Innocence (Burning Beliefs #1)

Chapter Nineteen *edited*

Chapter Nineteen

SERENA'S POV

I don't know where I am... but I think I've been here before. I know that it's someplace really really hot. Well, not just hot, but humid. The air is stuffier than an elevator cramped past the weight limit, stuck on the maintenence floor, with no power.

Oh. I know why it's so familiar. It's Marty's. But I haven't been here in ages; I quit my job. I'm walking down a long, long velvet hallway. The carpet feels like I'm walking on pizza dough. Thick red curtains serve as doorways to rooms no more than a few feet wide. I can hear heavy breathing and low moans coming from inside. My cheeks burn, because I know what's going on in there.

Once I reach the end of the hallway, I see a mirror. A giant silver mirror. Orange fog starts rolling in from the bottom of the booths, tickling my feet.

I turn to my right. The room here has a dark purple curtain, stained with what looks like blood. That's never a good sign.

My feet move forward, the mist sticking to my skin like cotton candy. A burning instinct in the pit of my stomach tells me that I need to go behind the purple curtain, that for whatever reason, it's important. Extremely important. And even if I wanted to stop, my feet would've just kept moving. Whatever's behind Door Number 3 must be pretty damn valuable.

I peel back the thick, velvet blanket. Inside there's a man. He has short gray-brown hair, and muscles like a bodybuilder. I can't see his face. It should be Zach in here, I should be fantasizing about Zach, right? This guy sure as hell isn't him.

He turns around, and my eyes pop open.

It's Dean.

Wait. I'm confused. Dean? The guy who's been haunting my nightmares? Why in the hell would I be drawn to a room, a booth, with him in it?

He smiles at me, his eyes lit up seductively. I'm kind of afraid, and I start to back away.

"No, please," I shout at him. My voice sounds muffled and distant. "I don't know what you're doing, just stop it, Dean!"

He doesn't . He just keeps walking forward. He isn't wearing a shirt, and I can see every single angle of his six pack clearly. As he approaches, I try to avoid him. I back up more and more and more and more, I don't want him to touch me.

But my back reaches a wall: the doorway has disappeared.

Dean takes my shoulders, and his hands feel like smooth chocolate. It's sweet and addicting the way he touches me. The fear is drained from my body like water down a sink.

When his lips brush mine, a warmth rises in my stomach, a hunger, a desire. Something in the depths of my sub-consciousness screams at me "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING!" but I ignore it. I ignore everything.

I'm trapped, alone, in a booth with Dean. And I'm enjoying it.

His arms drape around my neck as his lips weave around mine. My whole body flushes over, like a blast of snowy air. I cling to his chest, gliding my fingertips over his burning body, moaning as he bites my bottom lip. Every movement is engulfed in heat, every touch wild and untamed.

We're like animals, so attracted to each other we feel compelled to do this. We have to do this. It's the only thing that makes sense, the only logical solution.

"Dean," I whisper heavily once our lips part. I keep my eyes deeply locked on his.

Of course, he stays silent and only grins at me. His eyes glance over my entire body. I realize that I'm wearing the purple outfit. And I know what his eyes are saying.

Garment by garment, I peel off the outfit. The only thing covering my body is my long hair, which rises from the humidity. My skin radiates waves of heat like signals from a radio tower, beckoning Dean closer and closer.

Dean slides his hands across my body, smoothly and without hesitation. I kiss his lips tenderly and explosively, as if nothing in the world was worth as much energy. My mind screams at me to stop, but my conscience propels me forward. All of my thoughts are smooth. Clear. Chocolate.

I lead him to the bench in the corner, a wooden base extending from the wall. Every time his hands touch me, sparks explode like a broken outlet, flaming and bursting and shattering the atoms in the air. Every time I touch him, the euphoria digs deeper. This burning, killing desire inside of me, driven by God knows what; something so deep and passionate awakening inside of me like an unleashed monster.

The next couple of images pass by me in flashes. Darkness exploding outwards into a billion pieces of light: me and Dean, touching, laughing, gasping, pleasurable nothings muttered, whispering Dean's name into his ears...

When it's over, Dean wraps his arms around me. He leans his head forward to say something, but everything pixelates and disappears. I'm sucked out of the humid room, placed into a very cold room. Cement walls surround me, and a thin, cheap mattress presses into my back.

I sit up in my bed. A dream. It was all a dream. I run my hands through my hair. I look down, making sure that the Beatles sweatshirt and loose pajama pants still cover my body.

Okay... whoa. Take a step back. Retrace my memories. The dream I had was at Marty's, and Dean was in the last stall.... holy shit. Holy freaking shit. I had a sex dream about Dean.

I strip out of the sweatshirt. No. No. I can't, I'm done. I couldn't possibly have... I thought I was over him just kissing me. But the recent dream isn't what's bugging me. What's bugging me is that I've had this dream before.

The clothes I've picked out are a plain salmon pink tank top and jean shorts. I pull my hair away from my face into a messy ponytail. Large chunks of blonde still flutter in my face, but I don't have time to pull them back. I need to think.

Why was it Dean and not Zach? Where did I even come up with this fantasy? In what universe would I enjoy getting raped by my dad's best friend? Of course I'm not hot for Dean in real life. Just kissing him made me want to throw up. Of course, that sounds like a great thing to do right about now. It's actually a good thing, because it proves that no matter what type of a psychopath I was in that dream, I'm not that Serena right now. I'm me right now. Who loves Zach, and who hurls at the thought of his lips, and who wishes that she could just disappear.

What the hell kind of a person am I?

A person who doesn't give a damn about the afterlife. I'm going to Hell anyways for being Nephilim, so I might as well enjoy the ride. Time to go screw with my already screwy life some more.

I tie the laces tightly over the hiking boots. I need to get the hell out of Dodge before something frickin kills me. Dear God, what the hell? I'm asking this question legitimately. Something is wrong in my brain, I'm more insane than I actually thought. What the hell.

I can't take the Impala, since Sam and Dean aren't even here. So I spend thirty minutes running towards the rundown little town where I used to be a prostitute. Well, I should say hired prostitute. I guess, what I'm about to do, you'd call me a "freelancer."

I walk right up to the first house I see. A tangy, musty smell hits my nostrils as soon as the door opens. A guy with ruffled black hair opens the door. His eyes look like apple sauce, mushy and distant.

"Harrrluuu...???" he slurs his words together. He's obviously stoned.

I barge my way inside the house. There are three more people sitting in a circle, all guys, luckily. They all look handsome, though I might not be a reliable source, since I'm getting high off the fumes. All three guys are smoking weed.

They give me a look, surprised as a stoner can get. But they aren't as high as the one who answered the door.

"You can do anything you want to me," I say. "As long as I get one of those."

I point to the pile of joints in the center of the three guys.

They all exchange looks. One of the guys stands up.

"In daaa back, beeebe," he says. I know he's trying to say "babe", but if he gets his way, I won't even catch his mistakes. I'll probably be speaking the same language in no time.