“I just don’t want it to be me they come for.”
“Do you think I would let that happen?”
I catch the glimmer of dampness in his eyes and understand his worry. He’s a sitting duck, and I anticipated having to secure him some extra protection when I leave. That won’t be necessary if Mock is handling him.
“No,” he mumbles. “You won’t. They don’t scare you?”
“I don’t show fear, Naby.”
He chuckles as I try and close my eyes. Sleep is fleeting, and I’m accustomed to deprivation, but this is different. I want to sleep and can’t. Typically, I’m too busy working to consider sleep a need. I’m accustomed to the routine in four to five hours a night.
With a deep sigh, he takes a leak, and then stands by the door. “Stop doing what you’re doing. You’re playing in the street, and I’m not watching you get hit. Get your ass over here.”
Between our beds, he waits with a stillness. A minute passes, and he flops on his bed. I can’t blame his restlessness. My eyes close and I doze off for a few minutes only to wake up by the rhythmic squeak of his mattress. He’s jerking off.
I’m Sal fucking Raniero, sex is in my blood and bones, but something about his nerve sparks a significant enough inquiry for my eyes to open and my head to turn. Facedown, he’s bare-assed naked, stroking his cock with his hips arched up, and keeping one hand on the wall behind him. It is, without a doubt, the most outlandish position I’ve ever seen. I furrow my brow.
Takes all kinds of kinds.
He unexpectedly turns to look at me. “… Are you okay?”
“No,” he mumbles.
“Talk to me.”
He hesitates, but I’m practicing patience and say nothing. I give him time because really, what else can I do? All we have is time. “My dealer found me on the streets at fifteen. I started running and doing prostitution to pay for my keep. I don’t know how to handle sobriety. I don’t know how to do this without someone having the upper hand or ramming my backside.”
“What’s your drug of choice?”
“I like blow,” he honestly whispers. “And I like big, sexy guys.”
I ignore the last sentiment and continue with my line of questioning. “And why were you homeless?”
His voice cracks as he confides, “My mom died, and Dad was never around. I was an only child, and I did the best I could.”
Understanding he was as broken as Megan Folly, I knew I could do better. I could do more. I could change his perspective, and it wasn’t about protecting the world, but saving one.
“Flip the fuck over and stop the trigger.”
“I can’t,” he argues as I take the lead and stand beside his bed. It’s a risky move. If Mock catches me, I’m fucking toast. “I don’t know how to do anything else.”
My hands are fucked.
I can’t get off if I want to. Nor can I do anything to jar him out of the hell he is in, but his low expectations are to get raped because he thinks that is what he deserves.
I’ve seen it time and again. Victims of both sexes lower the standard out of repetition. It’s not quite Stockholm but still a crippling disability.
If the template doesn’t change, unless Mock is standing guard—permanently—Naby will leave the big house in a year only to end up right back where he was.
And something about that notion and Barnaby Shanks doesn’t sit well with me. He can go and have all the words in therapy, but actions speak louder than words in changing the pattern.
Resting my right arm above my head on the wall, I stay put and use my voice to say nothing more about his fucked-up topography. I will speak when they cannot. I will be the voice of reason, resistance, and rebellion. I’ve got five weeks to change him—five weeks in a cell to imprint a new map.
I peer over his thin body, and my eyes land on his shaft. He’s relatively well endowed for as small as he is and I understand why he was popular in the social circle he kept.
Naby wasn’t running drugs on the street. No, he was a well-kept hustler in high-rise hotels with designer label duds and the excellent snow. This moment of truth is undoubtedly a rare thing.
For both of us.
“Show me,” I bravely mutter, leading and catching his stare. “Stop replaying where you’ve been. And start thinking about where you are going.”
“That’s hard when I don’t know.”
“We’re going to find that,” I assure as his hand slides up over my abs. “Together.”
“I’m not going to be your new problem.”
His rapid strokes slow to match the undulations of my breath as something transpires between us. “Just stand there and stay looking like that.”
“… Like what?”
“Sinful,” he breathes moaning. Strange because at the moment I feel rather mutant-like and not quite myself. “Ecstasy.”
I’ve seen his crush on me and ignored it. I’m open, but there are hard limits. I’ll stand guard and try to teach him a better way, but I’m not going there with Naby. I’m not crossing the line with Mock. Naby may be beautiful, but— knowing his history—redemption is a long way off.
Nonetheless, my body reacts to his long, slender fingers coaxing over his dick. His hands stay firmly pressed to my belly as he shoots his load, and I close my eyes.
“Good boy,” I praise, knowing I’m saying it more for me than him. “Stand your ground.”
He smiles.
And I go to bed rock hard thinking about sad blue eyes and a raspy voice.
It’s ridiculous.
I can be a manwhore with as many damn girls as I can get, but caring about another guy—not Deacon Cruz—well that was a motherfucking crime against humanity.
It made zero sense.
Why could I be almost good to Cruz and so far out of line with Iris?
Let’s be clear here—I’m a guy who bends the rules when needed. I’ve never labeled myself, but even if I don’t label, I still need to identify.
Because if I cannot identify—for example, I want a submissive woman on all fours—how the hell do I satiate the desire?
I can’t.
And when I can’t solve a problem, I end up acting out. Read: I behave like a slut. So, to spur on growth, I’m practicing to identify, not label. I have to if I ever want the relationship I deserve with Iris. There is no getting around this boulder, so I’m chipping at it until I can make a tunnel.
I’ve never been to a gay bar or sought out a male hookup, but by the same token, the right guy on his knees asking my Dominant to play will spring forth certain events which might be construed as gay.
I think of myself as friendly.
My father would murder me with his own hands if he knew his only son wasn’t one-hundred percent straight. Truth told I’m closer to the middle lands of sexual preferences.
But we don’t ever talk about that.
Crime against my father.
Crime against the son.
I’ve been hit on by men and declined their advances. I shunned a lot of male Dominants during most of my formative years, but Dominic Gennaro got me. His high protocol tutelage proved worthy enough to kneel for, and I did, repeatedly. I swallowed and bent and loved every minute of it.
But Dom also ignited my fetish preferences, and I was no longer willing to gulp it down or bend over. Out of respect – one Dominant to another – I would defer to guys like Mock. Even to Dom or my other trainers because that was proper protocol. To be seen as a Master, I had to exhibit responsible behavior by honoring those who came before me.
It’s tricky.
This world I live in.
However, there are times when other young Dominants will defer to me. It is an invisible, impromptu ranking system. Who can you out top? Who is leading if there are just the two of you?
I’ve also used my diverse sexuality to my advantage with guys like Delarte Cristos and Jonathan Finkle, where sometimes assuring the deal means skirting the edge and letting cum sanction the action.<
br />
There is one exception in the spectrum.
There is one son.
And he is a Saint.
His name is Deacon Cruz. Comparing the ones to benefit me to Cruz isn’t like comparing apples to oranges but apples to steak.
And Cruz is a prime, rare cut.
Deacon Cruz fought me, and that took balls. He had the attention of my cock on his first swing. My mind burst with the absolute divinity of him. I fell in love with Cruz because we were special.
Now, I should specify that little statement. Being in love runs the gamut of my relationships. I was also in love with my Nonna. It doesn’t mean I was banging her. It says I was in love with her spirit and who she was. I’m also in love with Anna and Trudy. I’m in love with Iris, too.
In love does not have to mean romance.
I hear the questions—Am I in love with Jaid and Amber?
No, not in the same way, and the reason is simple. They don’t want to be in love with me. The act of being in love requires a deep connection, a mystical spark, and unconditionally loving another person regardless of what they may bring to the table, but both people have to be in love for it to happen.
There is no room for unrequited love in the in love aura. I imagine one day I will be in love with my children.
Maybe my definition of in love is flawed and fucked up, but it works for me.
Problem is I’m not that different from Naby, and that idea scares the fuck out of me. Only I haven’t been hustling for coke, but money to take my father down.
Was it worth it?—I don’t know.
Was I good to Deacon?—I felt like I was until a quarter of Dale Archer’s money came into play. And then things got—complicated.
“We should be over there,” Deacon said from the window seat. The garage doors were wide open as he sat staring at the Delirium clubhouse across the street. It was spring and one of the few days without the clinging humidity. “Getting drunk and laid.”
“So, go if you want,” I said, draining the noodles to put them into the creamy Alfredo sauce. I’d been cooking for over an hour, chopping vegetables and making fresh pasta. “I’m staying at home.”
“You’re so in love with Iris,” he mumbled off, not entirely wrong. Grabbing his empty bottle of beer, he walked towards me. He took the last drag off his smoke before dropping the butt in the bottle and tossing it in the trash. In joggers and no shirt, I felt his stare on my crucifix.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, stirring the sauce. “Talk to me.”
“Your fucking olive skin and silver chains.” He blinked up and laid his lips on my bicep. “I hate what you do to me.”
I laughed. “You love me!”
“Yeah, but...” He paused, licking the swirls of ink on my arm. His slow, sensual slurp woke the pierced beast. I went from flaccid to hard as a fucking stone fast. “How long are we going to keep this up?”
“… For the rest of our lives?”
He tugged off his shirt, and I noted the gold cross I had given him. It wasn’t quite a collar. It wasn’t quite one either. I grinned. “You’re so fucking white. You need some sun. You’re like a damn vampire.”
“I’m a biker, Nero.”
“I’m aware of this, Cruz,” I mentioned, dropping the noodles in the sauce as his hand skimmed over my erection. My eyes rolled back in my head. “Holy fuck, you’re going to make me burn dinner.”
“I just want to know how long we’re keeping this up.”
“… Until you can’t get me up?” I charmed with a snarl.
Licking his trembling lips, he asked, “Did you enjoy your negotiations with Archer?”
I breathed, turned the burner off, and sat down the spoon before facing him. “Are you asking me if he was you?”
“I’m asking if I’m okay or was this the beginning of our end,” he thoughtfully stated. “Because I’m not sure I can handle losing.”
The night with Archer hurt both of us. My bank account was thankful, but my heart was heavy with remorse. “If you think for one minute that I’m not yours…”
“And Iris?”
“Part of the package,” I reminded, holding his gaze. “This doesn’t have to be complicated. Don’t overthink it.”
“Says the guy I’ve watched pace naked in front of windows at four in the morning.”
“I need you, Deacon,” I confessed, unwavering. “You know me better than I know myself, so what do you think I’m going to do?”
“I think you’ll be ruling a Saint until you reach heaven.”
I chuckled and stepped forward. “It meant nothing to me.”
“And what happens when I mean nothing?”
“Do you honestly think that would ever happen?” I countered, refusing to let him dodge the issue. “Answer me, boy.”
His blue eyes flicked up to meet mine as his pink lips parted and he said the words to send me reeling with want. “No, Sir.”
Lifting my hands, I pushed him to the wall. My fingers edged around his cheeks as I brought my lips to his. His dirty blonde hair brushed against my flesh as I pressed my chest to his and breathed him in. I loved this man. “Who do I love?”
“You love Iris,” he whispered, darting his tongue over his pout. “You love me.”
“Don’t you fucking forget it.”
“I can’t,” he said, skimming his hands over my guns. “But you can’t check out on either of us. You’ve built this, and you’ve got to stand strong and don’t bow before anyone.”
“I promise,” I mumbled as he shoved me back a step and lowered to his knees. His fingers eased along my waistband to drop my pants. He kissed my belly. “Oh God, fucking hell… Cruz.”
Palming my cock, he showered my dick in little pecks before sinking me deep into his throat. My fingers laced through his hair, urging him on. I’d be coming in less than two minutes if he didn’t stop. I was in so much trouble with Deacon. He was loyal and kind and everything right as we soared through the night.
In the early morning, I awake in the cell, soaked with sweat and cum. I heavily breathe as I toss my head to the side and see Naby, sitting up and staring at me. “… What?”
“You were mumbling.”
I close my eyes, not from embarrassment, but the resounding truth I’ve been avoiding out of fear. “What did I say?”
“Let’s just say,” he lustfully whispers, “I don’t know who Saint is, but I wouldn’t mind being him because that was fucking beautiful.”
Tell me.
26
Eight-Venom
Missing Cruz, I take up a confident swagger I had avoided displaying until this moment.
But now, I’m fucking mad as hell.
I’m mad because I had to come to prison to figure this shit out with the Bindel murders. I’m mad because I had to send my girl away to keep her breathing. And I’m fucking angrier than a lunatic on steroids that I’ve felt the need to hide who I am for twenty-five years.
And let’s not forget, I’m mad my serial cocksucker is roaming the South with weapons and my Mistress.
Because, ya.
He’s my boy.
“I need a shower,” I mutter to Naby. He looks eager to oblige. “Nowala!”
He hops off the bed and moves the sheet from my body. “You need to do some laundry,” he quips, smirking. “And we need to get you some food.”
We sneak out of the cell to the showers undetected. There are a few inmates taking advantage of the solace in the stalls. We head to the last one and spot Mock, full-on, in his birthday suit. I have a nice body, but even I am slightly jealous of his.
“Come on,” he insists. Before I dissuade the idea of getting in the shower with him, damn Naby is stripping me down. They’re caring for me like their own, and it means a lot, especially since I’m basically helpless. I’ve been weaseling out of my pants and pissing sitting down cause I can’t hold my dick. Naby’s been wiping my ass, Mock’s been bathing my body, and it’s random as to who gets to feed me. Even Tiny did th
e honors one day.
Naby is laughing at Mock’s tickling of me. It isn’t intentional, but the light touch of fingers on my hips make me squeal.
“What are you doing?” I gave Iris a scolding gaze as she trickled her fingers along the curve of my hip. I tucked up into an aerial fetal position with my arms and legs flailing about. I was laughing.
So much laughter…
I opened my eyes to see Deacon between my legs, pumping his cock…
“Raniero!” Cameron shouts as I’m jostled from the fantasy before my dick erupts gleefully again. “You got a visitor! Hurry up though because you’re walking with the field crew.”
Heat. Humidity.
All day.
We make haste in the shower and dressing my ass as I walk marginally stupefied to the visitation room. I’m high on thoughts of Iris and Deacon and New Orleans.
Heat. Humidity.
Sweat. Clinging skin.
Snapping my teeth over my bottom lip, I spot an unusual visitor. I pick up the phone. “What are you doing here, Cristos?”
“It is good to see you too, son.”
I smile. “Apologies. Just unexpected.”
“Why would I not come and see one of my favorite sons?”
I respectfully give a nod of his acknowledgement. It means a lot to me. Not because I think highly of him—Delarte Cristos is as ruthless as they come—but I know he would have no issues accepting my burgeoning identity.
In fact, he’d probably throw a grand party with hot bastards popping out of cakes and topless girls dancing on the tables.
“I need you to understand why I’m marrying Cas.”
I’d heard the rumor. “I’m assuming it has to do with the guns and assorted items being run for Cinco now.”
His lips curl up; he understands the use of people better than most. “Cassidy is funneling those weapons for The Unholy.”
Leaning forward, I simply say, “Cas needs to be careful.”
Famous Last Words (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 2) Page 21
