Aggressive Addiction

Welcome back! I'm so glad to have finally updated one of two stories on here. Reminder that this story's parts are not exclusive, so if you're new, go ahead and read chapters 1 and 2 to catch up ;)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 3

I lay down, preparing for a nap before going to work. I found out how easy it is to fall asleep at a desk job a few weeks ago. Matt looks around for his shirt, and I admire the view of his back, where only a few edges of tattoos creep around. I'm still undressed, and the room is hot, but I don't mind. The sun shining through the curtains at the marvel that is Matthew King is my kryptonite at this point. I could die right now, and I think I'd be alright.

"When's the last time you were fucked in a bed?" Matt asks, slipping his shirt on.

Without thinking, I just answer. "Stepdad, maybe? I think so," I sigh. At Matt's startled reaction, I know that was an overshare. He barely flinched at the whole prostitution thing, or the homeless thing, but this is a new level. I don't want a lot of questions asked. "Well I'm kicking you out. I got work and I need sleep."

"You're telling me," Matt sighs. He's still looking for something, though. "He make you gay?" he asks. I sit up, confused. "Your Step. Did he make you gay?"

I shake my head. "Nah. I was gay before that, but I'm sure that sealed the deal." Matt just nods.

He leaves with a goodbye and I curse myself for the knot in my stomach. Within hours, I was getting myself attached to him. Before this, I'd only been caught up in my own sense of satisfaction. I'd only wanted the feeling he gave me. But now I want him. Matthew Morrison King. I want HIM. And it's not fair. Getting attached to feelings and sensations is okay, because you can find those feelings and sensations in other people and other habits. But there's no one out there like the new Matt King. There are hints of his old, violent, careless self, but he's self-aware. He's changed. I can't get attached to that.

--------

I didn't get my nap in, because I spent that time daydreaming about Matt. His body, his eyes, his cock—every time I tried to close my eyes, I found my hand wandering, exploring my body the way Matt's hands did. I even gently touched my neck, and then I sprang up, running to the small mirror on my desk. Bruises. Of course. I hate how easily I bruise.

A few dabs of makeup later, I was out the door. I never worried about my bike, because the mesh/chain lock wasn't something anyone could get through without some kind of power tool, or damaging the bike itself. This was one thing in my life that was secure.

I park my bike and chain in the storage area in the back of the building, and I'm ten minutes early.

My deskmates have warmed up to me. We've shared a few childhood memories, and I can talk to them about my crazy neighbor, Maggie, and they have their own stories to tell.

I sit down in button-up and tie, and Nicolas and Jackie instantly give each other a look. "What?"

"Spontaneous decision or just something you've always wanted to do?" Nicolas asks. I'm confused. I look down at my shirt, but I don't see anything wrong with it. I mean, my slacks are a little tight, but I don't think that's a big deal. Nicolas gently rubs his nose, and I gasp, covering my face.

I usually flip my septum piercing up and out of sight, but I left it down. It's small, but still very noticeable. "No, no, I think it looks fine," Jackie says with a smile. "You should leave it."

"I've had it for three years," I explain. Nicolas and Jackie shrug. "Thanks."

Two hours in, and I've helped more customers than usual. Then Carl approaches me while I snack on some white rice. "Jeremy wants to see you in his office," he says. I've met Jeremy, the big boss, before. He's actually not very big. He's shorter than my 5'11", and he looks a bit like a young Michael J Fox. He has this intimidating aura about him; not that he's physically scary or anything, just that he's the type of person that would do sneaky, underground things to ruin someone's career.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" I ask, sitting down in the chair across from his desk. Jeremy nods, and then proceeds to sit on his desk in front of me.

"I like you, Wes," he says with a nod, almost as if he's trying to convince himself of this statement. "You've been here a month, and you've jumped in, no problems. We only have a few simple rules here, though."

"Yes, sir," I say with a nod.

"We don't have a strict dress code here; only asking that you not wear jeans, not wear a t-shirt, no crazy colors in the hair—all the regular junk. No nose, eyebrow, or lip piercings. Standard stuff." I don't say anything. I didn't know about our dress code.

"Nobody sees us over the phone," I say in rebuttal. Jeremy shakes his head. "With all due respect—"

"Wes, you can't have that thing in your nose. It-it's just not permitted, and I don't wanna be the bad guy. I mean, I'm not making you cut that head of hair," he scoffs.

"You... want me to cut my hair?"

"Yeah, buddy, I do," Jeremy says in frustration. "But I can't make you, 'cause it's not in the dress code. But you can't have that nose ring, kid." I just sit there, listening to the air conditioning.

"Will you fire me?" I ask softly.

"Oh come on—really? You're not gonna just take it out while you're here and then—c'mon Wes. You're one of our best right now and you're gonna quit over a nose ring?" Jeremy asks.

"I'm not gonna quit it's just... I mean what if I had a bunch of tattoos? Is that in the dress code?"

Jeremy covers his face with his hands. "No, it is not," he sighs.

"How is this any different?" I ask. "Mr. Blaeser, I like working here. A lot. I can flip the piercing up; that's what I usually do." I demonstrate flipping it up into my nose so it can't be seen.

Jeremy smiles, but I know it means he's tired. "I'm really not supposed to let you get away with this. Two employees have complained. I mean... you're so smart, and I don't want this to be ugly." Jeremy sighs. "I mean, I could give a shit if you keep the piercing. But that opens it up to people with six eyebrow piercings and those cheek piercings and then before you know it, everyone has a hole in their lip so you can see their teeth. I-I mean... you've seen pictures, right?"

I just laugh. "Mr. Blaeser—"

"Jeremy."

"Jeremy... I don't want anyone in trouble, but we're at our desks, speaking through a device that limits every sense, save for sound. I mean... c'mon." Jeremy just sighs, and I know he thinks it's ridiculous, too. "Why don't you give the dress code a look-over?"

"You son of a bitch," Jeremy says. "Keep the damn thing in," he chuckles.

-------

I look in the cracked mirror and finger comb through my hair. It is pretty long now, even though it can still stand up without gravity pulling it down toward my ears. I don't want to pay for a haircut, but I definitely do not want Jeremy to be any more annoyed with me.

I got such a good feeling communicating with Jeremy today, too. I've never really had people talk to me like a person. They either feel bad for me, treat me like an idiot, or they look me like I'm garbage.

Part of me wants to see if I can find Matt online. I have no way of contacting him, but whenever I wasn't working today, I was thinking of him. Thinking of his hands all over me, his breath on my neck. I never would've guessed he was interested in men while we were in school. Most people didn't suspect that of me either, but I didn't necessarily hide it.

Is it bad that I wouldn't go back and change anything? I can say I wish I didn't suffer the mental and physical misery, but that's a lie. Not because it made me a stronger person or anything; it barely made me a person at all. Sure, I'd change the nights I spent outside on the street corner. I'd erase the times I had to fish through dumpsters to find a piece of junk maybe to sell, but when it comes to having my body violated and used... it's just a part of me. It's as regular as the breaths I take.

My oven dings, and I inhale the smell of the burritos I made for myself. I like the smell of food. I wonder what Matt's favorite food is. I wonder if he thinks about food in some surreal way. I wonder if he hurts himself like I do, but with something else.

Like the tattoos.

I sit in front of my droning TV and think. The feeling of my empty stomach might give me the same satisfaction as a needle to the skin for Matt. He covers them up sometimes, the patterns and words and pictures.

I'm obsessed. The burritos go cold in front of me, and I shut the TV off. I count to three as I take huge bites, chew quickly and swallow.

Habits take 21 days, Wes. You eat for 21 days. You be healthy for 21 days.

I don't want to be fire anymore. I want to be water.

I google 'Matthew Morrison King' on my phone, and the first link that comes up is "Check ANYONE'S police record!". I hear myself whimper. I click out of the browser immediately and dial the number to the gym. It's Friday, so he's not there, but I can't stop myself.

The first time, it rings and rings, and I feel my heart beat fast. I hang up.

Then I call again just to make sure I'm not—

"...Hello?"

His fucking voice, geezus.

"Hello?" he says again after I haven't said anything for five seconds.

"W-what are you doing there?" I say on impulse.

"Wes...?" Matt asks, and I can hear him perk up. "What's going on?"

I don't know what to say. "I need a haircut. Can you cut hair?"

There's silence on the line, and he probably thinks I'm fucking insane. Then I hear him huff, and I think it's out of amusement. "Yeah. I cut my own hair. I'll be there in fifteen." Then he hangs up on me. What is he doing there on Friday? Unless I'm not the only person who comes in on late nights.

Almost exactly fifteen minutes later, I look out my window to see his truck park in the lot, and I feel myself warm over instantly. That was some impulse thinking. I'm not going to make Matt cut my hair.

In minutes, he's knocking on my door, and I almost let my nerves take over and don't let him in, but in seconds, I'm looking into his blue eyes and gulping. "Hey."

"Hey. So... I brought some scissors, but I don't have a razor or a comb or anything," Matt says. I nod. "Can I come in?"

"Fuck... yeah sorry." I lead him in and turn on another lamp. "I have a comb... no razor."

"I'll make do with what I have," Matt says. I pull a chair into the middle of the floor and go to grab a towel. "So 11:00 haircut on a Friday night? Spontaneous decision or...?"

"My boss wants it cut," I specify. "Long story. I just don't want to fuck it up." Matt nods. This is such a boyfriend thing to do. I sit in the chair and wait patiently while Matt washes his hands.

"Your boss should appreciate having you as eye candy," Matt says, and then he freezes. "I'm fucking sorry. I didn't mean it like that." When I cock my head, he specifies. "Your old job? I wasn't trying to be insensitive."

"What? Oh—no. No I don't care. I'm over it," I shrug. Matt drapes the towel over my shoulders. "Do whatever you think looks good."

Matt doesn't say anything, but I feel his fingers run through my hair gently as he stands it up. I close my eyes and try to breathe regularly. "I think you only need an inch off... that'll make a pretty big difference," Matt says softly. I just nod. "Is that what you want?"

"Whatever will get my boss off my ass," I say. Not that Jeremy has been on me at all. I feel the comb run gently through my hair, and Matt's fingers right after. I could purr like a fucking cat right now. I feel the snip of the comb on the side of my head, and then the other side. He's being so careful.

The only sounds are the fan, the streets, and the snipping of the scissors.

I feel the hair fall onto the towel, and I still have my eyes closed when Matt starts cleaning me up. I don't know how long it's been—maybe ten minutes, maybe thirty—but Matt does a satisfied sigh, and I open my eyes. "You go ahead and shower and check that out. I'll clean up in here," Matt says.

I nod, heading to the bathroom quickly and giving him a small 'thank you'. I hear the vacuum turn on when I feel the shower hit my skin. Short hairs wash off my skin and go down the drain. I speed my shower up, and by the time I get out, there's no noise coming from the living room.

I barely dry my hair before I burst out of the bathroom in my t-shirt and shorts. Matt sits on my couch, bottle of water in hand and the TV on. He cranes his head back to look at me. "You like it?"

"Yeah. Thanks again," I reply, taking my seat by him, but not too close. "Hey why were you there on a Friday?"

Matt clears his throat and shifts to look my way. "I was stressed. Needed to blow off steam... how did you know I'd be there?"

"Just guessed," I mumble. We're both silent for a while before Matt just stares at me. I don't look him in the eye. I'm going in and overthinking shit again. It's so bad. It's so screwed up the way I see him and myself and everything.

Matt sighs and lays down. "Good guess."

I just watch him, letting myself extract his form from the shadows in the room. The bright colors in his tattoos still dominate even in the dim room. He looks at nothing, staring straight forward, the blue in his eyes light. Why can't I get over myself?

His phone rings suddenly, and he hops up, stepping away from me so fast, I think I did something wrong. "I need to go. I guess I'll see you—"

"Matt, I—please don't do anything stupid," I say, noting that it's late at night, and I doubt he just feels like leaving me. He just shakes his head and picks up the phone. "Matt..."

He's out the door before I can speak. "I told you I wasn't—"

And that's all I hear. I hope it's not drugs.

--------

"Ah, Wes! I like the hair, buddy," Jeremy says on Tuesday afternoon, clapping his hands on my shoulders. My nose ring is flipped up, my sweater is on. New York refuses to let go of 50 degree weather, and my mind refuses to let go of my hypothesis of what Matt is doing. It has nothing to do with me, and if he's doing anything illegal, I should be able to cut him off and out of my life.

Hypothetically.

"Thanks, sir," I reply. I haven't seen Jeremy out with us very often. I must have raised some chatter, and he wants to make a good impression.

"The old hair, it was a great look, but darn it, now you look like an employee." With that, Jeremy gives a few waves and heads back to his office.

Jackie shakes her head. "Some bullshit, is what that is," she says, adjusting the photo on her desk. "I think you needa let kids be kids—or young men be young men, I mean. However you wanna express yourselves nowadays—gosh, if I'd had kids, I would've let em wear their hair and pierce their noses however they wanted."

Nicolas laughs a bit. "Why didn't you have kids, Jacqueline?"

"Oh goodness, Nick, the way they would've been treated in the world today? I'd be heartbroken. I couldn't do it; if anything happened to 'em I'd kill myself. I don't have the strength for it." I nod in agreement. My mom killed herself. Then again, she thought everything was her fault. I don't think Jackie is very similar to my mom in any other way, but I can see that connection.

"It wouldn't be your fault," I say aloud. Jackie just shrugs, staring at her picture. I crane my neck to see it. A cat. "Who is that?"

"Pepper," Jackie says with a smile. "The closest thing I got to a kid. Had her for seven years now. Her owner before me had her for five. She's an old lady cat now." Nicolas just gives me a Look, and I think I know what it means, so I nod. "Nick, did I ever tell you how I got Pepper?"

"Nope," Nick says, but his line flashes, and he answers it. I suppose it's all me.

I listen to Jackie, nodding occasionally. She fell in love with her job as a nurse for old people, but couldn't stand to see people die anymore, and after her last patient died, she left her cat to Jackie.

Never married, fifty-something—she says she's content. Not happy, but content.

"I hope you find a great guy, sweetie," Jackie says, surprising me. I don't remember mentioning my sexuality. "You'd make some cute little brown kids, though. All curly haired."

I don't know if I'll bother getting offended by Jackie assuming my sexuality or factoring my race into the kids I won't have. I have other things to worry about.

----------

I've been banging on the gym door for five minutes before I realize Matt's truck is nowhere to be seen. It's only 11:15; he knows I've been a little late before. I don't know why he would leave so early.

I stand outside for ten more minutes, contemplating whether to set up any social media so there's at least a little bit of me out there. I'm aware I could just break in again, but if I do that, Matt may not think he has to show up anymore.

God, am I going for me or Matt anymore?

I reach into my pocket to see if I find something to maneuver the lock, but then I notice a new note among the array of frayed paper on the door.

-"Wes, I'm sorry I couldn't come. Lots of shit going on right now. I left the key in the flower pot by the door. Sorry, compadre."

I kick the door after I read the note. What the fuck? What the FUCK? I don't know why I'm so mad but I am. He has no right to just blow me off like this and for what? Selling drugs because he can't get a job because he's too violent? I hate to assume things but why on earth is he doing this?

I pedal home fast enough that my legs hurt. I feel my own bike skid from the sharp turns but I can't stop. I could've just gone in and played music, hitting on the equipment like I've always done. He's not anything different. He still has that violent streak—I've seen it first-hand.

Every fucking time I try to crawl out, I let myself get dragged back in.

On Thursday, I yell into my hands as there's another note, similar to the first, but with an extra sorry, and a "Matt" signed at the end.

That night, I stare in the mirror and breathe, inspecting every detail of my face, trying to see if I can peer inside my own fucking brain and figure out what's wrong with me. I could've gone inside and worked on the equipment like I did for months without him.

On Friday, I can tell I'm giving off hostile vibes, and Nicolas and Jackie don't strike up any conversation with me. I feel my frustration kick in when a customer acts like a know-it-all, and I end up transferring the call rather than helping them myself. Very unprofessional.

I ignore the growl in my stomach on Sunday morning and ride my bike around what seems like permanently-rain-dampened Brooklyn. There's no point in contacting the landlord about my on-the-verge-of-broken showerhead, so I make a trip to the convenience store to pick up anything I can find to fix it. I think Mr. Brady or whoever would charge me to fix it, and I might as well do what I can until I can move out of the dump.

I shouldn't be surprised that at 11am, Matt is walking out of the store with a gallon of milk in his hand. Even with his sunglasses, I know he sees me. He doesn't get to play the avoidance game; he has no reason to. As I latch my bike onto a pole, he looks down at his phone, and for a second, I think he's going to use the other sidewalk, but he stays on the path.

I let him walk by and pretend he doesn't know who I am.

It makes me so angry, but I let him walk away. We fuck twice—three times?—and he decides to leave me in the dust. God, it hurts me, and it shouldn't. Fucking hell, it hurts me.

"Wesley!" Dana says happily.

"Miss Dana," I say, failing to fake a smile. "I've come to do what my landlord won't."

"And what's that, honey?"

I sigh, looking around. "Fixing my showerhead. I need some cheap stuff, the glue for tiles or bathrooms... or whatever—"