“What did you just say to me?” I peer up.
“Either put it down, pour it out, or give it to me.”
What the ever-loving fuck?
Does she know who I am?
Apparently, she does because she’s standing here, serving up a much-needed dose of medicine.
And the weird thing is—I listen to Skeet.
Nineteen. Bitch with balls. And she has mine in a vice grip.
Standing, I chase the horrible thoughts of above with a provocative statement, “I’m going to whip your ass with a belt when we get home.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she dismisses. “You’ll probably pass out on the sofa with the ball game on, the remote control in one hand, and your dick in the other.”
I furrow my brow and give a harsh glare. “… Do I do that often?”
“On and off for the last three weeks,” she replies. “You sleep more on the couch than your bed.”
“I don’t want to be in bed.”
With my back against the wall, she inches up on me—not pinning me, but not exactly not pinning me either. Stick that one in the cynical sack. I put a smoke between my lips, but don’t bother to light it. “Why?”
“Because I’m alone.”
“And this is a bad thing?”
“Ya,” I say, squinting and flicking the lighter. “Real fucking bad.”
“It’s funny,” she says. “Deacon said the same thing to me that night.”
It’s the first time she’s mentioned what happened.
“We thanked one another for being alone together,” she volunteers with a soft, reflective smile. I expect her tears, but she gives a lecture with a lesson. “Alone has a bad rap.”
“You weren’t alone, though,” I argue as she steals a drag of the smoke from my fingers. “You had Deacon.”
“We need to redefine alone. It needs to evolve,” she points out, raising a brow and tilting her head. “You can be alone with someone. In fact, I would go as far as to say it’s what you should strive to find—the most natural place where you can be you, and they can be them. There is no conflict. There is only peace. Don’t stir the fat into your pot of soup unless you want a bellyache and be shitting over the fence for days.”
“Shitting over the fence...”
“For days,” she reiterates with a straight face.
Do you see the shit—no pun intended—she does to me?
It’s Deacon with tits, incantations, and a ravenous sexual appetite.
It’d be perfect…if I wasn’t busted.
I blink as the spellbinding sorceress makes perfect sense. “… Go natural?”
“Pure, organic, and raw.”
“… With another person?” I ask like the idea is unfathomable.
“Yes,” she assures with a smile. “Ask yourself, who have you been raw with? But don’t tell me, I don’t need the answer. You do.”
She takes the whiskey glass from my hands, downs it in one gulp, and walks away in those starry-blessed skin-tight jeans. And I stare at that ass the whole way.
Oh. Shit.
Fucking hell.
We’ve got a whole damn pecan pie sitting on the floorboard as she drives home. Because—“I just love nuts.”—fell out of Skeeter’s mouth at the table. The boys all snickered and gave me that look. They think I’m boning her, and we’re sizzling up the sheets together.
Maybe it’s not that outlandish.
Maybe they see something I can’t.
“Turn here,” I say.
“On the old farm road?”
“Yep, Del Rio Canyon Road,” I reply as she lays her hand on the shifter. I don’t hesitate to take her fucking hand. “Slow down,” I warn. “There maybe a couple of pit bulls wandering between the two houses.”
“They have names?”
“Chubbs and Serendipity,” I answer, giving her a side-eyed gaze and grin. She giggles. “Slow down. S—low down,” I tease, petting her fingers. “Or you’ll whiz right past it and miss something perfect.”
My words strike the nemesis tucked inside of my chest cavity with a brutal ache. The cage rattles, cranking up from years of neglect, and I hear the beat of my heart flowing through every inch of my skin. I am on fire, radiating with extreme heat as I surrender to the ticker’s torture.
Drawing my attention back to reality, she asks, “Which one?”
“Rusted mailbox.”
“342?” she quizzes, glancing over. “Jesus, can I make it through all these trees?”
“Ya,” I answer. “Don’t worry about the truck, just plow on through it.”
Her eyes widen as her mouth drops open. “There’s a creek!”
“Drive through it.”
With an uncertain look, she assesses, “This floods.”
“You’re damn right it does.” Tears come to my eyes as I confide, “I’m in love with your brother.”
“I know,” she acknowledges, passing by the house that was supposed to belong to Iris and me. “And she is in love with Deacon.” Stopping the truck on the path between the two houses, she nails it home, and I fucking break down. Her hand is on my back as I bend forward with my head between my knees like we’re expecting a tornado. “Shhh!” she soothes. “It’s not your fault. It took three of you to get into this mess. You do not hold full responsibility. You have your portion, and they each have theirs.”
I am bawling my fucking eyes out with the tormenting teenage girl I bought to make my life hell. On the books, I am paying for her to be my fake girlfriend, but the reality is I knew she would kick my ass—harder than it’s ever been kicked. “How the fuck did you get so smart?”
“When you spend enough time alone, watching people and relationships, you start to know things. My mom favors her firstborn. My dad leans to the second. My brothers love me—all three of them.”
“You’ve talked to him…”
“Yeah,” she says, swiveling to me. “And he is doing about as well as you are. I won’t betray our trust, but I’ll tell you, he misses you.”
I’ve been thinking I avoided hitting rock bottom, but we never really know where exactly that is. Maybe I’m not there yet, and this is just the preamble. Maybe I am past it. Maybe losing Deacon and Iris was scraping the bottom. Maybe this time of enlightenment with Skeeter Cruz truly is the elevator up from hell.
“Keep driving.”
“Only if you’re okay,” she calmly whispers. “Otherwise, no.”
“I’m getting there,” I reply. “I’ll be fine.”
“Let’s get there faster!” she cheers, controlling her emotions like she built the fucking roller coaster track. Spinning the tires in the gravel and doing donuts in the field, she laughs. And so, do I. “How many acres does he have?”
“1200, and he bought them all for me,” I reply as I breathe through the pain. God, it hurts…so fucking bad. “He was going to buy Cristos’ ships for me too.”
“Yeah, that’s a bad fucking topic with him.” She hits the gas again. “Iris swindled them out from Nico,” she mumbles, veering like a crazy girl as she realizes what she said. “Fuck!”
She jams on the brakes, and I reach my arm over in front of her. She looks at my forearm and to me. “This is becoming…”
“Ya.”
“Shit,” she says.
While she is in shock, I pick it up. “And that is why Brethren is buying her shit in Houston.”
“Yeah, because they’re having a pissing contest,” she admits, running her fingers over my forearm. “But I’ve said way too much and if you ship me down the river…”
“I would never,” I promise with a whisper, stealing her fingers to my lips and kissing her skin. I rub my face in her hand. I don’t even think about it as that alone and raw rule comes into play. “I can’t do that to you.”
“I’m hungry!” With a suggestion in her gaze, she asks, “Wanna go eat my pie?”
FUCK! YES! Yes, I do, Hannah Cruz.
But I can’t.
I smile. “I would lov
e to.”
“I have to piss!” she squeals as we go into the Swamp Shack, and I show her to the bathroom.
“Sorry, it’s such a mess in here.” I click on the light and shut the door as far as it will go. It’s old, and shit is out of alignment. Waiting in the bedroom, I hear the flush and the water running in the sink as I let the door swing open and prop against the jamb.
Like the kid in a candy store, she scans over the makeup strewn over the counter. “She left all of this?”
“Yep.”
With a gasp, she points her finger and waves it like a magic wand over the various tubes and trays and brushes galore. This thought of leaving things behind is unheard of in Skeeter’s world that much is clear.
“Take whatever you want.”
“… Seriously?” she asks as I confirm with a single nod. She laughs, “I’m gonna need a box!”
“There is a whole closet full of dresses too.”
“I can’t take her dresses,” she says. “I can’t take her makeup either. A girl has to have some principles.” She stops at the toes of my boots and glances up. “You spoiled the fuck out of her, and she left it all behind.”
I blink to meet her blues. “Does he know what she did?”
“Yes,” she whispers, laying her hand on my chest. “And he isn’t happy.”
Feeling brave, I push the boundaries. “Why?”
“Because he left so she would go to you.” Skeeter becomes my informant. “She didn’t do that.”
“You didn’t do what he suggested either,” I say, calling her out because I have to play fair. I may be an asshole, but I can’t be passive with this.
“Bullshit!” She fires back. “I tried. I called. We scheduled a coffee date. Iris didn’t show up. I was there. Ask Charlotte.”
“Iris is such a fucking cunt sometimes.”
Her eyes widen. “You were going to marry her…”
“Ya, I love her, but it doesn’t change the facts. She took her relationship with Deacon too far and hurt everyone in the process.”
“So, did he.” She raises a brow, playing tit for tat, and showing no favoritism, which impresses the fuck out of me. “You aren’t innocent, though.”
“Naw,” I reply. “But, my bad behavior is expected.”
She smiles. “… Always?”
“Usually,” I honestly say. “I am quite bad. She is sometimes bad. And Deacon is the motherfucking holy saint gluing it all together.”
“That’s a hell of a mix.” She spins to take one last look at the bathroom and turns off the light, but I don’t move. “There are a lot of reasons we shouldn’t do this.”
“Yep.”
“Are we going to do it anyway?”
“Depends if you want to see my dick or not,” I growl, peering down at the vivacious vixen. “You’re his sister…”
“Does that matter?”
“Nup, it’d just complete the tree.”
She bursts out with laughter. “Okay, one word yep and naw,” she mocks, doing her best daego. “Do you get a badge for this?”
“I might.” I take a step back. She doesn’t fear my intimidation or me. Not that I necessarily want her to, but I need to know where she is on the emotional spectrum because one thing is clear—I listen to Skeet. And that scares the fuck out of me.
I pivot out of the doorway with a half-twirl, adjusting my cap, as she walks behind me. Her hands grab my ass, and I stop dead in my tracks. “Is the front as good as the back?” she whispers against my neck. “Because if it is, I may want to get you the badge, old man.”
With a grin, I snort. “It’s even better.”
Her fingers keep massaging my ass cheeks, and it feels freaking fantastic, not in a sexual way either. Just being touched after three weeks is like my body reset. Her hands freely grope, sending an energetic charge into my soul that I didn’t know I needed. I feel the pulse in my cock.
“Mhmm, promises.”
“You act like I’m a senior citizen in need of a walker,” I respond, never letting her get away with shit. “I don’t need a pump or a pill for my pierced beast, thank you.”
“You’re my elder,” she whispers, lifting the back of my shirt and running her finger along my belt. “I respect that, but I take great joy in picking on you, Papi. Do you often come in your pants?”
“… You did not just call me Papi.”
Running her hands up under my shirt, she lures, “Oh, I did.”
“And only when I’ve avoided sex for weeks.”
Her hands drop, and I close my eyes. Please don’t stop. “… Not even jerking off?”
“None.”
Her inspection resumes, slower now, feeling the ripples of scars. “I didn’t believe Trudy…”
“I have problems, Hannah.”
“I know,” she says as her soothing breaths add to my arousal. “We all do. Do you want to avoid this some more and have some pie?”
“Yes.” My heart is beating like wild, all out of tempo, as I take a breath. “Do you want to stay here?”
“Whatever you want.”
“If I turn around…”
“If you turn around, you’re going to kiss me. And if you kiss me, we’re going to end up naked on that bed and crossing a line we won’t ever return from.”
“Sounds like a helluva trip.” I grin.
“Pie, Salvatore.”
“I like cake,” I whisper, doing a one-eighty. “The pie can be fucking good.”
“I like cake,” she says as we inch closer until the warmth from her lips hits mine. “And I like you.”
“Shit, what am I doing?”
“Following your gut,” she whispers as it takes every ounce of strength in my arms to lift them around her body. I don’t embrace her. I can’t. “Whenever you are ready, I am here.”
The old Sal would have already been inside of her, but this new guy—the one who I don’t fucking know; the one sporting a rock-hard erection for this girl—he puts the brakes on. “We should have some pie.”
“Yes.”
My trembling hands drop from her arms and lower to my sides, but she assertively embraces all my broken bits. She feels so goddamned good. And she smells like I want to wrap myself in her flesh. Again, I don’t hug her because I can’t. The distance between our bodies is enough so that she isn’t pressed against the beast.
On her tiptoes, she suggestively whispers in my ear, “I only need to know one thing—spoon or fork?”
I grin. “Spoon all the way.”
“Spoon me.”
GOD! YES! Please. Hold. Me.
51
Understanding Strigiformes
The Master
We spend the rest of the week at the Swamp Shack. I let her drive the Challenger to and from work. She stopped by Trudy’s on the first day and packed a bag of her clothes because she didn’t want to wear Iris’ clothes.
Skeeter is 5’5” and a size six to eight, depending on the garment. Her shoe size is eight. She is a 38-24-35. I know because I asked. She is built much different from Iris. She’s got voluptuous curves I could spend years of my life exploring.
Ignoring all the statistics, she is gentle with me. And sassy. And mouthy. And soft…she is so sweet. And I still haven’t truly kissed or hugged her yet.
We hold hands a lot.
And she spoons me at night.
I cannot spoon her. She is taking care of me. She is carrying me.
Don’t get me started about her being nineteen.
How the fuck did I get here?
Midweek, her name changed to Hannah Howser Cruz. She hated Beth, and Nelson felt wrong. Half of her is a Catholic, half of her is Jewish (she’s learning for heritage reasons; the Nelson’s raised her Catholic), and somehow, she is infused with the spirituality of a Buddhist princess biker monk. It’s odd.
She’s not quite Deacon Cruz, but clearly an offspring of the Cruz-Howser union. I study her template and apply it to my own, Veramonte-Raniero lineage.
&nbs
p; I spend my days cleaning and fixing up little things around the house. I reflect on the past, Cruz and Iris, and how we fucked up, and about Rowan and the comparison Dom made to Kaci. I fret over the programming—I was groomed to take care of Iris.
On Monday, I realized none of those equaled a marriage.
By Tuesday, I questioned if I could do all those things without husbandly duties.
Come Wednesday, day of woe, and I was weeping with thoughts of a lasting break-up because a tiny part of me always believed we would come back together again. These are the thoughts of instability.
Iris was the key.
Iris was my future.
Iris was the bitch that walked away.
Can I give Iris up?—that was the real question and the source of so much addiction in my life. Everything I have done in the last ten years has been centered on getting her to where she is now.
Who would I be without Iris as my focus?
Who is Sal Raniero?
And that is what I aim to find out.
“Holy crap!” Skeeter announces, walking in and carrying a pizza. “You went nuts today.” She glances at my tear-stained cheeks and sweat-laden body. “You aren’t okay…”
“I think…” I pause, crying on my knees as I scrub the cabinets. “I’m done,” I announce without a cheering audience. No one is listening to me. No one cares. No one but a nagging mosquito. “Cancel that. There is no think. I am done.”
“… You’re letting her go?”
I nod. “I have to because we aren’t good together.”
“What if she wants to come back?”
“She won’t,” I knowingly contend, tossing my sponge. “She’s in love with Deacon.”
“He’s a good man,” she reassures, but I don’t need to know. He is so much better than I will ever be. And, if I’m being transparent, that is the hardest part of all of this. Sure, I know she belongs with him because he is better than me. She kneels on the floor in her nice work attire. “He balances Iris.”
“You’re going to get filthy,” I warn, unintentionally segueing the conversation. “You should get up.”
“I don’t fucking care, Salvatore!”
Diary of a Submissive (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 4) Page 42
