A Deviant Spawn Betrayal Ch. 04

Years of my mother's belittling comments of why I wasn't worthy of affection, of why no one would ever love me, ran through my mind as I ran from Revelin's proposition.

Through the house. Out the front door. Up the street. Around the corner.

I made it all the way to the development's entry gates before I found myself having to stop to catch my breath. Bent over, hands on my knees, I sucked in deep gulps of air. And when that stupid limo pulled up right next to me moments later, I was close to panicking because I knew I wasn't in any shape to escape.

The driver's side window rolled down, revealing the friendly face of an older man. "I'm here to take you wherever you want to go."

Wary, I straightened and eyed the tinted windows of the back of the vehicle. Was Revelin—

"Don't worry," the man said. "Nobody's back there. But if it'll make you feel more comfortable, ride up here with me. That way you can more easily clarify the directions if I get lost."

My options were limited. I could get in the limo. Or hoof it the twenty-five, thirty miles to my apartment. In the heat. Wearing a long-sleeved shirt.

Crossing to the passenger side, I crawled in next to the driver and gave him clear, concise directions. Going by the obvious alarm in his eyes, the driver knew exactly where I was talking about. But he didn't say anything and I was thankful; thankful I didn't have to speak again until he parked lengthwise across several empty parking spots right in front of my apartment.

"Thanks," I said, already halfway to my front door. Behind me, I heard the distinctive crack of a vehicle door opening. I turned to see—

Oh, fuck.

Revelin was leaning against the side of the limo, arms folded across his chest. He was too far away for me to see his blue eyes, so I couldn't tell if he was angry like I fully expected any man would be after a public rejection, much less a famous rock star with a forceful attitude who was used to getting everything he wanted. And then some.

But he didn't say anything, nor did he try to follow me. He just inclined his head in acknowledgement, the wind whipping the black and blue strands of his hair over his high cheekbones. Then he reentered the limo. I watched as it pulled away along with a big group of my neighbors, of a very different caliber than Rory's neighbors, who were congregated out in the parking lot as per their usual.

That night, I sat in a crumpled heap on my living room floor wondering exactly what the fuck I had done.

And why.

Sunday: Woke up. Went to work. Received a verbal reprimand for wearing too much make-up. Came straight home after shift done. Got a voicemail from Rory advising he was accompanying Taz to Miami. Deviant Spawn's show there wasn't until New Year's Eve, but the guys had all decided to head down early for a few days of rest and relaxation. Rory also advised if I received a call from Revelin that he was the one who had given him my number.

But I received no contact from Revelin.

I didn't know whether to be relieved. Or dejected.

I was seriously leaning towards dejected.

Monday: Woke up. Went to work. Sent home early for dress code violation. Too much make-up again. Ten minutes after walking through my front door, someone knocked. UPS. A gift. From Revelin. My heart beat erratically as I tore into the box. Black leather collar lined with double rows of evenly spaced blue gemstones.

Were the gemstones sapphires?

There was a handwritten note, You're mine, Blue.

Tuesday: Woke up. Went to work. Received a three-day suspension for insubordination. Sent home.

Nothing from Revelin. No calls. No texts. No gifts.

Nothing.

Wednesday: Woke up. Lay in bed. Doorbell rang. UPS again. Another gift. A pair of black leather bracelets. Lined with a single row of blue gemstones matching those set in the collar.

Had to be sapphires.

Never forget who OWNS you, baby. Never.

Thursday: Didn't sleep. Too busy freaking out all night. Want this, whatever this may be, so bad. Want him so bad.

But I couldn't put out of my mind that I was an ungrateful little bastard whose own mother didn't want him. A fairy. A faggot.

A stupid, fucking idiot.

Revelin didn't reach out to me.

Friday: Woke up. Went to work. Fired. Met the UPS delivery man in the parking lot of my complex. Screamed at him to take the box back to whoever the fuck had sent it. Snatched the box out of his hands as he backed slowly away. Sat the box on kitchen counter. Went on about my business.

Was not going to open it. Was not going to open it. Was not—

A blue cock ring. Exact same shade of blue as the sapphires.

Yeah, your cock belongs to me, too.

Watched live stream of Deviant Spawn's New Year's Eve performance in Miami online.

Questioned why Revelin was doing this to me.

Did he really want me? Or was he just fucking with me?

Could I really have a life of happiness with him? Or was this just some elaborate payback scheme he was setting up for embarrassing him?

Love? Or payback? Happiness? Or payback?

—payback—

He wanted to crush me. Destroy me. I just knew he did.

Saturday: My phone chirped at ten in the morning.

From: Unknown

B there at 9. U know what 2 wear..

To: Unknown

Front door will b unlckd. I'll b waitin in bed.

The weak light of a single shaded lamp lit my room. It was there more for setting the mood than for any brightening purposes.

A tall, thin, unclothed man stood at the foot of my bed, staring down at my prostrate form. His gaze was heated as it raked me from the head down. As I knew it would, it stopped at four distinct points on my body: my neck which was encircled by the leather and sapphire collar, each wrist which bore a leather and sapphire bracelet and my crotch which sported the pretty blue ring around the base of my cock, nestled behind my balls.

His smile was appreciative of the picture I presented as a whole, but his eyes were disappointed my dick was limp. Completely unresponsive to the lackluster strokes I gave it.

Completely.

"May I?" he asked, motioning towards my sad piece of flesh.

A quick glance at the clock revealed it was fifty-five after eight. Steeling my nerves, I hissed, "Yes."

He walked up the far side of my bed, dragging his fingers up my thigh. It was evident he planned to take his time. To coax me into erection through playful, teasing touches.

Now was not the time for the slow shit.

I grabbed his hand and placed it on my dick. Right as my bedroom door opened.

Revealing Revelin.

For one second, a second equal to eternity, an eternity that stretched on for an infinite amount of time, our eyes connected. A slight smile played along Revelin's lips and my dick hardened painfully in response.

But then John—or was it James? Jimmy?—opened his mouth.

"Eh, man," the guy I had just picked up from the gas station down the street from my apartment protested, yanking his hand off my body, "you never said anything about another dude joining us."

I was still looking into Revelin's eyes as his mind processed the intimate scene I'd set up just for his benefit. The smile faltered...then disappeared altogether, transformed into a derisive sneer.

And I knew. I knew right then and there that I had fucked up. Bad.

This wasn't about payback for Revelin. This wasn't about him hurting me or me having to hurt him first.

This was truly about him and me. Getting to know one another. Growing. Bonding.

Loving.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! I rolled off the bed and ran towards him.

"Revelin," I whispered, "I didn't mean to—"

"Fuck you, Shane." Using the flat of his palm, he shoved me hard in the center of the chest.

Unable to keep my balance, I fell on the floor. By the time I scrambled to my feet, Revelin was gone.

John-James-Jimmy asked, "Hey, was that really Revelin? From Deviant Spawn? Because for him I would—"

"Get out!" I screeched at my unwitting mistake. "Get your clothes and get the fuck out!"

"HIV positive yet? No? That's a shame."

February 5, 2011

On average, a room at The Huntington ran about five hundred and ninety-nine dollars a night. During certain times of the year, like around major holidays and significant events, Shane was certain that price probably spiked closer to around seven or eight hundred dollars, if not more. And for that exorbitant amount of money, Shane was positive he should not be able to hear the carnal activities of the people in the room next to his. He shouldn't be able to hear any of the activities of the people in the room next to his.

Shane rolled his eyes as the sound of a resounding thump hit the wall followed by a guttural male groan and a feminine moan. The thought crossed his mind to call the front desk and complain, but he nixed it. It wasn't his money which had been spent on the purchase of this room. Plus, even with the unusually loud obscene sound effects, this room was still decidedly more plush and comfortable than his own room back in his raggedy, rundown apartment in Orlando.

An apartment Shane would be returning to all too soon as it was. In defeat.

Besides, the way Shane figured it, at least someone was getting some. Which was more than Shane could say for himself.

And, really, it wasn't like he didn't have a whole slew of other matters with which to concern himself at the moment.

Such as Revelin and Eric.

Angel.

Yep, Shane definitely had a lot of other matters more worthy of his attention than his horny neighbors.

The next thump was louder, making Shane give up on his farfetched idea of getting some shut eye before his scheduled meeting time of six with Rory. There was still more than an hour to go, but he sent a text to his best friend to see if it would be okay if he came up early to his and Taz's presidential suite to chill out with them. It took Rory about fifteen minutes to send his okay and, on receiving it, Shane immediately got off the bed. He was at the door before he turned back to grab his backpack out the closet, figuring he'd just take it with him and get dressed for the concert while up there.

Shane sighed when his eyes landed on the gift given to him by Angel. The coat hung in the closet and, as Shane had no immediate need for it, he left it where it was.

Things had quieted down a few minutes prior in the other room, so Shane wasn't surprised when the door opened right as he was walking past it. He was surprised, however, by the identities of the occupants who were making their exit.

Revelin. Looking thoroughly sated.

And Eric. Looking thoroughly sexed up. And satisfied. He was squeezed against Revelin's side, tucked protectively underneath the guitarist's arm.

Shane stumbled backwards to avoid colliding with the two men, the solidness of the hallway's wall at his back the only thing that prevented him from falling down to the ground when his knees gave out. His former lover stared at him coolly while his nemesis just grinned.

That had been Revelin and Eric he'd been hearing go at it for the past hour.

That had been Revelin and Eric. Fucking. Having sex.

Making love.

Eric starting the future with Revelin that could've been Sha—

"I'm so sorry," Shane whispered brokenly, unable to finish the thought. "I'm so goddamn sorry, Revelin." He pushed by the two, mumbling to himself over and over again, "So sorry, so, so sorry."

He thought someone may have called his name, but he didn't know for sure and he didn't stop to find out. The elevator was right in front of him, the woman who was already onboard holding the doors open. Shane dashed inside and rode it down to the lobby with his silent savior.

"Take it from me, honey, men ain't shit," the expensively coifed lady said as they both stepped off. "Celebrities included."

But Shane didn't respond. He couldn't. His teeth were clenched tight, his jaw locked shut, his body shivering.

His mind close to shutting down.

Shane was operating on pure instinct. All he knew was that he hurt. That he needed to get far away from the source of his pain. That he needed to get back to Orlando. Where it was safe. Where his pain wouldn't hurt quite so bad.

Shane walked out the front doors of the hotel right as a group of laughing, smiling concertgoers exited the taxi they'd ridden in to The Huntington.

"JFK," he muttered to the driver, sliding into the vehicle's backseat through the opposite door before the last of the prior customers had all managed to crawl out.

"Sure thing, kid," the driver responded.

Forty-five dollars later, Shane found himself at the airport. And another hundred and thirty dollars changed his ticket from a flight scheduled to leave New York City the next day to the very next flight departing New York City.

In direct contrast to the anguish in Shane's heart, the plane ride to Orlando was peaceful. There were no crying babies. No disruptive passengers. No rude crew members.

Nothing at all to distract Shane from what he was feeling.

And nothing for him to use to relieve himself of the tortuous suffering which was currently tearing him apart.

After collecting his bag from baggage claim, Shane rode the shuttle bus out to the economy satellite parking lot where he'd left his old, rusted out dinosaur. He climbed inside and sat there, hands clutched on the sides of the steering wheel, forehead rested on the top of it.

Then Shane allowed himself cry. For his horrid childhood that had shaped him into the untrusting person he was. For the basic necessity of love his mother had deprived him of his whole life. For the potential love he'd purposely sabotaged and ruined.

It took more than an hour for Shane to pull himself together enough to drive home. And first thing he did on entering was turn on his stereo and pop in the cd he hadn't listened to since his very first session with his therapist a year ago. Since he'd first started to mistakenly think he was on the path to healing.

Track two. Repeat.

As the music filled his small apartment, Shane rushed into the kitchen and dug his sharpest knife out the drawer where he kept all his cutlery. The knife had been given to him by his mother on his fourteenth birthday along with a vague, offhand comment that she was sure he could figure out a use for it.

And Shane had. A special use.

Shane pulled up the arm of his hoodie and didn't allow himself to think twice about the setback he was so willfully undertaking. He made his first cut on his left arm, right beneath the bend of his elbow. He didn't feel the slice of the blade as he drug it horizontally across his flesh.

But he did feel the resulting pain.

Jesus, did he feel the pain.

It took a second for it to kick in and, when it did, Shane knew relief. Sweet, blessed relief. The burning in his arm gave him something to hold on to, a point to focus on that was unrelated to his wildly spiraling emotions.

Calmer, somewhat more in control of himself, Shane breathed in deep. And listened to the lyrics he knew by heart. As they always had, the words spoke to him on a level that was deeply disturbing.

But I'm a creep

I'm a weirdo

What the hell am I doing here?

I don't belong here

But I'm a creep. I'm a weirdo. Two sentences. Seven words. Eight syllables.

A very powerful effect.

Shane felt like the words epitomized his entire pitiful existence.

His blood ran freely down his arm, but Shane made no move to impede or stop the flow. Instead, he let his arm hang limp at his side and watched as the red stream fell off the tips of his fingers in drips down onto the cheap, cracked tile floor covering where it pooled around his booted feet.

But it wasn't enough. Another cut was in order.

And another.

And another.

And another.

Lightheaded, Shane slid down the front of the refrigerator until he was sitting on the floor. This was the first time of the hundreds—thousands—of times he'd cut himself that he'd ever gotten lightheaded. Had he cut too deep this time? No, he couldn't have...he'd cut much deeper than this before, right?

But there was so much blood. It was on his hoodie. On his pants. On his boots. On the cabinets across from him. On the floor under and around him. It was all over the place.

Shit, had he hit an artery or something?

It would be just his fucked up luck to have done something colossally stupid like that. Well, at least he still had his peace.

Tired, Shane slumped over to one side. Then lay down. Then let Thom Yorke's melodic voice sing him to sleep.

I don't belong here

I don't belong here

March 7, 2001

She was mad at me again. I could tell by the way she forcefully threw the pots and pans into the sink.

I didn't want to ask her for help, I really didn't, but I also didn't have a choice. The assignment was due tomorrow and I couldn't complete it on my own.

"Mom?" I asked hesitantly.

She didn't bother to turn around to face me as she answered, "You ruined my fucking life."

October 18, 2009

One minute until midnight. One minute until I turned eighteen.

I wondered what Rory had bought me for my birthday this year. He always gave me something. And it never mattered to me how big or small his gift was, I just loved him for buying me a present to begin with since no one else ever bothered to.

Soon as it turned midnight, I was going to call him and—the door to my bedroom slammed open violently, startling me. My mother stormed inside my room, shrieking at the top of her lungs, "Get out of my sight, get out of my house, get out of my life!"

November 4, 2002

We were at the doctor's office. The only time my mother ever brought me was when I got real sick. No such thing as check-ups in between.

Considering I'd spent the whole past weekend throwing up nonstop, she'd finally relented and made an appointment for me. Nauseous, I laid on the uncomfortable bed while she sat in a chair by the door and flipped through a magazine. The nurse had just left and we were waiting for the doctor to arrive.

In the absolute quiet, my mother muttered, "I should've just aborted you, you ungrateful little bastard."

June 4, 1999

"I hate you. Fucking hate you!"

The painful words chased me up the stairs. I didn't know what made my mommy scream them at me. All I had asked was if this weekend we could go to Disney Wor—

"Baby, wake up," a frenzied male voice commanded. "Wake up, Shane. Please, wake up."

"Call nine-one-one," a slightly higher pitched male voice ordered.

Both voices sounded muffled and far away. Shane tried to focus on them, but he was so groggy. Too out of it.

"C'mon, baby, c'mon. Open your eyes for me."

Who was that pleading with him? He knew that deep, rumbling baritone. Didn't he?

"Hello? Hello? Nine-one-one? I-I need to report an attempted suicide. Y-yes, he's-he's still alive. But you have to send somebody. Quick. Please."

Even though the new despair filled voice was fading out as if the person speaking had walked away, that voice was definitely one Shane recognized. That was Rory. Informing the nine-one-one operator that Shane had attempted to commit—whoa, hold up—suicide?

What the hell was Rory talking about? Why the hell would he tell the operator that? That was ridiculous. Shane hadn't tried to off himself. He was depressed, not suicidal. There was a clear distinction between the two and it really was time to set Rory straight on their differences. And that's exactly what Shane would do. Later. After he woke up. But for right now he just wanted to go back to—