Chapter 9: The Taste of Ashes
The words hung in the air, thick and suffocating as the scent of their sweat. Iris went still above him, her weight pinning JT to the bed, her cock still buried deep inside him. The violent rhythm had ceased. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the faint hum of the city through the window.
Then she laughed. It was a low, ugly sound that held no humor.
“True lovers,” she repeated, her voice dripping with scorn. She withdrew from him slowly, making him feel every inch of her leaving his body, a hollow, aching vacancy. She rolled off and sat on the edge of the bed, her back to him. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
JT stayed on his stomach, cheek pressed to the damp sheets. The sting of the cock ring’s removal was a dull throb. The profound, devouring fullness was gone, replaced by a different kind of ache. “I do,” he whispered, the conviction he’d felt during his vow already bleeding away under her glare. “I mean it.”
“You mean you’re scared,” Iris said, lighting a cigarette. The flare of the match illuminated the sharp planes of her face. “You had a moment, little brother. A little pain, a little pleasure, and your brain short-circuited. You confused getting fucked stupid with love.”
“It’s not like that.”
“It’s exactly like that.” She blew smoke toward the ceiling. “You want to be cherished? You want health? Look at you.” She gestured at him with the cigarette, the ash glowing. “You’re a mess. My mess. I own the bruises on your hips. I own the way you’re leaking onto the sheets right now. That’s not a vow. That’s a fact.”
She stood, towering and magnificent in her nakedness, and walked to her dresser. She poured a glass of whiskey, drank it neat. When she turned back, her expression was unreadable. “Get up. Get out. Go take a shower and sleep this off. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
The dismissal was a colder, crueler thing than any slap. JT pushed himself up, his body protesting. He gathered his clothes from the floor where they’d been torn off—his jeans, his wrinkled t-shirt—and left the room without looking at her. The walk to the bathroom felt like a mile. The shower was scalding, but it didn’t cleanse. It just made him more aware of every mark, every tender spot her hands and mouth and teeth had claimed.
He didn’t go to his room. He stood in the dark living room, listening to the silence from behind her door. He heard the clink of glass, the creak of her bed. No sound of crying. No sound of anything.
He thought of the luxury hotel, the chocolate strawberries, the remote in her hand. He thought of a thousand small servitudes, a lifetime of walking on eggshells around her tempers and her needs. He thought of the perverse safety in it, the awful, familiar prison. His love for her was real, a twisted, deep-rooted thing. But her love for him was a possession, a weapon. She was right. He was her mess.
And he was tired of being messy.
JT FINALLY STOOD UP AND GOT DRESSED PROPERLY.
He didn’t put on the clothes from the floor. He went to his closet and found the dark wool suit he’d worn to their mother’s funeral two years prior. It was a little tight in the shoulders now. He put on a clean white shirt, buttoned it slowly. He fastened his tie with deliberate, practiced motions in the mirror. He looked like a ghost of a younger man, someone with prospects. He looked like someone Iris might see, truly see, for the first time.
In the kitchen, under the harsh fluorescent light, he found a pad of paper. The pen hovered. All the storm of feelings, the confusion, the hurt, the devastating need—it collapsed into a single, clear line. He wrote it neatly.
I love you Iris. I understand love now. It’s the fullness in one’s heart that destroys them when that person is gone.
He set the pen down. He took his phone from his pocket, scrolled for a moment, then placed it on the counter next to the note. He added his keys to the apartment, the little fob she’d given him when he moved in. The finality of the clink they made was louder than any scream.
HE COULD NO LONGER BE THERE WITHOUT IRIS.
But the Iris he couldn’t be without didn’t exist. She was a phantom he’d built from scraps of kindness and a ocean of pain. The real Iris was in her bedroom, smoking and drinking, satisfied with her ownership.
JT pulled on his overcoat. It was thin, meant for autumn, not the chill he could feel seeping through the windows. He didn’t take an umbrella.
JT COVERED UP AS BEST HE COULD AND WALKED INTO THE NIGHT AS THE RAIN BEGAN TO FALL.
The first drops were cold kisses on his face. Then the sky opened. It wasn’t a gentle rain; it was a deluge, soaking through his suit in minutes, plastering his hair to his scalp, running in rivulets down his neck. The city lights blurred into streaked halos on the wet pavement. He walked without direction. Past closed shops, under the awnings of bars where laughter spilled out, past steam grates exhaling their warm, rotten breath. The cold was bone-deep, a physical shock that was almost a relief. It was feeling something other than her.
HE HAD NO DESTINATION IN MIND JUST ONE FOOT BEFORE THE OTHER AS HE DISAPPEARED INTO THE RAIN.
The suit was ruined. The note was behind him. The keys were gone. Each step was a separation. He didn’t look back. The rain washed over him, an indifferent baptism. He turned a corner where the streetlights were out, and the darkness swallowed him whole, leaving only the sound of the downpour and the fading echo of footsteps.
The darkness was a physical thing, a wet wool blanket wrapped around the world. He walked until the manicured downtown streets gave way to cracked sidewalks and warehouses with corrugated metal skins. The rain never let up. It drilled into his shoulders, found the gap between his collar and his neck, traced the line of his spine beneath the soaked wool. He didn’t feel it anymore. He just moved. Left foot. Right foot. His polished dress shoes were ruined, the leather splitting, filled with icy water that sloshed with every step.
Memories flickered, unwanted and vivid. The hotel suite’s marble floor under his knees. The sweet-sick taste of chocolate and strawberry as she fed him. The low buzz of the remote in her hand, a phantom vibration now in his gut. “Fuck me with your clone,” he’d begged, and she had, her eyes dark with a triumph that had felt like love. He’d been so sure. He’d been so fucking stupid.
JT WALKED FOR HOURS THE COLD HE WAS NUMB TO JUST ONE FOOT IN FRONT OF THE OTHER THEN HE CAME UPON A BRIDGE AND LOOKED DOWN INTO THE RAPIDLY FLOWING RIVER.
It was an industrial bridge, rust-stained and utilitarian, arching over a black chasm. The river below wasn’t picturesque. It churned, fat with rain, swallowing the yellow glow of distant security lights into its oily depths. It roared up at him, a constant, hungry sound. He leaned against the railing, the cold iron biting through his sleeves. The water looked violent. Final. It would be a different kind of fullness, one that erased everything: the ache in his ass, the sting of her laughter, the hollow where his love had been.
IT WOULD BE SO EASY TO JUST FALL...WHY WAS HE HESITATING.
He climbed. His hands, slick and frozen, found purchase on the wet metal. He swung a leg over, then the other, now standing on the outer ledge, his back to the void. The wind ripped at him, trying to finish the job. He looked down at the water, then up at the weeping sky. He thought of her finding the note. Would she care? Or would she just shrug, pour another drink, and find someone else to own? The image of her indifferent face was more terrifying than the drop.
“Hey! The fuck are you doing?”
The voice was a rough bark, torn away by the wind. A semi-truck was idling on the bridge’s shoulder, its hazard lights painting the rain in urgent orange pulses. A man in a soaked baseball cap was leaning out of the driver’s side door.
JT didn’t answer. He just stared.
“Get the hell down from there, you idiot!” the driver yelled. “It’s a shit night. It’s a shit life. Come have some shit coffee.”
The mundane offer, the sheer, annoyed practicality of it, was a hook in his chest. It wasn’t kindness. It was inconvenience. The man didn’t want the hassle of a jumper. JT’s hands clenched the railing behind him, the metal solid and real. He hesitated. Then, moving slowly, his muscles screaming in protest, he climbed back over to the walkway. He stood there, dripping, shivering violently now that he’d stopped.
The trucker watched him, nodded once, and jerked his thumb toward the passenger door. “In. You’re letting the cold in.”
The cab was a cave of stale warmth, smelling of old coffee, diesel, and sweat. The man handed him a thermos cap full of a bitter, scalding liquid. JT held it, the heat searing his palms.
“Where you headed?” the trucker grunted, putting the rig in gear.
JT looked out at the rain-streaked windshield. The wipers beat a steady, hypnotic rhythm. “Away,” he said, his voice a rasp he didn’t recognize.
“Away’s a direction,” the man said, merging onto the highway. The wheels thrummed on the wet asphalt, carrying him forward, away from the bridge, away from the river, away from her. The momentum was the only thing that felt true.
The momentum was the only thing that felt true.
The trucker grunted, a sound like gravel shifting. He downshifted, the engine groaning as they climbed a long, dark incline. “Far as possible is usually Wyoming this time of night,” he said, his eyes on the slashing rain. “That work for you, kid?”
“Yeah.” JT’s voice was hollow. The word was just air leaving a cavity.
“Name’s Roy.” He didn’t offer a hand. He lit a cigarette, cracked his window, and let the storm scream in for a second. “You’re soaked through. Bin behind my seat. Dry sweatshirt. Might smell like diesel and regret, but it’s dry.”
JT moved slowly, his body an alien, clumsy machine. He found the grey sweatshirt, peeled off his ruined suit jacket and sopping shirt. The cab’s heat was a blunt force on his skin. The sweatshirt was massive, swallowing him, smelling of oil and old sweat. It was the kindest thing he’d felt in years. He stared at his hands in the dim dash light. They were clean. They didn’t look like hands that had just clawed back from a railing.
“Running from or running to?” Roy asked after twenty miles of silence.
“From.”
“Figured. The suit. The look.” Roy took a drag. “Woman?”
“My sister.”
Roy’s jaw tightened. He didn’t flinch. He just nodded slowly, like a mechanic diagnosing a familiar, terminal knock in an engine. “That’s a heavier load.”
The words unlocked something. The warmth, the rhythmic drone of the wheels, the anonymity of the night—it all conspired against the dam he’d built. The memory didn’t flood; it seeped, viscous and hot, filling the cab.
It was before the hotel. Before the toy. A rainy afternoon much like this one, trapped in the house. She’d been in a mood, a quiet, simmering one. She’d called him into her room to fix her laptop. He was kneeling by the outlet when he felt her presence behind him.
“You’re always so helpful, JT,” she’d said, her voice soft. Her hand came down on his shoulder, heavy. “So eager to please.”
He’d frozen. “It’s just the cord, Iris.”
“It’s never just the cord.” Her fingers dug in, steering him around until he was facing her, still on his knees. She was wearing just a silk robe, loosely tied. It fell open. He’d seen her naked before, but this was different. This was deliberate. Her cock was half-hard, thick and ruddy against her thigh. “You look at me sometimes. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
“I don’t,” he whispered, but his eyes were stuck there.
“Liar.” She untied the robe, let it slide down her arms. She cupped herself, gave a slow, lazy stroke. “You want to be helpful? Be helpful.”
He couldn’t breathe. His mouth was desert dry. He wanted to run. He wanted to stay. He wanted to disappear. The conflict must have been plain on his face because she smiled, a cruel, beautiful curve of her lips.
“Use your mouth, little brother. Show me how grateful you are for everything I do.”
The first touch of his lips to her skin was an electric shock of wrongness. She was musky and salty. He flinched.
“Open wider,” she commanded, her hand fisting in his hair. “Take it. Or do I need to force you?”
He opened his mouth. She pushed the head past his lips. It was smooth, hot, alive. She sighed, a contented sound that vibrated through him. “That’s it. Now suck. Like you mean it.”
He tried. It was clumsy, all teeth and panic. She tutted, adjusting his angle with a brutal yank of his hair. “Relax your jaw. You’re not eating an apple. You’re worshipping a goddamn cock. Get it wet.”
Tears of shame blurred his vision as he worked his tongue, as he tried to soften. She began to move, shallow thrusts that bumped the back of his throat. He gagged, strings of saliva dripping down his chin.
“Swallow it,” she growled, her hips picking up a rhythm. “Take it all. I want to feel you choking on me.”
She fucked his face in earnest then, holding his head still as she pumped into his throat. Each thrust stole his air. Black spots danced behind his eyelids. His own dick was a hard, traitorous ache in his jeans. The shame burned hotter than the friction. He was hard. He was getting hard while she used his mouth like a toy.
“You like this, you sick little fuck,” she hissed, panting now. “You’re fucking rocking into the air. You’re desperate to come, aren’t you? But you don’t get to. You’re just a hole for me.”
She came with a guttural shout, pulsing salty bitterness down his throat. He swallowed reflexively, choking, tears streaming down his face. When she finally pulled out, he slumped forward, coughing, strings of cum and spit webbing his chin to the floor.
She looked down at him, spent and panting. She nudged his hip with her bare foot. “Look at you. A mess.” She sounded almost affectionate. “Now get out. I’m bored.”
The truck hit a massive pothole, jolting him back into the present. His heart was a frantic animal against his ribs. His face was wet. He wiped his cheeks angrily, hoping Roy would blame it on the residual rain.
Roy glanced over, his profile carved in the green dashboard glow. He didn’t comment on the tears. “Wyoming’s a big place,” he said, his voice a low rumble under the engine’s roar. “Gotta pick a town, kid. Can’t just drive into the concept of ‘away’.”
JT looked out at the endless, dark road unfurling in their headlights. The memory was a live wire in his gut, humming with self-loathing and a terrible, undeniable thrill. He saw a green sign flash by: Cheyenne - 42 Miles.
“Cheyenne,” JT said, the name feeling strange on his tongue. It was a place, a real point on a map. It was not her. It was a beginning, however fragile.
“Cheyenne it is,” Roy said, and stubbed out his cigarette. The truck accelerated, carrying him forward into the unknown dark.
The truck ate the miles, a steel cocoon vibrating through the endless night. JT watched the broken yellow line hypnotically, the memory of Iris’s taste—chocolate, strawberry, salt—still a ghost on his tongue. The shameful heat that memory ignited in his gut now felt like the only warm part of him.
Roy drove in a silence that wasn’t empty, but observant. Finally, he nodded toward a glow on the horizon. “Cheyenne. Ten minutes.”
The words pulled JT from his stupor. The reality of his situation crystallized, cold and sharp. He had nothing. No wallet, no phone, no plan. Just this stranger, this cab, and the crushing debt of a kindness he didn’t understand. He cleared his throat, the sound raw.
“Roy.” The name hung there. The man glanced over. “You saved me back there. You didn’t have to stop. You’re bringing me this far.” He stared at his own hands, clenched in the too-long sleeves of the borrowed sweatshirt. “How can I repay you?”
Roy shrugged, his eyes back on the road. “Ain’t a tab. Forget it.”
“I don’t have money,” JT pressed, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. The offer felt inevitable, the only currency he’d ever known. His heart hammered against his ribs. “But I’m… I’m willing to pay. With my body. If you wish.”
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Roy’s expression didn’t change, but his knuckles tightened on the wheel. He took the next exit, not toward the city lights, but down a service road that led to a darkened truck stop lot, empty except for a few long-haul rigs. He killed the engine.
The sudden quiet was deafening.
Roy turned in his seat, the leather creaking. He looked at JT, really looked at him, his gaze flat and assessing. “That what you’re used to? That the deal you know?”
JT couldn’t hold his eyes. He nodded, a tiny, wretched motion.
Roy sighed, a long, weary sound. He unclipped his seatbelt. “Get in the back.”
The bunk was a narrow cave behind a faded curtain. Roy followed him in, the space immediately shrinking, filled with his scent of tobacco and road. He didn’t kiss him. He didn’t undress him slowly. His movements were direct, practiced. He pushed JT down onto the thin mattress, his hands rough.
“If this is the payment,” Roy said, his voice low, “then we do it my way. You don’t speak. You don’t look at me.”
He yanked the sweatpants and boxers down JT’s hips in one motion. The cold air hit his skin, then the hotter, calloused touch of Roy’s hand. He groped JT’s cock, which was soft, terrified. Roy spat into his own palm, the sound crude in the dark. He worked JT roughly, his grip demanding a response.
“C’mon,” Roy grunted. “Earn your ride.”
Tears of humiliation burned behind JT’s eyes. He willed his body to react, his mind recoiling even as a base, mechanical part of him stirred under the relentless friction. He turned his face into the scratchy blanket, smelling of other men, other escapes. He got hard in Roy’s punishing hand, a traitorous swell of blood that had nothing to do with desire.
“There it is,” Roy muttered. He released him, and JT heard the rasp of a zipper, the rustle of denim. A bottle of lube squelched. Roy’s fingers, cold and slick, pushed against him without preamble. JT gasped, his body seizing.
“Relax,” Roy commanded, not unkindly, but with the impatience of a man completing a transaction. The finger worked inside him, a blunt, stretching intrusion. It was nothing like the careful, cruel preparation Iris would perform with her toys. This was functional. A second finger joined, scissoring him open.
JT bit down on the blanket, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the bunk. He was trembling. Roy withdrew his fingers.
He positioned himself. The broad, fat head of Roy’s cock pressed against him, a solid, insistent pressure. Roy didn’t ask. He pushed.
It was a slow, inexorable splitting. A burn that bloomed into a deep, filling ache. Roy sheathed himself fully with a grunt, his body a heavy weight on top of JT, pinning him. He was thicker than the toy, hotter, alive. The fullness was devastatingly familiar, yet alien. There was no remote, no mirrored clone, no sister’s triumphant eyes watching him break. Just the dark, and the smell of diesel, and the sound of Roy’s steady breathing by his ear.
Roy began to move. His hips set a relentless, piston-like rhythm, driving the air from JT’s lungs with each thrust. The bunk creaked in a sharp, metallic complaint. Each slam sent a jolt through JT, a confusing cocktail of pain and a shameful, reflexive pleasure that began to coil in his gut. His own cock, trapped beneath him, rubbed against the rough blanket with every impact.
“Take it,” Roy breathed, his voice strained with focus. His thrusts became harder, deeper, chasing his own end. The slap of skin grew louder, wetter. JT felt owned, but differently—used, but not cherished. It was a pure transaction. It was horrifying. It was freeing.
He came first, a silent, convulsive release into the blanket, his body spasming around the cock that fucked him. The pleasure was sharp and guilty, a bright flare in the darkness. Roy followed moments later, his rhythm fragmenting into jagged thrusts. He buried himself deep and held there, a low groan escaping him as he pulsed hot inside JT.
The weight remained for a long minute. Then Roy pulled out, the sudden emptiness a shocking chill. JT heard the rustle of clothing, the sound of a zipper.
Roy didn’t look at him. He pulled the curtain aside, letting in the dim light from the cab. “Cheyenne’s that way,” he said, his voice back to its normal, gravelly timbre. He pointed toward the distant glow. “Two miles. There’s a diner called The Oasis. They’re hiring for dishwasher. Tell ’em Roy sent you.”
He reached into his wallet, pulled out two twenties, and tossed them onto the bunk beside JT. “For clothes. Don’t offer that payment again. Not to anyone who matters.”
Then he turned, climbed back into the driver’s seat, and started the engine. The message was clear. JT scrambled, pulling his pants up with shaking hands, clutching the money. He stumbled out of the bunk and fumbled for the door handle, dropping down onto the asphalt. The cold morning air was a slap.
He stood there, raw and emptied, as Roy’s truck pulled away, the taillights shrinking to red pinpricks and then vanishing. The sky was lightening to a bruised grey in the east. He looked toward the city, then down at the crumpled bills in his fist. He started walking, each step a little firmer on the ground, moving toward the glow, alone.