Title: Tahitian Moon (Act One)
Author: honeyandvinegar
Pairing: Casey/Zeke
Rating: NC17
Synopsis: Post-Marybeth world, wherein Casey is murdered by a psychotic alien cult. Zeke has to deal, trying to learn how to.
Warnings: Death of major character, LOTS of angst, heavy violence.
Disclaimer: I own nothing--all fantasy on my end.
Author's Notes: WIP. Big, huge thanks to my lovely, beautiful beta, lisabellex, for putting up with strangely placed commas and buldings chasing Zeke around town. ;)

“I came out here tonight to look for my friend
I don't know if I'll ever get to see him again.
I don't know if I'll make it home tonight,
But I know I can swim under the Tahitian moon.”

~Porno for Pyros, “Tahitian Moon”


“Leave it to me to fuck shit up, act out as always. Show off what a despicable person I am, like I'm the only one who got hurt. Right in front of his mother and father. Jesus fucking Christ...”

He's rambling to no one again, and it never makes him feel any better. There's no one here to talk back, to either assure him that everything is okay, that he's okay, or even yell at him. He wants to feel something other than the gut-wrenching pain he's carried in his insides for a good month now.

Everyone's sick of it; they've all begun to move on, get over things. Zeke can't, however. He's incapable of handling this, and he won't. Especially now; he's here again... he knows it but it won't register how wrong it is. He'd had moments of helplessness before, but it is nothing, nothing at all like this. It makes him lift the bottle of vodka to his lips, trying to warm up and erase what his mind tries to tell him every goddamned day... things are not going to change and there's no real way to make it all go away.

He relies on the cold beginning of spring and the alcohol buzzing in his chest and stomach to steady him nowadays. Perhaps it makes everything worse in the end when his toes are so numb he doesn't feel them for a good day or more, and he's lost count on how many times he's thrown up as if he were dying. He thinks about death a lot, because that's all he knows right now.

When he'd shown up at Delilah's for no good reason two days before, he'd gone on a small search to find mouthwash in her bathroom cabinets. It didn't matter that Delilah's mom was constantly drunk herself; if he were to be here in this state, he was going to have to try to hide it when she got home later on that night.

The prescription of sleeping pills he'd found with Mrs. Proffit's name on them seemed to glow for a moment; so simple, so easy. This could finally just end with a quick tip of his head, swallowing however many capsules with a good gulp of 'Bombay Sapphire' to make the effects even more potent. Before he'd had time to pocket them, Delilah had come to the door and knocked hard. He'd panicked, put them back and gone back out, only to be kicked out when Delilah got sick of him just ten minutes into his being there.

Not many sympathized with him anymore, and he didn't blame them.

“You're not the only one who misses him,” Stan had said last week, when Zeke had called him to come over. Of course, he'd done nothing but bitch and blather on in his drunken rambling, and had made the mistake of telling Stan that he just did not understand.

Stan hadn't stayed long after that. He'd laid a heavy hand on Zeke's shoulder, however. “You gotta straighten shit out for yourself, Zeke. We can't do it for you.”

He felt guilty every time he thought of just how much support he DID get at first. Even with his showing up at the church, still drunk from the night before with his shirt and jacket all wrinkled; they'd been there. They'd listened to him grumble next to them, Stokely's hand clenching Zeke's hard, shushing him gently. Even when he'd stood up to go to the front to outright yell about how much he hurt, how he was going to kill the fucking bastards that did this, Stokely and Stan had got up with him and somehow directed him into the hall away from everyone. He hadn't gone without making a fuss—Mrs. Connor had made a small wail when Zeke bashed his shoulder into the doorjamb on the way out and yelled, “FUCK!” as if being ripped apart. He hated himself for that. He'd refused to go over and get the small photo album the Connors had set aside for him, one that held many pictures of him and Casey. He'd known which ones they were and had wanted them desperately, but that would have meant facing the Connors after what he'd done.

Zeke bent forward, rubbing his nose and lips on his jacket sleeve. It was cold out; too cold for anyone to be sitting on frosty grass at six a.m. With a chilled, restless sleep behind him he felt his eyes grow droopy and his face go slack. He wondered if he could go out like Jack Nicholson in 'The Shining', though the Ohio winter had passed. He'd simply catch a cold. “Tell me what t'do,” He mumbled, staring at the patches of dirt below him, poking out from pale green grass. “Case, tell me what... I wanna know, and I don't.”

It seemed that angels would speak to everyone else but him; he could remember scoffing in annoyance at TV shows or books, advertising specials on angels, spirits and the like. People would sit back with smiles on their faces, telling some random interviewer about their experiences with the dead, saying that they knew a loved one that had just passed was all right, because they'd seen their visage smiling and arms open wide.

Zeke made every promise he could—he'd find some belief in a higher power, read the Bible, pray, if he could have just one moment to see Casey, he'd do it. He'd do it all.

He reneged on that after three days. He wanted Casey and he wanted him now. It wasn't fair, not fair at all.

Zeke turned his eyes to the stone behind him, hating the word 'Connor' marked upon it.

“You don't give a shit about me, do you? You don't. Motherfucker...” he snarled out, turning away again. “Come here all the time, more than anyone else. And you don't care. You really don't fucking care,”

The bottle rose up and he emptied it, a tiny, running rivulet of alcohol going past the corner of his mouth to his chin. His eyes turned back again, looking at Casey's name with a cold stare. “Didn't save you any,” he said, shaking the bottle. He half considered smashing it into the stone, but had a brief moment of reason. I don't wanna do that. It'd hurt him somehow.

Zeke got up on wobbly legs and stood, wavering slightly. His entire body was sore having slept out here as long as he had. It was the fourth night he'd ended up passing out at Casey's grave, and he was too depressed to ponder on why he had to keep doing this.


“You shouldn't do that, y'now.”

Casey looked up from the letter he'd been writing, peering at Zeke curiously. “Why... not?” he asked. Zeke shook his head and took the small pile of letters sitting in front of Casey. Looking at one in particular, he frowned.

“'I'd love to meet you someday. No-one understands the things I've seen, and it gets lonely...'” Zeke read. “Casey, these people are crazy.”

Casey frowned back, blinking fast. “Crazy?”


“Are we crazy too, Zeke?”

“Oh don't start this shit. Really.”

“No, I mean it; are we? Who the hell knows what these people have seen. Even with our situation, people weren't willing to believe it,” Casey explained.

Zeke shrugged. “Most still don't,” Zeke muttered. Casey ignored this and reached for the next letter.

“Fine. I'll put it off, just read through the rest...” he said, getting the sheet of paper from the envelope. Zeke sat back and sipped his coke, staring ahead at the TV. He was glad he'd never been caught up in the media circus over the whole alien debacle, aside from a little attention in the beginning with a few pictures paparazzi style, taken right at the very beginning. But Casey was taking it to new heights. You just didn't cater to these types of people; Zeke still didn't believe most 'alien encounter' stories, seeing as most of the people in their country were too fucked up to make reason.

He almost didn't notice Casey's expression until he reached for the remote next to the boy. He was looking blankly at the letter, unmoving.

“What's up?” Zeke asked. Casey shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“Nothing. Just a crap letter.”

“Lemmee see.”

Casey's eyes darted over to him. “No.”

“Why not?”

“It's my mail, Zeke. Jesus,” he muttered. Casey stood up and tossed the letter into the trash bin. “Wanna watch a movie?”

“Thought you were gonna answer these 'fan letters' all day,” Zeke said, cocking an eyebrow.

Casey knelt by the TV and shrugged. “It gets tiresome,” Casey said. “I wanna try to answer 'em, as much as I can. Most people are really nice; they say that they're proud of me, or thank me for doing what I did. I feel I owe them.”

“You owe them?” Zeke repeated. At Casey's nod, he scoffed. “You don't owe them shit, Case. Saving the world wasn't enough... you have to say 'you're welcome' constantly?”

“I know that you think it's bullshit. I know you,” Casey said with a smile, turning his head over his shoulder to give Zeke a wink. “I dunno, maybe it's just 'cause I grew up thanking and 'you're welcoming' all over the place. Even if I didn't want to do it, my parents made me. I just see it as being polite.” As he stood up with a video in hand, he continued. “They took the time to write to me to let me know how they feel and stuff. I don't write novels back or anything.”

“So you'll write letters to possible psychos? Jesus, look... I know YOU, too. You're too fucking nice. Someone gives you something and you return it ten-fold. But that doesn't work all the time, Case. Sometimes you gotta sit back and take every now and again, without worrying about some fucking return,” Zeke said.

Casey cocked an eyebrow. “Are you worrying about me?”


“Since when does Zeke Tyler worry about other people?” he asked with a growing grin.

Zeke was still not amused; maybe he hadn't given a shit about anyone before, but he'd never really had any friends before, either... none worth keeping, anyway. In the matter of the two months that had passed since MaryBeth, he couldn't picture NOT being Casey's friend twenty years from now. It was odd, but it worked.

“What movie?” he asked, deciding to avoid the question. Casey turned and put it in the VCR.

“The Lady from Shanghai,” Casey replied. Zeke nodded as Casey got back to the couch and flopped down.

“That works.”


Zeke got back to his place around ten; he could tell that Casey's parents had almost caved when he'd begged to have Zeke over until eleven to finish 'Key Largo', but his curfew was his curfew. He couldn't help but throw an amused smile Mrs. Connor's way before saying goodbye.

He couldn't help but make a quick dash to the wastebasket when Casey left at one point to use the bathroom, either.

The envelope in Zeke's jacket pocket crinkled and shuffled against his chest while turning the living room light on, making him feel nervous. He'd heard all sorts of stories about stalkers, where celebrities had to have extra protection because of rabid fans making trouble. While he knew there were a few agents still prowling around town incognito, he wished Casey would either shut up when it came to the press and these... 'people', or get himself a few armed guards to follow him around.

Before sitting down to see what the letter was about, Zeke stopped to wonder if he was being paranoid. He'd always been one to take extra, needless precautions to everything he did. There were times when he'd envied Casey's happiness in naivety. He didn't concern himself with fears or doubt. His motto-- especially after MaryBeth—was simple.

'Do what you doubt.'

Zeke couldn't handle the doubts, however. They'd loom over his head until they came crashing down, hard. It was best to put a thick ceiling up to prevent crushing blows... and maybe a few walls, as well. He sat down and reached into his pocket and took out the plain, cream-colored envelope. He stared at Casey's address a few moments before daring to take out the contents; then he looked upon the words and felt a pit in his gut form instantly.

'Like your little queer ass could've kicked an alien. Miserable little lying fuck, your scaring the whole world with your TOTAL SHIT. Better shut up cuz I know people, and I could come by too, then would you talk your bullshit??? Watch your back little faggot!!'

Zeke let out a shuddering breath. The unsigned, utterly disgusting note sat in his hands, trembling with the press of Zeke's fingers upon it.

'...they say that they're proud of me, or thank me for doing what I did. I feel I owe them.'

“You owe them... shit,” Zeke growled out, feeling a panicked-sickness swell in his chest. He considered crumpling it up and trashing it—burning it, shitting on it, whatever—but put it in his desk drawer instead. If anything ever came out of these 'innocent threats', he'd want proof. If Casey wasn't going to concern himself with this then he would.


Zeke sat in McDonald's, his throat feeling raw and sore from the night before. Even with the pain, it felt good to eat; it'd been two days since he'd done so, and he needed it. The only things he had at home were a bottle of flat cola, a can of peanuts and a few boxes of stale cereal. Casey had brought over the peanuts on one of his visits, having been addicted to them since before he could remember. Zeke refused to touch them, keeping it like a shrine in his kitchen cupboard. Anything at this point... anything at all.

The play-place outside was full, the warm spring afternoon bringing people out of their houses and holes in the ground from a long, hard Ohio winter. Small patches of snow lined the metal fencing, but kids ran about in just their socks anyway. A few parents sat around, sipping coffee and chatting. Zeke let a rare smile go across his face in seeing one of the parents getting their child's shoes, ready to go.

“I don't WANNA go!” the child screamed at his mother, trying to hold onto the railing going up to the slide.

“I don't WANT to go home!”

Zeke's face went blank again, eyes turning back to his meal. He ate the last few fries left behind more out of duty than hunger at this point. Once finished, he stood up and threw everything away, almost losing the plastic tray in the process. His mind was too muddled and hurt to think straight. Hangovers lasted longer nowadays, seeing as he drank longer... more. He took up his coffee and hung his head as he walked out, not wanting to be recognized.

He greeted the afternoon sun with a scowl, pulling his sunglasses over his eyes. He wasn't going to drink tonight... he couldn't drink tonight. The coffee was snapping him out of it little by little, but his head still throbbed relentlessly. The numbing wasn't worth it, not tonight.

He'd just reached his car when a voice rang out, calling his name. Feeling cautious he turned, his jaw clenching instantly.

“Hey... Tyler?”

Gabe Santora walked from the door he'd meant to enter, letting it fall closed. Zeke stood shock-still as he approached, his hand clenching the cup hard.

“Hey...” Gabe started, puffing a little. “What's... what's going on?”

“Why?” Zeke said, eyes narrowing. Gabe blinked a few times before shrugging slowly.

“Nothing; just haven't seen you at school.”

“Maybe cos' I'm not going,” Zeke replied.

“Yea, I heard.”

“So why are you asking me this shit?” Zeke retorted angrily.

“I just... y'now, you were on the team and all. We've been worrying about you.” Gabe replied.

“Oh yea?” Zeke said, chuckling wryly. He shook his head and sighed, staring at the ground.

“Yea,” Gabe stated. “It's been going around that you've just... been a mess, and you've been doing all sorts--”

“Listen.” Zeke said in a firm voice, interrupting. “I could give a shitting fuck what you or anyone else in that goddamned school think, or if you've suddenly come up with some fucking empathy. You don't know a damned thing about me or what I've been doing, and even if you DID, I couldn't care less.”

“Zeke, I didn't mean to start shit. I just wanted—“

“What? You wanted what?” Zeke interrupted again. When Gabe paused Zeke scoffed with a snarl. “Make more speeches? Like you knew him?”

“I...” Gabe said, closing his eyes. “If you're gonna start in on that, I don't know what...”

“Getting up there to talk, to 'let it out'. Bullshit, Gabe; pure utter bullshit. If you think that saying nice things about Casey got you past the fucking torture you put him through since grade school, you're dead wrong. You never would have come out and said that shit if he hadn't died, and you know it,” Zeke said.

Gabe's breaths came out slow and shaky as his hand going to his forehead. “Yea, well I felt like shit.”


“And I needed to SAY something, Tyler—“

“Not at his fucking school memorial! Stokes, Stan, or Delilah, YEA. Not you.”

“Yea, and when did you get up? Huh?” Gabe said, growing defensive in his words. Zeke's eyes widened slightly hearing this. Gabe shook his head. “If I remember right, you came to school blasted out of your mind. Don't sit here and go on about how close you two were, because that's probably total bullshit too.”

Zeke wasn't thinking clearly; he hadn't thought clearly in over a month. His hands flew to Gabe's collar, whirled him around and slammed his back to the GTO. He seethed a few moments, breath hissing out erratically. “Don't you fucking dare say shit, Santora. You have no clue to anything here; anything...”


Both heads turned to find the restaurant manager standing on the end of the walkway inside. His large arms were crossed over his chest, his look threatening. Zeke glanced to the front. A few parents and kids stood watching the scene. Giving one last look to Gabe he let him go, not realizing he'd lifted him a few inches off the ground. He didn't bother to see whether he'd children cry, or if the manager was calling 911. He flung the door to his GTO open and got in, leaving the parking lot fast with tires squealing.


Zeke had kept to his word this time, refraining from drinking... and whatever else. It left him alone with his thoughts for the first time in a while, instead of numbing everything away. The TV show he had on went ignored; the hum of voices and electricity was enough for him.

For a few moments, he tried concentrating on the images. Normally he'd flip away from cheesy sitcoms, but the laugh track was hypnotic. 'Why are they all laughing? This shit isn't funny,' he thought, but kept watching and listening anyway. Nothing was worth laughing about anymore, it seemed. The rooms around him were darkening, as outside the sun went down and inside no lights went on. It was the way things had been for quite some time now, and it captured Zeke's mood entirely.

He wanted someone, anyone. It didn't matter who, al though his list had grown short. He still had the 'trio' of friends, but they'd grown tired of his incessant, drunken calls. It made him feel like a burden, and he didn't want them to keep carrying his weight. There were a few 'contacts' that still came around, but all they wanted was a fix. Zeke had been ready to tell them to go crush their OWN caffeine pills, but knew they'd pay top dollar. A few would stop by when classes were over, or even earlier, expecting that Zeke would just let them 'hang' at his place. So many of them liked to profess how lucky Zeke was in not having parents around, not knowing any better.

It'd been a while; the last call he'd made to his mother had gone unanswered, but then he'd been given the new number where she could be reached in Milan. Looking to the clock, he calculated the time difference and got up, not knowing why he'd been struck like this. He never really cared about talking to either one of his parents, but... anyone. He walked over to the phone and grabbed up the old, tattered address book with the information. Once through dialing, Zeke waited until he heard the line click.

“Hello?” a male voice answered. Zeke blinked and stuffed a hand into his pocket.

“Is Vicky there?” he asked.

“Who's this?”

“Her son... Zeke,” he said, feeling confused.

“Hold on,” the man said. Zeke bit his lip, listening to a small shuffle of activity and murmurs. It felt like forever before hearing the phone get picked up and a heavy sigh.


“Hi Mom.” Zeke murmured.

“Hi... hey, I got your message a while back, but didn't get the chance to call you,” she told him. Zeke felt it was an outright lie, but held back any accusations. “What's going on, hon?”

“I... I just wanted to call. I haven't talked to you or Dad in a bit,” he said, leaning on the wall and scuffing his shoe. He heard an amused sort of groan come from the other end.

“It doesn't surprise me. Your father was always terrible with correspondence.”

'And you aren't?' Zeke thought bitterly. “Yea...”

“Is something wrong? You sound really tired and out of it.”

“I just...” Zeke started. His chest tightened up and his stomach churned as he spat out the next words. “I need you; need you to come home.”

The pause on the other end wasn't very reassuring. “Zeke, hon—you know I can't right now.”

“Know you... I don't know anything, I just—Mom, it's been almost a year since you were here. I need you, a'right?” Zeke replied with a desperation he had trouble recognizing.

“Does this have anything to do... with your friend? Casey?” she answered. Zeke pursed his lips tight and didn't reply; she must have taken this as a 'yes' as she sighed knowingly. “We heard about it, all the way in Europe.”

“And you didn't call.” Zeke stated, feeling blank.

“I couldn't, I've already said—”


“Zeke, don't talk to me like that.”

“I don't know how to talk to you. I tell you I want you to come home, you say you can't and that I know you can't, but I don't know anything!” Zeke blurted, his eyes scrunching closed so tight it hurt. “I mean... what? What're you doing? Book signings, whatever?”

“We're on tour; you do know this, Zeke,” she said. “We've got a month and a half left, and then I'll come by.”

This wasn't working; not working at all. Zeke was only getting angrier and angrier. “Come by, huh?”

“I have another tour after this one, but there are a few weeks in between all that. Look...” she said. Zeke heard the shuffling of papers in the background. “It might be best if you had someone to talk to; a professional. There's a wonderful man I saw in Akron a few years back when I couldn't take things. Do you want the number?”

“You're sending me to a shrink?” he asked with his jaw tightening, hard.

“Don't be insulted. Everyone needs someone to talk to—”

“Like moms and dads, but I guess some people don't want the fucking responsibility.”

“Zeke... you know why things have been like this.”

Zeke scoffed. He started shaking his head with a deep, dark frown on his face. He stood away from the wall and began pacing. “I don't know SHIT. You keep saying that I 'know', but I haven't known crap since you've been in and out of the States! What the fuck do I hafta say? That I'm gonna kill myself?”

“You're not going to do that; I don't even want to hear you say things like that.”

“Well, what if I am? Huh? What if this is my 'last cry for help' and since it's getting ignored, 'fuck it'? You don't know that, now, do you?”

“All over a friend dying? Zeke, are you insane?” she asked. She sounded angry, which made Zeke even more confrontational. She didn't have the right to that, yet she continued nonetheless. “Do you even KNOW how many friends I've lost over the years?”

“Oh yea... yea; that druggie club-goer you met in France, bet you had SO much invested in him,” Zeke retorted. “Knock it off, Mom. You're so goddamned transparent.”

“Okay... I'm ending this conversation now. You're too worked up, and I need to get up early. It's late as it is.”


“I'm going to be here for the next three days. If you can clear your head enough to call back, maybe we can arrange my visit properly.” She answered. Zeke moved back to the wall and put his forehead to the wood.

“I need you, Mom. That's all I fucking want right now. I fucking need you. I'm your goddamned son,” he replied shakily. He couldn't believe the things he was saying, but they were being said. He couldn't hide the tremble in his voice as he continued. “Please. Please, come home,”

He hoped the large pause that followed this was because of hidden maternal instincts rising to the surface. There came another sigh and then her answer came forth. “You're a strong young man, Zeke. We knew you'd be all right when we left, that you could manage money and take care of yourself.”

“You... you just left...”

“I'm going to be putting more in the account, and you can use it for whatever you want.”

“I don't want money. I don't want money.”

“Whatever you're going through, it'll pass. I promise you that. It's going to get better...”

Zeke really didn't care about what she was saying. She'd made many promises before. Promising this had tainted the possibility of recovery for him. Her word was thin ice, easy to crack and wash away.

“Fuck you.” He murmured.

“Zeke... do not—”

“Fuck you!” he bellowed. He didn't press the 'end' button to hang up. It was easier to pull back his arm and slam the phone into the wall, sending a few small parts scattering on the floor. It wasn't enough; not until he'd busted the phone open and the insides caved, small metal and plastic contraptions spilling out and flying to the floor. His foot jerked back and slipped on a piece, making him stumble and fall onto his hands. Dull pains shot up his arms as he lowered his body, crouched low and put his head to the floor, breathing hard and fast.

Helpless. So fucking alone and helpless.

“No one cares... God, no one cares. They don't...” he muttered, trailing off as sobs climbed to his chest and released in the form of angry, growling cries. He wrapped his arms around himself, wishing they belonged to someone else.


There wasn't much that people actually knew about Zeke; it was all assumption. He was tall, smooth; cool and collected. When his parents left him at age sixteen, leaving the house and a huge trust fund in place of their presence, his mystique grew. People suddenly wanted to be his best friend. He learned of their deception the hard way, when he invited two guys over and got thirty-seven people instead. Every girl in the group had sidled up to him at one point or another, each one making insinuations on how 'cool' it was to have a whole house to himself... to do whatever he pleased...

“With anyone,” one girl had said with a seductive smile and wink. He was a sex-hungry adolescent, but not stupid. These people needed a party and Zeke was suddenly the 'cool guy' with his own place, as if he were twenty-one and living in a bachelor pad.

Living on takeout and having a huge bank account sounded cool to all of them, yet all Zeke wanted was for someone ELSE to do his laundry for him—or pay the household bills, call repairmen when things got busted, fight with dumbass neighbors and their dumbass dogs that dug holes in his yard. He did more things like that than party, and he was sick of it.

After discovering two guys in his room rooting around in his desk drawers, he'd promptly kicked everyone out, yelling that he was going to call the police if they weren't gone within one minute. They'd all scrambled out, carrying their half-drunk beers and scowling at Zeke over their shoulders. He'd been angry and shaky once alone in his house, and the very first thing he'd done after his doors were locked was run upstairs to his room to check on things. If they'd taken the small wad of twenties he'd hidden in his bookshelf, he didn't care. If they'd found his prized collection of mint-condition first print 'Johnny the Homicidal Maniac' comics and taken those, he didn't care. They could have taken anything; all that mattered was that the box underneath his bed had gone untouched. He'd been thankful that it was still boxed up the way he'd left it, and kept it untouched for a while afterwards...

After semi-recovering from his mistake of calling Italy, Zeke took the box out, needing release. It lay open on the floor, stacks of glossy magazines shining dully within it in the low light coming from the lamp next to Zeke's bed. His jeans were unbuttoned, cock grabbed and jerked off as he stared at the images before him. This was the secret hobby he'd enjoyed since the eighth grade. His eyes were set on the pictures of two men made up to look like 'farm boys' kissing; their mouths open and tongues extended to capture the most erotic feel of the act. Both of them had tight but unbuttoned denim shorts, both reaching inside to feel the other. Zeke pulled harder, the magazine trembling on the bed as his movements increased in speed. The next picture had the smaller of the two lying spread-eagled on a haystack, while the other licked along his large cock. Ever since getting this issue his junior year, Zeke couldn't pass by a farm without a knee trembling or his throat tensing with swallows. Living in Ohio gave him a permanent blush.

This time however, the images and memories weren't working. Zeke was still rock hard and unable let go. Perhaps way back when his mouth would water at the sight of two boys holding hands it had been enough. He needed more than farm boys and magazines now, but the only thing he wanted was gone. He scowled and turned away from the magazine to close his eyes, picturing something far different from the glossy pictures.

Perhaps it'd only been one night, but it was all Zeke really had left. He'd never find eyes so fucking wide and blue again; eyes that would tear up at orgasm and overflow with halted, soft cries. If Zeke shut his own eyes hard enough he could still feel hands clenched at his back, pulling him closer and closer inside...

It was all he needed to spill, his stomach and fingers going wet as Zeke came long and hard. His head pounded back, jaw tense and teeth grating as the milky strings covered him. It'd been awhile.

Once finished, Zeke let his hand drop to the side. His eyes cracked open and stared at the ceiling, his brain blank. He may as well have had an entire bottle of vodka. 'Getting off' seemed to match alcohol's effects, giving only a few minute moments of pleasure and numbness before dissipating into nothing again. His dry hand rose up and rubbed at his face, trying to regain his senses.

It didn't work—nothing did. This was it, possibly all he'd ever have: a high school porn collection, alcohol and his fist. It made Zeke's body turn listlessly onto his stomach, still unbuttoned and wet as he sank into the mattress, crying soundlessly into his pillow.


“Touch me...”

He sat right there on the bed, shirt half open, jeans unbuttoned and hands clenching at the blankets. Zeke stood in the doorway, staring at Casey's pleading face. His heart was beating a mile a minute, his hands shaking at his sides.

“You're dead.”

Casey shook his head, a wide smile growing on his face as he leaned back on his elbows. “C'mere.”

Zeke shook his head; he was going to turn away when a hand snaked around his waist, pulling him back.

“He's dead, Zeke. Let him go.”

The voice was familiar and it sent shivers up and down Zeke's back. Looking down, he saw the hand turn into something snakelike... slippery. A mouth was now at his ear, a long strand of blond hair spilling over his shoulder. “C'mon—you want me more.”

Zeke looked up in shock, hoping Casey would help him. He was frozen in fear; Casey was standing by the window now with his hand down his jeans, stroking slowly. “Bye.”

The feeling of something slithering and forceful going in his ear made Zeke howl; the bedroom then exploded into a ball of flame, the sound deafening and encompassing his body...

Zeke jolted awake, eyes flashing open wide. His breathing was erratic and his face, neck and shoulders were covered in a thin sheen of sweat. For a few moments he lay still, staring at the dark ceiling. There wasn't a fire, Marybeth was not there and neither was Casey. He swallowed hard, curling his legs up while holding his face in his hands.

He'd never really dreamed before this, at least not to the degree that he could remember after waking. It was all impressionistic, like a Renoir. Smooth colors and slight formations maybe, that was all. He could never step back and see the whole picture; it was as if he was pressing his nose to paintings to make an unfocused blur of what his subconscious was trying to say. Now that Casey was gone, this was all he had.

Zeke got to see him nearly every night now, and it hurt and held him together at the same time. Sometimes it was as simple as finding Casey asleep in his car, saying that he 'had nowhere else to go' and needed a ride somewhere. One time it was beautiful; just Casey dancing to Zeke's car radio outside, sun shining down in hard waves of heat. Zeke had simply watched from the driver's seat while doing a crossword, and refused to join the boy when he came to the window and asked for a dance. It was beautiful, even though Zeke wished he HAD danced, or at least remember the song playing.

This was the first dream he'd had with MaryBeth, however. Even right after the invasion she hadn't shown up; it scared him, not wanting her to interfere. All he needed was Casey, to get to see him in dreams. It was all he had.

Five hours of sleep was all he'd had as well. He grumbled in annoyance, seeing the clock read 5:44. There was no way he was going back to sleep now.


Zeke yawned heavily, wishing he'd told Casey he was going to be busy this afternoon instead of 'hanging out' at his place to play video games. The boy chattered away on the passenger side of the GTO, talking about being glad that his parents would be away for a good five days. “First time they're leaving me by myself,” he said with a big smile. Zeke smiled wryly.

“You sure you can handle it?” Zeke asked.

“Hells yea-- you gonna stay the night?”

“Eh, maybe. I'm kinda sick of you eating all my food at my place; I think I'll return the favor.”

Casey laughed out loud. “Oh really? Well my mom got a lot to hold me up for the weekend. She even got a few big frozen pizzas.”

“Livin' it up, huh?” Zeke said with a smile. He pulled into the drive of Casey's house and parked, yawning again. Hopefully Mrs. Connor had left some coffee behind, too.

Casey practically hopped his way to the side door, unlocked it and the two of them got inside. “You got a coffeepot?” Zeke asked.

“Only the best,” Casey replied, tossing his bag on the kitchen counter. Zeke 'ahhed' in delight, finding a new, superior coffee maker by the breadbasket.

“Awesome,” Zeke said, growing even more pleased in finding an expensive package of freshly ground Irish Crème coffee right next to it.

“You get that set up, I need some too. I'm gonna get my player down here; my parents never let me use the downstairs TV. Sooo much better,” he drawled, leaving the kitchen. Zeke nodded dumbly while measuring out a good twelve cups worth of coffee. If they both needed it, they'd have it. The smell of the package alone was perking his senses up, making him forget the terrible day he'd left behind.

Once setting the machine up, Zeke went on a search for mugs, sugar and cream. He scowled in finding non-dairy creamer in the fridge but it was either that or 1% milk. The mugs were hanging underneath a cupboard, and the sugar was nowhere to be found. Sighing, Zeke left the kitchen and headed upstairs to get answers.

He'd just gotten to the second floor when he stopped, his hand still on the railing and body still. Mr. and Mrs. Connor's minivan was gone, so they'd definitely left for their vacation. So... who was talking...?

He edged his way down the hall, listening. Murmurs of conversation bounced off the walls, though he couldn't make out the words. He finally got to Casey's bedroom door, finding it ajar. Looking in, his eyes went wide.

“No-one gets us. They don't get us. I saw what they said about you in... in my hometown newspaper. They don't like you, and they don't like me either...”

Zeke started breathing faster, seeing an older man—maybe in his early thirties, his hair thinned from behind upon a thick neck, standing with his back turned Zeke's way a few feet away from the door. He didn't see Casey and almost panicked—

“I know; I know, it really... r-really sucks, but this doesn't solve anything.”

“No. No, it's not... I can't live like this. But I had to see you. I had to find someone who understands what I've had happen. They took me... they've taken me almost every night. They do things to me. Did they do things to you too? Did you not... tell?” the man rambled. Zeke could hear Casey's small, shaky sigh.

“No. She was probably different.”

“MaryBeth. You said her name was MaryBeth.”

“She... said that, yea. Look... I can talk to you, all right? But I can't talk to you while you have that knife. I don't want you hurt, okay? Can you just put it down?”

Oh shit. Holy living fuck. Intense shock overcame Zeke's body, making him sweat; he hoped Casey wasn't hurt, but had said he didn't want him, the man to be hurt. Zeke's eyes were now set on the man's arm that was raised just above his shoulder. He didn't dare make any sudden moves.

“I saw your parents today—they really love you, huh? You're lucky. You're lucky. Mine never believed me. Dad liked to beat the shit outta me, because I wouldn't shut up for years. I just wanna be believed.”

Zeke put his hand at the door, careful to make no noise. He cracked it open wider, just enough to see Casey standing next to his bed. The boy's arms hung at his sides, fingers twitching nervously. “I'm so sorry. That's not right.”

“Are they gone? Parents? Are we alone? I wanna be alone.”

“They're gone, yea. We're... we're alone.” Casey said. “But they might come back soon. Maybe we should go outside on the porch and talk—”

“You're lying! I know you are! I saw them pack up the car, they're gone!” the man suddenly wailed. “Don't LIE to me!”

“Okay, okay! I was just saying... let's calm down, okay. Do you wanna have something to drink? We can go downstairs.”

“No. I wanna talk here. I wanna have you... gotta tell me everything. You didn't tell the papers and stuff everything.”

“Okay... that's fine. Let's sit down.”


“Please, I want you to calm down.” Casey pleaded. “You're safe here.”

“No I'm not... not safe anywhere,” the man said, starting to cry. Zeke almost jumped as the knife then pulled back slightly and returned to the man's neck in a jolt. Casey's gasp filled the air.

“Don't do that. Don't d-do that, you're gonna get hurt.”

In the next few seconds, Zeke's mind whirred into action. Calculating every last detail that he could—time, distance, what to grab—he pushed the door open and threw his arms underneath the man's, pulled them up and kept him in a tight hold. The man screamed loudly, hands flailing wildly. “Let me go! Let... let me GO!”


Zeke wasn't listening to anyone right now; he had to get this man on his stomach, pin him and get that fucking knife; the man still held it tight, swishing it behind him to try to catch Zeke's skin. “Fuck... Casey! Casey, get over here!”

“Zeke, STOP!”

Zeke tried to keep himself from losing control of the situation as the man now bent forward, trying to lift Zeke and toss him off. Using his weight as leverage, Zeke bent one knee and shoved his chest down, forcing the man to land on the floor. Zeke practically crushed him but managed to get his arms stilled on the rug. “Casey, get the fucking knife! Get it!”

Casey rushed forth, looking panic stricken and pale as he dropped down on his knees, pinning the man's hand down with one. Zeke saw the man flick his wrist, catching Casey's fingers with the blade. “Shit! Calm the FUCK down! Stop!” Zeke said, kneeing the man hard in his kidney. He cried out in pain as finally, Casey managed to pry the knife from his fingers.

“Fuckin' LIED! Fuckin' LIED to me!” the man howled, still trying to get out from under Zeke. Knowing he had a good hold on him, Zeke looked to Casey. Casey was staring at his hand, the small blade being held by shaking fingers.

“Casey... you okay?” Zeke asked; the boy was trembling, eyes wider than ever. “Casey... CASEY!” Zeke bellowed, finally catching his attention. He tried calming himself as Casey looked to him with a fearful expression. “Get... call 911. Now.”


The police gave Zeke stern gazes and lectures, all about how he was 'lucky but stupid' in what he'd done. 'You should have called 911,' was the general complaint, but in looking back on events, Zeke hadn't even thought about it until the man... 'Ricky'... was subdued.

While there was no real charge these guys could put on Zeke, he was well known here. He'd been busted twice in his short, teenage life; once while his parents were still around, the other time being right after they'd gone. His mother had bailed him out for throwing rocks at the windows of the 'Old Farley House' that had been deserted for years, and he'd served a few months' probation for it. The second time, he'd had to spend the night until his father's asshole lawyer had finally gotten around to showing up the next day to discuss the reasons for finding an ounce of weed in his car. They'd been trying to get him on possession with the intent to sell, but the lawyer had configured a deal. Zeke went on probation again and performed community service at the homeless shelter the next town over. It was what one got for giving idiots rides, only to serve as some sort of 'carrier' and not even know it.

Zeke finished filling out statements and talking to a few officers about what had happened, and now he simply waited for Casey to come out of the bedroom. He needed to be sure the boy was all right; the cuts on his hands had been small, thank God, but Zeke worried anyway. 'Ricky' would be the type to lace the blade with something, chemicals or disease.

An officer came out of the kitchen just as another one came in from the front porch. “We just got in contact with the boy's parents. They should be here in about two hours.” He said. The woman nodded.

“Okay, good,” she replied. She looked to Zeke then. “What about you? Do your parents know?”

“They... they're not in town. They haven't been for years now,” Zeke replied. She nodded slowly again, sighing deeply.

“Stratton, Plass...” yet another officer called through the screen door. The two of them walked over, Zeke leaning up a little to listen. He only caught small snippets of the conversation. “Came from headquarters...” “Been cleared, they need to talk to the Connor boy...” “It's gonna be on a federal level now...”

Zeke sat up further in seeing two men, both wearing impeccable suits and shades, looking nearly identical. “He's upstairs?” one asked. The woman officer pointed towards the stairwell; they nodded and went up quietly... ghost-like.

About an hour later Zeke was still waiting, treating himself to a cup of coffee to try and keep his eyes open. The stress and excitement was winding down to nothing, making him feel empty and cold. On his third cup, Casey was finally coming downstairs, arms crossed over his chest with the two men walking behind him. One had his hand on Casey's shoulder, easing him towards the door. “He doesn't have family close by. We're gonna need an officer to stick around here,” one of them said.

“Plass...” someone called from outside. Zeke stood up, swallowing.

“I can stay...?” he said. Casey looked over at him with a stony stare, making Zeke shudder a bit. The kid knew how to use those eyes, and use them well.

“He's a minor, kid,” one of the suited men stated. Zeke didn't like the look of him; he reminded him a lot of the agents that had poured into Herrington back in September to 'handle things'. Seeing Casey's wide-eyed, shocked expression, Zeke nodded.

“Well, I'll stay here. Nothing wrong with that is there?” he said. The agents smiled, seemingly amused.

“Yea... sure,” they said. One of them leaned into Casey and murmured something to him, causing Casey to nod back.

“Yea,” he muttered. They left then; the cops were organizing things outside as Zeke walked over, looking at Casey with concern.

“You all right?” he asked. Casey rolled his eyes and left the room, going into the kitchen. Confused, Zeke followed, finding him at the sink getting a glass of water. “Casey?”

“Why'd you fucking do that?”

The sudden question made Zeke's jaw drop a little. “Do... do what?”

Casey whirled around, his hand clutching his glass hard. “Play the hero. Jump that guy... he needed HELP, not some oaf throwing him to the floor!”

“What...? Casey, I was shitting myself thinking he was gonna haul off and kill you!”

“He wasn't going to do that. He was putting the knife to himself, Zeke; not me.”

“Yea, giving him some extra time to think on that and it might've changed,” Zeke replied coldly. Casey looked away, taking the glass to his lips and sipping. The liquid inside it shook, as Casey's fingers held it in a vice-like grip. “It was stupid—but I was scared, all right? The guy was a fucking NUT. He could've turned on you real fucking quick, and I wasn't gonna let that happen,” he explained. Casey started shaking his head then; the noises outside died down, cars taking off with only a few officers left behind on the porch. One started calling out, most likely to nosy neighbors and passersby, telling them to 'get on home'. “I was just scared,” Zeke repeated after a full minute of silence between them. Casey's free hand went to his face, holding one side of it as his eyes began filling.

“Z-Zeke...” he muttered, sounding helpless. “Oh fuck. Fuck.”

“Hey, it's okay.”

“I was fucking terrified. He was in my room, my fucking room. He'd gone through...” Casey replied fast. He took a second to swallow, looking pained in doing so, “...my whole bookshelf, big boxes of my pictures...”

Zeke sighed sadly, going over to him and putting his hands on Casey's shoulders. “He's gone now. Okay?” Zeke told him. “He's gonna get whatever he needs to work this shit out for himself. That's not your problem.”

“Hate this. Jesus fucking Christ, I hate this.” Casey said. Without warning his eyes overflowed; Zeke pulled him into a small hug, patting his back and shushing him.

“Do you want me to stay, or—”

“Stay. Please stay,” Casey muttered into Zeke's shoulder. Zeke nodded, realizing he wanted nothing more that that.


The days were getting longer now. It was about 6:30 and the sun was still high in the sky. Zeke slipped on his sunglasses before leaving the car, looking towards a group of guys and girls hanging out in the parking lot. This small plaza was famous for high school kids to come hang out, and Zeke would have avoided it if he could. The only place in town that would sell him liquor was here, however; his father's old friend ran it and always overlooked Zeke's age. Zeke glanced over, noticing that a few people had spotted him. He rushed through the doors of the store, knowing exactly what he wanted; go in, get out.

Joey was at the counter, nodding up to him as he went straight to the coolers. Tonight was a beer night; hard liquor had started getting on his nerves, hitting him too quickly nowadays and making him pass out much sooner than he wanted. He grabbed a twelve pack and went up to the front, money already out. “How ya doin', man?” Joey asked. Zeke shrugged, dropping the cash down.

“I've been better,” he replied, looking to the door. Those kids were still there, surrounding a car playing loud, heavy music with plenty of bass.

“Yea... you take care, okay?” Joey said with a small smile. Zeke feebly returned one, taking his change and walking to the door. Cool air blasted at him once outside, making him frown and lower his eyes. His steps were quick in getting to his car, seeing the people looking to him again. 'Leave me the FUCK alone' he ordered harshly in his thoughts, opening his back door. He got the beer inside, shut it and turned. His lips curled into a snarl in seeing a young girl walking over, her head turned over her shoulder to look at her friends with a small smile.

“Hey,” she said once turning back around. Zeke put his arm on the top of the car, watching her saunter over.

“Yea?” he replied blankly. She smiled wider, stuffing her hands in her jacket pockets and shrugging.

“Chrissy Jensen...? I was in English Lit with you junior year,” she said. “We worked together on that Byron report.”

Zeke barely remembered this but shrugged back. “Okay. Yea.”

“You remember?”

“No.” he said. He was hoping she'd just walk off, seeing his disinterest. She stuck around though, rolling her eyes and smiling.

“Yea, well... I try to forget that class too,” she stated. He noticed her eyes stray to the backseat for just a split second, letting him know her intentions. “Haven't seen you at school; do you still go?”

“Nope,” he replied.

“Oh... okay...”

“Do you care or something?” he inquired, narrowing his eyes in a small frown. Again, she wasn't put off, simply smiling even more.

“You um... are you just by yourself tonight?” she asked. Zeke cocked an eyebrow.

“No, we're having a fucking family reunion.”

“Right,” she said, scuffing her shoe into the pavement. “Just asking cos'... well, y'now, you shouldn't be all holed up the way you've been. You want some company?”

Zeke was ready to turn her down, hard; he turned his head away, shaking it slightly. He didn't know why he looked back to her and said, “get in,” but he did. Before his door was even open, he saw her head whirl around to look back at her friends. Knowing smiles were passed, and Zeke couldn't care less.


“You've got a real nice place,”

Zeke nodded dumbly, putting the new beer in his fridge after taking one out. He took a chilled glass from the freezer, hating the feel of warm beer. Chrissy stood by the kitchen doorway, smiling with apparent amusement. “You gonna share?” she asked. Zeke stood up as he cracked his open.

“You gonna ask properly?” he said, glancing up at her as he poured out his drink. She laughed once, shaking her head.

“I gotta say 'please', huh?” she said. Zeke didn't answer, taking his first sip. She walked over and leaned on the fridge. “Can I please have a beer?”

“Go nuts,” Zeke replied coolly, walking past her to go to the living room. He really didn't know why he'd brought this girl back with him; it would have been a lot easier to just tell her to fuck off and peal out of the parking lot and let Chrissy's friends console her. 'She doesn't give a shit about me,' he thought to himself, grumbling under his breath as he sat on the couch. As he settled in to watch some random show about sea life on the Discovery Channel, Chrissy returned, holding a chilled glass.

“Hope you don't mind; I hate warm beer,”

“That's what the freezer's for,” Zeke replied, his voice echoic as he sipped. She sat on the couch, keeping her distance enough. Zeke was hoping she'd get the message without having to say anything out loud. Why he wouldn't just speak up he didn't know; maybe it was having someone in the house with him, something he wasn't used to anymore. It was making him feel itchy.

“So... how've you been? I've heard you've just been here by yourself all the time.” She said. She fuckin' reading my goddamned mind...?

“Yea well, I haven't been up for visitors,” he replied. She nodded knowingly.

“Yea. It's been weird at school.”


“Ever since what happened with Casey—”

“Don't fucking talk about him,” Zeke snapped, sipping back hard. For the first time tonight, Chrissy wasn't smiling stupidly. It faded a little before she scoffed out an uncomfortable sounding laugh.

“Sorry. You guys were pretty close, I was just... y'now...”

“If you came here for a screw, just say so. We can fucking do that, but you're gonna have to shut up about this shit.” He cut her off again, looking over to her with a dark expression. She blinked, smile returning.

“You're... you're pretty blunt.”

“Comes in handy,” he said, looking back to the TV. He wasn't about to initiate anything, but didn't have to. A hand was soon on his thigh and the rest of Chrissy followed, shifting her body closer. He didn't react in any way just yet, still staring ahead.

“C'mon... look at me,” she cooed, touching his chin. He rolled his eyes but turned, seeing her pink lips glistening, brown eyes searching him out. He couldn't help the downward glance at her tight t-shirt, the low collar dipping to the start of her cleavage. She seemed to notice as she puffed a breath in, her chest moving forward to touch his shoulder. “I've checked you out since freshman year,” she admitted. He swallowed and turned away, feeling his stomach tense.

The feel of her mouth at his ear made him twitch; her breath smelled like watermelon gum and Heineken, a strange mixture that made him close his eyes. Her tongue was lapping around his lobe, hot air echoing and nearly making him turn away. This didn't feel right at all; it was something, but it wasn't the right something. Her knees parted beside his legs, her milk-white thighs showing just underneath the hem of her short skirt. While one hand snaked its fingers into his hair, the other took his wrist. Without words, she brought it underneath her skirt, making him reach up between her legs. The soft fabric of her panties was dampening; he couldn't help his fingers started to move of their own accord, feeling around in the wet folds. She let go of him and gripped the denim on his thigh. “Oh...” she moaned, pushing her lips to his neck. Small bucks of her hips pushed his fingers flat, the warmth almost taking him and the cloth inside. She now moved away and reached up her skirt; Zeke watched with numb fascination as her panties-- pink with lace along the hem--lowered and pushed all the way off. Her next move pinned Zeke still in every which way; she'd crawled up onto Zeke's lap, pushing her crotch to his. His cock reacted, pushing against his jeans as if trying to escape. “You're so hard,” she said with a smug smile.

“Big deal,” He replied.

“Feels it, yea,” Chrissy said, leaning into him. He almost panicked; no. He turned his head just as she was about to put her lips to his.

“I'm not gonna kiss you.” He told her. She rolled her eyes.

“Sure,” she breathed out. He was angry; girls like this felt they owned a guy with their cunts, as if they couldn't find control when pheromones fired off. Zeke was never owned by anyone; parents, girls, teachers...

Only one 'anyone'; the one person he never should have let own a damned thing about him. It made him angry that brown wasn't blue, that he felt arousal against his leg, wet and hot instead of hard and strong, aligning with his cock. Chrissy still wore that 'you love this' expression, her smile playful and inviting.

“Are you gonna touch me or not?” she asked. Zeke felt like slapping her. He didn't want her. He had her as it was, any way he wanted. She wanted foreplay; kisses and fingering, a few nipple twists perhaps. Three months ago Zeke would have given her all of that.

Instead, he unstrapped his belt in a flash, shoved his hand down while pushing Chrissy's hips up towards him. She was wet enough, and every pore she owned screamed 'whore'. Even if she was a virgin, Zeke didn't care. He simply positioned, angled, grabbed each side of her and pushed.

Chrissy threw her head back in feeling him enter her, forcing his cock inside in one hard thrust. His nostrils flared in angered lust as he started pumping, making her take it with shoves at her pelvis. She started moving, the shock subsiding, putting her hands to the back of the couch, framing Zeke's shoulders.

“Oh... yea...” she groaned, licking at his neck again. He growled, but not from the swelling need to spill into this bitch; he wanted her to hate it, slap him and shove off and slam the door behind her. Leave it to Zeke to come across someone who liked it rough.

He stopped his pushing once he realized Chrissy was moving on him enough, her downward pushes taking over. He let her, not wanting any more to do with this act. The dirty feel of cheap sex had started leaking its way into his brain. This sort of thing was okay back in his first senior year, because he hadn't cared then. He didn't mind using others, taking what he wanted then never calling back.

January had changed that, scaring and thrilling Zeke to pieces with a quick trip to piss while Casey showered...

He was clutching Chrissy's back with both hands and putting his head back, his neck shoving into the scratchy fabric of the couch as he came, irking out groans and incoherence. Chrissy stilled over him. He looked at her through slits of eyes, noticing her concerned gaze. The last few jolts emptied him, making his legs go jelly-like underneath Chrissy's moist thighs. He hadn't recovered completely before she spoke up.

“What...” she started, blinking fast, “...was that about?”

“What... what about?” he murmured, looking past her shoulder to the wall, TV images glowing against picture frames.

“Don't act fucking stupid,” she snapped, her easygoing look turning stony and cold.

“What the fuck you talking about?” Zeke asked in confusion.

“Oh my fucking God,” she said with a deep grimace, moving off of his lap. She picked up her underwear and stared at Zeke with disgust. “Did you screw him or something?”


“Casey. For fuck's sake, you yelled out his name, not mine!” she almost yelled. Zeke should have been shocked, not realizing he'd done such a thing. Fear didn't find him however; Chrissy was a bitch, someone who'd used him just as badly as he'd done with her. He zipped up and shrugged.

“I barely know your name,” he stated, grabbing his cigarettes from the table. As he lit up, Chrissy scoffed with annoyance.

“That's fucking gross.”


“You fucked a guy. That's fucking gross,” she said with a sneer.

“Yea, and you fucked me. So I guess you fucked Casey, too.”

“Oh my fucking God,” she said again, shoving her panties back on. Her hands were shaking as she picked up her jacket, looking to Zeke in quick, nervous glances. “You're sick,” she stated. He shrugged again, putting a foot up.

“Get out of my fucking house,” he told her. He didn't need to make the order as she was already at his front door, slamming it behind her. She'd probably tell everyone at school and seeing as he didn't go anymore, he didn't care.

He almost wanted her to do that. He smiled, not really knowing why.


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