by Henry, Max
Care is the last thing we do. Live to hurt one another would be a more accurate summary of our endgame.
Impatient as always to reach my high and get this over with, I jerk the dress clean up Deanna’s thighs and over her hips. The fabric bunches around her slim waist, her satin panties on display.
I tuck a finger in the sideband and tug. “Why do you bother wearing these?”
Need fills her hooded gaze while I shove them to the floor. “Why not?”
“I thought you’d realize by now it’s quicker to get a random dick in you when there’s nothing in the way.”
“Would you like that, huh?” She nips at my bottom lip while shimmying out of the lingerie. “You fantasize about catching me out back tonight; some guys cock filling me?”
Instead of answer, I drop to my knees and push her legs apart with firm palms. Her taunt should have worked me up, driven me crazy, but all it did was trigger the part of me that I’m trying hard to deny.
The part that wants a valid reason to leave this fucked up arrangement.
I know she screws around when I’m away, the same as I do. But catching her in the act is something I haven’t done. Probably because deep down, she knows as well as I do that seeing the lack of compassion with my own two eyes would be enough for me to reclaim my balls finally.
I push the niggle farther into the back of my mind with each sweep of my tongue across her slick slit. I’ve got to give Deanna credit—she’s always ready. No matter how much she hates me.
“Fuck, yes.” Her fingers find my scalp, and for a fleeting second, I remember Mosaic’s face while she did the same to him.
I’m not sure what disturbs me more: knowing I’m no better than him to her, or that I think about my goddamn dog while my nose is buried in this bitch’s pussy.
Probably about equal, if I’m honest.
The once sweet taste of her on my tongue turns sour the longer that I try to force myself back into the mood, my lips beginning to curl with each lick. I don’t have the time or energy for this; all I want is to blow my goddamn load so that I’m less likely to deck some douche tonight.
“Against the wall,” I grumble, pushing her away with a flat palm to her thigh.
She stumbles back in her ridiculously stripperesque heels and stands her ground.
I do the same, erection painful against the restriction of my jeans. “If you want me to fuck you, Deanna, you’ll turn against the wall so that I don’t have to look at your goddamn face.”
A snarl curls the side of her lips. “Suits me for the same reason.” She takes her position, hands flat against my bedroom wall, and bare ass tilted up for my abuse.
I consider slapping the smooth mound, but I know she’d like that. Instead, I stoop on my way over and retrieve the discarded panties, using them to wipe as much arousal off her as possible.
“What are you doing?” She tries to peer over her shoulder.
I shove her head against the wall, my fingers blocking her view. “Ssh.” My free hand spreads her ass cheeks. “I like it better this way.”
The pained gasp she makes when I seat myself on a single hard, dry stroke is worth every second of burning pain I’ll get tomorrow.
I need the release—I don’t need to like it.
Predictably, she’s soaked again within seconds. My grip on her becomes harder, Deanna’s earring biting into the heel of my hand. Back and forth, I pump into the loveless vessel, seeking a high that seems even more of a stretch every time we do this.
Her cunt tightens around me, and yet I’m struggling for release.
“Jesus, Emery,” she bitches. “Catch up.”
I forcibly tilt her hips to find a better angle, my fingers bruising her waist. “I’m trying.”
A guttural chuckle escapes Deanna, morphing into a mocking moan. “You want to come, baby?”
“What the hell do you think?”
“Then fuck me like I’m Alice,” she growls.
So, I damn well do.
EIGHTEEN
Alice
“Rock Bottom” - grandson
I hate that I’m here. I hate that after a decade of working myself ragged to prove that I can make it in my dream job, I’m back on their front lawn in the same state I was when I left it all those years ago.
On the verge of tears.
My mother’s house hasn’t changed much: the same perfectly trimmed hedges line the exterior cladding, same flawless white veneer with the flag displayed proudly to the left of the steps onto their porch. The porch that has the mandatory rocking chair set up in one corner as though my mother uses it to wait for her to children to return from war.
Only, this is a war I was sent to fight alone, and my mother? She waits for no-one. Lest of all her children.
My stepfather made sure of that.
“It’s only a house, and they’re only people,” I mutter, wiping my clammy palms down the front of my cut-offs.
Perhaps. But they’re my people, and that’s what makes this so damn scary.
I recheck the driveway on my short trek to the doorbell, ensuring that yes, it is only Mom’s car parked on the paving. I couldn’t do this if he were home. I wouldn’t allow him to see how right he is.
My finger trembles, sliding off the plastic button twice before I can muster enough composure to depress it. Yep. I’m home—where I grew up—and I push the fucking doorbell like some salesman wondering how far through his pitch he’ll get before the door is slammed in his face.
Her footsteps hasten to the other side and then hesitate while she no doubt checks the peephole. I turn my head away and count the flowerheads in her perfectly circular garden so that she can’t read the desperation in my eyes.
Five painful seconds pass before the rattle of the lock eases my racing heart.
“Alice.” Time hasn’t been kind to my mother, but even with new wrinkles and stress coloring the dark patches beneath her eyes, she’s still the beautiful queen I believed her to be as a child.
“Mom.”
A moment passes—a fleeting glimpse of how under his thumb she still is. “You can come in, but you’ll need to be quick.”
Welcome home, but not for long, okay? This whole scenario is seriously fucked up.
“Thanks.” I wipe my chunky black boots on her pristine camel doormat and then step inside.
God—it still smells the same. Fresh lilies on the tables and a hint of pine from the timber polish. I stall at the entrance, waiting for her to direct where it is safe for me to go.
Perfectly styled blonde pony bobbing behind her, my mother leads us to the galley kitchen and pats the center island to indicate I should take a spot at the stools. “It’s been a few years.”
“Six and a half,” I detail.
Not that I was counting.
“Yes. Six.” Her French-tipped nails tap the counter twice before she veers toward the fridge. “Tea?”
“Yes, please.” I need something to do with my hands. “I’ll cut to the chase, so you don’t need to worry about Albert getting home while I’m here.”
Her shoulders stiffen, back to me as she pours us a glass.
“I need to borrow some money.”
I’m met with dissonance in her eyes as she sets our drinks before us. “How much?” She takes the stool diagonally to mine.
“A grand.” I set my heated palms against the cool exterior of the drink. “I’ll pay it back as quickly as I can.”
Without a shadow of tact, she bluntly asks, “Do you not make enough money with your music?”
They don’t know. I made sure my mother never heard about our manager’s betrayal. I didn’t want my stepfather to feel vindicated when they learned how gullible their daughter had been.
“I’d already apportioned my income for the month before I had an unexpected expense come up.”
“Oh.” She takes a dainty sip of her iced tea. “I do have a little nest tucked away that I can dive into without Albert knowing.”
God,
I love her.
“But.”
Shit.
“It comes with strings attached.”
Double shit. “Like what?” My stomach turns.
“Christmas.”
…is a month away. “What about it?”
She sets her baby-blues on me, the tilt of her chin, showing how serious she is. “You’ll attend.”
“He wouldn’t want me here,” I protest, pushing the drink away.
My stomach can’t handle anything when she knots it in such a way.
“I do.” Mom rolls her lips. “And so will Lennon.”
She had to. She had to go and mention my baby brother.
My stepdad can suck a dick as far as I’m concerned when it comes to reconciliation, but for Lenny? Every prayer I’ve uttered since I left this house included the hope that one day, he’d want to see me again.
“Are you sure?” I clasp my hands together, rings bruising my knuckles.
She nods.
I study her expression, noting how her shimmery gold eyeshadow makes her seem so convincing and pure. “What did he say, exactly?”
“He asked me if I knew where you were these holidays.”
Not quite the blatant declaration of sorrow I’d hoped for. “All he has to do is visit the band’s website to know where we are.”
“You aren’t booked from this week onward.” She shrugs, as though admitting that she also stalked me online is nothing. “It doesn’t show us your social calendar, Alice.”
“Why now?” is all I can choke out. “What’s changed?”
Her throat bobs, yet she keeps whatever words are lodged inside tucked away. “Will you attend?”
“I have to think about it.”
Rising to her feet, she lifts both our glasses off the island; hers empty, mine full. “Then, I have to think about whether you need the money.”
Fuck. There’s no question if I need it or not. Shit. I’m on my estranged family’s doorstep to beg for help. What does that say?
“Brunch or dinner?” I whisper.
“Brunch.” Her tone shifts to light and airy. “At the restaurant: your stepfather has to work. Oh.” Her fingertips feather the gold cross at her neck. “Bring a plus-one, not your band girls, either. It’ll even up the table setting.”
Fuck my life. “Sure.”
“Now that we’ve settled that.” Mom dives into her pocket and retrieves her smartphone. “Do you still have the same bank account?”
My forehead hits the island between my bent arms. “Yes.”
She sighs, yet I refuse to look. “Stop being so melodramatic. I thought you would have wanted an end to this.”
What I want is to be able to wind back the clock and fix up my past mistakes.
All of them.
NINETEEN
Emery
“Do What You Want” – The Cool and Deadly
Some fucking genius made goddamn cupcakes infused with pineapple Malibu.
Deanna flirts her way through enough muscle heads to host an in-house bodybuilding competition while I stay propped behind the banquet table, stuffing my face with cute yellow frosted cupcakes.
It seems I have no shame.
The event is hosted by some douche named Jack-Jack to his mates (what is he, five?). The guy wants to launch into the world of promotions, and from what I can tell, tonight is a thinly disguised scouting mission to collect enough tail to recruit a small army.
If only he knew how easy it was to get a pretty woman when you actually have talent.
“I’ve never seen a guy so infatuated with cupcakes,” a husky voice asks to my right.
I glance down—yep, she’s that much shorter—and grin … mouth full.
“They must be good.” Her slender fingers pincer a paper-wrapped treat and lift it to her nose. “Smells sweet.”
I swallow, eye Deanna in my periphery, and then figure what the fuck. “You do as well.” If she can play, so can I.
A lift of a carefully lined eyebrow is all I get in response. The petite brunette peels the wrapper off one side and then, fuck me, opens the most pornographic lips I’ve seen since that redhead sucked me off in Tucson and takes a small bite.
My dick twitches at the tease of something willing, something less … hate-filled.
“Mmm.” Her eyes roll back. “Is that alcohol in it?”
“Malibu,” I supply before scoffing the last of my pineapple delight. “Whoever made these needs a fucking medal.”
She chuckles, but it’s not that flirtatious high-pitch noise girls make when all they really want to do is spread their legs. Nope. It’s genuine. Real.
“Right?” She eyes me while peeling back more of the wrapper. “Pardon me for being blunt, but you don’t look as though you fit in here.”
My lips tilt on one side. “I don’t.”
“Who are you with?” She scans the room.
“That one.” I nod at Deanna, reluctant to have her name stain this conversation.
“Ahh.” My cupcake buddy nods before gesturing to a muscular, yet drop-dead gorgeous blonde. “That’s my reason for watching this pantomime unfold.”
There it is—the explanation for why she’s so damn genuine: there’s not an ounce of lust involved.
“Cute girl,” I appraise.
The shorty next to me watches her partner with nothing short of admiration. “She is.”
“What do you do when you’re not watching people peacock for attention, then?” I ask, reaching for another cupcake.
She stills my hand, reaching into her purse with the other, and produces a hip flask. I could be besties with this girl. “This is quicker,” she whispers conspiratorially.
“You’re a fucking catch. You know that?” I take the offered drink and down a healthy gulp. “You make me wish I had a pussy so that you’d consider taking me home for the night.”
Shorty chuckles, taking a sip herself before re-bagging the flask. “During the day, I practice law,” she supplies. “But my real passion is online marketing; I’ve just started a business for it: content creation, scheduling, websites—all that stuff.”
Interesting. “You do it all yourself?”
She shakes her head, exchanging a smile with her partner. “Nope. I have a team of four under me.”
“Having that many under you sounds like fun.” The next cupcake hides my smirk.
She smiles back. “Wouldn’t it be? But no. That’s not what I meant.”
“And here I thought you were an angel sent to tease me,” I jest.
She huffs out her nose, eyes lively. “And what is it you do for a living?”
God, I love these types. The ones who have no fucking clue who I am. “Play a bit of music.”
“Wow. Locally?”
“Nationwide, mostly.”
She frowns. “Are you tricking me?”
I grin, polishing off the fifth alcohol-infused surprise for the night. “Nope.”
Quick as a flash, she brings her phone into her hand. “What’s your band called?” The Google app sits open and ready.
I take the device from her grasp and flick across to her Instagram. “Here.” I pull up Dark Tide’s page and smack Follow before handing her phone back.
Our corner of the room falls quiet for a moment while she scrolls through the feed. “It’s good, but it could use a little work.”
“You didn’t listen to anything,” I say with a laugh.
“Not your music.” Her palm hits my arm. “Your branding.”
I lift an eyebrow. We have a fucking expensive label on the case, and she thinks our branding is subpar? “How so?”
The following half an hour disappears in the blink of an eye. I’m so engrossed in her insights that I don’t bother reaching for another cupcake. We do, however, polish off her flask at the same time as her partner decides she needs to retrieve my new best friend.
“Stacey. It’s time to go.” The blonde gives me a polite smile.
“Sure.” With a peck to
her lover’s lips that makes my dick twitch, my new friend—Stacey—reaches into her magic bag and pulls out a slim case. She produces a business card and hands it over. “Keep in touch. I’d like to work with you if the opening were available.”
I pocket the rectangle and nod. “I’d love to as well.”
The blonde lifts her brow and remarks, “At least one of us got something of value out of this, then.”
“Ugh,” Stacey groans. “Why do we bother?”
“I don’t know.” Blondey gives me a quick once-over before deciding to continue. “This Jackson guy is such a sleaze. As soon as he found out I don’t chase after men, he completely shut me down.”
Stacey frowns, the same as I do. “What the fuck is he creating?” I grumble. “Promo, or a porno?”
“Who’d know?” With a roll of the eyes and a little finger wave, the girls leave.
I return to watching Deanna as she practically fills her little black book to brimming. Nine years with the woman, and she’s never once shown any sign of changing. Not that I expect her to be anyone different, but when you stay long-term with a person, there’s a certain amount of give and take.
Of compromise.
So far, it’s me who’s done all the negotiating and come out with no benefits. Deanna, though. Fuck—she’s had a free ride to financial security and social circles that have given her all the attention she could want and more.
I’ve fed the narcissistic nymphomaniac to the point she’s infected every fucking facet of my life.
Extracting her from my future is a task that she ensured I’m not up to. The woman leaves me drained, tired, and out of fucks to give, knowing it means I won’t bother the arduous task of regaining my independence.
She’s an abuser.
I know it. She knows it. My fucking bandmates know it.
And yet, when the woman abuses the man, the whole fucking world seems content to let it continue.
Fuck it—I’ve seen enough. Shunting two cupcakes into my palm for the road, I swipe a complimentary champers with my free hand and head for the door. I know how these nights end, and it’s not with me feeling any better about myself than I barely do now. If I wanted to suffer, I could have self-flagellated at home without the need to get dressed up.
