The silky polyester cloth is defiled— marred, crusted with white smears and harder dark blotches. The mixture of blood and cum tack onto each other, tangling together in woven webs until Adam forces them apart.
Adam promised he’d return the sweatshirt to Skeeter himself. His palm drags against the silk, wiping his mess off his fingertips. It’s clammy, and damp, like his palms, he swallows— tries...