She backs up fast like it’s a deadly snake coming after her. I can’t help but burst into laughter. I feel terrible for her, but I understand where she is at mentally. She—we—are stuck in the loop of the past. Leaning forward, I plant a kiss on her forehead. “Ronnie, go out on a date and find yourself some D, babe.”
“It’s so hard to do, though.”
“I know,” I say, grabbing my shirt from the bed and wiping some of the sweat from my skin. I feel her intense stare on my back.
“Sal…can you just let me see your butt?”
I drop the pants and show off the legs and ass I’ve worked so hard on. Lifting my arms, I flex my back for her and give her the solo show.
“Your thighs are huge,” she moans. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot her covering her mouth and biting the tips of her fingers.
“… You want it all?” I smirk.
“Oh, baby…do I…” she begs like this body is the savior she’s been waiting for. I spin around and show off the full package. I’m on display, being objectified, and I couldn’t be happier. This is my element. “Holy Jesus, take me home…”
Her eyes never go above my collar bone, but it is clear she recalls this feeling of lust and yearning to connect with a man. Willing to play her puppet, I ask, “Anything else?”
“Could…you…” she stutters out.
“Stroke it?”
“Yeah,” she dreamily replies. “Just for a minute.”
I pop some spit into my hand, and her eyes widen to almost bursting. I snarl and pump my cock slowly. My fingers wrap around the shaft, easing up and over the head, as I hastily bring on a full erection. I go through the motions, the pleasure on my face so genuine but not for the reasons she imagines. I’m doing this all for her. My dick can wait for another time and place.
At absolute attention, I reach lower and cup my sack, letting her see the engorged tool I have at my disposal. Quiet tears spread over her cheeks as she says, “Thank you so much.”
“Anytime, darlin'. Just ask. I’ll get you high.”
Her smile blossoms across her face as I grab the banana and peel the motherfucker. I hate it, but I eat it.
“I’m fighting.”
“Sweetheart, if this is fighting, I cannot wait to see you in the ring.”
14
SOS (Save One Sal)
By nine o’clock, Deputy Craig shows me to the small visitation room near the holding unit. I’m still in a good mood from my performance with Ronnie. Though the banana did not sit well, the adrenaline rush of being a sex symbol in her eyes did. I enjoy the gratification. “Wait here.”
Alone in the room, the four white walls close in as I feel more trapped than ever before. I’m not certain I can do this, but I have to try. I’m on the verge of having a panic attack. I feel the need to flee and knowing I can’t makes it all the worse.
Quitting is never an option.
Even if I have to back up and restart, I cannot stop. I won’t call another safeword of Boston. There was only one reason I said it the night after the wedding. I feared for Iris’ safety. The pressure cooker we were and continue to be in is faulty and ready to blow at any moment’s notice. I couldn’t risk her life or mine.
The objective is to get to the end with her in my hand, my last name attached, and a ring on her finger, so we can have the happily ever after and stop chasing it.
But right now, sitting in prison, I’m not sure it even exists.
I know where I want to go, but navigating my way proves elusive as I stare at the blank canvas before me. I have no idea where to even begin, and maybe that was reason enough for my distress signal.
The door opens and Mierne slides in. She’s dressed casually in jeans and a dark blue blouse. “Salvatore,” she whispers, rushing to embrace me. “I got here as soon as I could. What is going on? The woman said you were having a breakdown. I just saw you a few days ago.”
“I know,” I say, holding her close and breathing in the scent of her hair. “But things are dark in here.”
We take a seat on the loveseat near the wall. I imagine this room is primarily used for grieving families. The tissue box is the only thing sitting on the wooden coffee table. “Talk to me,” she says, laying her hand on my thigh. “What is going on? We didn’t have much chance to talk alone during our brief meeting to discuss Deacon’s position.”
“Are you working on compiling his file?” I ask, taking her in. There is something about Mierne that I’ve always found comfort in. She’s soft and smooth and gentle. When I thought no one else gave a rat’s ass, her caring kept me afloat for years. My loyalty to her is real. “I need him in Juliet.”
“Of course, I am,” she answers with a brief smile. “I won’t let you down. Since the shooting, Juliet has been as you might imagine. We could keep your attack quiet, but this…this was a PR nightmare. There were so many people in attendance that night, and everyone knew what happened. News crews stayed right off campus, lined up on the streets for a week.”
Bravely, I ask, “How is Anna?”
“Honestly?” She glances away, distraught. “She’s fucking mad as hell.”
“At me?”
“I don’t think it is at you,” Mierne consoles, reaching for my hand. “I think it is more she knows a mob hit when she sees one. But it’s brought us closer together. I never knew my father or any of my biological family, so it’s nice to have the opportunity to get to know my grandmother.”
My temper flares. “If I would’ve been there…”
“If you would’ve been there you would still be here because you would have killed the shooter with your bare hands on principle alone. I remember how angry you were after you were shot. You love Anna and Juliet is sacred.”
She doesn’t need to remind me.
The fetish world is in my blood and breath as much as the mafia. It is the air I breathe and the solace I seek in the strain of my daily existence. At the core of it all, I’m still a Dominant and my submissive—may as well be a million miles away.
The cage is not the problem.
Iris leaving is.
Losing control and the protection I bring, I fear the worst possible outcome—her death. I wouldn’t get her body; her father, Raiko Nakamura, would.
Without a doubt, I know he’d take her to Japan. I’m bothered because I know she’d never have my name attached to hers. It sounds silly, I know. What does it matter? She’d be dead, and I’d be alone regardless of where she is buried. Trust me. It matters. It matters because when people look back at our tombstones, there would be no memory of this love having ever even existed.
And that shit hurts.
Knowing assistance is hard to ask for, I buck up and say, “I need some help.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…I need out of my head.”
“… If you need something, I can give you a prescription. Some anti-depressives, anti-anxiety, pain killers… Whatever you need, name it, I’ll be the candy store.”
I sigh. “No, the last thing I want is any drugs.”
She scoots away from me, kicks off her shoes, pats her thigh. She lifts her feet onto the table and commands, “Come here.”
Tossing my feet over the edge of the loveseat, I rest my head against her leg and feel the warm tears fall from my eyes. “What if I fucked up?”
“With?”
“Sending her off,” I mutter, clutching the fabric of my shirt. “What if I sent her down the plank?”
“She’s Iris!” Mierne sasses with a giggle. “Are you aware of how hard she plays? It would take a multi-headed beast storming up from the seas to take her out.”
“You think that much of her?”
“No,” she says, petting my hair. “I think that much of you. And I know you met your match with that girl.”
“No one likes her.”
“Why should they, Sal?” Her shocked, exasperated tone urges my rolling onto my back to look at her. “Think about it. You are sleeping with A
mber.”
“She’s my Mistress.”
“O—kay. Amber is close enough to you that she is going to be very judgemental about whoever you decide to keep company with. Because she is jealous.”
I furrow my brow. “Amber isn’t jealous.”
“She is absolutely jealous!” She snarks with a giggle, running her fingers through my hair. “Amber may tell you she is happy with her position, but if you change the variable of your relationship status, she isn’t so happy.”
“You’re not telling me Prissy Pants is jealous, too.”
“No,” she solemnly says. “I’m telling you Jaid wants to be you, and your going to prison represents the worst possible outcome for her. Since Kaci put you with her, I’ve watched Jaid visualize you for years as her role model.”
I hiccup with a moment of comedic relief. “So, she wants Iris?”
With a bright smile, Mierne laughs. “No, she wants your freedom.”
I squint and scan around the room. “I’m the least free person I know.”
“Bullshit, Salvatore. Think about what you did. You called Dom to get you removed with one little word. What would Jaid have to do to get removed? Does she have a password to vanish? Does she have an escape plan?”
“Oh, fuck…”
“Yeah,” she replies, nodding. “But without you in the field to keep her balanced, why should she care about anything? She’s the most dangerous player on the team right now, babe. And if you are missing that, you need to go back and think all of this over. Not only is she maintaining her role, but she’s double-timing trying to be the super-achiever Sal stand-in. You put a great burden on her. At some point, you are going to have to accept responsibility for your somewhat selfish actions.”
I close my eyes and breathe deep, but it doesn’t stop the heartache or the tears.
“I’m not placing blame or guilt on you. You called me here for a session. You called me here to be honest with you. You called me here because you trusted me to give you the truth. And I’m doing that. But you must accept it. I cannot do that for you.”
“I fucked up…”
She looks up and tilts her head to one side and the other. “I don’t know…I don’t know if you fucked up so much as you didn’t consider the long-term ramifications of your actions.”
Pulling my knees up, I tuck my feet between the cushion and the arm. “What should I do?”
“With the girls, I wouldn’t do a damn thing because they are girls and it won’t matter. It won’t matter what you say—Amber and Jaid, and to a lesser extent, Iris—they are going to do what they want, and you cannot stop them. No amount of punishment or discipline is going to change the headstrong women you’ve brought into your shenanigans.”
“But what are they so headstrong about?”
“You, Sal.” Her eyes clutch my soul with a passionate plea to understand. She wants me to open my mind, but it’s not something I’m sure I can do. “You. Amber would do anything to keep you out of harm’s way. Jaid would follow you to the ends of the earth, even if it meant her demise. And Iris…I don’t even have to tell you the hell that girl would endure to get answers.”
“Are you marrying Jack?”
“I am Team Sal until the bitter end. I can’t marry the man who caused me to lose my baby. I will not fight you for Juliet. And I will not fight you on the relationship with Iris. I will give you my blessing and do anything and everything in my power to help you get what you so desperately want.”
She evades the question, and I chuckle. “I’m not even sure what that is anymore.”
“Love. Respect. Justice. What most people consider to be basic human values. You seem to have forgotten, Sal, you are a human being. Your father hurt you. Kaci manipulated you. In an ungovernable state, you ran full steam ahead into the fire without considering the burns you would endure. Recovery is going to hurt. You’re going to have some scars.”
Staring at the bandages on my hands, I pull at my fingers. I hate not being able to crack my knuckles. Teasing, I smirk and ask, “So, what is your diagnosis, Dr.?”
“Serious chronic depression with self-harm episodes manifesting into bad choices—drinking, promiscuity,” she says, shrugging. I never expected her to take my playfulness and turn it into a legitimate clinical diagnosis. “Violence. And those issues feed off and into PTSD until you’re looping and repeating the process, compounding the damage. Your past is riddled with psychological and physical abuse, which triggers a need to overachieve at everything. I don’t get the anxiety vibe from you. You’re too confident, too controlled. Systemic bereavement at a catastrophic level…delusions, paranoia, insomnia…acute stress responses, fight, or flight…”
“Jesus Christ, you’re profiling me.”
“That’s what you wanted. If you aren’t going to let me medicate it, then you have got to be willing to accept the analysis.”
I’m quiet for a good minute. She’s right, and I know it. But fuck. I sound like I need a padded cell, a straight jacket, and some electroshock therapy. “… Can you fix me?”
Her lips turn into a very marked frown. “I can, but you need more intense therapy than I can provide in here.”
“… Hospitalization?”
“Not so much as rehabilitation. You need some coping skills, Salvatore. You aren’t a bad person or a bad guy, but you have moments where you do dumb stuff because you’re too smart for your own good.”
“Like sending Iris off?”
She nods, agreeing. “Like sending Iris off.”
“She put a fucking gun in my face,” I argue, searching for the ground. “She threatened to kill me because that was what my father sent her to do.”
Her expression shifts to smile. “Iris was never going to kill you. She was trying to snap you out of it. She was trying to break the jar someone forced you into long ago. You are wracked from your father’s nightmare and stuck in the Kaci-composed melody.”
“That’s not my fault…”
“Hush and listen. This contrived rhythm has essentially programmed itself into you. Stop the drilling,” she pleads, stating her case like she’s fighting for my life. And maybe she is. “Stop the pounding right now and say I am Lucas Salvatore Raniero. I have my own mind. My own heart. My own soul. Stop being what everyone else wants you to be.”
I make perfect sense with her reflections but getting there is like going through a house of mirrors on rollerblades. “And then what?”
“We rebuild you. One piece at a time,” she says, grazing the back of her hand over my cheek. “I can give you the tools, but you’re going to have to be willing to pick up the hammer and the nails to recover. I can’t do that for you. Iris can’t do that for you. You have to do it.”
“You do realize if I marry Iris, then that makes us family in some weird way.”
“We already are,” she whispers, touching my cheek. “And that is why I am here. Because I do love you.”
15
Hand Me My Cock
The uproarious amount of noise in the general population pulses through me. It’s a jumbled, confusing mess. And Ronnie was right. I did miss the quiet of holding.
“This is you, Raniero,” Correctional Officer Gilden says, smacking the wall twice in quick succession. “Cell #D-1107. Warden Jolly will request you for a meeting soon.”
Cells line all four walls, three stories tall. In the middle, numerous tables and chairs exist. Everything is a dirty, off-white color, stained from years of usage except for the rails lining the walkways which are an emerald. Correctional officers dress in black. Inmates wear khaki olive green. All except for one. The new guy in orange.
Me.
“New uniform will be issued by the Warden. I’d stay in your cell until then,” he says, patting me on the back. “Take care.”
I breathe a sigh of relief at the one bed. I won’t be having to share a cell. Thank God. There is a stainless-steel toilet and sink combo and a shelf to be used as a desk with a chair. A blue blanket, fl
at sheet, and pillow are stacked neatly on my bed.
This is my new home.
“Hey,” Barnaby Shank says, standing just outside my door. It’s bad manners to step inside another man’s domain. Disrespectful and grounds for a fight. “You got out of the fish tank.”
I nod. “Ya, the judge denied bail.”
“Shame.”
“Come on in,” I offer, pulling the chair out. “Name is Lucas. Or Luke.”
He extends his hand. “Barnaby. My friends call me Naby.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty,” he says, cautiously easing into the chair. He is assessing me and probably right to be. Size-wise, I’m huge compared to him, and I’m a little guy. So, when I say Barnaby is slight, I mean maybe one-twenty soaking wet. “Drug possession.”
I’m curious as to why he is in my cell, but if I had to form a quick hypothesis—he’s scared shitless, and I’m the new guy. “What’s your ethnicity?”
“My father is from Miyako. Mom was from Kingston.” I note the subtle difference in tenses, and I wonder what happened to Mama. Testing my knowledge, he smiles and counters, “You’re Italian from up North?”
“Ya, Boston,” I say, making my bed and realizing I need Naby as much as he needs me. I don’t have a Deacon or any of my boys in here. What does a guy like me do? Build a new fucking tribe. “So, what brings you here my Japanese/Jamaican friend?”
His smile broadens across his dangerously pretty face. “I need a friend.”
“What cell are you in?”
“Two doors down from you,” he whispers, leaning forward. ”1109. I’m…”
“You don’t have to say it,” I reply, winking. He’s a walking target in a place like this—smart, beautiful, fragile, and gay. “I’ll do what I can.”
He sighs loudly. “I’ll do anything.”
Famous Last Words (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 2) Page 13
