That Which Destroys Me (2 page)

“Well I have over ten messages from your father that have gone without a reply. He is threatening my employment if you don’t reply to his eleventh. Can’t you just grab any damn intern and shove them into the mailroom or copy room, Wesley? Don’t make me lose my job over this, please.”

“Victor can’t do a damn thing to you or your employment, Rach. Don’t let him get your panties in a knot, babe. It’s a waste of very fine silk, I promise. Just make sure there’s a list of respectable interns on my desk on Monday morning, okay?”

“Yes, sir. And thank you for being in my corner, too. I appreciate it very much, Wesley.”

“Anytime, Rach.“ I tap end and toss the phone on the coffee table before running my hands through my hair and sighing.

I really have no time to have a sniveling little intern on my heels. And if I had
ANYONE
to hand this shit off to, I would. I would love to put them in the mailroom, but honestly, when it comes to anything that is a product of Jacobs Publishing, if it isn’t five stars … well, it’s always five fucking stars, so never mind.

This is just the perfect shit icing on my even more shitty cake.

“Thanks, Pops. Can’t take that I’m running this motherfucker better than you ever did because I have the balls that you didn’t.”

Why the hell am I talking shit to my old man out loud?

I make my way into the master bath and turn the shower full blast on hot before heading into my bedroom and pouring a tumbler full of scotch and downing it.

I really had well laid out intentions to stick to just beer tonight, but… I don’t know how much, if any, more I can take off my old man trying to still dictate my life from afar. I just don’t.

After I pour myself another crystal tumbler of scotch, I head back into the bathroom setting it down on the vanity counter top a little harder than necessary. I strip and walk into the reason I bought this penthouse.

Double-sided shower stall the size of the average American’s bedroom. Over 75 showerheads… Um yes, I’ll take it, and the penthouse too. Just saying.

As soon as those beautiful showerheads begin pummeling my skin and easing my muscle tension, the migraine that Cindy’s or Candy’s, or whoever she was, voice created begins to ebb.

My muscles are so loose that I barely manage a quick scrub and wash my hair before getting out of the shower.

I hook the towel around my waist, grab my scotch, and flop into bed without spilling a drop.

No, this isn’t a superb practiced maneuver, I’m just that fucking good. Well that and it’s damn near a nightly routine.

I hate to sound like a spoiled little pussy, but I have found myself asking this question more and more lately, when in the fuck did my life become so goddamn sad?

I don’t understand this conundrum. I have every rare car available. I own a penthouse in every major city, plus homes on four different beaches, one in the Colorado mountains, and the ranch in Wyoming that I’ve only been to the one time I signed the papers on it. I have women falling over themselves to get the chance to choke on my cock and I have more success than I know what to do with on every level.

So I ask: When and how did my life become so goddamn sad?

The only time excitement even strikes is when I’m at Chained, the BDSM club that is the only reason I made NYC my home.

That’s what I need.

I need to get my ass back to Chained. Find a suitable sub.

‘Cause these bitches like Candy or Cindy… They closely resemble eating baked lays, when what you really want is a damn fat ass bacon cheeseburger.

Yeah, I’m putting a call into Chained tomorrow.

That’ll shake me out of this shitty funk I’m in.

Chapter 2

The Fucking Shitty Life

“Seriously? Trina there isn’t one fucking internship! Not one! Gahhhhh! Why? Dammit, I just won’t do the internship leg of this program. I refuse.”

I can’t take it anymore. My head hits my keyboard, as my perfect, angelic, sister from another mister sets a glass of chilled Moscato next to my laptop. “Babe, listen to me.
You
need to pipe the fuck down. This is it. Right here, Stell. Everything you want is at your fingertips. Now jump on that motherfucking bull and ride that bitch for 8.” She leans over and pulls my pony tail until my neck is arched at an odd angle and locks eyes with mine, “And then, You. Are. Done.” Her smile is one she stole from Satan himself. I know it.

“Let go of my hair, bitch.” Trina kisses the air then heads towards the couch in the living room. I grab that perfect, beautiful, delicious glass of wine and chug that bitch. After a pleasure-filled moan and a exaggerated sigh I set the glass down and ask her over my shoulder, “You get enough bottles to get us both drunk, sis?”

“Nope, just one bottle. Not even enough to get one of us drunk.”

“The hell? You fucking tease. That’s a waste!” I stand up and hurry into the kitchen and fill my glass to the rim with the chilled wine. I look up smirking like the Cheshire cat at my best friend from across the butcher block island that separates our loft’s living room from the kitchen. She is glaring knives at me. “What?”

“You know what,” she sets her kindle down on the end table. “I’ll let it slide tonight. Go on, get it all out. You’re pissed, you’re upset. Now come on, lets get this pity party done and over with so you can accept what you can’t change and move on with it.”

I damn near swallow half the contents of my glass. “Trina,
I will not
work for that asshole. He is a player. He is a pompous dick head that thinks he’s God’s gift to women. No.” Shaking my head to emphasize my adamancy, “Will. Not.”

“Why? I don’t understand that part, Stella. You of all people can handle anyone, and I mean
anyone
. That’s just his reputation, hell you’ll probably never even see the bastard!”

“Pasta’s ready, you want one or two pieces of garlic bread, babe?” I say while rationing out a cup on each of our plates.”

“Ahh, just half of one.” Trina fills both our glasses with the remaining wine before she and I head to the living room and sit at the coffee table to eat our supper.

This is the norm for us. Neither one of us has ever understood how people can sit in hard chairs to eat at an actual dinner table. To us, it’s at least in the lower twenties of our ‘Why the fuck do people?’ list.

I’ve known Trina for more than five years, we instantly became friends in junior college. She’s my kinda bitch and I’m her kinda bitch. Neither of us take shit from one another; but at the same time, we never hold back.

Trina’s a real ass bitch and I honestly love the hell out of her for it. One thing about me you’ll probably learn pretty quickly is I can’t stand being around fake ass bitches.

Another reason that I have always considered Trina my sister is because anytime I try to twist some shit up in my head, either to point the blame on me or on someone else and it’s bullshit, Trina calls my ass out. Calls it like she sees it and I’ll be damned if she isn’t
always
spot on.

I’d like to say I help her mentally overcome her own demons and shit too. But I get the feeling that if this were a friend competition, yeah… she’d kick my fucking ass.

“Stell, answer the question. What is it about Jacobs Publishing House? You lived in complete and utter hell for the first sixteen years of your life, why can’t you live with working in a prestigious firm as an intern for one year?”

After I swallow the food in my mouth, I take a sip of wine. Setting it on the table, I look up at my friend. “You’re right, T. I can do it. I’ll be fine.”

She picks up a noodle and tosses it at my face, “Answer the question!”

“Shit! Just… look, okay I don’t want to fucking talk about it. Period. Just leave it alone.”

I scrape the remaining pasta into the trash, rinse it off in the sink and set it in the dishwasher. “You’re night to do dishes. I gotta go hop in the shower. I have five more firms to meet with tomorrow morning, starting at eight.” I sigh padding across the hardwood floors towards my bathroom.

Once I’ve showered and done my nightly routine—brushed my teeth, flossed, applied night moisturizer—I hop in bed and curl up with my Kindle and this hot as hell yet perfectly twisted motherfucker named Twitch.

Fuck yes, Twitch. Slap a belt around my neck and fuck me like you’re mad at me, baby.

I know, it is extremely odd that given the abuse I suffered by foster fathers, brothers and even weird ‘uncles’, you’d think I’d be more apt to find a nice boy. One that opens doors and holds me before and after making love. But, in all honesty, I can’t even make it through one date with a pussy-ass little boy.

Not that I date. Hell, if my hymen hadn’t been obliterated by my bastard father, then the bastard men I lived with in foster care... I’d probably still be a virgin… No, who am I kidding? I would still be a virgin.

I do just fine with my Twitch’s, Caleb’s, and Jesse Ward’s… Thank you.

My eyes begin getting heavy somewhere during a non-sex scene and I finally end up passing out. My dreams are fun at first, Twitch laden, if you will. But they take a dark turn right before I slip into a REM cycle.

Blood. Blood is everywhere. Soaking my hands, knees. It’s everywhere. I’m scared. I’m cold. There are no lights on. It’s dark, but I can still see his form silhouetted by the sliver of moon just outside the dirty trailer’s window. It’s cold. The blood is seeping into my sweatpants. It’s everywhere. So are the screams. They are everywhere too. I cover my ears to stop them, but the blood on my hands smears on the sides of my head. When I feel the blood drip down from the sides of my face and onto my neck, my vision blurs from my tears. Why am I crying? I don’t like this man. I hate him. I can’t remember a time where I didn’t hate him. All he does is hurt me. It’s all he has ever done, for as long as I can remember. He’s never been kind like my friend, Jill’s, daddy. I don’t know why my tears are falling. I don’t know who keeps screaming. But I need them to stop.

When I go to open my mouth and scream at them to stop, I realize I’m already screaming…

Those are my screams…

I’m jerked awake, drenched in a cold sweat with screams tearing through the membranes that cover my throat and esophagus. 

The entire frame of my body trembles as I pull myself from bed to start a warm bath. I peel the soaked clothing from myself. Instantly it causes flashbacks to bombard my consciousness.

As I sit in the tub huddled around myself with my chin resting on my knees, my eyes are fixed, staring at an old rust stain under the faucet.

My father’s breath in my ear, his weight on my back, the sounds of him grunting. Pain. Fierce, agonizing pain shredding the lower half of my body. Until his weight finally cuts off the circulation to my lower torso and extremities making everything numb. I can’t evade them. The memories, they continue battering my mind. Piercing through my consciousness and all I’m able to manage is to sit there and stare, watching the water drip over that fucking rust stain.

I lose concept of time.

I want to fucking cut so goddamn bad. It makes shit more clear. Makes it easy to focus. Focus on the shit I need to do, the next step. Like I don’t know… Say, get out of the fucking bathtub. Change my sweaty sheets. I haven’t cut in almost ten years though.

I haven’t felt the urge, or need to - at least not this strong - in almost five years.

It has to be all this pressure I’m under. Fuck, I don’t want to go back to therapy. I really don’t want to talk about my repressed memories. All the therapist ever wanted to talk about is me killing my father at the young age of seven to stop him from hurting me again.

“Babe? You okay? I thought I heard you crying.” I feel Trina’s dark brown eyes scan, searching my turned face while I continue staring at the damn rust stain. “You’re still in your sports bra and panties, Stella.” She pulls my hand that was resting on the edge of the tub into hers. “Your hands are cold,” I see her fingertips brush the water from the corner of my eye, “The water’s ice cold, Stella, come on…” she pulls me from the water, my eyes still haven’t left the stain, I feel a warm towel swathe around me. “Come on, sis, let’s get some clothes on you… You sleep with me, ‘kay?”

She turns the lights off in the bathroom and I blindly follow with that stain fixated now in my mind. I somewhat recall her drying me off, dressing me in a big warm hoodie and yoga pants, then tucking me into her warm bed.

I fall asleep, still staring at that fucking rust stain seared behind the lids of my eyes.

Chapter 3

Families are A Bitch- Even The Rich Ones