InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 9: Subterfuge ❯ Emptiness ( Chapter 138 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Groaning loudly as his body shivered, he closed his eyes, his head falling back as he deliberately concentrated on the feel of her mouth, wrapped around his cock.  The hands massaging his balls, the velvet smoothness of her lips, of her tongue as she pumped him hard, almost violently, shaking his dick as it rattled against her teeth . . .

He'd lost track of how long he'd been there.  One of the girls had slipped a few pills into her mouth, had fed them to him in a long, deep kiss.  He didn't know what they were, and he didn't care.  Then she'd handed him a joint and a glass of cheap whiskey, and he'd already downed a few of those at the bar where he'd found the blonde . . . Senses clouded by the thick smoke that hung in the air, a mix of incense and dope that dulled but didn't cover the baser smells of sweat and sex.  He'd lost count of the number of times he'd already fucked them all.  One of them—the brunette—was passed out in the corner, her body streaked with sweat, and dried come.  The blonde was working him over now, apparently believing that she had to suck him dry when the hard-on he'd came in with still had yet to go away.  Crouching on the floor between his legs, she groaned and whimpered and whined as the third girl—an over the top stacked redhead—devoured her pussy with vicious abandon.

He didn't know any of their names, and they didn't know his.  Damned if he gave a shit, either.  Sitting in a chair, smoking a joint and downing glasses of whiskey, one right after another, he hadn't done a damn thing as the girls had taken turns, pumping their bodies up and down on him while he sat back, watching them as though he wasn't really there at all, pushing them aside now and again just to rip off a spent condom before reaching for another one.  Those condoms littered the floor—He supposed he could count them if he really wanted to.  Somehow, the entire situation held a strange and macabre sort of amusement, didn't it?  Why did he suddenly want to laugh?  Only the laughter that would come out of him wouldn't be good at all, would it?  Why did he feel like there would be a bitter edge to it?

The flash of hazel eyes, bright with the tears that she refused to let fall, flashed through his head, and he groaned.

'Don't think,' he told himself, lifting a joint to his lips and inhaling deep.  'Don't think; don't think; don't think . . .'

The blonde must have gotten tired of sucking on his dick.  Opening his eyes halfway, he watched in horrified fascination as she bit down on the corner of a condom wrapper and yanked.  The redhead moved up to suck on his balls as the blonde rolled the rubber into place.  In one fluid motion, she slammed her body down on his.  He grunted, head rolling back again as the redhead straddled his waist in front of the blonde, her mouth crushing his as she sucked the smoke out of him, drawing it in as she rubbed her tits against his chest, her pussy leaving a sticky, hot trail on his skin.

"More whiskey," he said between sloppy kisses.  The redhead whined her protest at his seeming callousness, but she stood up and moved away.

"Your cock's so big, so big," the blonde moaned as she pumped him hard, as she rose up above him, only to slam back down as fast as she could.  "Oooh . . ."

The girl sounded like a goddamn puppy, yelping and yapping as she rode him.  For some reason, that idea amused him in much the same way as the condoms that littered the floor did.  It sounded unnatural, didn't it?  Like everything was one big fucking show . . .

The redhead strolled back into the room, a petulant little pout that she probably thought was pretty twisting her swollen lips.  He took the bottle that she held without comment, twisting the cap in a vicious yank and tossing it onto the floor with the rest of the trash.

He slugged back a healthy swallow before opening his eyes again.  The blonde's tits were bouncing so hard that he had to wonder if she wasn't going to hurt herself.  But there was something else that occurred to him—another thought that made him grimace.  Blonde hair—hazel-ish eyes—long, long legs—but the face was wrong, wasn't it?  And something about the unknown woman before him made his stomach lurch.  "Enough," he growled, shoving the blonde aside.  She stumbled but caught herself before casting him an irritated sort of pout that he forgot before he even noticed it.  "You," he said, gesturing at the redhead.  "Make me come."

Her pout disappeared as she shot the blonde a wicked and triumphant sort of grin, as she positioned herself over his dick and sank down slowly.

"I care because you're not doing it for the right reasons!  Is it really all you want?  A good fuck tonight with a woman who will forget about you tomorrow?  Those women don't care about you, Evan!  Can't you see—?"

Gritting his teeth, trying to focus on the woman fucking the hell out of him, Evan shoved the voice away, the echo of the words that he didn't want to hear.  She was wrong, wasn't she?  And who the hell cared?  Why in the world would it bother her?  She'd made it crystal clear that she didn't want him, now didn't she . . .?

'Get the fuck outta my head, V,' he thought wildly, crazily as the bottle of whiskey dropped from his hand and spilled all over.  Grasping the redhead's hips, he held onto her as he rose out of the chair, bearing her forward with his weight until she caught herself with her hands on the floor.  The girl's screams shifted from cutesy little whimpers to all out screams as he dug his fingers into her skin, as he drove into her as hard and fast as he could.  Somewhere deep down, he heard the quiet questions, the accusations that he couldn't ignore.  Was he trying to get away from her?  Did he really think that all he had to do was fuck a little harder, subdue this girl a little more to escape from the voice in his head that sounded entirely too much like Valerie's?  Driving his cock into the nameless woman as though his life depended upon it, he didn't think, didn't care.

Shoving the girl forward, away from him, he yanked the condom off and tossed it aside.  It only took a couple pumps of his hand, and he grunted as a painful orgasm racked through his body, arcing through the air, landing in dull droplets on the girl in the corner, on the hardwood, on the area rug where he stood.  The redhead moaned, her breathing harsh and labored, huddled on the floor where he'd pushed her, the drops of come on her ass somehow horrifying in the dying light of the room.

And as he stood there, it seemed like he was seeing the carnage for the first time.  The ugliness of it all converged on him—ugliness that he'd thought he wanted . . . Three girls he didn't know, one of them passed out from the dope and the pills and the booze . . . she'd kept it together long enough to give him a good titty-fuck and pussy slam before she'd passed out in the middle of tongue-fucking the blonde.  The redhead was still groaning, reeling from the pounding she'd just received, and the blonde . . .?

"Do you think I give a shit if they love me or not?  Do you honestly think that's what I'm looking for?  All I want is a woman who is willing to do the things that you aren't—a woman who knows how to suck and fuck and come on my face, goddamnit!"

The low groan that rose up inside him was lost in the shuffle of movement.  The blonde crawled toward him, the coy smile on her face telling him what, exactly, she was thinking.  He stumbled back, groping blindly for his jeans, for his shirt.  When she stood up, wrapped her arms around his waist, he shrugged her off.

He had to get the hell out of there, didn't he?



"Pomegranates!  Pomegranates for sale!"

"Mangoes!"

Wandering through the open air market, ignoring the strange looks he was garnering from the people—locals and tourists alike—he moved without seeing, without having a real destination.  His mind was strangely empty, as though it took every last ounce of his concentration just to put one foot in front of the other . . .

Scratching his temple, he blinked when his fingers came away with blood.  He'd forgotten to tuck his claws in, didn't he?  Funny.  He hadn't felt it at all, had he . . .?

'You've got to be careful, sweetie.  You'll hurt yourself if you don't . . .'

What was he doing?  Why was he even here?  Why had things changed so much?

Nothing made sense at all.  He could feel himself staggering, and he nearly tripped over his own feet, but still he plodded forward.

Ugly words swirled around his head, imaginary voices, raised in anger.  Fragments of a conversation, dulled by the din of the milling crowd echoed so loudly and yet made no sense at all.  If he thought about it too long, too hard, it would hurt, wouldn't it?  And that kind of pain . . .

"You okay, mister?  You okay?"

Evan blinked, trying to focus on the person who stood before him.  A little boy, was it?  Seven?  Eight years old?

The child's caramel tan seemed to glow in the late afternoon daylight, dark eyes bright, brilliant, sparkling in a way that only a child could manage, but as he stared at Evan, he frowned.  "You're bleeding, mister," he said.

"Uh, yeah, I guess I am," Evan mumbled, rubbing his temple, smearing blood into his hair.

"Do you need a doctor, mister?" he asked.  "I know where one is . . ."

"N-no," Evan replied, shaking his head as though he were trying to shake off the unnatural sense of nothing that had settled over him.  "No, thanks."

The boy looked dubious at best, but he gave a little shrug instead.  "Okay," he said, his concern apparently forgotten as he carted around on his heel.  "Bye bye!"

He watched the child speed off and disappear into the crowd once more.  Why did watching the little one's retreat make him feel sad?

"V . . ." he whispered suddenly, lifting his chin, scanning the crowd.  But no . . . he'd left her, hadn't he?  He'd left her out on the island . . .

Wincing as the numbness around his brain started to thaw, he kept moving.  Maybe he didn't know where he was going . . .

Or maybe his destination had been inevitable from the start.


The silence was eerie, wasn't it?  He could still see the lights of Mayaguana in the distance, over the expanse of water.  Sitting on the top of the wheelhouse and drenched to the bone in the rain he hadn't bothered trying to avoid, staring at the starless sky so high above, the inky blackness was the color of his soul, the color of the darkness that he'd somehow fallen into . . . the color of Valerie's tears . . .

What had he done?

'So . . . did you get it all out of your system, rockstar?'

Evan blinked as the voice of his youkai-blood finally spoke.  Silent the entire day, it hadn't bothered to speak to him at all, had it?  From the time he'd woke up, two steps from fucking Valerie until now, it hadn't spoken—until now.

Flopping onto his back, ignoring the squelch of his wet shirt hitting the fiberglass roof, he grunted.  'I don't know . . . what happened,' he replied, referring to the day as a whole and not just the girls he'd left behind.

'You did what you always do,' his youkai remarked simply.  'You got pissed off, and you got stupid.  Hell-bent on self-destruction, just like usual.'

Sighing heavily into the darkness, he draped a forearm over his eyes.  'Bound to happen sooner or later, right?'

'What?  You pitching a bitch fit?'

'Me doing my damndest to push V away.'

'Because you fucked those girls?  I'd say that's the least of your concerns.  What the hell's wrong with you?  You know, don't you?  You made her cry . . . When you left, she was crying.'

He grimaced at that reminder.  Did it matter if he really hadn't meant for that to happen . . .?

'Of course it doesn't matter, rockstar.  Even if you meant the things you said to her—even if you did—the way you said it all . . .'

'But I didn't,' he argued, sitting up, hooking his arms around his knees.  'I didn't mean . . . any of it . . . not like that, anyway . . .'

He sighed.  Like it mattered now.  Once Valerie found out what he'd done, he'd be lucky if she ever spoke to him again, and . . .

Oh, he'd tried to tell himself that he didn't care.  He'd tried to convince himself that he was just being stupid.  Somehow, he'd managed to think that maybe he was just fixated on her, didn't he?  Or maybe he had just desperately wanted to believe it . . .

What kind of person was he, anyway?  During that fight, he'd wanted to lash out, wanted to hurt her, and he had.  He really had.  The look on her face when he'd said that he'd never wanted to be her friend . . . In that moment, before she'd managed to cover it up, he'd seen, hadn't he?  The raw pain that his words had inspired in her, the absolute betrayal that he'd say something so heartless, especially after she'd told him so much—more than she'd ever told another living soul . . .

And the anger that had carried him across the water to the sticky little dive bar where the blonde was just getting off work . . . God, he'd held onto that anger as selfishly as he could.  Driven to do what he'd ultimately done by his pride, by his arrogance, by some pathetic measure of desperation . . .

Was it really her fault at all?  He'd known at the start that it wasn't going to be easy.  He'd seen it from the get go, hadn't he?  The carefully constructed façade, the cautious air around her . . . He hadn't had to know her story back then to know that she clung to the things she believed to be safe and the need to protect herself, and he . . .

'So you're starting to get it?  Good,' his youkai remarked at length.  'Just hope to God you haven't ruined everything.'

But he had, hadn't he, and he knew it.  The fragile trust that Valerie had allotted him . . . He'd thrown that all away when he'd opened his mouth to yell at her, never mind what he'd done afterward.  There wasn't a doubt in his mind that he'd ruined it, and to be honest, he had no idea if he'd ever be able to repair the damage he'd wrought.

'You have to try,' his youkai went on reasonably, logically, in the same tone of voice that Cain used to use whenever a childish Evan had asked his father 'why' once too often.

Evan grimaced.  'I don't . . . I don't deserve to be near her . . .'

'Don't do that, rockstar.  Don't go there.  What's the point?'

Barking out a terse laugh that lacked any humor, Evan shivered slightly.  'But it's true, isn't it?  All I've done is hurt her, all because I thought—'

'Yeah, I know damn well what you thought,' his youkai shot back.  'And you've seen it before, haven't you?   You've heard the stories about your mom and dad—about how your father thought that he didn't deserve to tell your mother that she was his mate.  You know what that almost cost him.  Look at the pain that others have gone through, all because someone thought that they didn't deserve someone else.  Kurt and Sami . . . Sydnie and your brother . . . Gavin and Jilli . . . Even Griffin and Isabelle, right?  You say that Valerie puts you on a shelf and keeps you there, but you're no better than she is, are you?  You've put her up in this untouchable place—a place where she's perfect, but you're forgetting one thing: she isn't.  She's human.  She's no more perfect than you are.  She's not supposed to be.'

Evan scowled, unsure whether he believed that or not.  'Maybe she's not, but she's a helluva lot closer to it than I'll ever be,' he retorted.

'And I'm telling you, it's not about being perfect!  It never was!  It's about being man enough to own up to your shortcomings, and it's about forgiving her for hers, too.'

Something about that made sense to him, even if he didn't want to admit it.  Had he done that all along?  Had he somehow managed to place Valerie so high above everyone else in his mind that he'd forgotten that she could make mistakes, too?  And ultimately, was that the real reason that his frustrations had gotten the better of him?  It sounded so shallow, didn't it?  Like a teenage girl with posters of her favorite stars taped all over the walls.  In her eyes, they could do no wrong, could they?  Maybe Evan really had done that: made Valerie his starlet, the untouchable one . . .

Still, the odds that she'd forgive him for the fight?  For what he'd done afterward?  How in the hell was he going to be able to face her?  No matter what his youkai might say, how much damage could he possibly do to her and still believe that she'd forgive him?  The words he'd said at the end came back to him—words designed to hurt her—words meant to cause her harm . . .

"That is what you wanted, right?  You want me to be exactly what you always thought I was, don't you?  The asshole rockstar?  The womanizing bastard?  Well, there you go.  That's what I am.  That's all I'll ever be.  Congratulations."

But . . .

But that's not who he wanted to be, was it?  What he wanted . . . and even if he could convince her to forgive him, to give him another chance . . .

How in the hell could he make her want it, too . . .?