Free Outlier: Rebellion by Daryl Banner Page A

glued to the floor, unable to look at the sex buffet his friend is turning himself into. “I … No, I’m …” He shifts his weight, looks at Cintha for comfort—only to find that she didn’t follow him to this end of the room, still lingering far away at the stair and picking her nails.
    “Again.” The woman slowly draws the back of a long hand across her mouth to wipe it. “Who … is this?”
    Rone shifts himself, his still-hard cock flipping from one thigh to the other, casually answers, “Wick. That is my friend … My friend, Wick … and Wick is his name.”
    She studies him, squinting as though through a fog. “What loving mother names their child such a thing?”
    “He’s my friend,” Rone responds warningly. “It wouldn’t benefit us to scare him away so soon. He hasn’t seen me like this before.”
    “Like what? Naked or high?” she asks innocently.
    “Either. Unless he’s had a peek I don’t know about.” Rone lifts his chin at her. “Do you like me this way?”
    “Are you any other way?”
    “I’m several ways.” Gripping her firmly at the hips, he pulls the woman toward him and buries his face in her breasts—and for an awkward while, clothing and pillows and curly hair can’t be distinguished. Rone’s still hard, his moans muffled, and he starts to laugh uncontrollably. For whatever reason, so does she, throwing her head, all her wild curls and coils of blonde with it.
    Wick looks away, uncomfortable. His eyes find the sister still far away at the stair. “Should I … go?” he quietly asks her. She doesn’t respond. “Should I go?” he repeats, a touch louder.
    Suddenly Rone’s shoved the woman off him like a bed sheet and, despite her irritated moan, he’s to his feet and sauntering over to Wick, his dick bobbing left and right—Wick’s forcing his eyes at everything above Rone’s shoulders. “Pardons, my man. I’m so, so, so, so, so rude. Would you like a glass of chemical?” His pants are at his ankles, his belt clinking with his every step.
    “Um … no.”
    “But it’s so good for you.” Rone’s already pouring two. “Rids the mind of pesky things like common sense.” He’s already tipping his own glass by the time he gets one into Wick’s hand.
    “I don’t …” Wick shuffles uncomfortably. “I’m—”
    “Well don’t waste it.” Rone swipes the glass back from Wick and downs it himself.
    He’s still hard. I’ve seen more of my friend in the last five minutes than I’ve seen in the last five years. Staring forcibly into his eyes, Wick asks, “Why did you invite me here?”
    “Aren’t—Aren’t you having fun?” Rone hiccups.
    Wick sucks in his lips. “Not as much as you.”
    “What’s that ugly thing on your head?” Rone points belatedly and hiccups again. His eyes are glossed over, dulled a moment.
    Wick brings a hand to his forehead, winces. “Bruise, I guess.”
    Not hearing Wick’s response, or perhaps forgetting he asked a question in the first place, Rone nods at the woman on the floor. “That one’s Victra. Her name is Victra and she can see through others’ eyes … so mind where you’re looking!”
    “Stop telling him things,” she whines, her face half-muffled by a pillow. “I don’t know if I like him yet.”
    “He’s going to join, so you must like him. We must all like each other because that’s the rule,” declares Rone. “That’s the rule I made up just now.”
    “Join?” Wick realizes he’s backed himself up against the wall. “Join what? Is this some kind of club?”
    “I can’t tell you just yet.” Rone pulls up his pants, saunters back to the woman Victra, lets them drop again. “For now, why don’t you kick back and have yourself a swig of chemical? It’s paid for. It’s all good. C’mon. Stuff’s not so easy to come by. Victra, my wiener’s still awake.”
    Wick stares at the skinny bottle of chemical. In truth, he’s never tried it, nor even properly seen a whole supply of it in