“I’ll kill you, and I ain’t gonna blink about it. No one’ll miss you, no one’ll report you missing, no one’ll care. I’ll make sure of it. You want that?” Darcy threatening him is the sexiest thing I’ve seen since I first caught sight of his flagpole dick. So it’s only been a few hours, but that dick is the sexiest thing since… I don’t know, maybe Henry Cavill’s debut as the Witcher? IDK, something like that.
Anyways, my dick perks up like I’ve been in a savannah drought since breaking up with Stalker Steve. I mean, I haven’t had sex in three months, but it wasn’t a drought—I do know how to take care of myself.
“I—I don’t want to die,” Stalker Steve stutters.
Darcy smiles—it’s the meanest fucking smile I’ve ever seen in my life, and my dick goes from chubby to fully erect. Yay for terrible decisions and bad taste in men.
“Willpower, remind me what you are.”
A rumble of evil laughter pours out of Darcy as he pushes me back. I step with his push, stumbling on my hurting leg, but Darcy keeps me steady before I find myself on my ass. I don't think I could get up from another fall today; I’m in too much pain. I’d probably end up dragging my ass to bed and then just laying there until the throbbing stopped in about three days.
“You may leave now. If you come within three blocks of this apartment, I’ll kill you. That’s not a threat. I’m telling you what I’m gonna do. Now go on, git.”
Darcy is scary enough that Stalker Steve hustles out of the apartment. He calls a parting shot as he leaves, but it’s not even worth much, just the angry words of a man who knows when he’s outmatched.
I chuckle, heading back to the living room to flop back onto the couch.
Darcy follows me and shuts the door of my apartment (Stalker Steve left it open), locking it and muttering about the chain lock. “This really should have fallen under the new laws from the council. I think technically this counts as collateral damage.”
I think he’s talking to the broken chain lock. I’m going to have to hire someone to come fix it.
“You think someone else should pay for that? You think you can convince them to? Because I spent my wad in Italy, and I’ve got to pay all my bills before I’ll know if I’m going to be able to fix it.”
“Yes, I can probably petition to have someone come and fix it,” he replies, walking back to me. “Are we having sex?” he asks, like our conversation wasn’t interrupted by a prisoner in the bathroom.
“Yeah,” I agree, clapping my hands on my thighs. “But not today because I’m too tired and in too much pain to really enjoy it. I could probably do a little kissing and light petting, or I might be able to get off if you wanted to suck me off. But I need to get out of my pants first. My leg is killing me.”
“Were you injured?” Darcy demands, looking at both of my legs like he’ll be able to see what’s wrong.
“Not today,” I laugh, shaking my head. “If you still want to fuck, come back tomorrow. I’ll be better with a bit of rest and some pain relievers.”
Darcy glares at my legs—with my shoes on and my long pants, he’s not going to be able to see the issue. “Maybe I will, but I don’t usually revisit my sex partners. Single serve only, FYI.”
No wonder he’s never had a relationship, but I respect his boundaries. They exist for a reason, and I’m not his therapist. “Ok, sure. So wait until tomorrow to suck me off. I don’t think I’d be able to return serve today.”
“What’s wrong with your leg?” he asks.
I suppose it would be kind of me to tell him before he gets me naked, but I wasn’t planning to take my pants off all the way for sex. I was just going to shove them below my ass and bend over. “It hurts,” I shrug. “I walked too much today. Bones spurs are a bitch.” Ok, that’s true and not really my issue, but too much intense walking could lead to bone spurs… for other people. I’m not going to get them with my equipment.
Darcy glares at my feet. “I’ll go see about getting the chain lock fixed. Be better tomorrow. I’m gonna fuck you.”
I nod, waving dismissively. “Sure, sure. See you tomorrow.”
Darcy leaves the same way we arrived—he throws some of that glitter stuff in the air and his array reappears—so I guess he’s not a car person, and as soon as he’s gone, I unbutton my pants and shed them. With them on the floor, I take off the prosthetic on my left leg and set it aside, rubbing the skin around the osseointegrated implant that my leg attaches to.
Once it feels less bad, I stretch out on my couch and let myself doze. I’ll have to deal with unpacking and all that later, but I’ve been to more planets and realms than I can count right now, and I deserve a nap. It’s a therapeutic nap, if anyone asks. Sleep is good for processing.
6
I wake up late for something, I’m sure of it. I’ve missed a meeting or deadline or—no wait. I’m home—well, my apartment, anyway. I just got back. I flew from Italy to New Mexico where my parents live, visited them for a few days, and now I—oh shit! I have to sign up for classes today!
I scramble upright, grabbing my phone to check the time.
Oh good. It’s barely eight. Hopefully not all my classes will have filled up.
I grab the crutches I keep on the floor under my couch and leverage myself up. After a trip to the bathroom, I pull a throw off my couch and I skip over to the kitchen table where I left my laptop. My leg feels better today, but I’m going to leave my prosthetic off until I absolutely need it, and since it’s cool in the apartment, I tuck the throw around my bottom half to keep warm.
I sit and unpack my lappy, and as soon as it boots, I open the portal on the college website and start typing in the numbers on the sticky note that I put over my touchpad (I use a real mouse, because touchpads are shit when you’re typing on a laptop). I search by class number and manage to sign up for all of them—whew!
