“It was a reaction to an event,” she informs, clasping her fingers together. “All she would say is she got a phone call from Peru.”
“What?” Sal yells, bolting for the door. With lightning in my feet, I barrel towards him, and we tumble to the ground. “Get off of me!”
“Not tonight,” I roar, holding him down with all my weight. Fucker is ridiculously strong when he’s pissed. “Not fucking tonight! No one is getting in here with the shit you got stashed. I will stand guard over her goddamned bed all night long if it means she gets some rest, and you settle down. She will be safe here, Nero.”
“But if Amber…”
“I don’t give a fucking shit about Amber,” I warn as he threatens to crumble in my hands. “Amber is fucking weak, and Iris needs to rest.”
“At least through the night,” Dr. Lani adds. “You can take her home—either one if she’ll stay on an even keel—but I want her on bed rest for at least forty-eight hours when she gets there. If she comes to Sugargrove, she can stop by my new office anytime.”
“Why are you there, Lani?” Dom asks. “I thought you were based at Sibyl.”
“I was until Serene decided I was her favorite doctor, and Nicky made me an offer I couldn’t refuse,” she says. “I’m in Allison Randall’s former building, next to Dr. Tristan Kerris.”
“Nice,” Dom says. “Are you seeing all ages?”
“Yeah, I’m doing general practice.”
I gaze at Sal, trembling beneath me. His eyes are dark, and I know whatever he is thinking, it won’t be good.
“Mass,” he yells as the rage curbs, and he relinquishes his fight beneath my grip. “… Mass?”
The third Italiano walks over as Sal glances up. “Yes, Sir?”
“The time has come,” he hisses as his jaw grinds. “I want her dead.”
“Are you sure?”
“I warned her never to call Iris again,” Sal seethes. “Kill the bitch.”
34
The Measure of Love
His Ride
“You seriously just cut those toes off a hundred chicken feet,” I say to Iris the day before Valentine’s. We’re at the Swamp Shack in Texas. “This is so morbid.”
“Deacon?” she asks, wearing a Raniero jersey from Juliet, and my sweatpants rolled at the hips and up the legs. “Do you eat burgers?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you eat cow.” I furrow a brow.
“Where is this going?”
“You probably eat fried chicken too.”
“Sometimes,” I say, lighting a smoke as she fills the pot with water. She adds a generous amount of salt to the water and starts the burner. “I still don’t know about this.”
“Trust me.”
“I am so fucking hungover,” Sal whines, staggering his way into the kitchen and grabbing a coffee cup. He peers into the garbage can, sitting by the sink. “Why are there toes in the trash?”
“Because Iris went all Nicky gung-ho style on a million chicken feet.”
He wobbles over to the pot and lifts the lid. “Are you sure those are chicken feet? They look like baby hands!”
“Just wait,” Iris giddily says. “They blow up with water and look like baby hands.”
“This is so freakishly strange to watch you two bonding over something so sadistically peculiar,” I remark. Sal sticks his tongue out at me before bending down to kiss Iris. “You need to try the dress on.”
“I know,” she replies, cleaning the kitchen. “Did you get shoes?”
“Fuck!”
“Maybe Ma has some you can borrow,” I suggest as Sal sits at the table with me. “I can call her.” I pick up my phone, but Sal slams his hand on top of mine.
“Have you ever seen the size of Iris’ feet?”
I glance down at the pink sneakers. “What about them?”
“She wears a 5.5.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I ask.
“Hey!” Iris yells, tossing her sneaker to me.
I catch it. “Holy fuck!”
“How do you not know this?” Sal asks, swiping a smoke from my pack. “This seems like something you should know, Cruz.”
“Honestly, Nero, I’m not thinking about fucking her feet.” Iris bursts out laughing as Sal shakes his head with a grin. “I buy her dresses and lingerie that will appeal to you. And you aren’t Nicky, so my shoe shopping has been limited.”
Until now.
Iris walks over as I swing the chair out from the table. She puts her tiny socked foot on the chair between my legs. This is such a bad image. I’ll have thoughts for days about this one. “Jesus Christ!” I tease, “Some of those chicken feet are bigger than yours!”
She blinks and smiles. “I guess I probably wouldn’t have a very big dick.”
Sal finally breaks into a chuckle as Deacon quizzes, “How big are your feet, Sal?”
“I’m shorter than you!”
“By like a couple of inches.”
“I am a 10, sometimes an 11,” he replies. “Thank you for asking and have fun shoe shopping.”
They both look at me. “What?”
“Give it up, biker boy.”
“No fucking way, man.”
Iris makes a mad dash for the bedroom as Sal asks, “Did she just run off to look at your vast shoe collection?”
“Yep,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee.
“Holy fuck, that’s big!” she bellows a minute later as I burst out laughing. She returns with a blush on her cheeks and looks of astonishment. “Okay, let me just say…this shit about shoe size and dick size is not true. I’ve seen both of your feet and both of your dicks.”
With our arms on the table, we duck behind them and snicker as she returns to her dishes. “She’s so fucking cute.”
“I know,” Sal says, smirking. “We should keep her.”
“Definitely.”
“But I will say, Deacon’s sack is bigger than yours, Sal.”
I bang my head on the table. “We’re nothing more than slabs of meat.”
“At least we’re not chicken feet.”
A few minutes later, she walks over with a determined stride and sits on the floor at my feet. She pulls off her sneaker and sock. I give a crooked grin at the sight of her little red toes, and then she proceeds to pull off my fucking sneaker and sock.
“I know what you want to do, and this isn’t going to do it, sweetheart.”
I stand up, pull off my hoodie, and sit on the floor with her. She presses the bottom of her foot to mine. And this amuses her endlessly. “Oh! My! Fucking! God! Deacon, your foot is massive compared to mine!”
Sal peers over and laughs. “That’s silly.”
“I need a phone!” Iris squeals.
“I’ll take your pictures,” Sal volunteers. “Iris, you’ve got baby feet. And Cruz, man, I’m just glad your dick isn’t as big as your feet.”
We laugh.
“Can’t take a fourteen, Pretty Boy?”
“Not a goal!” Sal replies as the chicken feet boil over on the stove. “Shit! I’ll get it.”
Iris stares at me, and I smile. She folds her legs up, and we sit cross-legged, knee-to-knee. She lifts her hand and presses it against mine as our eyes never part. “Your hands are bigger too.”
“You’re tiny,” I reply as Sal spins around. I see the hitch in his expression. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he dismisses. “I’m just hungover because Nicky insisted we do tequila shots. I’m going to shower and let some hot water pound on the hardware.”
“Just don’t pound the hard on in the hot!” I seriously warn. “The low count is a real thing. Don’t kill your swimmers.”
Iris takes my hands in hers and examines them. “You have a lot of rings.”
“I’m a biker,” I reply as she pulls all five of them off. Her fascination with me is enchanting. “Iris, why are you examining me?”
“Because I want to know what you look like.”
I let her do
it because stopping her seems wrong. She was in the dark, away from her unholy family, for almost three years. “Say it.”
“What?”
“Whatever you’re thinking.”
“I’m tired,” she confides, lacing her fingers with mine. “And I was happier in New Orleans.”
A soft smile curls on my lip. “I know you were.”
“Can I lay down on the sofa?”
“My house is your house,” I offer. “I’ll even strain your chicken feet.”
“Thank you,” she says, pressing her lips to mine. Not only does my body react, but my heart does too, energizing with her spirit. I want more than the simple peck she gives, but I won’t take it even though I know I can.
Because when you cross some lines, you cannot come back.
“What are we looking for?” Sal asks as we stroll along Main Street. We’re shopping for shoes while Iris takes a nap. I strained her liquid gold from the feet, called Ma to look after her, and left my favorite ring on her finger.
“Her dress is fire engine red.”
He gives a side-eyed scrutinizing gaze. “You know I doubt women refer to their clothes like that.”
“Probably not, but I’m a guy.”
“You are a guy shopping for shoes,” he slowly informs. I don’t bother to respond because he’s in a grumpy mood. He’s been foul since Houston. “What color do you want?”
“Black,” I say as we walk into Ma’s favorite boutique shop. “I do not want to have to go up to Austin.”
I don’t want to go to Austin because I’m in my usual grunge attire. Inevitably, some persnickety bitch will judge whether I can drop a thousand dollars on a pair of shoes.
Books. Covers. Judgement.
My cover is a Reckless Rebellion cut and ripped jeans, not the grand I keep in cash in my wallet or the multiple credit cards with no limit. I judge no one based on their cover. I’ve seen guys get out of hundred grand cars who ain’t got a pot to piss in and old geezers who look like vagabonds with missing teeth in farm trucks from fifty years ago that have more money stashed under the bed than they do at any bank. It’s a strange concept, the socially accepted norms.
People take one look at The Preacher and assume he’s some pot-smoking Rastafarian with all those dreadlocks. Zach doesn’t touch drugs. He’ll drink blood and marvel about the tastiness of a heart, but drugs? Nah. Not his style.
Don’t assume anything is my motto.
I think of Iris. She doesn’t look like the Queen of the criminal underworld. Put her in casual clothes, and she’ll look like a twenty-year-old college student. Or throw a white lab coat on her and call her a doctor. Or if her hair is up, a sexy as sin librarian. But gangsta? Nah. Not her. Not Iris.
Don’t be so sure.
Her ravenous shark could consume all our asses in one bite.
We walk past the racks of clothes. I can’t help but stop to pick up a few pieces that she would look amazing in. I do my best to avoid the lingerie section because I cannot do that with Sal here.
My crush on his future bride is intense, growing not by our nightly encounters when we’re both naked and sweaty, but by little details such as her comparing our hand size.
Sal picks up a sexy black heel with a thin rhinestone strap. “What about this?”
“Those are stripper shoes.”
His nose scrunches. “And she would love them.”
“No,” I excitedly boast, picking up the black stiletto with multiple thin straps. “She needs these!”
“Those are fucking five-inchers!” Sal exclaims. “And she’ll still be shorter than both of us.”
“Where do you get a suit around here?”
“A decent one?” Sal asks, and I nod. “… My closet?”
I hate the assumptions people make.
But I need to be prepared to flank a Queen.
We return to an incredible smelling house and find Iris, sitting at the formally set table in a midnight blue silk hip-length negligee. Her hair is twisted up, and her make up is done with thick wings and hot red lips—my geisha fantasy come to life. She’s smoking a cigarette in a long, slender holder. We note the bang on the table.
Grabbing the gun and pulling the clip, Sal demands, “Where is Trudy?”
“Set my fucking gun down,” she says as I admire her tactics. “I asked her to leave. Kali and Ho are minutes away in your apartment.”
“Why did you ask her to leave?”
“Because I wanted to be alone.”
“… With a loaded gun?”
“Take off your pants,” she commands with the tone of a woman I wouldn’t want to fuck with. My dick twitches, but I ignore it and take two steps towards the bedroom. “Stop, Deacon. You, too.”
“What are we doing?” Sal asks, kicking his shoes off. He tosses his hoodie and t-shirt. I do the same because—the bitch has got a bang. And if she’s got one, I guarantee, she’s got two.
From her lap, she holds up the cloth measuring tape. Her eyebrow suggestively flicks up as I snicker, “You are not measuring us!”
Spreading her thighs, she shows off the jeweled strings framing her delta. The teardrop shapes of the gems give the appearance of a glistening, dripping pussy. She quickly tilts her head. “You want this?”
“Jesus, that’s…” Sal mumbles. “Hot!”
“Fucking insane.”
“Let’s do this, boys.”
“I would be happier if you measured my biceps and thighs,” Sal grumbles, stepping closer. “Why do I allow you to play these games?”
“Because I am beguiling.”
“That you are,” he says, stealing her smoke and taking a drag as I get a good whiff. “Where did you get this funky jade holder?”
“A girl keeps many secrets, Salvatore.”
“I cannot believe you are measuring me,” he mumbles, doing another hit. I shake my head at how good he looks doing it. “Do you plan on revealing your data?”
“No, it’s confidential intel.” She winks.
After another toke, he asks, “What the hell you got loaded in this?”
“Something you would know nothing about.”
“I’m insulted.” Spellbound, he mutters, “Whoa, head rush.”
“Slow down, or you’ll never come.”
“Where the fuck did you get pure opium?”
“It’s not,” she replies, stroking his cock. “And I get many gifts. This blend is from Zach. One of his contacts from the triad gave it to him.”
Assessing the creation of her scene, I guess, “You got madak?”
She winks. “Not a lot, but enough.”
“So, you’re over here smoking on the opium pipe with a loaded nine?” Sal asks as Iris giggles. “How much sense does that make?”
“Technically, it’s a blend of tobacco and opium. Madak was a recreational drug from the 16th and 17th century which arguably contributed to the increased usage in pure opium products,” I inform with a knowing smirk. “And subsequent opioid epidemic. Our fascination with flying isn’t anything new. We, humans, abhor pain, and things that hurt. And we will do anything to avoid it. Even masochists.”
With a dumbfounded expression, Sal blurts, “... What the fuck?”
“I have traveled far, Nero,” I laugh because his assumptions are rarely off-base. “This is not easy to come by. I’m impressed, princess.”
She blinks up at me. “Handcrafted by a mother in some kitchen in India.”
That seals the deal for me.
“Give me that damn thing.” I steal the pipe from Sal’s fingers and take a drag as she runs her ruler along my dick. I inhale deep…so good.
“A mother in a kitchen?” Sal repeats like the idea is foreign. He misses the beat sometimes in the oddest of places. “Since when do you know about mothers making drugs?”
“You’d be amazed what Ma can make,” I rebuke, defending mothers everywhere. “It ain’t all mashed potatoes and gravy.”
“Not bad.”
“Wait…”
Sal says, looking shocked. “You’ve had it?”
“Of course, I have,” I snicker as he continues to assume. “You like skiing,” I point out with a shrug. “Others chase the dragon.”
“Slopes are nice in the doldrums of winter.”
“Yeah, I know all about your slopes, and your winters last twelve months,” I contend, holding her pipe while she holds mine. “Temperance only lasts until the cravings hit. And dirty boys will always prefer the virtues of smoking, fucking, and going to hell.”
35
Slidin' in the Swamp
His Ride
I wake up in the middle of the night in bed with Sal. We finished Iris’ little treat, which would have been enough, but Sal brought out the bong, and we got blazed. She took our measurements (including our biceps and thighs), and we made love with Sal as the focus—me, in his ass and her, on his dick.
Our new formation is excellent, except it eliminates my dick being anywhere near Iris. This shouldn’t bother me.
But it does.
I glance around the room, expecting to find Iris in the chair, sitting and reading as she often does. She’s nowhere to be found.
Grabbing my jeans, I get up, toss them on, and check the bathroom, thinking maybe she is getting sick again.
Creeping through the darkened house, I glance around the living room and the two other bedrooms downstairs before heading up. I’ve been using the three rooms upstairs for storage. Technically, the house is a six-bedroom, but two have been converted.
On the first floor in the back of the house, one was a makeshift study. I plan on redoing it to be a library/study with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The ceiling in that room spans both floors, so it stands to be incredible.
Upon the second floor, a massive bedroom at the top of the landing became a game room with an antique mahogany bar. Detailed finishings span the room.
The phenomenal space is holding a lot of the Reckless Rebellion memorabilia and one of the Delirium pool tables, but it isn’t organized at all. The room needs some crown molding repair, fresh paint, and new windows as two of them are split and haphazardly taped together.
Diary of a Submissive (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 4) Page 28
