Sacrifice (Dylan Hart Odyssey of the Occult) by RM Gilmore Page B

come on now, magic? Real honest to goodness curses? How in the fuck is
that possible? This isn’t the dark ages here! This is the twenty-first
Goddamned century. What? I’m just supposed to fall to my knees, groveling and
praying to God to relieve me of my demons?” I slapped the palms of my hands
against the dashboard. “You tell me, eh, you tell me how in the fuck I’m
supposed to handle all of that? My best fucking friend has basically left me to
rot for you and your fucking fang- tarded vampire
shit-streaks, and what the fuck do I get for it? Hours in the car with Cryptic McAssholeton and his fancy- pancy curses and dead things!” My breaths came in and puffed out in short huffs. The
weight of my situation played hell on my nerves and made it harder and harder
to hold it all in. “I’m nutting the fuck up now! If you can’t fucking tell!” I
screamed, spat, and cursed at the perfect profile of Cyrus Atossa. He listened
quietly. “What in the fuck am I supposed to do? Tell me!” I begged him, so pathetic
and desperate I would have been proud if he just smacked me across the face
right then and there. “Tell me, please, because right now, I’ve got nothing but
you! You’re it. You’re the guy. Don’t fuck it up now.” I finished in a huff, my
chest heaving from exertion.
    Without a word, Cyrus slowed the car and pulled onto the
dirt shoulder. The likely expensive tires on his shiny white SUV kicked up dust
and pebbles as we screeched to a halt. He didn’t so much as lift his foot from
the brake and his belt was off. I didn’t have time to register his movements
before he and I were nose to nose. My breaths were panting from my lips,
shoving my chest up and down. A second later, his hands grabbed the back of my
head and shoved his mouth against mine.
    The manic streak had hit me and it hit hard. Being thrust
into perilous situations can take a toll on a bitch. In true manic outbursts,
inhibitions are nonexistent and impulses run rampant. Unfortunately, for this
highly volatile deviant, that meant displaying a long awaited sexual experience
in front of a butt load of passersby on Highway 99.
    The center console separated our bodies, but our upper
halves were smushed together like they’d been sent
back in time to junior year of high school. It didn’t take more than a minute
before the sweat started to soak the hairs at the base of my neck under his
warm, strong hand. Kissing someone new was exciting and nerve wracking, all
wrapped up in one fantastic bundle of sex and embarrassment. Thoughts of Azelie
and her dead things faded into the recesses as images of naked romps burst
through in flashing erotic pangs. Sex in the middle of the day, along the
shoulder of a highly traveled highway, made my fat ass tremble with
insecurities. Beefy thighs and improperly placed lumps and bumps trying to fill
the luxurious leather seats with another body would not be easy or attractive.
    His heavy hands moved from my neck, traveling down and
toward the point of no return. Extended periods of time between sexual
encounters was never a positive thing. Especially when one was being courted by
the likes of a vampire boy who frequently showcased man undies. I felt like a
sixteen-year-old boy in the backseat of my dad’s car, with a raging boner and
the prom queen in my lap. If something didn’t happen soon, it just might bust
out like the fucking Incredible Hulk. Just not green. Or mad. Maybe a little
mad.
    He squeezed my thick thigh and adjusted his body as if he
was preparing to crawl over the center console. In preparation, I gave myself a
pep talk. You know, just in case.
    Listen up, fat or
not, you’re about to get laid on the side of the road. You have two choices,
either go for it and face the consequences later, or tell him to fuck off and
be forced to deal with reality and all that entails. Fuck reality. Sex is
better.
    Before I could act on my decision, the cliché, but still
outrageously embarrassing,