Free Bailey Bradford - Southwestern Shifters 06 - Reverence by Bailey Bradford Page A

aware that he was probably only making it worse, yet he couldn’t seem to stop. So he went out, hooked up. Got drunk, used drugs that were handed to him. Did he have a death wish? Harley didn’t think so, but he couldn’t see what use he was. He couldn’t even get fucked, couldn’t stand to.
    Harley grabbed the shower gel and poured it right into his palm. He slathered it over his arms and chest, ignoring the sharp protuberances where his bones seemed to want to tear right through his skin. Always thin, Harley was now well past that and into gaunt. He knew it, and figured he was lucky anyone would mess with him at all.
    Harley stopped mid-scrub, a shocking thought coming to him. If he looked sick, who would take a chance on him but someone else who was ill? Had he used condoms? Had he insisted on that? He’d never worried as much about blow jobs as he should have, because the stats were low, but he hadn’t gone out sucking cock like he had the past few nights, either.
    Jesus, he was a fucking idiot! Maybe he really did have a death wish. Harley mechanically scrubbed himself clean, then he scrubbed again, harder, this time with a cloth that felt like it was made of sandpaper. His skin stung and was pink and even bleeding in a couple of places, but Harley didn’t care. He felt dirty, inside and out, and had since Dobson had laid his hand on Harley’s throat and called him a filthy whore.
    Why hadn’t he remembered that before now? “Because I don’t want to fucking remember any of it!” Harley threw the rag then balled up one hand into a fist and hit the tile wall. “Ouch! Fuck! Ouch! God! Ow!” He shook his hand and cursed some more, until his knuckles weren’t throbbing. Then he looked at his hand. “What is wrong with me?”
    Inspecting his hand, Harley figured he’d have some bruising to go along with the little scrapes on his knuckles, but nothing worse, which was a damn good thing. It wasn’t like he had health insurance, and with the way he’d been so careless the last few nights, he didn’t want to risk exposing anyone to anything.
    He would need to get tested, then do it again, and again and as many times as it took to know he was healthy or not. Or he could just keep doing like he was doing, and he’d die soon enough, wouldn’t he? Probably not even from any disease, he’d OD or someone would just kill him. Was that what he wanted?
    “I don’t know. I don’t know.” Harley washed his hand and tried not to think, but he couldn’t shut his brain off this time. He didn’t think he wanted to die, but he felt useless, worthless, and angry—no, more than angry. There was a rage building inside him, growing every day. It’d started there in his bedroom, and grown around the fear, the hurt, the abuse—at Dobson’s hands and his own. It had the power to destroy him, if he let it, and Harley wasn’t sure he’d fight against that end. Didn’t know if he had the strength to.
    Didn’t know if he was worth the effort.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself.” He was getting sick of it, of hating himself for not being man enough to fight off Dobson that night, or any of the lackeys he’d let torment Harley. Granted, he’d never had the highest self-esteem, had barely scraped through high school and had been lucky to work at the gas station, but he hadn’t loathed himself like he did now.
    Harley forced himself to look in the mirror. He deserved the dark bags under his eyes, but the fact was, despite those, he was probably more attractive to a certain sort of man than ever. He looked young, fragile, and almost model-esque, though he’d never judge himself that handsome. Still, the thinness accentuated the sharp blades of his cheekbones and made his eyes seem even bigger, his lips fuller. With some photo touch-ups, he wouldn’t be so bad. The green tint to his skin was icky, though.
    Harley quit looking at his face. His chest was scrawny, his arms toothpicks, his dick, flaccid. At least he still