Famous Last Words (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 2)

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  But I am starving.

  And I crave every drop.

  “You can do the prevention beforehand—buttering my bread now—or they can try and turn back the clock when I’m going after their asses in five years. Problem with that is it can get toxic quick. And by the way, you look fucking hot as sin eating cheesecake half-naked.”

  “… So, they are planning on the future, and you’re one of the mafioso princes in the running…”

  “They want to form relationships with me now,” I honestly mention, hearing my arrogance.

  Ambers waves her fork like a baton and asks, “Who are they?”

  “Cinco is top dog at the moment, but they could be ousted quick depending on the gifts.”

  “This is so fucked,” she whines, dropping her head. Her hair splatters all around. I briefly consider swiping the cheesecake and scarfing it in one bite.

  “You think it’s confusing for you, imagine being me,” I say, grabbing the second bleu cheese cup. “I go one minute from this and having someone higher up paid off to eating fucking slop and cold showers. The extremes are real. Not everyone is on the same payroll. Just as many want to see my ass right next to Kace. Time is fluid.” I moved back and forth with a wave of my hand. “When you fully understand that and watch it in action, more of what the trio of badass does will begin to make sense.”

  “Who gets the advanced Sal studies?”

  “We never like chasing our ass,” I contend, licking the cup. “It’s so much fucking harder.”

  “I only have forty minutes left,” she complains, studying the ticking time bomb of our demise. “I hate clocks.”

  “That’s fair,” I reply, sinking my teeth into a strawberry. Food is so damn good, but the memory of strawberries and Deacon send a shiver through my spine. “You wanna suck my dick?”

  “Yes,” Amber says, tugging off my pants. “How long do we get to keep this up before Deacon seriously wants to kill us both?”

  “We have an agreement.”

  “When in the slammer, all rules are off?”

  “Pretty much, both ways—in and out.”

  “So, if Iris wants to go fuck Deacon, she can?”

  “Or you,” I snicker. “But that’s not where she is.”

  “You act like you know,” she insinuates as a smirk surges up on my lips and I preemptively duck. “You fucking know…”

  “Of course, I know where she is,” I cautiously assert as her hand swats at me. I cannot trust even my Mistress that much now. I must be careful. “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t know?”

  “You would love it if I was fucking your bitch,” she says, grabbing my shaft and placing the head at her entrance. “Licking that pussy like you eat bleu cheese…”

  I snort. “I would love it if the ladies of the trio would...bond.”

  “Bond?” she bursts with laughter. “You mean triangular lovins?” Flicking her fingers into a V-shape, she swoops against my tongue. “You would freak the fuck out if you saw Jaid, Iris, and I going at it.”

  I raise a brow. “My only question...who leads that show?”

  “Easy,” she answers, tossing her hair around and lifting her arms. “Me.”

  “Don’t bank on it,” I warn. “Iris has Dom’s exquisite training under her belt. She might give you a run for rank.”

  “I bet poor Jaid would be offended,” she says, riding on my ridge. “I think Jaid could spank.”

  “You just like a good session,” I goad, snarling. “And this isn’t a blowjob; this is fucking.”

  “If my only job—aside from your grocery list of items—is to serve as entertainment for the masses, Jaid is pure research. Where does Iris fit into your little deviant trilogy?”

  “Network,” I hastily answer. “Not in the same way as you; she brings them in from Jaid’s intel, you make them never forget.”

  “If you’re keeping me this busy, I’m quitting my day job.”

  I urgently pulse, fearing we’re deviating into the lands of her hatred of my girl. Glancing at the clock, I’ve only got to hold my tongue for eleven more minutes. “You won’t need it. Raniero is gonna set you up.”

  “Hopefully not in the big house.”

  “Nah, it will be her big house,” I reply, not defining who her is. “Gonna give my bitches the world.”

  “… I need to ask you a question…”

  “Shoot,” I encourage.

  “If something happens to Dale Archer... What happens to Mae?”

  “I would assume he has that arranged, though I am not for certain. You can ask his sister,” I thoughtfully answer, uncertain about her line of questioning. “Why are you asking?”

  “Because I…” she says as a darkness envelopes over her eyes. “I love that little girl, but I don’t…”

  “Hush, I get it.”

  More than you know.

  But I can’t keep doing this anymore…

  36

  More Than a Breakout

  Alone, I sit in the room for a long time and think about my life. The things I want. The things I need. And the essential pieces I must have to be complete.

  I’m in prison with two decimated hands.

  I’ve been in a constant state of doubting the family I built.

  I didn’t stand up and fight for my partner.

  The temple of my skin has become a shrine to the tribe.

  I separated from the girl I am in love with.

  And I’m giving away my best friend to that Little Bitch…

  Jesus, what have I done?

  Stumbling out of the chair, I head to the door, but my knees collapse to the floor as the reality hammers with a thunderous roar. “Oh my God, what have I done?”

  We’ve not even fired our first shot, and I’ve already lost. Under pressure, I hyperventilate. My lungs tighten, feeling like I have an elephant on my chest. I’m sobbing hard as I fear my world is coming to a disastrous end.

  Who is she playing for?

  Heaving and crying and rocking, I whisper, “Someone… God, help me… Please.”

  With my bandaged hands laying on my thighs, I desperately want to strike something—anything. Shit is out of control, and no matter what I do, I’m fucked. I’ve been so blind, stuck in the tunnel, and the only thing I could see was not losing.

  There is so much more to who we are than one victory.

  Was it all worth it?

  Lifting my arms, I cover my face and lean back. I don’t want to lose, but I’m smart enough to know if we enter the ring with sharks, we may get eaten alive.

  But what will I have left in the end?

  I’ve given up everything for a chance to do it better.

  The purpose of our war was to break The Arrangement of The Four Horsemen, but Amber has made it perfectly clear she doesn’t want kids. She won’t even accept Mae, who may end up needing her more than anyone else in the world.

  This is shock… I’m in shock.

  I’m not standing by to watch our actions break any more offspring. The Unholy will be the last generation of broken children. Bloodletting is supposed to save a life, but I’ve been bled dry. And I was too much of a dumbass to realize it until now.

  Amber’s so self-absorbed that if something happens to Dale Archer, she will not take an innocent baby. Mae is closer to Amber than anyone, and she’s fucking named after Amber for chrissakes.

  But Amber—she would turn the other cheek and walk away.

  And she is now my number one enemy.

  Rising off the floor, I stride through the hallways with a renewed purpose. I pass by Ronnie in her office and decide to stop.

  “Oh no,” she says, spotting my tear-stained cheeks. “What’s wrong with you, handsome?”

  “I need a phone.” Without question, she hands her personal cell to me. “Thank you.”

  With the distressed look on my face, she gets up and closes her blinds before saying, “I’m giving you a few minutes alone. Do you need anything?”

  To
rewind the fucking clock and do everything differently.

  “No, Ma’am,” I say as she leaves. I sit in her desk chair and stare at the phone as I try and decide who to call. I can tell Trudy she was right. I can leave a message for Deacon and tell him to stop, but I think he already is. I could try Dom, but what if I’m wrong about him, too.

  Who do I trust?

  Sweat pours from me as rip the bindings off. My hands tremble as I dial the only number that matters. I swore I wouldn’t do this, but I need to for the sake of my sanity. I have to warn her I’m not sure Amber is playing the same game as the rest of us. Puffing my cheek out, I exhale and lean my forehead on my hand.

  “Answer the phone dammit.”

  “If this is a booty call, you picked an odd time.” We laugh.

  “Where are you, Prissy Pants?”

  “I’m at the loft researching Diablo. Where are you?”

  “I’m still in the cage,” I reply, wiping my tears on my pants. “Shit is getting fucked up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure we need to be trusting Amber as much as we have been. I think she may be a hotbed of trouble waiting to happen.”

  “No newsflash there, Nero,” she says as I hear the flick of a Zippo. “Do you need a tail on Iris?”

  “Is she pinging?”

  “Uhmmm, one sec,” she says. I imagine she’s at my desk and rolling between computers. Her dirty blonde hair tossed up in a mess with about seven pencils sticking out of it. “She is in Toronto.”

  “We need to get her out of North America.”

  She sighs. “I’m aware. So, what triggered your newfound knowledge of Amber?”

  “She won’t take Mae if something happens to Dale.”

  “… What?” She yells. “Are you fucking kidding me?” There is a long pause before she whispers, “I’m so damn angry, Sal. What is she thinking even saying something like that?”

  I don’t have an answer, so I simply reply, “I don’t know.” I pace my breath with the rhythm of hers. “How is the Diablo search going?”

  “What search?” she states, frustrated. “I don’t know that we’ve ever had someone quite so invisible, babe. I mean it’s as if it was one of us trying to disappear. Diablo either knows what the fuck he is doing, or he has paid a small fortune to let someone make him invisible.”

  “I sent Amber to work on it with you.”

  She laughs. “She isn’t going to find anything. I’ll have her chasing her own tail in no time.”

  “Do you need anything?”

  “Hmm, a bottle of vodka and some cunnilingus wouldn’t be bad.”

  Kicking back in Ronnie’s chair, I cackle, “I’ll get right on that for you.”

  “I know you didn’t ask me to, but when I found out about Mock – Jeremy Miller – I ran a detailed report on him. He’s clean as a damn whistle. Maybe I should fly up to Toronto and have dinner with them.”

  “Is he with her?”

  “According to his phone, his location matches your pet project.”

  Rubbing my brow, I ask, “How do you have his phone number?”

  “Because Iris has been calling me; remember, I am Dom’s wife now. And you told her she could talk to Dom.”

  All of the issues slide from my shoulders as my sole focus rests on my doll in Toronto. I’m speechless and in awe that Jaid has spoken to her. “Do you have her number?”

  “I do,” she answers. “Do you want it?”

  My hands turn clammy as I clamp my teeth onto my upper lip. With Dom and Deacon providing her primary care, I put the restraints on to keep me away from her, but she is the addiction I can never get enough of.

  Sitting in Ronnie’s office, I don’t want to stay sober. “Give it to me.” She rattles off the number, and I brand it into my mind. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Just promise me I’ll live long enough to not die as Priscilla Gennaro.”

  “I swear.”

  “Be good,” she whispers. “I love you.”

  She hangs up before I have a chance to respond.

  I love you, too…probably more than I should.

  “Hello?” At the sound of her voice, tears fill my eyes, and I lower my head. The words won’t come as I sob like a baby. I know she can hear me. I know she knows it’s me, and I best be the only man calling her with this much intimacy. Or he is a dead man. “Lucas, say something.”

  “Marry me.”

  Her giggles fill the phone. “Would this be after we reconnect over lattes and chocolate croissants?”

  “Ya, I mean, we should catch up a few times.”

  “… You mean to hook up a few times?”

  “Something like that,” I say, hoping I don’t sound crazy. “I mean if you want to.”

  “I think somewhere around here I have a collar and it may have your name on it,” she teases, lightheartedly. She sounds good. Happy. Healthy. Whole. “What’s your name again?”

  “Badass Motherfucker.”

  “Ahh, yes—that is what it says,” she continues our playful reverie. “So, does this mean I will be Mrs. Badass Motherfucker?”

  Leaning back, I stare up at the ceiling. All the answers come. And they all end with Iris. “Depends.”

  She gasps. “… On?”

  “Do you swallow?”

  “Really?” she asks, offended. “Is that the best you got?”

  I snicker, “At the moment, ya…”

  “Oh, maybe I need another applicant.”

  Stroking my chin, I snarl. “I have everything you don’t think you need.”

  “Damn,” she whispers. But I can tell she’s smiling. “You’re kind of cocky.”

  “You don’t say…” I hear her laptop chime with mail. Like the jealous, slightly possessive boyfriend I tend to be, I ask, “What was that?”

  “Reservations from your boy, Cruz.”

  “Where are you going?”

  She sighs. “You don’t want to know. You think you do, but if I tell you, all you will end up doing is thinking about me.”

  “That’s all I do anyway,” I argue.

  “Alabama and then Florida.”

  “You need to hurry up and get out of the states,” I encourage, strumming my fingers on the arm of the chair. “It’s not safe. And you need to be careful what you tell Amber.”

  “Did she do something?”

  I take a minute to reflect on an appropriate response. “She didn’t do anything per se, but she is acting weird. Just be careful with everyone.”

  “Does that mean I need to be careful with you?”

  With a grin spread across my face, I mutter, “Nah, with me, you can fuck careful.”

  “Oh, I’ll fuck something alright, but I’m not a poon,” she informs, cattily. “I have a little ability in my trunk.”

  “Baby,” I charm, grinning. “You’ve got a lot of talent in your trunk.”

  “You boys all have toolboxes; trunk seems more apt for me.”

  Under my breath, I mumble, “I wish I was all up in that trunk.”

  “If anyone else thinks they’re getting your temple, they’re going to end up flatlining.”

  My brow perks up with how vicious she is with her love for me. “Stop turning me on.”

  “Are you getting hard?”

  “I’m on the phone with you,” I point out, rubbing my hand over my growing erection. I can’t stop it, and I don’t want to. “Just the sound of your voice is enough to make me crazy.”

  She giggles. “Are you alone?”

  “Ya, I’m in an office.”

  “You should stroke that bad boy,” she seductively encourages. “It would be so good.”

  “What would be good is to be inside of you.” Her sweet and delicious moan fills my mind, soaring through my heart and landing in my cock. “Are you touching my kitty?”

  “Silly boy,” she teasingly chastises. “… Would a naughty girl like myself do something so raunchy?”

  “Mad fucking love, baby g
irl,” I growl, reaching under my pants and stroking the length of my shaft. “Slip your fingers inside and believe it’s me.”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing for two months?” she questions with a sensual sigh. “I realized after leaving New Orleans, and I couldn’t just ignore the ache between my legs. I was already dealing with the loss in my head and heart.”

  “We gotta change the way we’re doing things, Angel,” I confide, knowing how good we are. “I’m getting out of here soon and seeing if I can come up with something else. No guarantees.”

  “You better be pumping my bad boy,” she says, almost dismissing the notion of working our way around the obstacles. It doesn’t upset me because I know she can’t mentally prepare for the good when I may not be able to provide.

  Self-protection – emotional and physical – is paramount in our world. She’ll build a wall around herself, lock the door, and throw away the key if it keeps me from hurting her. I would do the same.

  “Fuck, I need you,” I confess, closing my eyes and falling into the lure of her gasps. She’s coming soon, and I will follow. “I love you so goddamned much. Swear to me that you will be careful.”

  “I will,” she whispers, her voice hitching between the breaths. “I promise we will get out of this.”

  “Come for me, baby.”

  Dropping my hand, I tuck my erection away and listen to the sounds of her pleasure carrying me away. I am not here. I am not in prison. We are together, and the sounds she makes are mine. I caused them. I did this.

  Seized in her ecstasy, I’m blown out of the water, skyrocketing fast with blazing embers driving forth my will to fight. I’m relentless in my quest to have this love. And I’ll be the ruthless bastard because nothing—absolutely nothing—will get in my way of having Iris.

  We will never be the same.

  This moment changes us.

  This moment defines us.

  This moment is who we are and who we will become.

  With barely a hush, I say, “I love you more than words…”

  “You’re going to make me cry.”

  “Don’t.”