Scarred heart

Stone haven, April 2017 From the corner of his eye, Scar watched his father share biting kisses with his girlfriend, Martina, and then lean forward to kiss the man who was talking to her from behind. The beer had a bitter aftertaste, but Scar had more nevertheless, tapping his teeth against the glass bottle so hard he feared it would break from the force of his jaw clenching. Heavy beats exploded within the old walls of the former asylum, drumming under the high ceiling. The splash of violet and green illumination licked the shapes hidden beyond its reach, making even the most mundane of things appear phantastical. In the corner of the large room, hiding in the violet glow, the three lovers moved as one, transformed by shadow and smoke into one monstrous body that pulsed at break-neck speed, twisting and shuddering, as if it were about to leave the shadows and attack Scar with all its ferociousness. It was moving quicker now, caught up in a rhythm that would have to end soon. Two pairs of thick limbs wrapped around the quivering flesh of the woman in the middle, furiously thrusting to completion before disintegrating into separate bodies. Scar stood on the sidelines with his arms crossed on his chest, quietly watching over the buffet of flesh that he could sample if only he wished to. And the truth was that he’d love to join the shameless club party the way he used to. He’d go for Spike first. The handsome hang-around had a thing for bikers and never missed an opportunity for the d**k of a patch, always there to open his legs at parties, the elegant suit he wore to work forgotten in his Portland home. If Scar could have his way, he’d stuff his c**k into that wide-open mouth and watch a dark flush spread down Spike’s face and spill over his chest. And the worst thing was that were he to say this out loud, Spike would already be kneeling in front of him, ready for the talking. Scar was positive the guy had already crossed all the other members of Biker’s club off his bucket list, and there was no end to the suggestive glances thrown Scar’s way. But Scar would not be a freak show, or a pity f**k, or yet another patch in Spike’s collection of s****l partners. He would not be someone’s shortcut to prospecting either. Scar doubted any of the hang-arounds would ever want him anywhere near them, unless out of morbid curiosity or to gain favor. And Scar was not about to be someone’s sugar daddy, all the while wondering if they were even attracted to him. No. This was better. Watching would do. While he was looking away, Dean, Scar’s father, Martina, and the male hang-around all finished. She slid off the third wheel’s lap and stumbled into Dean’s arms, sharing yet another kiss with him. She pulled down her skirt and walked back into the light with her hand resting against the wall for support, looking dizzy, though whether it was from the double-teaming or having too much liquor—Scar didn’t know. She waved at him and stumbled right after, thankfully grabbing the nearest chair for support instead of rolling onto the collection of bottles and glasses on the dirty coffee table. A heavy hand landed on Scar’s skin so abruptly he barely kept himself from wincing as the mangled nerves of his scarred shoulder cried out in alarm. He knew who it was before his father even spoke. Dean’s fly was still open, which made Scar immediately look up into the handsome face that always reminded him of his own long-lost good looks. He used to be a mirror image of his father. Too bad good genes stood no chance against fire. Looking into Dean’s masculine, ageless features was a daily reminder of what could have been if Scar hadn’t been disfigured in an accident twelve years ago. His old man, on the other hand, could easily be one of those hot fifty-somethings Hollywood seemed so fond of. His hair and beard were still a golden shade of blond, lips pink and plump as a young man’s, and his body buzzed with vitality despite all the violence, alcohol, and sleepless nights he’d been subjected to all of Dean’s life. “Got laid yet?” Dean asked, presenting Scar with two rows of perfectly white teeth. “I am gonna ask you every day until it happens,” he said, digging his fingers into Scar’s aching flesh until he struggled not to flinch from the warning sensations his damaged nerves were sending his brain. But Scar couldn’t show weakness, not this long after the accident that left his body a minefield of pain, yet another reason why casually fuckin someone during a party seemed more alarming than exciting.  What if they touched Scar too firmly and made him cry out? What if they started talking about the president’s son being a weakling who squeals in pain when he’s being touched? The club was the only family Scar had. His only reason to be. And he could not put his position here in danger, because Dean would not hold him up, were he to fall.