I grab the bag and rip it open, its contents normal. Toothpaste, mouthwash, deodorant, and a little plastic bag with a handwritten note and two orange pill bottles prescribed to the name Benjamin Sabatino. I flip the bag over and read the instructions. The two different pills are to be taken together and at the same time every day.Do not deviateis written in bold caps. I nearly destroy the Ziploc bag as I fumble with the pill bottles, shaking one of each into my hand. Then I bolt back into my bedroom, leaving the gun behind.
I find Baz lying on the bed in the fetal position. He looks so lost and helpless, like a scared little boy with way too much facial hair.
“Baz, take these.” I open my palm, but he bats my hand away, sending the pills flying. Fuck. Well, this isn’t going to be easy, is it?
I pick the small pills up off the carpet and try again, keeping my fist closed until I know he’s ready to swallow them. It’s a fight. He doesn’t want them. So, after several frustrating minutes, I take matters into my own hands. Forcing him onto his back, I pop the pills into my own mouth, squeeze his cheeks, and then French kiss him, using my tongue to guide them into the back of his throat and hold them there until he swallows. He coughs and sputters, but it gets the job done.
I don’t know how long it’s going to take the drugs to work, or if they’re even going to work at all, so I just sit with Baz on the bed as he melts down, shaking and whimpering and pleading for it all to end.
“Baz, what else can I do?” I brush some sweaty hair from his forehead, a pink bullseye fading from his skin.
“Sleep,” he murmurs, tormented. “I just need to sleep.”
I think that’s an impossible task as his eyes are as wide and electric as a coke addicts.
“Do you have sleeping pills anywhere?” Can you even mix sleeping pills with the medication I just gave him? I wouldn’t know. Desperate to help any way I can, I decide to try the only thing that comes to mind.Comebeing the operative word.
I shush Baz as I unbutton his fly and lower his zipper. He watches me perplexed but morbidly fascinated as I pull down his jeans and free his cock. It grows slightly when I rub it with my bare hands.
“Mmm.” Baz screws his eyes shut like he’s in pain and bangs his head against the pillow. I ignore his crazy and work him with my palms until he’s mostly erect.
Then I put my mouth on him, and the sound he emits is one of agonizing pleasure. I really hope this works. It has to fucking work. I stretch my jaw and swallow as much of his mammoth cock as I can. I couldn’t deep throat him even in Colorado; my mouth is just too damn small. I tried like hell though, the same way I’m doing now. Bobbing my head insistently, taking in as much of him as I can each time, I suck on his hard, thick length until he’s groaning. When he begins to thrust his hips, I pull back, slowing the speeding orgasm. He doesn’t like this, expressing his objections by fisting my hair and hissing profanities. His reaction doesn’t intimidate me. I just keep doing the same thing over and over. Building him up to a climax and then demolishing the sensation at its foundation.
“Stevie!” he roars during the last go ‘round, his body strung tighter than a fiddle from the orgasm denial. I know he’s reached his breaking point, which is exactly where I want him. I don’t hold back when he pulls my hair excruciatingly hard or pumps his cock into my mouth past the point of painful. I just take it until he spontaneously combusts, flooding my mouth with an outcry of come. The spurts seem to go on for hours as I swallow what feels like a rushing river of semen.
When the last bit finally spills, Baz goes limp against my tongue. I slip his cock from between my lips as he pants raggedly, like he just dominated an Ironman competition. I glance up at him as my own chest heaves, and the look I find is startling. That removed gaze is present, but accompanying it is one of shock and wonder.
Baz doesn’t release my hair, he just holds me still as his lids flutter lazily. And just before he closes his eyes for good, he whispers, “You are my quiet.” Then he’s gone. Transfixed in a deep, impenetrable slumber.
I just redefined the termblow your fucking brains out.
YOU ARE MYquiet.
Those were the last words Baz uttered before he fell asleep three days ago. I have wrapped them around me like a thick, warm, luxurious blanket and used them to comfort me while he recovers from—I’m not exactly sure what to call it—his mental bender? I don’t even know if he’s getting better. I just know I’ve been feeding him his meds every day at the exact same time like the note said with high hopes it will help. He barely registers the movement. He’s dead weight when I try to lift him. Lost in a deep, Sleeping Beauty-like sleep. And my kisses definitely don’t break the spell.
I’ve used my alone time to get familiar with the house. Now that I’m not on my death bed, I’ve explored. Not that there’s been much to discover. It’s just a nice, big house in the middle of frickin’ nowhere. Baz seems to like the middle of nowhere. There’s plenty of food in the fridge, which the little demon is grateful for, and plenty of firewood next to the hearth, which I am grateful for. There’s no TV, radio, or car, and I can’t find Baz’s phone, so I’ve just been staring off into space, watching the dancing flames of the fire the last few days, waiting for him to wake up. Seclusion sucks.
I did manage to find some underwear. They’re Baz’s boxer briefs, but at least they cover my ass from the draft. I have to fold them over then roll them down just so they stay on my waist.
It’s getting close to sunset, and the clock is telling me it’s almost time to visit Baz, but the sound of heavy footsteps above me and the screech of the shower pipes tell me he’s finally up.
I shouldn’t be so nervous at this revelation, but I am. Who is the person in that shower? I have no idea, and that’s an ominous thing. I want the rational Baz back. I want someone I can talk to. Get through to. Recalling the way he shot at me in Colorado, I wonder if he was ever reasonable at all.
The shower runs for close to an hour. I just sit in the living room alone, listening, wrapped up in a blanket on the bearskin rug, leaning against the couch. I don’t want to fight anymore. I just want . . . want . . . I don’t know exactly what I want. I just know I don’t want to fight.
Baz pads all over the second floor. What he’s doing, I couldn’t tell you. It’s a long while before I hear him make his way down the stairs.
My heart beats in tandem with his every step. Who will I encounter? Will he be enraged? Or reasonable? Pissed or appreciative?
When he rounds the corner into the living room, my jaw drops. It’s the only part of me that moves. His worried eyes find mine, and he cautiously saunters toward me. This Baz is completely new.
Gone is the unkempt, scraggly beard and messy hair. In its place is a cleanly shaven face and tight, neat man bun.
I’ve never seen this Baz before. Never seen every single facial feature the way I see it now. Unobstructed. Unhindered. Bare for all to witness. Words fucking fail me as his stride slows. As he comes to stand a mere foot away. I catch a whiff of that earthy scent, and I’m knocked in the face with titillating memories. Memories of us, before circumstance tainted us. My stomach flips, and I place my hand over it. I swear the baby knows. He knows his daddy is present.
“Hey.” Baz clears his throat uncomfortably as he stands there shirtless, his grey sweatpants hanging temptingly off his hips. I’m sure he isn’t trying to be sexy, but fuck me, he so is.
“Hey,” I echo back from my seat on the floor. The fire crackling loudly behind me.
