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The Storm that Follows Harley

Harley

The all-too-familiar, excruciating sickness consumes my body quickly, jolting me awake from a drug-induced slumber. I bolt upright, sore as fuck and sick as fuck, frantically scanning the room, realizing I am in my bed. And I have no fucking idea how I got here. The last thing I can remember is being with him.

Brixton. What a fucking sexy name. It fits him perfectly, and I love how it sounds on the tip of my fucking tongue. He must love it too. Why else would he have fucked me like a goddamn animal the moment his name escaped my lips last night? What did he mean that what we did was going to change everything?

As I climb out of bed and away from the warmth of the blanket that has been wrapped around me, I try to think of an answer to my question. I only realize the blanket I was wrapped in is not mine when I drop to the ground to pick up my box. It's his. I would wrap myself in it and infuse my nose with his scent if I were not currently convulsing from sickness. I take out my
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