Losers: Part I

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a house all to myself. When I lived in the dorms at the university, I had three other roommates, so someone else was always bound to be there. But this morning, my parents had left early to catch their flight to Cabo, having dropped off Stephanie last night to stay with a friend. I had complete free rein of the house to do whatever I pleased.

A few years ago, I would have used this opportunity to throw the loudest and most outrageous party I possibly could. I’d managed to have a handful of truly wild parties at my parents’ house over the years, and they still didn’t have a clue.

But now, all I really wanted was a day to relax, especially after a difficult morning at work. My boss had assigned me to work with one of her pickiest – and wealthiest – clients, leaving me the responsibility of answering his daily long, rambling emails. The man had so many questions I often felt like I was repeating myself, but I was excited that my boss wanted me to personally engage with one of her most important customers.

The moment I finished work, I stripped out of my presentable clothes and put on an oversized t-shirt — no pants required. I ate snacks on the couch and played music as loudly as I wanted. I had skipped the gym for the past few days, and told myself this was my last day of being lazy so I needed to take full advantage. After this, I had to get back into my routine.

Although, my routine was going to be different now that I had four men ordering me around.

Every morning that week, I’d woken up to a text from Manson ordering me to edge myself. It was torture, lying there first thing in the morning with my vibrator between my legs, only allowed to bring myself to the very edge of orgasm before I had to stop.

I’d tried to avoid looking at the kink lists they’d sent me, purely because I knew it would work me up, and there would be nothing I could do about it. But that evening, I couldn’t resist. I settled on the couch, scrolling slowly through their lists with my bottom lip clenched between my teeth.

I wasn’t remotely surprised to see that orgasm control was a five out of five for Manson. I was already painfully well aware of how much he enjoyed that. All of them claimed an interest in consensual non-consent, with Lucas and Jason not only ranking it high as a giver, but as a receiver.

I’d always had a feeling they all fucked around with each other, they had a comradery that went beyond friendship. Vincent and Jason had been not-so-secretly dating for years, and I’d known Manson was bisexual. Lucas had always been a mystery, but he was far less of one now that I’d seen him and Manson together in the garage.

They weren’t monogamous; that much was clear.

This was a new territory for me. I was used to being in relationships where monogamy was an unbreakable rule. Even looking at someone else too long had led me into fights with previous partners. I felt as if I was supposed to be jealous and possessive, but it frankly didn’t make sense in this situation.

I’d been furious about Veronica potentially getting with them; but the thought of them spending time with a manipulative, conniving, evil asshole like her was upsetting. I had too much history with Veronica to not get pissed off.

I still felt a little silly caring about it at all; it felt too serious. But I was in the thick of it now. I’d agreed to have sex with them, submit to them, be their toy to do with as they pleased. I think that was a big enough investment to be allowed to care about who else they had sex with.

Besides, they were way too good for Veronica. They deserved better.

I kept reading, sipping iced tea as I lounged on the couch. Vincent ranked high in nearly every aspect of bondage, which wasn’t surprising. Any type of restraint was five for him, as were most types of impact: whipping, spanking, slapping. Jason had all the weird kinks I had to Google the definitions of, but at least it expanded my vocabulary. I didn’t know what the hell “omorashi” was until I’d filled out my own list.

Now that I knew, I was even more horrified at myself. Why the hell did I have to like the weird shit?

I was working myself up far too much. Continuing to peruse those lists for any longer would qualify as sexual torture, especially when I had no hope of relief. Manson seemed determined to punish me with edging for as long as possible.

Instead, I got out my sketchbook and pencils and began to draw. I may not have been hired on as a designer yet, but I still needed to practice and ensure I was developing my skills. It helped refocus my energy, all my concentration going into each careful stroke of graphite across paper. I’d never considered myself much of an artist, but designing a structure required more than just artistic vision. The dimensions had to be right, the shape and layout had to draw the eye and appeal to the senses.

I wasn’t entirely sure where I was going with it at first, but before long, Manson’s house began to take shape on my paper. I drew it with a new front porch, focusing in on little details in the wood and framing around the windows.

It wasn’t true to life, but that was the point. A big part of my job was being able to envision what could be, the potential within a building or plot of land. That possibility needed to be captured, put on paper and perfected before it could be made real.

Before I knew it, time had gotten away from me. When I lifted my head from my sketchbook, stretching the ache out of my neck, it was already dark outside. I set my drawing aside and picked up my phone, finding another text from Danielle.

Hey girl! Are you down to hit up Billy’s? It’s karaoke night!

I sighed, tossing my phone aside on the couch. No, I wasn’t down to spend the night at a dive bar with Danielle, Nate, and whoever else they brought along. I knew exactly what Danielle was doing too. She thought they’d taught me a lesson, knocked me down a few pegs so I’d keep my head down and fit back in with the group.

We’d done the same damn thing to new girls on the team. If anyone came into the team a little too cocky, we’d find a way to break them, then keep them close, making them earn back our good graces.

It was fucked. There was a reason Wickeston’s cheerleading team had been considered so vicious — I’d helped make sure it stayed that way.

Besides, why go to a dive bar when I finally had the opportunity to watch whatever documentaries I wanted without my mom or sister complaining they were boring? I put a bag of popcorn in the microwave and sat on the kitchen island as I waited for it to cook, mindlessly scrolling my phone.

Click.

I paused. That had sounded exactly like the latch on the storage room under the stairs. It couldn’t have been, obviously. But then…what had that sound been?

I slid down from the island and peered into the hallway. The storage room door was closed. The only sound was the decorative wooden clock on the shelf next to the stairs, slowly tick-tick-ticking toward the next hour. The house was so quiet I could have heard a pin drop.

The first of the popcorn kernels burst and the sound made me jump so hard I laughed. It had been so long since I was home alone; I was actually getting freaked out. I shuffled back into the kitchen, and after browsing through my mom’s wine collection, I poured myself a glass of Moscato. That would help me chill out.

I returned to the living room with my popcorn and wine, but I was feeling too chilly now to keep going around without pants. I was on my way to the stairs to get my sweatpants when I walked into the entry hall again and realized something had changed.

The screen and keypad for the security system were blinking as if they’d been reset. I typed in the code to arm the system, but the pad beeped, and ERROR flashed across its screen.

I sighed heavily, but it wasn’t worth messing with. Our neighborhood was hardly dangerous. As long as the deadbolt was locked, then —

The front door was cracked open.

I stood very still as I stared, the slightest whisper of wind squeaking in through the crack. I couldn’t remember stepping outside even once today. Did my parents forget to lock up this morning? I could have sworn it was closed only minutes ago.

I closed the door, turning the lock and the deadbolt. Goosebumps prickled over my arms, and I waited, listening intently. I knew the door had been closed. I’d walked through the hall multiple times that day and had never noticed an error on the security system.

A thump made me whip around toward the stairs, my heart pounding. A footstep? I started for the stairway but abruptly stopped myself. This was not a horror film and I was not about to become the first to die by running to investigate a mysterious noise. I hurried back into the living room and grabbed my phone.

A text from Lucas was waiting for me. Are your doors locked, fucktoy?

Cold realization dawned on me, and I cursed, the frightened tension easing out of my chest. I should have known they had something to do with this.

I texted back. Yeah, my door is locked. Why wouldn’t it be?

They thought it was funny to break-in and scare me? Oh, I’d show them something funny.

I snatched one of my mom’s magazines off the coffee table and rolled it up. I kept my phone in my hand as I crept back into the hall, all my senses on high alert. Which one of them was it? Or was it all of them? My stomach quivered with excitement, like I was playing a twisted game of hide and seek.

A message from Vincent popped up next. If a cheap lock pick kit from the joke store can get through your deadbolt, I wouldn’t trust it to still be locked, Jess.

Jason’s text followed right after. Tell your parents to replace your security system. The company hasn’t even patched a three-year-old security exploit, they can’t keep you safe.

Another soft sound came from the second floor as I started up the stairs. I tucked my phone away and gripped the rolled-up magazine a little tighter.

“I know you’re up here!” I called, my loud voice sounding strange in the empty house. It was so silent.

My trepidation only grew as I reached the landing, and my gaze flickered to the doorways before me. All other rooms were closed, but the bathroom and my bedroom were open.

“Come on, guys,” I said, my voice trembling despite myself. “Stop hiding! Do whatever it is you came here for and…” I fell silent as I peered into my room. Something had been written on my vanity mirror in red lipstick, the words unreadable until I got closer.

Time to pay up.

I laughed slightly, nervously. “Okay, really creepy! That better not be my fucking Mac lipstick.” I checked under my desk, then crouched down and checked under my bed.

The only place left was the closet. I stared at the closed door, my heart thumping in my ears. It was a game, just roleplay. But I still hesitated as I reached for the louvered door, trying to see into the darkness between the slats.

Slowly, I lowered myself to the ground. I pressed my cheek against the carpet, peering through the small gap under the door. It was so dark. I pulled out my phone and turned on the flashlight, aiming it underneath.

Two pairs of boots stood on the other side.

I stood slowly, moving as if I had a grizzly bear standing directly in front of me. The door was pushed open, clattering slightly as it hit the wall. Manson and Lucas stood side by side, the tiny closet making them appear larger than life. Manson was wearing tight dark jeans and a black t-shirt, his arms folded as he watched me. Lucas’s tattooed chest was bare beneath his denim vest, his lean muscles tensing as he stepped forward.

Manson gripped his arm, fingers digging into his bicep. My eyes darted between them as Manson’s grin widened.

“You have three seconds before I let Lucas go,” he said. “How much ground can you cover in three seconds?”

Lucas’s eyes narrowed, locked on me. He was breathing fast, his stance eager.

“One.” Manson started the countdown.

How far could I go in three seconds? Not far enough.

“Two.”

Fight-or-flight kicked in despite my bravado with the magazine. My brain said run, so I ran, sprinting toward my door. Heart pounding, thoughts focused on only one goal — escape. But I still heard what Manson said next.

“Three. Get her.”