Stories I Never Finished

Flightless

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|————~ P R E V I E W ~————|

He wasn't a perfect man. Cold blue eyes, dull black hair, a body chiseled from years in and out of various prisons—hopping between bails and cheap arrests for chaos or violence, scheming his way through the streets and rising his way beyond his old superiors.

He was cruel, heartless and cocky, a mockery of a madman who thrived on the attention of miserable saps forced to die for him if they dared make a mistake.
His world was made of red, white, and black.
The red of his slaughtered enemies, the white of wedding gowns lost to desolate nights in Vegas, and the black of each glistening counter within his gentleman's club room.

It was cliché, a tacky romance novel Ashton knew he should've stopped reading long—long—ago, but he was so caught up in the thrill of it all. The danger, the desire, the chaotic love, he found it all too exciting.

Though, truth be told, he loathed it all the same; kneeling in clothes of doll-like pink, knees pressed against the cold wooden flooring of his master's den, eyes covered by silky black fabric and hands cuffed behind his back.
His world was at the mercy of his tormentor, a lover he knew he shouldn't put faith in, but with nowhere else to go he sat and did as he were told; tuning out the sounds of muttered laughter and wicked taunts thrown between criminals lazing in chairs and smoking.

Music played from a distant jukebox, a young girl leaning casually back against it with a drink in one hand and her purse in the other; impatiently waiting for her client to leave his meeting. But, being paid by the minute, she couldn't complain too much.

Ashton heard the familiar tone of his lover's mobile, ringing for a brief moment before it was answered by a large hand; lifted to the owner's ear without hesitation.

"Surprised you even answered." A woman's voice came through the speaker, and though Ashton was intrigued by the conversation two men were having on the couch behind him—speaking of a new grave they would dig—he found himself more interested in the phone call.

"What'd you want?" Jason's voice spat into the phone, long calloused fingers of his free hand combing through Ashton's curly hair and tangling between soft golden locks. "I thought I told you to dump this number, use my burner phone."

"You were s'posed to be outta jail three days ago, Jase. Your bloody son wants to see you. Where the fuck are you?"

Ashton could feel the burn of Jason's eyes on him, and so he leaned forward; warm lips sinking down upon the older man's dick as though Ashton couldn't hear a word of anything around him.
Anything to make Jason believe Ashton was still as clueless and oblivious as always.

"God, baby..." Jason moaned, head lulling back slightly as he tightened his fingers dangerously through gold hair; pushing Ashton's head down harder.

The woman scoffed, deeply unimpressed. "I see you still clinging to that poor kid, huh?"

"You know that ain't the case, Larissa." Jason grunted, firmly holding Ashton's head down; caring only for his own pleasure.

"You told me youse were done! Why're you lyin'?!" She crudely spat.

"You haven't caught shit." Jason argued, slightly loosening his grip. "Stop making crap up. I'm on business."

"Nah nah nah, you ain't doing this shit to me again, cunt. You either with him or with me, make your goddamn choice and stop cheating!"

Ashton pulled back for a weak breath, his heart aching painfully in his chest while a single thought of relief flooded through his mind—warmed by the idea this female stranger still cared for him, despite never knowing who he was.