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"You know, for a dealer, you're a fuckin' buzzkill."
"It's what I do, kid." Brett Black replied flatly, reaching out for the wad of cash his customer had just put on the bar. Dealing pot was small time, but he was short on cash and he wasn't in the mood to get his nose broken hustling pool.
He didn't need the weed, anyway. He'd find something else to help him sleep.
Sleep...it seemed like his whole life was about getting a decent night's sleep, one where he wasn't wearing someone else's skin, one where he wasn't wanting someone...
Reaching out, Brett grabbed his shot of tequila and knocked it back without salt or lime. The booze burned its way down his throat, and he welcomed it--the sting was real, the heat was real.
Too many shrinks over the years had diagnosed him with everything from schizophrenia to depression and back again. He'd even done some reading on necrophilia because of the dead woman in his dreams, the one that he couldn't get out of his thoughts even when he was awake.
Elaine. She even had a fucking name.
I'm not crazy. he reminded himself before he pushed off his barstool and stalked out of the dive where he'd ditched the last of his pot. Even now, just thinking, remembering the dreams made his gut clench with desire, made his heart ache with a love that was crippling.
Love. For a corpse--one that didn't even exist. They were just a bunch of stupid dreams...
Out on the street, Bret shut his eyes and tipped his face up into the cool night air, letting it caress his face and sting his bare throat. He wore an open jacket, covering his back, but for some reason the scars were twinging, pins and needles and tingling so severely he found himself wishing for a wall to scratch his back against.
He could already tell this was going to be a shitty night.
"It's what I do, kid." Brett Black replied flatly, reaching out for the wad of cash his customer had just put on the bar. Dealing pot was small time, but he was short on cash and he wasn't in the mood to get his nose broken hustling pool.
He didn't need the weed, anyway. He'd find something else to help him sleep.
Sleep...it seemed like his whole life was about getting a decent night's sleep, one where he wasn't wearing someone else's skin, one where he wasn't wanting someone...
Reaching out, Brett grabbed his shot of tequila and knocked it back without salt or lime. The booze burned its way down his throat, and he welcomed it--the sting was real, the heat was real.
Too many shrinks over the years had diagnosed him with everything from schizophrenia to depression and back again. He'd even done some reading on necrophilia because of the dead woman in his dreams, the one that he couldn't get out of his thoughts even when he was awake.
Elaine. She even had a fucking name.
I'm not crazy. he reminded himself before he pushed off his barstool and stalked out of the dive where he'd ditched the last of his pot. Even now, just thinking, remembering the dreams made his gut clench with desire, made his heart ache with a love that was crippling.
Love. For a corpse--one that didn't even exist. They were just a bunch of stupid dreams...
Out on the street, Bret shut his eyes and tipped his face up into the cool night air, letting it caress his face and sting his bare throat. He wore an open jacket, covering his back, but for some reason the scars were twinging, pins and needles and tingling so severely he found himself wishing for a wall to scratch his back against.
He could already tell this was going to be a shitty night.
