How We Are: A MFM romance

Consequences

Ezra

"Cain, fuck Cain—"
"Ezra."
"Oh god, Cain—"
"Ezra?"
"Don't stop—"
"Ezra shut the fuck up," He frowns sternly, pulling his face from the phone, his hand gripping my hair tightly in warning. "I'm on the phone."

We lay together in a Motel 6, evading capture, his cock crammed in my guts to fullness as he frowns on his phone call at my audacity to make a sound after he specifically demanded me be silent.

I press my lips together, and when he's confident I've gotten the message, he forces my head back into the mattress, snuffing out my breath.

Some would call this a rough fuck.

He finishes, grunting, letting slump on the bed in confusion as he turns around, his body bare, lit up the headlights of the businessman outside getting his dick sucked by the hooker he picked up a few minutes show

His giant dick bobs as he wraps a towel around himself. "There's no fucking way I'm doing this bullshit for another three weeks. My restaurant needs me. I don't pay for that house to sleep in this fucking rat hole."

I turn around, and frown, looking around. "It's not like you couldn't afford a hotel, why'd you even pick this?"

"Ezra," Cain grunts his back to me.

"Yes?" I smile, leaning forward.

"If I wanted a traitorous slut's opinion, I'd call my mother."

I wince. Ow. I guess he's pissed about this whole vendetta thing, and the Dominque thing. I look down for a moment, my stomach turning. My skin begins to itch, turning red. He's leaving me then? Is that it? He's over this whole thing. I've become an inconvenience, a slut he's used up.

"I'm sorry, Cain. I...I was just—"

"What did I just say?" He grunts, stepping into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

I sit in the middle of the motel 6 bed. The sheets are a suspicious color of off white, and though we checked for bedbugs, the crawling under my skin is making me think we didn't do anything through enough job.

I don't mind his violence usually. It means he cares. It's why he isn't violent with anyone else. They just don't matter that much to him—but I do.

I did.

"Cain? Cain please talk to me."

He says nothing. Doesn't even open the door. I didn't think this would happen. I...I just did my cousin a favor I can't help it. Sometimes they need me.

No one ever needs me. It feels nice yknow? To be useful. So what my hands get dirty, and the blood and from never washes away and after years of being called in do the most depraved things imaginable starts to feel like a second skin?

So what it hurts?
That's love. Love hurts.
Doesn't it.

"I'm sorry. I'll leave you alone. I'll fix it, I won't come back till I do. And you'll forgive me right?"

Cain says nothing but I know him well enough. So I get dressed with a wince, and grab my bat from the corner of the room and leave. I'll fix it all. And then we'll go home and watch cable after work.

I start walking aimlessly trying to get my mind together. Where am I going? What am I doing? Right. The vendetta.

How do I end it? Kill the people coming after me. Easy peasy, I guess. I'm no stranger to killing but I wouldn't call us friends. In fact, the relationship I have with violence is more akin to a mother.

She birthed me. She made me. I am made of her, and I will never escape her. She looks back at me in the mirror. She's in the way I walk—with my guard up. The way I talk—reckless and waiting. The way I fuck—with no regard. The way I love.