Page 47 of The Final Storm
Dean almost throws me into the passenger side of the jeep, slamming the door and storming off to the other side. I climb into the back, behind myself, and look into my old house.
My mother is asleep in her recliner, an empty bottle of wine at her side. These pieces of history I’ve pushed away hurt just as much when I see them now, years later. They weren’t things to mourn over when the world was ending, but I feel the loss sitting in this memory.
Mothers die every day.
Storms, sickness… alcoholism.
Gunshots to the chest.
Blows to the head.
I touch my skull, but the sticky mess is gone. I look at my hand, but it’s too dark to see if there’s any blood. My fingers feel dry when I rub them together.
The jeep lurches forward, spitting patches of grass behind us, and I turn towards the fire where heads turn in our direction. Dean makes a scene on purpose. Even sitting behind him, I can feel the waves of anger pouring off his body.
My past self reaches a hand over, and he moves it to his cock, fidgeting with his zipper until my palm is inside his pants, stroking him while he drives.
Instead of feeling mortified, I’m intrigued by the show, leaning forward, watching the muscles in my arm flex and stroke him.
Dean relaxes slightly, stretching out in the seat and resting his head back. The trees whip by as he drives too fast, branches hitting the cage of the jeep. I remember how long this took on foot with BeLew and a cart of supplies. But in the Jeep, we’re there in minutes, and the lights turn on when he pulls onto his property.
They only had the safe house studded at this point. They’ve started building, and back then, I thought it was just a garage of some sort. Wood shoots out from the earth and toolboxes sit out on the dirt. Dean’s house looms next door with one window lit up in the darkness.
We don’t speak, and he slams the Jeep into park in front of the new structure. I’m not wearing a seat belt in the back of the jeep, and I fall forward, slamming into the seat, but it doesn’t jostle.
Old me removes her hand and steps out of the jeep, walking toward Dean’s house. The floodlights come on with my steps, and Dean slams his door closed.
“Get back over here,” he orders. I watch myself turn and tilt my head.
Dean takes a few steps into the open field behind the building while old me follows. He yanks out some dropcloths from the construction and throws them on the grass, spreading out the edges.
I’m not smiling or frowning. I look… numb. I think back again about how much time has passed since we lost the baby. Dean grew colder, and I became more distant. I loved him at this moment, even though I didn’t show it outwardly. I don’t recognize myself. There’s no flash of an engagement ring, but I can’t remember when this was exactly.
The past is a haze of confusion, and time is such a fluid notion. Things feel a million years away or just yesterday, but never when they actually were. It bends and changes with our perception. I’m watching forgotten moments when most people have nothing but their perceived feelings about the past. What I see is clear and true, even if none of this is real.
Itwasreal. At one time.
I step closer, tip-toeing through the grass. A light comes on in the main house, and I see the shadow of someone in the lit window. Dean’s father, I suppose. He always milled around, watching us.
Did Dean not notice his presence? That or he didn’t care.
I turn back to us, standing out in the open air, undressing each other. Dean’s manic, walking the line between angry and passionate. He yanks my pants down and lifts me by the waist, pulling them from my ankles with his foot. They fall into the dust, and I frown, looking over at them.
His mouth is on my neck, kissing and biting while he runs his hands under my shirt, massaging my breasts. My eyes close, and I open my mouth, letting out a moan.
He pushes me down to my knees, his cock already jutting out of his open pants. My face pinches in pain when he pulls my hair behind my head and fucks my mouth.
There’s not much lead-up with Dean, never was. He takes sex when he wants it, and I don’t think I ever objected. I stare at the woman, the younger me, her pained face swallowing Dean’s cock, and wonder what I felt.
Did she want this?
Dean’s chin lifts to the window, and I follow his gaze. Another man appears in the shadows, both of them looking down at us. I don’t think I noticed that before, but I was choking on Dean’s dick, so there were other things on my mind.
“That’s good,” Dean says. “All the way in, baby. Do you want me to spray it down your throat?” I look back at us and feel a rush of heat followed by something else… guilt? Couples watch videos of themselves all the time, and this isn’t much different.Wewere different. Dean was different.I think.
He yanks my head back, and my lips make a popping sound coming off his wet cock. He looks down at me and gives himself a slow pump from his base to the tip, squeezing hard on his shaft.
“Lick it,” he demands.
