by Smoke , Lucy
17
Dean
Twenty minutes. That's how long it takes me to get out of the shower. As I emerge from the steamy bathroom, a towel wrapped around my hips, I glance over to the bed and smile. Good thing I thought to call ahead and make my request.
I scrub a second towel over the top of my head, drying the wet strands of hair clinging to my forehead as much as I can before getting dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. Grabbing the half-drunk water from the nightstand, I take it back into the bathroom along with the two others found in the mini fridge and upend them all into the sink, draining the drugged water before placing a quiet call to the front desk to have them replaced with regular ones.
Back in the main hotel room, I stop at the end of the bed, watching the rise and fall of her chest. Unlike when she’s awake, in sleep, Avalon looks like any other innocent eighteen-year-old girl. With her eyes closed, no one can see or even begin to guess the horrors she's seen or lived through. I've had file after file on her, and I know there's no understanding it all myself until it's something I experience with her.
Guilt sits heavy in my chest. It’d been a dick move to drug the water I knew she’d drink. I’d purposefully not stopped for anything on the way here. I’m confident that no one at this hotel will say anything. People’s desire to keep their cash flow always trump their moral compass. Had I not drugged her, though, I knew she would’ve sat up all night thinking. She needs the sleep, I think, as I stare at the dark circles under her eyes.
I know it’s my fault that she’s like this—exhausted and worn down. She only seems to respond when I’m like this—when I make her. I hate it, but Avalon is different. She doesn’t react to shit the way a normal person might. It only serves to show how strong she is, how perfect she is for me. I left her alone for weeks, and all that had done was force me to watch her tear herself apart—in the fighting ring and out of it. She can’t sleep. She’s not eating well. She’s jumpy and anxious—just like an addict going through withdrawals.
As I watch her, Avalon wrinkles her nose up, and soft movements beneath her eyelids cross back and forth. She almost looks sweet, soft. The mere thought makes me shake my head. There is nothing innocent about this girl—this woman. And there is nothing sweet about this fairly new magnetism I have for her. I want to keep her. Possess her. Chain her to my side to keep her from running away.
My fingers itch to touch her, and for the moment, knowing the sleeping meds I ordered inserted into the bottles of water will ensure she doesn't wake, I let myself. I trail my hand across her cheekbone and down the side of her jaw until I reach her neck. Dark, inky black hair spreads out across the sheets with spots of red and white—the rose petals—strewn throughout. If she knew, she'd probably stick a knife between my ribs, and for some fucked up reason, that gets me hard.
She mumbles something in her sleep and rolls to the side, and still, I hover over her. I continue to touch the side of her neck, remembering the way I squeezed as she came over my dick, her pussy convulsing and clinging to me. The ecstasy on her face when I fucked her for hours or the look in her eyes as I shoved my cock between her lips and came down her throat. She’d taken each and every one of those filthy actions like a fucking champ. Swallowed my cum. Looked at me with those devious storm cloud eyes of hers.
A bitch through and through, and yet, as she curls into herself against the hotel mattress, I see the vulnerability there too, and I remember the confusion and fear from weeks ago. Barbed wire wraps itself around my throat and clenches, cutting into my vocal cords. I release her, backing up as I stare down at her slumbering form. I'm part of the reason for that new vulnerability she didn't have before even as she fights to hide it. I would follow her into the depths of hell, and she doesn’t even realize it. I may not be Roger Murphy, but I’ll never be a good man—for her or anybody else. It’s my selfishness, though, that keeps me at her side. By society’s standards, I’m wicked. Evil. Sick. The last word makes the corner of my mouth tip up. Finally, I’m starting to understand why people call us that.
Avalon is the only one that might see me as something else. I’d give her everything if she would only let me, and in moments like this, I find relief in just giving her what I know she needs—even if she doesn’t want it from me.
I separate myself from Avalon’s sleeping form and turn away from the image she presents. Without stopping, I grab my keys and wallet from the bathroom and one of the keycards before heading for the door. I let it fall shut with a quiet snick and look both ways before striding for the elevator. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I answer without looking at the screen.
"Carter."
"I have the information you requested," the man on the other end says.
"Good." I check the time and put the phone back to my ear. "I'll be back in front of the hospital in twenty. Meet me there. Don’t be late.”
"Understood, sir."
The elevator dings and the doors slide open to reveal the lobby, and I bypass the counter and head outside. By the time I reach the doors, the valet is already pulling up with the SUV. I toss him a bill and grab the open driver's side door and lift into the cab. Minutes later, I'm back on the road, retracing my earlier path until I'm pulling up beneath the hospital's front entrance sign.
Now that night has fallen, there are fewer cars in the lot, so it's easy to make out the man I'm here to see as he casually strides up to the side of the SUV and pulls open the passenger side door. I don't look his way as he hops in and shuts it behind him before passing over a file across the console.
"How much did she have on her when she was found?" I ask as I scan the details of Patricia Manning's latest overdose.
"Three thousand," Detective Hans states. "As well as nearly a kilo of cocaine and some heroin—though not much of that last one. We suspect that's what she OD'ed on."
Where the hell had a woman like Patricia Manning gotten that much drugs and money? "Can you track the bills?" I ask. "Is there any way to tell if they're counterfeit or—"
"No, they're real," the detective replies. "And the drugs were in unmarked bags—straight off the streets. There's no tracking where she got it."
I curse and snap the file closed before I turn and look at the man. Sweat beads are already forming at the top of his balding skull, and as if my gaze makes his nervousness worse, he lifts a folded white handkerchief to pat across his forehead. I hand the file back. "Send me a digital copy of this," I order, “and once that's done, I want all of the evidence destroyed."
"Destroyed?" He gapes at me. "I could get fired—"
I reach into my wallet and remove several hundreds. Tossing them into his lap. "I don't care," I state. "I want them gone. All of them."
Detective Hans eyes me suspiciously, but as expected, he picks up the bills and starts thumbing through them. "What are you planning to do with the woman?" he asks.
"Not that it's any of your business, Detective," I say with a smirk, "but I'm a good Samaritan. I'm not planning on doing anything other than getting her the help she needs."
His lips pinch down in a frown, but he tucks the bills away in the inside pocket of his cheap ass suit jacket. I don't really give a fuck if he believes me or not, but I do need to make sure of one thing at least before he leaves. When he reaches for the door handle, I press a button and the sound of the locking mechanism engaging clicks throughout the interior of the SUV. The detective's shoulders stiffen.
"I do carry a gun, you know," he states lightly.
I laugh and reach in front of him, popping the button on my glove box and removing the piece I keep there. His eyes widen as he turns back to me, keeping his back against the door as I lift the Glock, barrel towards the windshield. "So do I."
Our eyes clash and tension fills the space. "Killing a cop is a capital felony," he says, his voice shaking as the words slip out.
"Who said I wanted to kill you, Detective?" I reply. "As far as I'm concerned, you and I are friends. Right?"
After a beat of
silence, he jerks his head up and down in acknowledgment.
"Good," I continue. "Now, I'm only telling you this out of courtesy, but of course, you know who I am, yes?" Again, he nods. "And you know what'll happen if it comes to light that you accepted a bribe for confidential information?"
"What the fuck are you getting at?" he snaps.
"Just making sure we understand each other clearly, Hans," I say, dropping the detective moniker as I lean towards him and let him see the violence in my eyes.
"W-what's there to understand?" he stutters, more sweat beads slipping over the sides of his temples.
"We never spoke," I state. "Patricia Manning was never even here. As soon as you send me those digital files, you will forget this ever happened."
"Why does this matter to you?" he asks. "She's just a druggie whore."
I press my gun into his leg, and his eyes widen as he realizes exactly where the barrel is now located—right against the good detective's dick. As a man, I don't particularly like threatening this, but I need this to be understood. I need him to recognize the severity of the situation. "It doesn't matter why," I say. "I just want to know that you'll follow my orders because if not..." I let my meaning hang heavy on his shoulders as I brush my finger over the trigger. He knows the safety is on, but still having an actionable bullet so close to his baby maker isn't making him any less nervous.
"I get it! I get it!" he hisses, trying not to squirm in the seat. "I won't say a word. I never met her. I never saw her. I-I'll delete the files."
"After you send them?" I clarify.
He nods rapidly. "Yes, yes, anything! Just get..." he breathes heavily. "Please just move the gun."
Not yet. I press it more firmly into his leg. "And if anyone else thinks to ask you for anything?" I press.
"I don't know anything!" he says quickly.
"Not even for money, Detective," I warn him. "Not for all the money in the fucking world." I clench my teeth as he pants and whimpers. "I will find out if you betray me, and if I do..." The sound of my safety clicking off makes him jump, and the light of true fear enters his eyes as he begins shaking his head back and forth so fast, it looks like he's trying to give himself whiplash.
"I won't!" he yells. "I swear it!"
My eyes bore into his for a moment more, and then with a smile, I sit back and flick the gun’s trigger safety on once more. "Good," I say. "Glad we understand each other."
He stares at me for a moment more, eyes lingering on the gun. I arch a brow and click the unlock button. "That's a fucking sign, Detective," I snap. "Get out."
He doesn't hesitate, hands reaching for the door and fumbling as he practically falls out of the SUV. As soon as the door is shut, I throw the car into reverse and back out, leaving him behind as I head back to the hotel, dialing a familiar number as I drive.
"Yo?" Brax's voice filters out from the SUV's speakers.
"Can you find a rehab place near Larryville that you have connections with?"
He snorts. "Of course. What do you need?"
"Patricia. Manning." I don't need to say more.
"Consider it done," he replies.
"Good. I'm bringing her back tomorrow."
"Are we doing it tonight then?" he asks.
"No, I've given the hospital your info. When she's ready to be moved, I want it done quietly. Avalon already knows."
"And how did she take it?" I can hear him moving as he speaks and the sound of silverware scraping against glass echoing in the background.
"She'll deal," I reply. "I'm bringing Avalon back tomorrow. Just like we planned, I want everything moved out and into the house before we get there."
"You got an ETA?"
"Early afternoon."
Brax releases a whistle. "Damn, getting all domesticated, aren't ya, man?" He snickers.
"Fuck off." But I can't help the twitching of my lips.
"She's gonna come after you, you know," he warns me. As if I don't already fucking realize that. The second I get Avalon back to Eastpoint, and she realizes what I've done, I'll be lucky if she doesn't try to do the same thing I did to Detective Hans.
"Hide the guns," I mutter, causing him to burst out laughing.
"God, I'm gonna love living with the crazy chick."
"That's because you're the real psycho," I shoot back.
"Can't deny that, but alright," he says. The sound of running water and glass clinking echoes into the SUV. "I've already put in a call to your little friend that's been keeping an eye on her—she'll get you for that too, you know. Who knew we had so many little spies running around? Our li'l savage is gonna be pissed for sure when she finds out."
"I'm well fucking aware, Brax," I say.
He laughs again like the asshole he is, but then in a serious tone, he says, "I'm glad you're finally doing it, though. Bringing her in. Should've done it as soon as we got back to campus, but I can understand why you didn't."
I blow out a breath. "Yeah, I think I'll feel better when she's not on her own so much."
"How is she?" Brax's voice changes as he says the next words. "With her mom, I mean."
"That woman is anything but a fucking mother," I growl. "But I think seeing her—even though they didn't even get to talk—exhausted her. I had someone from the hotel drug the waters in the fridge so that she'd actually sleep tonight."
"One of the perks of owning the chain," he says.
I don't disagree. "Just have all of her shit moved into her room before we get back, okay? I'm almost back to the hotel. I gotta go."
"I can't wait to watch her kick your ass." He chuckles.
"It'll just be like ripping off a Band-Aid," I tell him.
"Sure, you tell yourself that, buddy. See ya tomorrow. I'll make sure to grab her shit so she has no need to go back. Abel's taking care of her room."
"Thanks," I say, and with that, he ends the call.
I lean my head back as I pull into the hotel parking lot. This will be good for her, I tell myself. Once she’s in, she’ll realize there's nowhere else she's meant to be.
18
Avalon
My head feels like a fucking juiced melon when I crack my eyes open the next morning. Sunlight streams in through the gauzy curtains across from the bed. A warm, heavy arm rests over my side, and somehow—even though I barely recall passing out on the top of the mattress, much less undressing and crawling beneath the sheets—I'm in my underwear and cuddled up next to Dean.
That last realization hits me, and I freeze. My chin tilts up slightly to check and see if he's awake. Thankfully, though, he's dead to the world. I squint at him through blurry eyes before looking back down and trying to determine if he's naked all the way down or just from the waist up. My legs shift, and he groans, his arm curling harder and dragging me more firmly against him.
All the way naked, I determine a split second later as a morning hard-on rubs between my legs.
I've dated enough guys to know that morning wood isn't always something they can help and to know that they're not always fully awake when it starts. I lift Dean's arm with one of my own and gradually creep back as I try to slide out from beneath him. I almost make it too.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” That same arm I just crawled out from beneath wraps around my middle and yanks me back. The world upends until my spine hits the mattress, and a fully nude and incredibly aroused Dean is hovering over me, brown eyes blinking open.
“I’m not doing this with you,” I snap, my voice raspy from sleep.
“Doing what, baby?” he asks, leaning down.
I nearly come off the bed as his lips find the hollow of my throat, and he kisses it oh so fucking gently. I suck in a breath. “Dean,” I say his name with as much authority and hardness as I can muster. “Get the fuck off me before I make sure your little swimmers won’t be swimming anywhere ever again.”
A chuckle rumbles up his chest, and when he doesn't move, I move to make true on my threat. Of course, though, I’
m an idiot for giving him a warning because he just maneuvers his body so that his chest is against my breasts and his legs have mine pinned. He tsks at me, making me bare my teeth as I struggle to free myself.
“Someone’s cranky in the morning,” he says. “You weren’t like this last time you were in my bed.” I don’t bother to remind him that it wasn’t even his bed the last time we were like this. Especially not when his fingers wrap around my wrists, and he drags my arms up over my head until they’re pinned alongside the pillows.
“Dean, I’m not fucking playing with you.”
He leans up, eyes searching mine. “Why?” he asks honestly.
I frown at him. “What do you mean, why?” I snap.
“Why won’t you play with me?” he asks.
I blink. “Because…” I start, but my words trail off. Because play is for lovers. Play is for friends and people that you trust and care about. Dean broke that trust I gave him the night he accused me of betraying him and fucking Luc Kincaid. Even now, I know he’s keeping secrets from me. I’ve told him what I want, and still, I haven’t gotten it.
I debate my next words. "Tell me why you hate Luc Kincaid," I say.
He freezes and then pulls back, the easy, playful smile on his face falling away to seriousness. "Kincaid's a bitch, that's why," he snaps, glaring at me as if that'll keep me from asking again.
"The real reason." I deadpan.
Dean groans and rolls off me before his feet hit the floor, and he strides across the room towards his bag without a care for how he looks naked. Then again, he doesn't need to worry about what he looks like naked because it's a damn fine view—even I can admit that, as irritating as he is.
"You really know how to ruin a guy's good mood," he says, digging into his bag and pulling out a pair of gray sweats. It's like a goddamn reverse striptease for my eyes—watching him pull those fuckers up over his ass, sans underwear, before turning back to me. At least he's somewhat dressed. "Kincaid's family has hated mine—all the families of Eastpoint for generations," he huffs. "I don't really have a fucking issue with Kincaid himself, but our fathers hate each other."
