by Nicci Harris
He stands up slowly and then heads straight for his cabinet, pulling out a bottle of scotch. He pours himself a drink before making his way back to his seat. Instead of drinking it, he entwines his fingers in front of him. "What have you seen, Cassidy?"
A man die at my own hands.
A woman looking at my boyfriend with true fear.
Blood and bruises and secrets so terrifying I don't even ask for them to be shared with me, afraid of what I may hear and the apathy attached to the way I may hear it.
I drop my gaze to my fingers and pick at my nail polish.
"He is not a bad man," my dad says. He nods as if convincing himself too. "I wouldn’t call him a good man either, but I'm not sure there is such a creature. . . Women are good. Men are. . . apes in shoes. We all do what we must to protect our own." He reaches for the glass, sipping the harsh liquor a few times before setting it down again . "I don't ignore it, Cassidy. . . But I don't know enough to make judgements. For a long time now, I have trusted in his ability to make the right decisions. He's clever. And he stands beside Jimmy Storm."
I wrinkle my nose in confusion, having thought he was talking about Jimmy all along. "Wait, who?"
"Luca Butcher. . . " He pauses with his thoughts, rubbing his hands down his cheeks and entwining his fingers at his chin. "How do I explain this to you? Do you know what the District was like before Jimmy Storm flew in from Sicily?"
I shake my head. "No."
"Drugs." He leans back in his chair. "Poverty. High unemployment. We are far away from the capital and the Eastern States didn't care enough to aid in infrastructure or pay us many dues. Ninety percent of the mines employed fly-in-fly-out workers from other countries or the other side of Australia. We had a tiny budget for public servants - police, nurses. No one wanted to work here, so we had poor trades and poor doctors. There was so much violence in the streets. Bashings. Breaking and entering."
My body feels strange, like my heart can't decide whether to beat uncomfortably fast or slow down. I have known for a while that the District is built on corruption; stitched into the lining of most prosperous families' pockets is that truth. It just sounds so concrete coming from my dad's mouth. "But there is still violence," I say. "Lots of it."
He smiles tightly. "Not on our streets. Not in our homes. Can you imagine if people started breaking into houses under Jimmy's watch?"
That elderly lady's distraught face flashes behind my eyes. Her harrowing cries ring between my ears. And a name - his name - finally claws out from the depths of my subconscious. Marco.
"People die under his watch," I blurt out, feeling my face pale as the truth whirls around me like a frosty breeze.
Marco is dead.
This man is dead, and he has people like me that love him - miss him. Max's cold stare bores into my mind, his impatient dismissal when all along he had known. . . had maybe even done the deed himself. "The brother you want!" Xander's words blister my ears, demanding my attention. "One that can hack a guy's head off and sleep soundly at night!"
My lungs strain for air, but I try to hide it, sneaking in long, vibrating breaths.
Is Max capable of such an act?
"Not our people," my dad states. "Remember that. Not honest, hardworking people. Our employment rates are the best in the country. Jimmy secured our residents a huge tender for employment on the mines. He cleaned up the streets. He has given us wealth. Safety. I decided a while ago that I would accept the good in that man until I saw the devil in him."
So Marco wasn't an honest, hardworking person? Is that what I am to believe and hold on to like a fricking lifeline? I let that sink in, move through my body, and expand my chest, filling it with fresh air.
Blinking at my dad, I ask, "So what do I do?"
"I suggest you do the same. I didn't want this life for you. I fought very hard to keep you out of it. But you fell in love and the rest is history. I know love. And I'd never deny it for you nor push you away from it."
Remembering how sensitive my father is, I project a smile. "You're such a softy."
He shrugs. "Yeah."
I leave my father's office with my mind and body in a state of absolute exhaustion. The need to choose whose side I'm on seeps through me like dye, spreading out and changing the very essence of me. My heart. My morals. I accepted the gun. Accepted that in his line of work he hurts people. But can I accept that he's capable of real brutality?
Walking out onto the veranda, I stare across at Carter who is leaning patiently by his car. He's a good man. And he works for Max. Max doesn't hurt people like me. . . And he's a great judge of character. . . Blinking a few times, I realise it's not a hard decision.
I trust Max. Always. Blindly or not, I do.
Nodding at Carter, I climb into the car.
Max
* * *
I push open the bedroom door, and Cassidy sits up in our bed, batting her eyelashes as though they are made of solid lead. Carter wasn't wrong. She is exhausted. She's been pushing herself with ballet. With fighting the urge to sleep just to be awake for when I get home. I can't allow this.
"What time is it?" she murmurs, wiping at her half-mast eyes.
I don't answer.
Instead, I walk towards her and stop just shy of the bed. As I trace her naked little tits and smooth stomach with my gaze, my cock stirs within the confinements of my pants.
Tucking my hands into my pockets, I frown at her. "You should be asleep."
"I worry about you."
Well fuck. I try to soften my expression. Not cocky or smug, just gentle and reassuring. "You don't need to, little one."
Rolling her shoulder up, she looks down at my spot on the bed. "I miss you." I stare at her for a moment, stare at this sweet little girl in my bed wanting me. Needing me.
Climbing onto her hands and knees, she crawls towards me. Her pink-blonde hair hangs down her back and plunges over her shoulders. Her petite but curvy, naked body moves provocatively to the edge of the bed. She takes a big breath in before arching her neck to meet my narrowed eyes. Her lips are set into a coy little curve and her hazel eyes, glossy with fatigue, gaze up at me through thick heavy lashes.
What does my little ballerina want?
To suck my dick?
My cock fills quickly with all the blood now pumping fiercely from my heart, causing it to span out across my thigh. Reaching down, I stroke her hair and then drag my thumb along her lower lip. I run my gaze down between her shoulder blades, to her little back, and over the crease of her backside. She leans up on her heels, and now I'm staring at those perfect, pert little mounds on her chest and the lips of her pussy. I reach for my belt and slowly unbuckle it, not taking my eyes off her.
Throwing it into the corner of my room, I ask, "Do you want to suck my dick?"
She nods, a glow hitting her cheeks. She licks her lips and, with shaky hands, reaches to unbutton my pants and draw down my zipper. When she pulls me out, she inhales quickly. I follow the roll of her throat as she swallows.
Her eyes bat heavily again - sleepily.
She's too tired to suck me. So before the temptation to force those lovely bow-shaped lips around my cock grows too great, I brush my fingers through the soft, satin-like strands at her crown. "Little one, you're tired." I take a step backwards. "Lay down on your stomach."
My erection knocks on my shirt as I wait for her to move back into the centre of the mattress and lay down.
She twists her head to the side, blinking at me sleepily. "But I want you."
Leisurely, I remove all my clothes - shoes, pants, shirt, tie, boxers - as I caress her physique with my eyes. She starts to pant as if she can really feel my gaze. I crawl towards her little body, sliding over her legs and burying my face between her arse cheeks.
"Oh God," she murmurs as I lick her arsehole. When she pulses against my tongue, I dip inside her and then mouth the tight muscles around her rim. She bucks, so I pin her down with my body. "Max."
She's too good
to me. She lets me pervert her. I want every part of her. Want to eat every inch of her. As my tongue fucks her arse, my lips and teeth mark everywhere else. I palm her cheeks, and she wriggles around beneath me. I fuck the mattress with my hips, groaning at the thought of what she lets me do to her. Sensation suddenly draws my balls up. I could eat her arse all day. But I want to come. Fill her.
Breaking away, I move up to hover over her. She twists her head. When I scroll my eyes over her pinkened cheek, the sweat tracing her freckle-dotted nose, and her open panting mouth, I grin. Bracing her thighs together with my legs, I lean on one elbow and reach down to stroke her pussy lips with my fingers. Fuck. She's dripping. I position the crown of my cock below the seam of her arse, rubbing the sensitive outer folds. I groan, needing my release. But I'm so fucking turned on, if I go too hard and fast, I'll come too quick.
Pressing her flat to the mattress with my body, I begin to slide into her. Slow, shallow thrusts that tease us both. She moans, lifting into me, her greedy little pussy wanting more. I growl. Unable to deny her silent demand, I give her what she wants, sinking in until I can feel the end of her and then pushing harder still.
She cries out as I start to thrust.
When I rear up onto my hands, I press one palm between her shoulder blades, holding her chest to the mattress. Her arse instantly rises up. I fuck her fast and deep, rolling against her lax arse until I hit her cervix, then drawing out to the feel of every one of those internal muscles begging me to stay deep. All that responsive flesh grasps me.
The bed starts to rock. I want to be inside every fucking part of her. Bury myself in her body. Find solace. My release. My peace. She fists the sheets and mewls around, her frantic movements surging heat into my abdomen. I crunch my stomach together hard, fending off the sensation; it's too soon.
Locking her thighs between mine, I restrict her from further movement. "Relax, little one. Let me take your sweet little body."
She begins to vibrate, her legs and thighs contract, twitch, and squeeze together between mine, narrowing the smooth delta I'm currently fucking like my life depends on it.
"Cassidy," I hiss.
Grunting through gritted teeth, I move faster, my muscles scorching hot with adrenaline. She screams into the pillow as I fuck her through her orgasm.
At the sound of her sweet, uneven cry, I completely lose it. My veins suddenly ignite, forcing a wave of fire throughout my body. To every inch. My muscles tremble. And I explode. Letting out a broken groan, I grip her hip with one hand, and continue to beat into her, feeling my cum pour down the sides of my shaft and out from between her legs.
She's still moaning softly by the time I slow down. When I let go of her hip, her pelvis flattens to the mattress. Resting on my elbows, I'm careful not to put too much of my body weight on her. I pant out that phenomenal orgasm, pressing my forehead into her hair.
Lifting my head, I fan her hair with my heavy, laboured breaths. "Don't wait up for me anymore."
With her head twisted to the side, I can see a sweet sleepy smile tugging at her lips. "And miss out on that?"
I frown. "Do as you're told, little one."
Her expression grows even more content as she breathes out, "Yes, Max."
Which I know really means: 'I'll do exactly what I want'.
Since the moment she passed out - and she did fucking pass straight out - my mind has been churning with agitation. I toss and turn, completely unsettled by her level of exhaustion. Her lack of taking care of herself. Frowning at the dark ceiling, I decide it's no use trying to sleep in this tense state. Carefully, I slide from the bed and head downstairs to mull it over while beating the boxing bag in our gym.
Jab.
I know she cried in her studio today.
Jab jab.
Know she was on the go for nearly ten hours and barely ate a fucking thing.
I fucking lay into the bag.
When I return to our room, I sit down on the couch opposite the bed. The newly rising sun drills colour into the sky beside me. With my elbows on my knees and my fists under my chin, I watch Cassidy deep in sleep. She's on her stomach, cheek to the pillow, arms above her head - naked. She's in the exact position I left her in, completely dead to the world.
I rub the stubble on my jaw.
I'm careless. Selfish. I shouldn't have fucked her on her stomach. If she loses this baby because I can't control myself with her, it'll be another thing that I've let happen to her. I shouldn't be home so late. Should be home to have dinner with her - make sure she fucking has dinner. Fuck, she used to love food. I guess the baby is messing with her appetite. I should eat her out and put her to bed nice and early while she's in a delicate condition. Should be here. . . I pull my new phone out and type a quick message to Carter
Max: book an ultrasound for tomorrow around lunch time.
I need to know that the beat of his heart is still strong so I can let that concern lay to rest. She loves him. Already. My jaw suddenly aches, but I didn’t even realise I was clenching my teeth. He didn't have to earn her love or prove anything; she just loves him. It's still a concept I find hard to swallow, but despite that, if she loves him, then I will protect him with my goddamn life. That kid is a Butcher.
Closing my eyes, I exhale roughly.
My blood. . .
He is a part of this life now.
My eyes find her again. So is she.
And Jimmy all but said that he plans on using her to influence our public image. Use her to gain favour with Ben. With the more conservative members of the city. Like she is a fucking personal relations strategy.
And I did nothing.
Said nothing.
I am just a fucking pawn with no need other than to decapitate and slice and fuck my way to a prized asset. Fuck that. My fists tighten until both of my arms shake violently.
Thirteen years! I have been knee-deep in Jimmy's fucking dirt for thirteen fucking years. I've never asked for a goddamn thing and yet, he still thinks he can claim what's mine. The only thing I want. Like hell he can! I stifle a growl.
I won't be sharing her to suit his or anyone else's agenda.
Next time, when I say she is out, she. Is. Out.
And I expect those words to ring between his ears every time he thinks about Cassidy.
Thinks about using her.
She is mine.
Max
* * *
Still agitated, I shower, dress, and head downstairs to start my day but not before switching Cassidy's phone off. She will sleep for as long as her body tells her she needs to. Fuck ballet. Fuck anyone who wants to talk to her.
As I take the staircase down to the first floor, I look through the windows over the open balustrade. Connolly. It's my city. Jimmy's too. But it’s not Cassidy's. She loves quaint urban Brussman and yet, she's never once complained about dropping her whole life there. Her family. To be with me. To be in my room every night - alone.
Fuck.
The sight of Butch in his navy tailored two-piece suit, sipping his espresso and reading the paper at the kitchen island, stills my previous thoughts.
Staring at him, I feel my forehead tighten. "You're here a lot these days."
When he peers over at me, I catch a hint of disappointment in his eyes. "Morning, son. How's your girl?"
I smirk, knowing he's here to spend his morning with Cassidy. He has no idea that I know he has breakfast with her before she goes to ballet and he goes to Jimmy's. She has Butch completely smitten, wrapped snugly around her sweet little finger. What a soppy motherfucker. "So do you want to be called Pop, Grandad, or Nànnu?"
A cocky-arse grin hits his lips. "Caught me."
Moving towards the fridge, I say, "She won't be down for a while. She needs to sleep. . ." I sigh angrily. "You probably speak to her more than I do at the moment, anyway."
As I make myself a protein shake, he watches me silently, his sceptical eyes following me around the kitchen.
I freeze, scowling at
him. "What?"
He doesn't jump to answer me, seemingly contemplative. Then he states, "Every man has two options in life: either be the man she needs you to be or move out of the line."
I sneer, setting my glass down on the island bench. "I'll torch the fucking line."
He smiles, leaning forward on his heavy arms. "I believe you would. Love is maddening. Hasn't watching your brother all these years not taught you this?"
Scoffing, I say, "Bronson was mad before Shoshanna."
His brows draw in and he sips his coffee. This is Butch in an emotional mood. It's a rarity, and I have no doubt it has to do with Cassidy. "Your brother always leans towards the theatrics," he says, placing his empty espresso cup down. "He's more like your grandfather than me. You, you're so much like me."
His words settle in my stomach, like hunger or sickness, causing me to shift my weight. Was it a compliment or a dig? To know which, I would have to know exactly what Butch thought about himself. And that, I don't know. The discomfort in my stomach is soon fuelled by the realisation that I am like him, annoyingly so. Home late. Cold. Impatient.
"And just like you, I don't get home until after midnight and have no time for my family."
He leans back, folding those weapons of arms over his chest. My words rush off him like water. "I nearly gave up the life once."
That takes me by surprise. "I didn't think Victoria cared."
"She never did," he states adamantly and then I catch a glimpse of something in his stern eyes, a moment where they nearly reveal a secret. A truth buried deep. Something painful. "I didn't nearly give up for her."
Perhaps in other families that kind of statement would warrant a follow-up question, but we are not like other families. His business is his, and I have always taken exactly what he has offered me and never more. It's called respect in our world. Respect for a man's silence. "What would he have you do?"
