“Yeah,” she mutters, unable to look away from my inked and scarred olive skin. Her eyes drift from my messy curls to my dick again. She’s checking me out as I furrow a brow at the length of the spiders. And then, bitch fucking licks her lips, making them all glossy and sweet and perfect for my... “Coffee. Church. Confession. Fried Chicken.”
“... Fried Chicken?”
“Very important Sunday ritual when considering all the ways to sin,” she answers with a straight face as those hairy spiders fall to my spout. “I’m going to go make coffee now. You, go shower and take care of tha…” Her head tilts, wanting a closer inspection. “Are you…”
Her cheeks flush damn blood ass red as I know exactly what she is gawking at and the questions running through her mind.
“You wanna see it?” I snarl, grabbing my fallen ball cap off the back of edge of the sofa and shoving it on her head. “I’ll show it to you.”
Oh. Dear. Fuck.
What am I doing?
Her expression opens like I just asked her to sit down to tea with Satan, and she howls like a ghost stuck on the wrong consonant, “No—oooo!”
She rushes out of the room as I laugh. I gather up the ice cream container and the bottle of booze. I mosey into the kitchen and throw the trash away, but she keeps eyeing my fucking dick. “If you’re going to keep looking, I’m going to flash you.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Yes, I will,” I nonchalantly contend. “I have zero issues exposing myself.”
She beams those damn black spider-leg framed sparkling blue eyes at me. “Not before I do,” she challenges, ripping her fucking pajama top open. Her breasts…how do I say this…they are full, magnificent cantaloupes. Two totally natural boobs with a slight dip to them. They are mouthwateringly, pre-cummingly fantastic. She has a set of boobs men…and women dream about.
“Coffee, on the way to church. Confession. Fried Chicken. Run in the park. Line dancing,” I order. “Steak. Rare.”
“Deal!” she rallies, darting past me. “And if all that doesn’t work, we’ll come home and fuck like rabbits,” she deadpans as I blink like one of the legs just flew into my eye. “I’m headed for the shower. Don’t follow me.”
Still rocking the rod, I mumble in awe, “I won’t…”
She spins back. “And not because you don’t want to, but because we’ll be late for mass.”
“… Have you seen my car?”
“Let me drive it,” she suggests with barely a whisper as her shirt covers her nipples but leaves the flesh exposed. She does this twisting, nervous bouncing thing on her feet, which is such a girly thing to do.
Oh. God. Damn.
She’s a fucking girl. She spins the hat in the air to me and coos, “I know how to drive a stick. Please…Sir.” And then, with a bite to her lip, she flashes—just one.
DOUBLE FUCK.
49
G37 U¶
The Master
With Hannah looking like she fell out of a page from a mail-a-date catalog, we walk into the church. It’s not a bad thing; I am getting my money’s worth.
I selectively chose her because she is a bottom and beautiful. And she rocks a beautiful bottom. Besides, if Cody Cameron—her one former relationship—gets in my way, I will have no problem ending him.
This girl knows how to put on a show without being the center.
It’s almost…hell, this is going to get me asshole points…but she is the perfect accessory. She is sweet and charming, smiling and laughing, all the while staying latched onto my bicep like I am the greatest motherfucker ever to walk the planet.
Remember, I am paying for her to stroke my social ego.
Not my dick.
We make our way into the cathedral as Father Quinn looks at me like I’ve had one too many, and admittedly, I do not have a good record of attending mass. He passes by with an anxiety-ridden expression as Skeeter leans closer and whispers, “You keep flexing your gun, and the only rare thing I’m going to be swallowing later is your dick.” She grins and giggles.
I lean closer and quip, “Do you have any idea how much I want to welt those beautiful tits of yours?” My eyes catch hers with a spark as I add, “Come all over them…”
“You’re sinning!” she declares, like it’s blasphemy, and then smirks like a fucking mini-demon. Hell, I got to take her to the lash place tomorrow. We got to calm those things down. “In God’s house!”
“I am an innocent angel,” I smirk as we banter.
“How many times have you fucked on a pew, Boss?”
“Not nearly enough.”
“We should change that.” She smiles and waves at Anna on the other side. Never missing a beat. “I could at least get on my knees in prayer…”
Dear Fucking Skeet.
Throughout the first part of the service, she holds my hands, like locks her fingers with mine. She’s on the bottom and keeps running her finger over the MORE ink on my knuckles. For the second half, I pull her closer, draping my arm over her thighs and resting it on the side of her leg.
This is mine.
I bought it. It’s mine.
Do not touch it. Do not look at it.
Mine.
I don’t know what I’m doing, and I don’t know what I’m thinking. I’m trying to get my life back together.
Iris isn’t coming back.
Deacon isn’t coming back.
Sitting on the pew with Skeeter, I believe the days of our trinity are over. My submissives still have collars, but for what purpose?
I’m not sure. I was bad. I fucked up. I let the stress get to me. But I cannot wallow in it or chase after them—I have called, texted, and sent flowers for three goddamned weeks—and they’ve made it abundantly clear they don’t want to see me.
It is time to move on with the mail-a-date misfit.
Judge me if need be, but Iris and Deacon—those two belong together.
I put the trinity together, and yet I was getting fucking eliminated. Voted off. I’m just trying to hold onto my sanity. And Skeeter keeping my mind occupied is having some bizarre effect where sober feels damn fine—for the first time in fucking years.
Not in a, I got this chip for this many days, but as in I don’t feel the obsessive compulsion to drown my sorry ass in bullshit. I’ve got an upstart outfit with a plan of attack, and things are going well.
I don’t need or want Deacon Cruz or Iris Nakamura to have a full life. Holding out is some lame-duck excuse people clench onto out of fear.
When the shit is bad, try for a while. If it doesn’t improve, get the fuck out.
Don’t waste fucking time with people who don’t genuinely care.
Make a new map. Find a new destiny. Or a nineteen-year-old girl to keep your ass entertained. But do not succumb to the hurt because that shit spirals in the psyche like water going down the drain…until you hit fucking rock bottom.
Not this Kid.
I’m getting up.
Even if it is with a different Cruz.
We end up going over to Terrence Baptiste’s house for fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and greens, probably cause the Dixie darling charmed her way into Wilma, Terrence’s wife’s, heart after mass. Quick note: Skeeter can fuck with some greens. Like triple the amount of any average human.
I told you she was a freak of nature.
Hannah is the doll of the house—helping Wilma and her family cook, clean, and serve. She gets “her man” to open multiple bottles of wine and rests her hand way too close to “her man’s dick” during lunch.
“If you keep going, you are going to be swallowing so much more than lunch,” I warn, brushing my cheek against hers. “And I am going to spank you while you do it.”
“We have homemade apple pie for dessert,” she counters with a whisper, innocently smiling like she isn’t talking like a dirty porn star. “And I always like a little cream on my lips.”
I am going to kill her. Or fuck her senseless. I haven’t decided yet.
“How
long have you two been together?” Wilma asks.
“We’ve been friends for the last two years,” Skeet politely responds as her hand cups my fucking sack. “We recently took it to the next level.” Her hand is now laying on my semi-erect penis at Terrence Baptiste’s Sunday Go-To-Meeting Lunch. “We’re excited to see what it blossoms into.”
Gonna be my dick blossoming in about thirty seconds.
“Well, I wish you all the best!” her sister says. “You’re a beautiful couple!”
“Thank you!”
Hannah handles inquiries, and I just smile, unable to grasp any of it.
Terrence is the son of the late, Perrine Baptiste, who used to be the secretary at the Catholic church. Now this only matters because he’s also in good with some guys who run with one of Morpheus’ off-shoot crews over in East Texas and spill into Louisiana, so he’s like extended famiglia.
I accepted three weeks ago that I’d never get into Louisiana again. Hell, even going to The Dollhouse, which I fucking owned and my name was clearly on the title, seemed wrong.
With everyone, I bet there were thirty to forty of us when Terrence tapped me on the shoulder. We wander out onto his tree-lined property to have a smoke, and he tells me in confidence that Iris is dumping her involvement with Houston.
Great. Fine. Whatever.
I don’t fucking care…except for Sal Raniero—the mafioso cares a whole fucking lot.
I can’t buy it cause I’m a poor boy, but that’s not the point. Poor is a matter of opinion—I’m not broke, just tied up in Unholy investments. The rest of my money plus some I borrowed from Dom Daddy went to start the outfit because the sale of my RE shares is taking forever to find a buyer. No one wants them. Correction: they want them way too cheap.
But I wouldn’t buy them either.
The point is who is buying Houston—Brethren—the good Preacher and his son. Might as well have said Saint Cruz was buying it, which could only mean one fucking thing.
Deacon and Iris are talking.
I take the tidbit of insider info, and I fucking call Morpheus directly in the car before Skeet and I go for a run. Crews down the line don’t regularly talk to the boss. They speak to their local boss, who talks to the regional guy, and so forth.
While I’m building this mammoth bomb that’s about to detonate all over Cruz and Lotus, I’m staring at blue eyes, who is bopping her head to the music and shopping for dresses because I can’t take any more fucking swimsuits.
I’m not actually broke.
I just can’t play at the adult table.
She stays quiet, well behaved, and occasionally smiles and points. I start adding shit to the cart cause I’m in damn good fucking mood.
By the end of the call, Morpheus is grateful, Skeeter is thrilled, and I’m down three grand on six dresses. She’s not royalty or my girl, but she needs to look good because we’re hustling. Hustling. Fake Girlfriend. Not Real.
My girl is gone.
Non-existent.
For the first time that I can remember since being sixteen, I don’t have a girl. Or a piece lined up. Or a friend who would suck me. I’m sure I could find one, persuade one, or purchase one, but the point is I haven’t intentionally gone out seeking release. Nor is anyone calling. Desperate Italian seeks a mouth with a decent rack. Any takers?
“… You ready?”
She nods, and we run/walk/talk for five miles. She isn’t as fast as me, and I don’t expect her to be. But it doesn’t matter cause I’m too busy staring at her tits to care if we’re making good time. We aren’t competitive; we’re complimentary.
Something in me shifts.
And I start having fun.
Who the fuck is this guy?
I don’t fucking know, but I kind of like being him.
We’re sitting on top of a park bench, sharing a bottle of water, and people watching, but I’m starting to worry about Skeeter. She’s been absurdly quiet and reflective since lunch. Maybe my dick offended her assaulting hand.
I lay my hand on her thigh. “What’s going on in that pretty little noggin of yours?”
She shakes her head and smiles but tears puddle between her spider legs. Oh. God. No. She’s human. “I guess I just...I always wanted a family to be a part of...and I had that today. It felt good.”
Oh, I’m Italian and have a whole lotta fucking famiglia you could sink those pretty white teeth into. Shit. Stop. What the fuck is happening?
Hannah’s adoptive parents are surgeons with two older sons who were heavily involved in sports. Feeling left out of their familial loop, she found joy and family in roller derby, which is where “Skeeter” came from.
She’s a tough girl, not afraid to fall, with a dreamy sweetness under the crisp but friendly exterior. I say crisp because she doesn’t warm up to people readily, which is very much a Deacon quality. Not hard, just a challenging bite—crisp. Like toast cooked almost to a char. It’s good with butter, soft in the middle, and a little rough on the teeth.
That is Skeeter.
“Come on,” I say. “I’ll introduce you to more family.”
I was going to take her for dinner where I first met her Ma, but in light of her tender-hearted moment, I decide to hit up The Station. It’s a little club and restaurant outside of Little Bee, near the Swamp Shack, and I know for a fact all the RR will be there.
It’s family night.
And I’m taking their daughter home.
Her fucking brother should be doing this.
And that little point gives a twitch of anger.
The mafioso is about to escort the biker princess to meet her long-lost family. We go to the house, take a shower, and change.
I’m waiting in the living room in standard casual Sal attire—white t-shirt, ripped jeans, lace-up work boots, and ball cap, perfectly fine for The Station when she comes out looking dressed to fucking kill. Rhinestone jeans, tight black lace crop top, black shawl, and cowgirl boots. Full face of makeup and heavy gloss on her lips.
Damn.
Just damn.
“You want to drive my car?”
“No,” she surprisingly says. “I want to drive your big truck.”
I toss her the keys, and she catches them. “I played some softball in my day.”
That’s nice, but there is nothing soft anywhere near my balls at this moment. I’m developing a thing. I don’t know how to define it—a fondness for the mind-numbing pink creature from purgatory.
And the worst part is I’m not sure I can stop.
50
Wicked Voodoo Queen
The Master
The curse of Hannah is that she does a lot of things just like Cruz, including driving. She’s got a lead foot and drives the F-250 like it is the damn getaway car. If I need to rob a bank, I got a ride.
Still, a Cruz.
She’s nervous, chattering nonstop, and holding onto my arm like I’m her damn life preserver when we walk up to the door of The Station. Before I swing it wide, I reassure, “You’re going to be great.”
“… And if I’m not?”
“I will escort your sweet ass out of here,” I vow.
“Holy Fuck!” X announces as the whole place quiets down. “She’s here!”
Reckless is taking up almost all the joint. Every one of them bastards stands up to welcome this kid home because even though Tank may have temporary club custody while Deacon is on sabbatical, everyone knows who RR MC belongs to, and this is the Prez’s sister. Add in the high regard they have for Trudy, and Skeeter is damn club royalty.
And they treat her like a princess too.
We spend the night eating and laughing, line dancing and laughing like nothing is missing, and it’s always been this way. The girl can move her ass on the floor and keep up with me. It’s always interesting to find someone who is a good dance partner. My last one was Amber. She was easy for my lead, in more ways than one. Jaid is good, but that bitch can cut a rug and make me look bad. Iris is well, Iris.
And I don’t know her anymore.
I knew her five years ago when I was training all that ass for HLO. I knew her when I was trying to teach her to leap into my arms and trust me. I knew her running around Juliet without shoes. I don’t know geisha-gone-samurai and will kick my fucking ass if I don’t bring the mental game.
I don’t know Iris Nakamura.
The reality sinks into my system like a hiccup as I’m feeding Skeet a bite of my rare New York Strip. The whole moment is weird, foreshadowed over a decade ago when I was sitting in a restaurant with her Ma. My purpose soon after was Iris, but I have no use now.
Despite the bottle of beer, I’m socially sipping on, I want something harder—and fast. After excusing myself, I go to the order a double whiskey at the bar and sneak out the side door. I squat against the building and check my phone.
New message from Cruz:
“Rule Number 1: Do not tell her where I am.”
That’s it…he says nothing more.
Less than five blinks later, I get a new message from Iris:
“Where is he? I know you know.”
What I want to say—“No, I fucking don’t know shit, bitch.” But I don’t. I restrain myself, and then it hits me. She’s in love with him. He’s in love with me.
And me?
I don’t know, but all this hurts—bad.
With my head lowered and my fingers gripping the bridge of my nose, I do my damndest not to cry because everything from the last ten years smacks me—right then—in the face.
It’s the moment of a very much needed reality check. I’m twenty-eight…I’ll be twenty-nine in a few months. I don’t have time for bullshit anymore.
I glance up, and like an angel from a somewhat demonic world, Skeet smiles. She’s in black, cloaked by a midnight blue sky with the backdrop of a crescent moon and a few sparse white clouds.
I find nirvana as she works those twinkling, poured-on jeans like a goddamned flashing billboard and advertising all that junk in her trunk. “Put it down, you grumpy old fart.”
Diary of a Submissive (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 4) Page 41
