Stalking The Smut Slut

You'll Always Be My Thunder

Harley

After leaving Brixton, with him and Trigger passed out on his bed, I snuck out of his apartment and bolted back to mine. With slices, bite marks, and bruises all over my body, you'd think I'd gotten into a fight or something. But I didn't. No, those two monsters destroyed my body in every way they could while still giving me the best pleasure I've ever felt. But will I ever admit that to Brixton and Scotty? Probably not. Why give them the satisfaction? Luckily, my apartment is only a few doors down from Brixton's, so it doesn't take me long to get home. The first thing I do is get in the fucking shower, wanting to wash all of their cum-and mine and all the blood off me that Brixton smeared all over my skin. He said he was painting a masterpiece, whatever that fucking means.
The water rains down on my achy body; hot, hard droplets pelt my skin, feeling like burning coals. My hair falls in soaked strings over my shoulders, cascading down my back and covering the marks from Brixton's knife near my neck. No matter how hot the water is or how much soap I lather onto my body when I finally do step out of the shower and dry off, I still don't feel clean.
What I did back there with them was absolutely filthy... but I loved every second of it.
As I get dressed, slipping into something clean, dry, and warm, I think about the thoughts I had about Alec and Hudson each time Brixton used his gun on me. I know I have PTSD from it, according to the therapists I saw for a fucking day anyway. But with Brixton, for some reason, I know he would never hurt me. I can't explain why I think that, but deep down, there's a feeling in my gut. No matter what happens, I know I'm safe with Brixton, and even though he's a deranged criminal, I honestly believe that he'd never fucking hurt me.
I don't even make it out of the hall before I hear my phone ringing, and the sound makes me cringe. Brixton never calls; he's just always there. I make it to my room before the call ends, but when I see who's calling, I kind of wish I let it go to voicemail.
"What's up, Stacks?"
"I need you to come in tonight." The authority in his tone reminds me of Brixton.
"Why? I wasn't planning on coming back for a while."
"I don't need you to dance. I want to talk to you about some shit." He insists, not sounding like he's giving up anytime soon.
"For what, Stacks?"
"I have a job offer for you. Just come and see me anytime after eleven."
"Fine. I'll fucking be there."
I hang up the phone, annoyed. I wasn't planning on going back to dancing anytime soon, not with these marks covering my body. Besides, I'm all fucked up, and my addiction is getting worse. I can't even function half the time, but I still don't know how to get over not having Alec or Hudson around.
After spending the day resting and filling myself with drugs to numb the pain and cloud the depressing thoughts in my head, I drag my ass out of bed to get dressed. I've been thinking about what Stacks wants to talk to me about, and I think I might know. And if it's what I think it is, then I'm fucking ready for it.