A/N: God, I missed you guys so much. I disappeared for, what, six months?! I'm so sorry! lol. I don't have my email anymore, but I do have AIM if anyone wants to talk - "ethicsxoverrated", provided you let me know you're from Fictionpress before ranting at me for being such a jackass/moron/jerk. Umm, yes, I need to finish my other stories, and yes, I am working on it. I have Kegs and Black Cherries completely planned out, lol, I just need to sit down and write it. I will update eventually - but this new thing, I just want to give it a try - honest opinions, okay? I understand if you're fed up with me (join the club with my exes XD I hear they have t-shirts now), buuut I will try to make it up to everyone.

PROLOGUE

"How are you feeling, Mr. Marks?"

Bristol gritted his teeth against the innate desire to break the stupid cow's nose, smiling crookedly in response, "As well as can be expected, I guess." His voice was low, raspy, with a hint of seriousness that tainted the sexual undertones. His voice had always been liquid sex, one of his best qualities...all of his customers said so, all of his lovers, especially him. How could that bitch ask him how he 'felt'? The ultimate betrayal married to six months in the hospital and scarring that marred his entire body - the loss of a job he loved, his scholarship, most importantly, his Na-no. Fuck that. No. Bristol forcibly pursed full lips, glaring at the crumpled up hospital gown folded up next to him. It felt so good to be back in real clothes again - even if his jeans and t-shirt were a little big. He lost a lot of weight, a lot of weight, hitting barely 130 for his 6" frame (and this was an improvement over the 120 from February). The nurses tittered about his unhealthy diet, but Bristol firmly blamed shit hospital food and general life changes for the drastic loss.

He never thought this day would come, honestly. The day that his shattered ribcage, broken femur, pelvis, collarbones, right arm, wrists, and tailbone finally mended. The day that the internal bleeding stopped, the stitches dissolved, and the bruises faded. The day that his body finally healed, no more X-rays or casts or needles, when he could finally go home. They had told him he was lucky to be alive, let alone retain full use of all four limbs, called him a miracle case, surviving a fall from a four story window - especially considering that he had the shit beaten out of him even before that.

Six months, it took him to stabilize. Six months of his life he'd never get back, and that son-of-a-bitch didn't even get convicted. Where was the justice in that?

"Ready to go, baby?"

Her voice was warm and low, for a woman. It was comforting, that Southern drawl, the borderline trashy twang as she returned from the soda machine with a Diet Coke in her hand. Bristol would have been lying if he didn't admit that he was...surprised. His mother wasn't really the...well, 'mothering' type. Hell, who was he kidding? His mama was white trash, they both were, and he'd spent the first ten years of his life in a trailer. She'd improved since those days, but...she was still the same old Margaret. Bleach blonde hair with dark roots showing, too tan, skin like leather - she was only forty-two, but smoking and sunlight and hard labor had aged her much faster than those fake botox bitches on VH1. Cut off, frayed denim shirts and a tanktop finished off her outfit, and despite the fact that she looked like she stepped out of an old country western video, she was his mother. She was here. She'd been here for the last six months. She...and the other boys, of course. But soon they became put off by his increasingly embittered attitude, waspish retorts, and sarcasm, no longer the sultry, flirtatious dancer they used to know. He wasn't any fun anymore.

Whatever.

It didn't bother Bristol. All they ever fucking did was stare at his scars anyway. To hell with them.

"Mom," he croaked, clearing his throat to ease his voice up a little, "Yeah. Yeah...I thought you got lost." He tore his gaze from the hospital gown, chair, IV, everything in this room that he'd grown to hate over the past months. Instead, Bri nodded towards the coke bottle as she crossed the room - when Margaret reached him, she lightly swatted her son for 'giving her lip', before wrapping her acrylic pink fingernails on the plastic handles of his wheelchair. It was hospital policy, even though Bristol was pretty damn certain he could walk on his own now. Whatever. This was kind of nice - so long as they moved in the direction of the exit.

Twenty years old, and still getting pushed around by his mother...god. He'd be embarrassed, normally, but after these last months? When he was puking everywhere, when he needed to be spoonfed, when he couldn't even take a shit on his own...oddly enough, it kind of quashed any other vain doubts about his reputation (or his manhood). Bristol stayed silent, absently flattening brown hair over his forehead, watching with a flick of dark eyes this way and that every nurse, doctor, patient that ambled by, the steady line of fluorescent lights matched up with hideously ugly teal tile. Down the halls, to the elevator, to the ground floor, finally, and still - not a word. Not until they reached the parking garage, and Margaret paused to lightly ruffle her son's hair. It was long now, touching his shoulders at least, still as soft as it had been when he was a child.

"What's the first thing you plan to do, Bri? Want me to cook you something? Fried chicken, mashed potatos, okra...'course, maybe food's not on your mind, huh?" She smiled knowingly, pushing her son in the direction of their beat-up Mazda.

Bristol nearly mirrored her expression, though his eyes were far colder. "Not exactly."

Oh yes, he had plans. He would find that bastard, the one who claimed to love him so much, the one who said he'd do anything to make Bristol happy - and he did, oh, he did...until one...tiny mistake, one mistake, sent his lover into a rage. Nathaniel got angry, so angry and so jealous that he-what? Did he leave, like a normal boyfriend? Neglect to call? Slam the door? No, oh no, Nathaniel threw him off a FUCKING BALCONY.

Nathaniel tried to kill him.

The bastard almost succeeded.

And now? Bristol just thought he ought to repay the favor. He wouldn't eat, wouldn't sleep, wouldn't dance, until Nathaniel knew exactly how much pain he'd put his former beau through. Revenge? Hell fucking yes, that boy was a dead man.