I’m twenty-five, not fifty-five.
“Love you, Mother. Talk soon. Bye!”
I hang up before she can say anything else. It’s a little rude and she’ll berate me for it later, but there was no way she was hanging up first unless I conceded to trying to get back with Chase. Not happening.
I don’t even miss him. Which is weird. You would think after years of dating that I would. I went back to him three times, for Christ’s sake. One would assume I was borderline codependent on him because of that. I probably was, in the beginning. I started dating him my junior year of college after a nasty breakup. He was my rock. Now he is nothing but a leech, sapping my strength instead.
I roll off the couch and snatch my laptop from the coffee table, opening it to run through my emails. There is a slight chill in my apartment, so I grab my knitted blanket and curl back up on the couch for a long evening.
My mind can’t focus though, eyes glazing over every word. I groan, throwing my head farther back on the arm rest.
Tentatively, I open a new tab and type in NightBlade32. The first few things to pop up are the articles from the VSAs, the gossip blogs going off about his supposed fight as well as acclaimed ravings about his Golden Vazer Award. I scroll down a little and find the link to his streaming channel.
I’m shocked a little when the screen opens up and shows that he is currently live, playing Frontline Doom with some other streamers, it sounds like. His voice filters out of my laptop straight into my veins.
“Oh, fuck you. You did not just steal that ammo drop.”
“Ha ha. Snoozers are losers, mate.” A British voice joins in; it must be the platinum blond champagne guy.
Blade’s face isn’t on screen–not that I expected it to be. But weirdly enough there is a live video in the corner of his hands on the keyboard and mouse. He is wearing the leather fingerless gloves again, the kind bikers wear. His black nail polish glints as his hands flicker across his red LED keyboard.
“Blade, I need back up here. Empire Zombies are breaking through.” A female voice breaks through my thoughts.
“Sure, Lee. Not going to be much help, though, with just my machete and shotgun, since dickwad over here stole the rifle ammo.”
“Oh, yeah, blame me.” There is a pause in conversation, and I watch Blade’s character run across the screen, machete swinging in hand. “Plus, don’t act like the machete isn’t your favorite weapon, you baby,” the English guy taunts.
“You’re the ammo hoarder, that makes you the baby, baby.”
I bark out a small laugh. I can’t believe I’ve never watched them before. They’re hilarious together. It’s no wonder they’re popular.
I grew up playing video games with Michail. We used to play some of the earlier versions of Frontline Doom ourselves until he got “too old” for games. In recent years, I’ve just defaulted to those cozy farming games in my spare time when I’m not painting or sketching. As therapeutic as my art can be, there are times when I want to throw my brushes against the wall. Playing video games helps with the art block. I get to sit there and create little farms instead of staring at a landscape that just won’t turn the right shade of green.
My eyes flick to the corner screen again, watching Blade’s fingers swiftly tap the keys rhythmically as he massacres the Zombies on screen. Suddenly, I feel the ghost of his hands trailing up my thighs, the slight squeeze of my hip.
“You guys see that?” He is speaking directly to us, his fans, subscribers, viewers. “A horde kill.” His deep chuckle reverberates through my speakers, the same chuckle he gave me last night. My stomach flips low, pussy melting at the memory. My fingers twitch, inching away from my laptop, skimming the top of my blanket before dipping under. Tentatively, I cup my heat, middle finger tracing up my slit through my leggings.
“Alright, let’s go again.” His deep voice urges me on. My mind hazes out, unable to discern reality from memory. I slip my hand under the band of my leggings and thong, fingers slowly swiping over my slick. I bite my lip, heart rate climbing.
I’m in the privacy of my own apartment, but I feel like I’m on full display. Like what I’m doing is a dirty little secret, something forbidden, taboo. I can’t help it. I’m so turned on right now. I want more. I want him.
I curl my fingers inside and a sigh releases. I imagine it’s his fingers. Moving faster. His strong arms keeping me caged against the door again, body pressing against mine. His words encouraging me on, praising me, taunting me, telling me to beg.
Inside, the wave begins to crest. My release builds and my mind flashes to his breath on my skin. Whispers in my ear. Without a second thought, I pinch my clit. It’s not the same as when he did it, but fuck, it feels good. So good that with a second tug, it pushes me over. Euphoria floods my body, pleasure radiating through my veins as I moan his name like a prayer.
I lie there for a moment in peace before I start registering the stream again, various voices floating in and out of my consciousness. I bolt upright and slam the laptop shut with my free hand. I shove the blanket off my body and attempt to stand, but my legs are still a little weak from the orgasm. I clutch the arm rest, taking a deep breath.
I feel like I just blacked out. As if someone else took control of my body. I’ve never done anything like that before. Sure, I’ve gotten off to porn here and there, but it never really did much for me. That? That was something else entirely.
Shakily, I make my way into my bedroom and over to my bathroom, turning the shower on full blast. Cold water. That’ll help everything.
Shucking off my clothes, I step under the icy spray, letting it wash everything away…but still I hear his voice in the back of my mind. His laugh tattooed on my heart.
I’m so fucked.
TEN
* * *
ALEKS
I take out the enemy with a quick headshot before reloading my pistol. I have five minutes to get the stolen vehicle to the transfer point before the mission is a failure.
Normally, not an issue, except it’s a damn van with the worst handling known to man. And if I crash into anything too hard, the stupid thing blows up. I guess that makes it more realistic. I’m carrying a literal truckload of explosives. Sometimes, I miss the days when there was a little more leeway, when I could run over a couple dozen pedestrians before the police really got upset and put a warrant out for me.
I swerve between the oncoming cars, my fingers twitching left and right to maneuver it as smoothly as possible. Red dots pop up on my digital map, alerting me that potential enemies are closing in. I have two more minutes to make it to the drop point.
I’ve only hit a few cars in the process, the damage meter is still low. But these damn enemy gangs are closing in, and I can’t have them reaming my ass.
In a last-ditch effort, I deploy one of my EMP bombs, effectively freezing them all. But it doesn’t stop the helicopter closing in. Shit, I’m so close.
300 meters away.
200 meters away.
I hit a fire hydrant, and the damage meter turns red.
100 meters away.
30 meters away.
MISSION COMPLETE.
I roll out of the car, abandoning it to its post, and make a run for the nearest building, climbing the ladder and a few pipes until I make it to the roof. Safe.