Never Summer Again

Chapter Thirty One - Lucky

Score: Bad Luck Charm - Old 97's

Lydia

Mark and I are in his bed. We're both naked and his body is hovering over mine, as he moves in and out of me. There's a deep crevice between his eyebrows and the molten gold of his eyes is pouring into mine. I reach out to touch his hair.

"I'm yours, Mark..." I hear myself saying.

"No," he says, lowering his head, burying his face in the crook of my neck.

His movements speed up and I feel my core tense with unbearable force. I squirm under him, writhing like a flame in the wind. I turn my head to whisper in his ear.

"I need you, Mark..."

I need release, and I need it now.

But just as I am about to come, Mark lifts his head again. Only it's not Mark anymore.

It's Patrick.

He reaches with his hand and wraps it around my throat.

I open my mouth, wanting to scream, but his hand tightens around my throat and only hoarse, choking sounds come out of my mouth.

"Fucking whore!" He spits out and I wake up.

I've been having the same dream since I moved in four days ago.

Every. Fucking. Night.

I still can't believe I'm living with Mark now... It's been four days, but it hasn't fully sunk in yet.

I spend my days watching TV, wandering the streets, and running in the nearby park. Anything to keep me distracted. Mark's not to be seen for the majority of the day, and the night, to be honest, which is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, it's nice that he's giving me space and is respecting my boundaries, but, on the other, I feel like he's been avoiding me since last Saturday. Also, I would very much use a friend right now, and living with one, but not really seeing them most of the time, is kind of frustrating.

The music, blasting through my AirPods is distracting me from my thoughts about Mark, as I run the now-familiar trail across the park. It is a lovely Wednesday afternoon, and there are a lot of people walking in the park.

Chase and Status's Against All Odds is playing on my Spotify right now, calling for additional wind in my feet.

Where the hell is he going at night!? OK, I get that he might be busy during the day and that he's back for the first time in two years, and, maybe he has friends and family to catch up with, but at night? I don't think so.

I check my watch, seeing that I have almost completed my 6-mile run.

I swear, running has been the one thing, keeping me sane these days. With everything that's been going on, and the A-level results coming out soon, I've been holding on to a very thin and wobbly thread of sanity.

I pick up my pace for the final half-mile, feeling the familiar, welcome burn in my lungs and the strain in my legs. It's fucking liberating.

When I finish, I pause for a minute, doubling up, my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. My face is hot and wet and I taste the salty tanginess of sweat, as I dart my tongue out to lick my lips.