by Kelsie Rae
“And you know what my type is?” he challenges.
“Easy.” I decide with a definitive nod. “I think you like easy.”
“Physically or emotionally?”
“Both.”
“Hmph,” he grunts. But he doesn’t bother to argue with me before stealing a fry from the white bag and popping it into his mouth. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
We both focus on the movie playing in the background and the storyline that’s just like all the others. I soak up the familiarity like a dry sponge while glancing over at D every few minutes to find him just as invested in the story as I am. We eat in silence while the big city girl kisses the handsome country boy. The snow falls around them in a picturesque scene that brings a smile to my lips.
“Is that what you want?” he inquires, riveted by my reaction to the sappy kiss.
Confused, I turn to him and ask, “What do you mean?”
“The guy next door and the PG-rated kiss in a small town. Is that what you want?”
“I, uh, I don’t really know what I want.”
“Is it what you wanted…before?” he presses.
Before.
It’s weird. To break down my life into two separate segments. The before. And the after. I look back at the screen. A Golden retriever runs through the snow toward the happy couple and wags its tail when it finds its owner to have found true love during the Christmas season.
“Tell me,” D pushes, distracting me from their happily ever after.
“Call me crazy, but I don’t think guys like that would be able to handle my kind of messy after…”—I swallow thickly—“after everything I’ve been through. Hell, I’d be lucky to find a gigolo who would want a broken girl like me.”
“That’s bullshit,” he calls me out, his voice rising with frustration. “You know that, right?”
I’ve pissed him off. I’m just not sure how.
“Wait. Are you mad at me?” I ask.
His trimmed fingernails scrape across his chiseled jaw as his eyes turn toward the ceiling. “You know what? Forget it.”
Pushing himself up from his recliner, he goes to leave, but I scramble for his wrist. My fingers don’t even encompass the whole thing, but it’s enough to make him pause. The heat in his gaze licks at my skin as he stares down at my hand. It wouldn’t take much for him to get out of my grasp. Hell, a simple twist of his arm would do the trick. But he doesn’t move an inch.
“Tell me,” I plead. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Dragging his stare from my hand to my face, he shakes his head. “Everyone’s a little broken, Blue. Everyone has baggage—some more than others. But when you find the right guy who’s worth your time, they won’t give a shit about how much luggage they’ll have to carry. As long as they get to keep you for their prize.”
“And how will I know if he’s worth my time, D?”
That same indecision spreads across his face before he shrugs out of my hold. “Get some rest. We’ll talk more in the morning.”
Then he leaves.
And I’m left alone.
But for the first time since everything happened, I don’t crave the silence and peace that comes with it. I dread it.
I just want him.
10
Sei
Where is she?
Where is she?
Where is she?
The thought plays on a constant loop. Finally, I crack Burlone’s email password. My fingers fly across the keyboard as I search for where the hell my little Peach is hiding. Pushing aside my stringy, dark hair, I scroll through email after email.
Apple.
Apple.
Apple.
So many fucking apples. And each of them was a dime a dozen. Ugly women in the wrong place at the wrong time. Ripe for the picking. But my Peach? She was special. And I need to find her. There isn’t anything about passion fruit in Burlone’s emails. And even though my little Peach technically classifies as a passion fruit with her pretty face and hymen still intact, she’s still my little Peach. Delectable. Liked to explode on my tongue as I’d dig my teeth into her. Closing my eyes, I remember how sweet she tasted. Like candy. My mouth waters, and my cock hardens in my slacks.
Where is she?
With a tortured groan, I continue my search.
An email catches my eye. It’s dated three days before the tournament. Glancing at the clock, I open the email. Transcripts for a shipment. Requesting a sweet piece of unbruised fruit. Passion. One that had been discussed during a verbal agreement. To be delivered to Harry Johnson. Cocking my head to the side, I stop. The name is familiar.
There’s an address. I jot it down on my forearm with a Sharpie before capping the pen.
Seems I have a visit to make.
11
Diece
“Alright, Q. You ready?” I ask. The fan is blowing cool air down on us in the gym, and she rubs her hands against her bare arms as she bounces on the balls of her feet, trying to get pumped.
“Yeah. I’m ready.”
Striding over to the back corner of the room, I begin my search for today’s equipment. A cabinet tucked against one of the walls holds a few less conventional pieces of equipment, and I smile when I find exactly what I’m looking for.
“Today, we’re gonna practice using—and defending against—knives.”
“With that?” She eyes the knife in my hand. Her wariness is palpable, but I’m proud she hasn’t let her fear control her so far. Not yet, anyway. After her meltdown in the theater, she’s been more present and hasn’t been getting lost in her past. But the fact that I almost kissed her when she was at her most vulnerable?
So messed up.
“It’s a theater prop.” I point the sharp side of the blade toward my open palm, then push it down until the spring in the hollow handle eats it up, making it look like the blade is embedded in my skin. “We’re going to practice with it.”
“You’re sure this is a good idea?” Her eyes are glued to the knife.
“Yeah. Positive.” Striding over to her, I offer it with an open palm. “Touch it. It can’t hurt you.”
Her hands are sweaty, and she wipes them against her white tank top before taking it from me. It clatters to the floor. With a deep breath, she squats down and picks it up.
“Sorry,” she mumbles. “Butterfingers.”
“I’m just glad it was the prop. Could’ve lost a toe,” I joke, trying to put her at ease.
She gives me a tight smile before running the pad of her thumb along the dull blade.
“See?” I prod. “Fake.”
“Okay. What do I do with it?”
“Try to stab me.”
Eyes widening, she jerks back. “What?”
“It’s fake,” I reiterate. “I want you to try to stab me with it so I can show you how to counter the move. Then you can try.”
“He never tried to stab me.”
“Yeah, but he could’ve, which is why you were paralyzed anytime he threatened you with it. Am I right?”
Her white teeth dig into her lower lip before she concedes, “Good point. So I just…try to stab you?”
“You’re cute when you’re flustered. Yeah. Just try to stick me with the pointy end.”
A ghost of a smile stretches across her face before disappearing. “Okay, Jon Snow.”
“You liked the Game of Thrones reference?”
“I may have dabbled in the series. But only the books,” she clarifies.
“You read Game of Thrones?”
“Maybe.”
My cock hardens as my mind conjures an image of her reading––naked––in my bed.
Then she lunges, and the picture evaporates into thin air. I grab her wrist and use a pressure point while twisting her arm at the same time. The prop clatters to the ground almost instantly.
Shocked, she murmurs, “How did you—?”
“I’ll show you. Props for striking while I was distracted, by the way,” I add with a smir
k. Then, in slow motion, I perform the same movement and make her try it on me. It takes over a dozen tries before she finally gets the hang of it. But when she does, her face lights up like the Fourth of July.
“I did it,” she pants with a look of triumph.
“You did it, Blue.” My chest swells with pride. “How else would he try to use the knife to threaten you?”
She bites the inside of her cheek but doesn’t get lost in her past as she answers, “Against my throat.”
“Behind you or in front of you? And while you were laying down or standing?”
Dropping her chin to her chest, she reveals, “All of the above.”
“Then let’s get started.”
The next few hours go by in a blur of Jiu-Jitsu, self-defense, and repetition until she’s comfortable with a blade pressed to her throat. And the best part is that she hasn’t used her safe word. She’s getting stronger.
“You’re doing well,” I praise her with my ass on the ground a few feet away from her.
Lying on her back, she tucks her hands behind her head and looks up at the ceiling. “Thanks.”
“What else do you want to work on?”
Her eyes snap to mine, but I can see the indecision in her gaze.
Sensing her hesitation, I press, “What do you want, Q?”
“I want you to teach me what to do if he…if he gets me on my back.”
The last time we were here, she lost her shit. I don’t want that to happen again. But she’s right. We haven’t tackled the one position that terrifies her most. The one we haven’t faced since the day she used her safe word. And I’m just as scared as she is to hold her down, straddle her thighs, and teach her how to get out of it.
“You sure you’re ready?”
She scoffs. “I’ll never be ready, D. But it’s like you said…I can’t let him win, right?”
“Right.” Rubbing my palm down my face, I kneel down and crawl over to her. She’s in a pair of running shorts, but they’ve ridden up a few inches since she’s on her back. My brows furrow when I notice the angry red marks slashed across her upper thighs.
“What are—?”
“They’re nothing.” Her knees snap together before she stretches her legs against the ground, cutting off my view.
“Q….” My voice trails off. I don’t know what the hell I should say.
Her tone is hushed and indifferent as she answers, “I told you he liked knives, remember? Now let’s get this over with.”
The weight of the world feels like it’s on my shoulders as I straddle her legs. But she doesn’t need my pity right now. She needs my strength. And I’m going to give it to her.
“What’s your safe word?” I demand.
“I know what it is. Just get to the point, D,” she huffs. Her anxiety is making her testy from her current position, so I don’t let it bother me.
Jaw tight, I weave my fingers into her short, silvery-blue hair but keep my grip loose. “Your instinct is to get away when you’re in this position. To wiggle backward, right?”
She nods and tries to do exactly that, but it’s pointless. I just need to tighten my grip, and she’ll be screwed.
“What you want to do is the opposite,” I explain, keeping my tone even. “Grab my hand that’s holding your hair and lock it in place so that I can’t move it.” Her little hands wrap around my arm, and she hugs it to her chest.
“Good,” I praise her. “Now, you’re going to use your foot on the same side that my hand is grabbing you and weave it over my leg.” Again, she follows my orders, and my chest swells with pride.
“Perfect. Now, you’re going to thrust your hips and push up toward the side that we’re locked together. I won’t be able to counter your movement with my foot to keep my balance, and I’ll end up rolling until you’re on top of me, gaining the upper hand.”
“The upper hand?”
“Yeah. Being on top allows you more freedom and control.”
Her mouth quirks. “Is that right?”
I laugh, grateful for some comic relief in this messed-up situation. “Uh-huh. Now thrust your hips, baby. Let’s see what you can do.”
In slow motion, she pushes her hips into a bridge, and we both roll. Her elated breath brushes against my face before a ghost of a smile spreads across her face when she realizes she’s on top of me and isn’t in quite as vulnerable of a situation anymore.
“Again,” she pleads. “Show me again.”
We go over the movement more times than I can count before her confidence starts to shine through her insecurities.
“I think I’m getting it,” she tells me as she catches her breath.
“You’re doing great, Blue.”
Her smile disappears as she gets lost in her thoughts. Rolling onto her side, she pushes herself up and kneels next to me. When a wisp of hair tickles her cheek, she tucks it behind her ear then sucks her lips into her mouth. Even though I can see the question on the tip of her tongue, she stays quiet.
“What are you thinking about?” I prod.
“What if…what if he’s still holding the knife when he’s straddling me?” she blurts out. “What do I do then?”
Examining the question, I come to a conclusion that I doubt she’ll find comfort in, but tell her the truth, nonetheless. “With your back to the ground and a knife against your throat, your chances are slim at best.” Her confidence vanishes almost instantly, but I press forward. “My suggestion would be to figure out how to get him to put his knife down. Whether you seduce him or pretend to pass out so that it’s useless for him to keep a knife at your throat…something. I dunno. But your best bet is to get the knife away from him so you can flip him over the way we’ve practiced without worrying about him retaliating.”
A fresh wave of determination spreads across her features as she releases a shaky exhale and nods. “Okay. Okay, I can try to do that.”
“I know you can.”
“And, uh…what if he’s between my legs? Not just straddling me. What then? How do I counter it? How do I get him off me?”
Squeezing my neck, I drop my head back and stare up at the ceiling. I can’t do this. I can’t get between her fucking thighs. I can’t put myself in that position. Not when I’ve wanted her since the moment we met in Kingston’s office. Not when she’s been abused. Not when she doesn’t want me the way I want her.
I can’t.
“D,” she whispers before reaching out and touching my knee.
“I think we’ve had enough training for one day,” I bite out.
“I need to know. I need you to teach me. Please?”
Tortured, I look down at her. “Q—”
“Please?” she begs. “I need this. I need to know I have control over the situations that have been haunting me, and you’re the only one I trust. Please? For me?”
Trust. And what if she feels my fucking erection against her? Will she still trust me then?
“Come on, D. I need you.”
“It’s not that easy,” I hedge.
“What do you mean?”
My frustration spikes, and I push myself to my feet then look down at her on her knees. In front of me. With those big doe eyes looking up at me with an innocence she can’t fake.
I’m going to hell.
“Talk to me,” she pleads.
Now she’s begging? Does she want me to have blue balls for the rest of the week?
“You wanna talk?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
“Fine. I’m attracted to you,” I growl. “I want you to want me between those thighs, Blue. I want to erase every single touch he ever laid on you and replace it with my own. I want to show you what sex should be like instead of the nightmare you experienced over and over again at the hands of that bastard who hurt you. And now you’re asking me to slip between your thighs.” I laugh, but there isn’t any humor in it. “I wish I had that much control, Q. I really do. But I can’t guarantee that I won’t get a hard-on right now, especial
ly when you look at me like that. Like I hung the fucking moon.”
“Diece—”
“No. If I ever get between those thighs, it’s because you asked me to be there. And that’s not today. So you’ll have to excuse me while I go take a breather and a cold shower.”
Then I leave, and I don’t turn around to see her reaction. Because if there’s any lust there, I’ll be a goner. She’s not ready for that.
And if there’s only disgust? I’ll be wrecked.
12
Sei
Clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth, I light another cigarette. The smoke fills my lungs and calms my nerves as I find the motherfucker at Johnson’s house. What the hell is Dex doing here? And with one of Kingston’s men? Do my eyes deceive me?
Little turncoat. I smirk.
Once I find my Peach, I’ll deal with him and his betrayal. But for now, I have my eyes on my prize. My car is parked a few houses down. But I can still see it all. They’re not very discreet. The white sheet is stained. But I guess it does the job of covering up the corpse. Still. You’d be a fool not to piece together that the two men in suits are up to no good.
People see what they want to see, though. I don’t know why I’m surprised. So for Dex and his little friend here, they’re just a couple of suave bastards moving a piece of antique furniture.
But I know better.
And I’m pissed they got here first. Now, I can’t have a chat with Johnson to see if he knows where my little Peach is. After they pull away from the curb, I check the time on the radio.
I don’t have much time before the clean-up crew will get here. With a flick, the cigarette butt soars out the driver’s side window. Then I jog inside. The first floor is left untouched, but a spot of blood stains the cream carpet on the stairs. I follow it to the crime scene. They’re gonna have a hell of a time cleaning this up. A blood splotch the size of a basketball is at the foot of the bed in the master suite. Interesting. When I spot a laptop on a dark table, I grin. Then I step around the mess and sit in the office chair. Johnson’s computer is password protected. Figures. I glance over my shoulder and inspect the murder scene one more time.
