps.
“No. My mom used to be clean, too, but curiosity got the best of her.” I shrugged. “Guess one good thing came out of her being a junkie. I stay the fuck away from it.”
“I feel that,” Lars said. “So, you play any instruments?”
“Yes, the drums.”
“We should jam sometime. I’ve got a friend, Trevor. He’s a talented keyboard player. His dad’s fucked up.” He chuckled. “We should call the band Junkie Prodigy.”
I gazed at him and smiled. Something about Lars drew me to him. He had a way about him that made me comfortable. It was foreign to me. Everyone in town knew who I was: the giant kid whose father supplied everyone with a poison to snort, inject, or smoke. They made up their minds about me without even speaking to me. I’d spent my whole life hiding in the shadows, avoiding other people. None of them understood me, and I didn’t care to put myself out there to get ridiculed. But here was Lars, giving me an olive branch, and I couldn’t help taking it.
“Wanna meet here on Wednesday?” I asked. “I’ve got a shed out back. No one goes there.”
I’ve had many people suck my cock over the years, and hands down, Lars Morgan is the best. He doesn’t suck my dick; he worships it. Lars isn’t interested in reaching the destination as quickly as possible. For him, it’s all about the ride.
The lash of his tongue is the trees sweeping by on an open highway. The gentle nudge of his teeth is the wind blowing across your face on the back of a motorcycle, teasing excitement and fear. Yes, Lars’ mouth is a fucking exclusive rock club that has all the patrons clamoring to get inside.
I hold his head, relishing his gagging sounds. “Remember the first time I did this, and you puked? You’ve come a long way since then, haven’t you, my pathetic fuck boy? You’ll do anything to choke on your master’s cock.”
It was Lars’ idea to call me Master. We were fucking one night, and he screamed that he was a toy for his master to use. I never thought I was into it, but I quickly grasped how hot I found it as I came deep in his ass.