The Blood, Sex and Booze: Boy called Kill.

Spring 2002.

Adrienne, my ex-wife and close friend, sat across from me at my boyfriend’s diner. We both had a coffee in front of us and masses of shiny new gossip. We met once a week, or more when we were off, to catch up and talk about how our lives were fairing out. She had no hard feelings about our divorce, which I was very grateful for. She was in fact the one who had suggested it because we simply weren’t in love anymore. It was, what you could call, a healthy break up. Very healthy.

She was doing well with her clothing range and myself and her co-owned a record label. Everything was great; the band, my writing, my love life.

“So I met this guy at the bakery.” She glanced up from her coffee, a slight smirk on her lips.

I smiled and lent my head on one of my hands, looking extremely gay for the sake of comedy. She giggled before gingerly sipping her coffee.

“His name’s Finn. He’s a journalist.” Her voice became a sing song.

“How tall?” I asked.

She laughed. She knew all too well about my height obsession.

“Taller than you anyway BJ. I didn’t exactually ask him ‘Oh hey, by the way, what height are you? And weight?’”

I cocked an eyebrow.

“What? I can be sensitive about weight?” she replied.

It continued like this for most of the morning. With the stress we both injured each and every week it was a beautiful thing to be able to relax like this.

That feeling carried off into the evening when Mike and I kicked back and watched a movie from his obsessively large collection. That night we didn’t have sex, we weren’t the sort of couple who had to have it every night.

But I was happy, genuinely happy, for what would be the last time.

*****

Autumn stopped me, asking would I like a mug of tea. I nodded and she sent for her assistant who brought in a tray with two mugs, biscuits, milk and sugar. I held the warmth between both my hands protectively.
“So, you and Adrienne had a good relationship after the split?”

I nodded.

“That’s good. And the band and your friendships and other relationships were going well?”

Again I nodded; annoyed that she seemed to be repeating everything I had just said. She jotted a few points down on her notepad.

“Okay. I would just like to get a little further today before I let you go.”

“T-that’s alright.” I attempted a smirk, “I tea to finish anyway.”

To my surprise she smiled.

“Well, in your own time.”

*****

We started playing around with some songs the next day. Tre had been on vacation in Germany for two weeks after his latest girlfriend had left him. He was pretty cut up about it so we weren’t surprised to find him still as bummed when he came back as he was when he left. But we continued regardless.

However his temper was thinner than ever and his dark mood was beginning to affect the other crew. Me, being the usual ‘Mr. Fix-it’ that I was, stayed behind at the studio that evening to get him to talk it out; something he obviously hadn’t done in Germany.

I sat next to him on the couch and handed him a beer.

“Tre, dude, what’s up? Your vacation not help?”

“No. It fucking sucked. Europe sucks.”

“You weren’t saying that on the last tour.” I laughed, remembering his sexual escapades on our last tour.
However, he didn’t as much as smirk. He just glared at me darkly.

“Not the time for jokes huh?”

He watched me for a moment longer, his blue eyes looking me up and down hungrily. My skin began to crawl and I took to studying the top of my beer bottle. It felt so awkward just sitting here next to him; a man who was meant to be my best friend.

The beverage was snatched from my hands and roughly thrown onto the coffee table. My head snapped up just in time for Tre to force his lips against mine. I tried to push him away and deny his kiss but he was so rough, his hands gripping my arms and pushing me park against the couch, his tongue poking and prodding at my lips and his teeth, eventually, biting them. I whimpered into the kiss but instead of letting up, he played roughly with my tongue. He pulled back and grinned. His nails were dug into my arms and his face was inches from mine. I was so shocked by what had just happened I was entirely speechless.

“You look so fucking beautiful when you’re afraid.”

He kissed me again. Using his lower body he shuffled my legs apart and lay against my abdomen. I could feel his erection against my own flaccid crotch. He roughly rubbed and moved against my shaking body. I could already see the bruises forming on my arms and my lips from where he had continually bit me.

“I want to hear you scream.” He whispered into my ear.

Despite myself, I struggled. He gripped hold of my shoulders, lifted me up and then painfully threw me back against the chairs arm again. I cried out in pain; but it was nothing compared to what followed.

He violently thrust my pants down to my ankles, along with my boxers and unzipped his own attire. All the while he kept me held down and his mouth coarsely against mine. He snarled as he noticed my flaccid cock before violently tugging the tender appendage. I screamed and cried, begging him to stop but I could help my bodies’ reaction and soon I was almost as hard as he was.

What happened next was a blur or pain, sweat and grunting. My own voice was stifled by his hand, yet I opened my mouth to scream and cry into his palm. I freely let the tears fall as he thrust harder and harder into my entrance, his own face screwed up in maniacal pleasure.

When he was finished he left me on the couch in the wreck room of the studio. But not before he wrapped his hands around my throat and made me promise that I wouldn’t say a word. How could I? How could I say something about this to anyone; about my best friend? The situation was so strange and horrid that all I wanted to do was block it from my memory. But, I guess, I knew then, as I lay on that couch crying my eyes out and tending to the various oozing wounds, that it wasn’t the end. It was just the beginning.