Recovery (9 page)

It didn’t take long for the aroma of sex to fill Emily’s bedroom. She bucked against Leo’s hand as he eased a third finger inside of her slit, massaging her erect clit with the pad of his thumb. “Oh god,” she moaned, gripping his cock harder in her hand. Emily had been with a lot of men over the years, but none of them ever touched her the way Leo did. Not even Stephen. She could feel her orgasm building in her loins and grasped at Leo’s hair, a soft mew of pleasure escaping her lips as she rode the wave.

Emily’s legs began to spasm and she arched her back, thrusting her pelvis upwards into the air. She moaned into the cusp of Leo’s neck, digging her nails into his back. He stared deep into her eyes, pumping his fingers harder in and out of her as she feverishly worked his swollen cock in her hands.

With a loud groan, Leo jerked forward, a long ropy stream of cum cascading from his cock. He sucked on the flesh of Emily’s neck as her body convulsed beneath him, the sound of her moans filling his ears as her own orgasm quickly flooded through her.

When it was over, they laid in each other’s arms, sweaty and at a loss for words. Hours later, Leo opened his eyes, blinking back the sunlight that leaked through Emily’s blinds. She was already awake, staring at him, her red hair matted against her face. She looked beautiful – almost identical to Layla.

“When you are going to tell her?” she whispered again.

Leo didn’t have to ask her what she was talking about. He shook his head, standing up and pulling on his clothing. He squared his shoulders, pulling on his leather cut and pausing in Emily’s doorway before speaking.

“I’m not going to.”

POISON HEART

"No one ever thought this one would survive.
Helpless child, gonna walk a drum beat behind.
Lock you in a dream, never let you go.
Never let you laugh or smile, not you."
 

☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼

There had been a time not long ago when Layla had dreamed of becoming an actress. What little girl in LA didn’t? Acting, to Layla, seemed no different than playing dress up, only on a larger scale. Long before Layla had ever landed any roles, she would stand on her tiptoes in her front of her mother’s wardrobe mirror, trying on the expensive clothing that men bought for her – a different one each weekend – all of them wealthy.

“Mom?” young Layla once asked. “Who are all these men? Why don’t they ever come back?”

But Emily dodged the question, kissing Layla lightly on the forehead and wiping away the red lipstick mark she left behind.

“That’s not for you to worry about,” she said simply.

Sighing, Layla pulled herself from her thoughts. She had been looking at her mother’s Facebook account on her phone to pass time, scrolling through each flawless photograph as she reminisced.  
It’s crazy what plastic surgery can do,
Layla thought. Emily didn’t look much older than twenty-five despite being in her late forties, and she owed it all to her daughter. Layla’s fame and fortune had afforded her mother endless rounds of Botox, lip injections and even new breasts. There wasn’t a single part of Emily that wasn’t artificially enhanced, but the men she spent her time with never seemed to care.

Layla paused on a photograph of her mother on a yacht in the arms of a handsome Swedish doctor. His name was Stephen, and he was the man Emily spent most of her off time with. He looked like a Greek god, and was hardly the kind of guy that craved natural beauty.

Not that Emily wasn’t one.

She had always been naturally striking, but in Los Angeles, getting work done was simply a rite of passage. At least that’s what she told Layla everytime she would point out how unnecessary it was. Tired of staring at a screen, Layla set her phone back down on the coffee table just as a text message came in. She picked it up, scrolling through the lock screen. It was her mother.

At least she texted instead of calling,
Layla thought. She read the message.

Where are you?

Sighing, Layla typed out a quick response. She told Emily that she had spoken with Ronald and needed a few days to digest the news, if the not so sudden end of your career was really something that could be digested. Then, Layla powered down her phone before her mother could reply, or more likely, call her to object.

“Fuck,” she whispered, standing up and limping towards the fridge. She opened it, grabbing a carton of orange juice and checking the expiration date on it. It was fresh. She took a sip, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her sweater.

Layla was beginning to get nervous. Leo had said he would be back late, but Chase had never given her any estimate on when he would be back with her fix. If he even intended to follow through on his promise at all. As Layla limped back over to her matted spot on the sofa, she realized that she was dying for a shower. Her dress was stained from the mud and rain and in the height of her withdrawal, she had practically soaked all the way through it with sweat. She smelled so awful that she was starting to offend herself.

Layla didn’t have a change of clothes, but she figured she would just wear something of Leo’s. She knew by now that he kept a drawer full of spare shirts in the cabins bedroom. Set on the idea, Layla entered the tiny cupboard sized bathroom. It was so small, in fact, that it couldn’t even accommodate a tub.

Layla stepped into the rusty shower, turning on the water. Giving it a second to warm up, she stripped off her clothing, folding it and setting it on the sink. The bathroom wasn’t ventilated and began to fill up with steam. Having trouble breathing, Layla cracked a window, sliding a balled rag beneath it to keep it up.

Then, Layla stepped into the tepid water, closing the shower door behind herself. She grabbed a half empty bottle of soap, lathering it in her hands and rubbing them over her body. Her ankle ached from standing, but there wasn’t enough room in the tiny cubicle like shower to sit down, and Layla wasn’t sure that she would test it even if there was. The shower floor looked as though it had not been scrubbed in decades. Layla leaned against the wall of the shower, gasping as the water cascaded down her soapy body.

Then, out of nowhere, she heard a noise. At first, she thought it was just in her head. It was a slight humming that was barely audible over the sound of the water, and when Layla heard it again, she assumed it must have been the cabin’s water heater. But then, it got louder. And closer.

Anxious and still covered in bubbles, Layla opened the shower door, grabbing the first towel she could find and wrapping it around herself. She rubbed the moisture from the window, looking outside. She couldn’t see anyone, but through the crack in the window, she could hear that the noise was coming somewhere from the front of the cabin.

Layla’s heart raced. She braced herself, unsure of what to do. She told herself that it was most likely just Leo returning, or even Chase with her fix – although that seemed more unlikely. Regardless, there was a part of Layla that couldn’t help but feel nervous. Just as she began to relinquish herself to her worries, she heard the noise again, only this time she could make out what it was.

It was the distinct sound of a bike’s engine revving.  

Relived and assuming that Leo had to be the source of the noise, Layla reached forward to lock the door before stepping back into the shower.
There’s no way he’s seeing me naked,
Layla told herself.

Not again. Not after Chase had confirmed her deepest worries. Leo was her father, at least in the biological sense, and Layla had decided that she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she ignored that for the sake of her desires. They were illicit. Wrong. And worst of all, incestuous. Feeling dirty all over again, Layla turned back on the water, washing the remainder of the soap from her body.

Then, she heard it.

A loud banging on the door, followed by a jiggle of the handle.

“Let me in,” Layla heard a voice say.

But it wasn’t Leo’s.

LOVE KILLS

"Love kills, Love kills, Love kills.
We still believe in anarchy, It makes me so damn angry
Sid and Nancy meant a lot to me, you may be dead but your souls are free."

☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼

“Shit,” Layla muttered.

The hardest part of saying no to drugs was denying them when they were right in front of you. Layla sat on the sofa, her hair still wet and dripping from the shower, watching as Chase ruffled through his backpack. Finally, he found what he was looking for. He pulled out a tiny dime bag of cocaine, tossing it to Layla. She caught it with shaking hands, thanking him quietly.

But she couldn’t bring herself to open it.

“You’ve already made it through the hardest part,” Layla heard Emily’s voice say in her head.

“Don’t.”

But Layla had never been one to listen to her mother. She looked up at Chase, who stared at her quizzically, his brows furrowed. He appeared visibly distraught by what he had just done. Giving cocaine to an addict, after all, was really no different than giving candy to a baby. They might not always choke on it, but the idea that they might was bad enough.

“I should go,” Chase finally said, but Layla shook her head.

“No,” she whispered, opening the tiny bag and sticking her finger inside. She brought it to her nose, inhaling deeply as her eyelids fluttered closed.

Instant euphoria.

“Stay,” Layla whispered, her eyes still closed as she rode the wave that crashed through her emaciated body. Her tremors stopped, her heartbeat slowing to a more tolerable thump. Her shakes disintegrated, and the tightness she had felt in her chest was no longer there either.

“Just for a while?” she asked, opening her eyes and staring deeply into Chase’s. He hesitated by the door, unsure of himself.

“I don’t know,” he began, “Leo is going to be back soon. I don’t want to be around when he finds you with that stuff.”

“Daddy’s little girl and what not…”

Layla cringed as the words left Chase’s lips.

“He’s not my dad,” she said sharply.

“Not really, anyway. And you can stay if you want to. I’ve been using this stuff since I was thirteen. I’m more normal on it than not.”

Chase didn’t seem entirely convinced, but he stepped away from the door anyway, taking a seat in the loveseat across from Layla

“So what’s your story?” Layla finally asked, making small talk despite her exposed appearance. Chase ran a hand through his hair before shrugging. Layla caught him staring at the bulge of her cleavage over the towel and blushed as he looked away.

“Do you…uh…normally just hang out in a towel?” he joked, dodging the question.

Layla laughed, rolling her eyes. She pulled the towel up higher, crossing her arms over her chest. “Not always,” she said, “but you didn’t answer my question.”

“Alright,” Chase finally said. “Well for starters, I’m not a California native,”

Layla watched as Chase kicked off his muddy boots, cracking open the beer in his hand. He took a drink, the wheels in his head turning as he thought of how to describe himself. Layla smiled. He seemed like an entirely different person than the man she had met just a few months prior. He was quiet and collected, even more so than Leo, and maybe it was just the high, but Layla found herself feeling safe in his presence.

“Go on,” she urged, stuffing the tiny bag of coke in her purse. For now, one hit was enough. She basked in the silence that filled the cabin, the sound of nature her only distraction. Crickets chirped periodically, and water leaked from the storm drains onto the windows, creating a soft patter against the glass.