Leaning up, I ask, “What are you doing here?”
“Don’t sit up,” she orders, dropping her backpack in the chair and straddling over my lap on the sofa. “I love all this ink,” she gushes, smoothing her hands over my chest. Her eyes explore over my skin. “I could spend hours studying you.”
“What are you doing here, Prissy?”
Her dirty blonde hair brushes over my abs, and she smiles. “I need to talk to you about what happened after you called me.”
Wishing she would hug me, I rub her legs. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, Iris called me,” she whispers with a sadness. “Mock and Iris rented a car in Alabama and drove to the safehouse Randy Bianchi owns in Florida. He was up in North Carolina when they arrived.”
My hands stop to rest on her thighs as I brace for the rundown. “I’m starting to feel like there is a reason you are sitting on me.”
“Yeah, so you don’t run off,” she points out with a laugh.
“What happened?”
“They were jumped as soon as they arrived. Cas thumped Mock in the head and Mitch…”
The gloomy note in her strikes the deep chords within. “Please God don’t say it…”
Her eyes cloud up as she lowers her head to her chest. “Mitch roughed her up, but she ended up getting away. He caught her, took her back to the house, and scrubbed her raw. Somehow, he managed to get a syringe load of Deacon’s swimmers, shot them in her vagina, and took her to the hospital. He told her if she said anything to the staff, you’d be a dead man. They ran the rape kit and the rest you know.”
Popping my jaw, I clench my fists as my nostrils flare. She was damn smart to sit on me. “Mitch fucking raped her…with Deacon’s squiz.”
“Yeah,” she replies, solemnly. “You don’t want the details.”
With a raging squint in my eyes, I growl, “Ya, I do.”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “You don’t.”
“Where the fuck did he get a load from Deacon?”
With a glance to the windows, she shrugs. “Maybe a condom with Amber?”
“He doesn’t…never mind,” I elaborate as her scrutiny sends a chill through me.
“Say it,” she encourages, placing her hands on my abs. “Own it, Lucas.”
I’m so unbelievably pissed off we didn’t see this coming. I prepared for countless attacks from various adversaries, but I never spotted this one. I failed. I lost. This is on me. Iris is sitting in a hospital bed because of my ignorance. Tears stream from my eyes. Opening my mouth, I let my voice rip, “Cruz doesn’t even wear condoms with Iris, so why in the fuck is he wearing them with Amber?”
A snarky smirk upturns from the corner of her lip. “Because Amber is almost as bad as Cas, Sal. You just don’t want to see it. Amber’s a sweetheart, but she’s a fucking addict.”
“Deacon doubted her from the beginning, and I didn’t listen.”
Her fingers twist her hair back into a rubber band. “My guess—he pulled it out of the trash can at some point. But I know Mitch, he’s not the brightest bulb on the tree. And Cas is so strung out on whatever she can get her grubby paws on that I didn’t believe they did it alone.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it all seemed too convoluted for Mitch and Cas to have come up with on their own. So, yesterday I got on a plane to Boston.”
Anger pulses through my veins as my demons surface. “Why the fuck did you go to Boston?”
“Because I wanted to ask Cesario myself,” she mentions. “I needed to know the truth.”
“Jesus, fuck! Jaid!” I howl out, not believing she could’ve done something so incredibly stupid. “If he finds out about us…”
Raising her hand, she interjects, “He’s not going to because I made a deal to get you out of here.”
This is getting worse by the second.
Please stop the ride.
“What kind of deal?”
“He will make it all disappear for Deacon if you agree to come home.”
“What?” I shout, unable to hold back. “I don’t want to go home!”
“It doesn’t matter what you want, Sal,” she coerces. “I can get you out of here tomorrow. Tomorrow. Think about that.”
I shudder. I can’t even imagine being at home with my father. “Do I have to live with my parents?”
“No,” she whispers comfortingly. She knows how hard this is on me and how much I hate my father. “You have to be in Boston by October 1. The second you arrive, all of the evidence will be shipped promptly to your loft in Houston, where it will be picked up for destruction. If you change your mind October 2, he vows to use everything in his arsenal to destroy anyone and everything you love, including the members of Unholy and Juliet. You back out, prepare for a massacre.”
“This is too simple,” I mumble, furrowing my brow. I’m not buying it. “There has to be more.”
“There is…” she laments, keeping watch over me. “And this is the part you will hate. You have to agree to marry someone, not Iris.”
“What?” I bark out.
“You have to agree to marry…and Cesario swears he will call off his hounds on Iris, including Mitch Daniels.”
“So, I get married,” I repeat, breathing deeply. “Deacon stays out of jail, and Iris doesn’t get hurt.”
Her face sulks with my pain. “I’m sorry, but this is the best I could do.”
“Oh, my God, Jaid! I fucking hate him so much!”
“I know you do,” she consoles, understanding I’m pinned like a bug under his thumb. My father knows it, too. “But I can tell you. He doesn’t know Deacon Cruz is part of The Unholy. He thinks you are nothing more than friends.”
We’re so much more than friends.
“You could decide to run off and be a gay lumberjack, Sal,” she ironically teases as I try and smile under the fog of pain. “And I would still love you. My love for you is unconditional.”
“Where are Cas and Mitch?”
“Neither one has been seen since the hospital,” she informs, holding my fingers. “Iris is boarding a plane as we speak to England. You probably won’t like what I did, but I hired Aimee Eldemann to escort Iris. If Mock got dropped that fast, you need to consider if he’s still fit enough to do this line of work at the level we consistently perform.”
“… A girl?” I burst, uncertain how I feel about Aimee standing guard over Iris. Aimee is a hacker; Jaid is a mercenary. There is a difference. “Are you insane?”
“You have Deacon,” she sasses. “All is fair in love and war. And Aimee is good. Besides, it was a far better choice than Maddy’s suggestion of Bertrand.”
“Dear fuck…no…”
“You saw her?”
“Ya.”
She quizzes, “Anything?”
“Not like Iris.” Confiding the truth, I whisper, “Not like you.”
“You don’t have to say that,” she protests, lowering her body to mine. With her head on my chest, I calm. I breathe. I relax. “You think about the deal; I’m taking a nap.”
“I don’t want to think about the deal,” I groan, resting my hands on her butt. “I’m damned either way. I either lose Deacon, or I lose Iris, or I lose both and end up a vagabond on the streets of New Orleans.”
“Which one can you recover from?”
Staring at the ceiling, I snort, “In those situations, neither one.”
Her eyes peer up to me. “Which one are you closer with?”
“If I choose my bro over my ho, I’m a douche canoe. Or I can stay with Iris, risk her life, and lose Deacon. These aren’t good choices!”
“I know, but there aren’t any more prizes behind the curtains. You can play his game and figure out how to win it. Or he is going to play you in his game, and you have a guaranteed loss.”
“That’s an interesting way of putting it.”
“Deacon has been with you since Kaci passed,” she blurts, not excusing her words. “You have to do what
is best for you. This is one time where you don’t need to work the big picture. You just need to get through today. Don’t worry about Iris. I know that sounds callous, but we are built and trained to be attacked. She knew Mitch was about to violate her, so she hit the power button and shut herself down. Self-preservation is always rule number one.”
A few minutes pass, and I hear her weighted breaths. She is resting. My mind tosses the two people I love the most back and forth, and somehow, I never consider the one dozing on top of me.
She’s right about Iris. Mitch is trained to destroy, but rape is low. I know he’s done some things in the past, but the past never meant more than the future does right now. And I hate to think how much angrier I would be if it were a random stranger who wasn’t trained in our game. Iris would be devastated, and I would be a monster. I’m not dismissing or excusing the act, but there is nothing I can do about it.
Believe me when I say, when I find Mitch Daniels, he is a dead man.
By my unholy bare hands.
With my eyes slit open, I spot the darkness pouring in the windows. Jaid remains on top of me. I ease my hands over her bottom and feel the silk. I think nothing of it because she probably got up to piss and stripped off her pants. We are still, lulling, and peaceful. I’m in a tranquil place for the first time in months, and I fall back to a dreamy sleep.
We’re kissing as her hips grind into mine. Our greedy tongues war over the space as we make out. I’m not totally awake, and neither is she, but I’m all the way up. I latch my fingers into her panties and pull them down. Her hands find their way to my shaft.
“God, you feel so good…”
“You don’t want this,” she mumbles, stroking me. “I know you don’t.”
“Yes, I do,” I insist, lost in the magic spell of her touch. “Put my dick inside of you.”
Her firm grip leads my cock to her opening as she slides on. I buck my hips up thrusting deep and kissing her more. “I need your tits, boo.”
She tangles out of her shirt, and I suckle on one nipple as my finger and thumb toy with the other. We are sleep fucking. Hot. Heavy. Lustful. “I need your cum in me, Sal.”
“Don’t stop,” I urge, gripping her hips and rolling faster and faster. “Fuck me, baby girl. Fuck me harder.”
I feel her pussy tighten around my shaft. Tighter and tighter until I want to spill inside of her. “Sal...” she moans through the first waves of her orgasm. “Sal…”
Grabbing her butt cheeks, I thrust deep and purposeful. “I need to come.”
“You could marry me,” she offers sleepily. “I filed the divorce papers before I left New Orleans.”
“You would marry this bastard?”
“I would marry your bastard in a heartbeat.”
“I’m so fucked up though, Jaid,” I murmur, suffering through the agony. “I like Deacon’s cock.”
Her lips brush against mine. “Then, I would love it.”
“Fuck!” I howl, coming hard and riding the wave of ecstasy. “I hate how fast you can make me blow.”
“Because you don’t want to admit how much you’re in love with me.”
Catching my breath, I confess, “You’re right. I don’t.”
“Kaci didn’t put me on the menu,” she whispers, passionately kissing me again. “And it was the biggest mistake in your programming.”
Tears float in my eyes. She’s right—because she is always right. “Get up and get on your belly, I’m not done yet.”
Easing off of me, she says, “Yes, Sir.” I grab her wrists and pin them above her head before I thrust into her ass. “God! Yes!”
She’s so sweet. So tight. So good.
And I’m so fucked.
50
I’m Not A Nice Guy, Dammit
September 19
After spending the evening with my dick in every orifice—some multiple times—of Jaid, I wake up refreshed and ready to confront the issues ahead. She left an hour ago with a hug and a kiss.
I’m showered and dressed in the clothes – ripped jeans, tank top, and a hoodie – Jaid brought. I don’t know where I’m going or what I’ll do, but she left a backpack with plenty of toys—my phone, my computer, and my tablet. There are more clothes, deodorant, and a toothbrush, too. She even brought a pair of my running shoes. I’m pumped and ready to get this on. A little sleep turns me into a maniac; sleep sex turns me into a hyper maniac.
I will crash when the demons rise, but for now, I’m riding the high.
Mierne’s bipolar diagnosis was probably spot on, along with everything else.
It’s Iris’ twenty-eighth birthday today. I pick up the burner phone and dial her number. I get a generic message.
“Hi! It’s me. I just want you to know I’m sorry about everything. I wish I could be there. Happy Birthday, Baby! I love you…”
Guilt pummels into me like giant boulders. I did some shit I shouldn’t have done. Like Jaid’s ass. Or maybe just Jaid.
I’m the arrogant asshole doing this to us. I’m the bastard pushing her to go. I’m the cocky son-of-a-bitch asking her to marry me from prison. I’m the dick making no excuses about what we could withstand. I’m the manwhore sticking my cock in any wet winking pussy.
I’m the motherfucker choosing Cruz.
And I’m still the fucking idiot calling Iris—MINE.
Before I get a bad rap, let’s clarify a few things. Iris put a Glock to my temple. Iris pushed for her initiation. Iris offered her services for a bachelor party. Iris spreads if the need suits her strategy. She works cock the same way I do pussy, and that is why I am madly, fucking crazy in love with the bitch.
But right now—I have work to do.
I need this shit with my father to be over with. I’m not sure what that means or how I go about eliminating him. Maybe I suffocate him with a pillow or garrote him with razor wire. I don’t know, but I’m confident enough to figure it out.
Deacon is right; I run from emotional connections with women.
Jaid is right; she is the exception to the previously mentioned thought.
Why?
My beautiful Pixie.
I’m trying here. I’m working on not spreading the negative name-calling of my wife. Iris makes me nervous like I’ll never be enough. Not good, strong, tough, or brave enough. I worry I cannot defend her honor and protect her from the familial monsoon we have following us everywhere we go. I fear rejection. And the walls come up faster than my dick rising to greet a nice rack.
I love women.
All women—shapes, sizes, colors, ages—it doesn’t matter. If I have a spark, I want to fuck them. It’s like a calling card, but at some point, I know—it has to change. But the key for now is survival.
Iris surviving.
My surviving.
We need to live to have lattes and chocolate croissants, remember?
Staring at the wall, I decide to five-finger the owl. I’m going to need him/her/it far more than Ronnie. Besides, when I get where I’m going, she’ll have a job offer on the table and enough money to buy a whole barn of owls.
Out of nowhere, I consider calling Emily, but what do I say?
“Hi, I’m coming home, so my father doesn’t destroy the two people I love.”
Somewhere an eighteen-year-old boy is crushing on a broken girl. And maybe that is the source of my slutdom, always longing to repair and make women happy. I don’t think how fixing one will break another. I don’t ever let it cross my mind…until now.
Iris will be devastated by my impending nuptials.
Holy fuck owala…
“I don’t know what happened yesterday,” Ronnie says, strolling in at one. “But your release was sitting on the fax machine this morning. We’re processing your paperwork now. You should be out of here by three.”
Unconcerned about leaving—probably because I know I am leaving—I ask, “Did you find a house?”
“Actually, I found a hard cock,” she mentions with a wink. “Jamichael took me ou
t to dinner, and we ended up vavavooming,” she raves, shaking her hips. “It was so good to have that kind of physical love again, Sal.” She rushes over to the sofa and sits beside me. “I want to thank you for humoring me and making me think of something other than the past. Grief is such a beast. It tears your life into shreds, and you end up becoming nothing more than tattered pieces of who you used to be. It’s no way to live. My kids need better, and I deserve better.”
“When he proposes, you have to invite me to the wedding.”
She giddily laughs. “We are a long way off from that, but a little dinner…a little vavavoom…it’s a good thing.”
“Just don’t get caught up in all physical and no emotional.”
Don’t even think it; I already know.
“I won’t,” she says, smiling. “Tonight, we’re taking the kids to the local carnival.”
“I’m really proud of you.”
Her hand pats my knee. “Why?”
“Finding happy.”
“Lucas Salvatore Raniero?” Officer Carmella Rodriguez says.
“Yes, Ma’am?”
“Sign here and initial there,” she says, placing the papers on the counter. She lifts the box and flips open the lid. “Here are your things. There weren’t any clothes?”
“Nah.” I smile at the cute officer as I flirt, “I came commando.”
She can frisk me anytime.
Ronnie brought my original clothes to me when I was stashed in her office, and they’re in my bag already. I grab my wallet, watch, rosary, and the plastic bag with my jewelry. “Thank you!”
She blushes and says, “Good luck!”
Taking a few steps away, I peer down at Ronnie. “I hate goodbyes, Raniero.”
“This isn’t goodbye,” I say, realizing I never made a move on her. It’s a rare feat for me. “This is, I will see you again very soon.”
Her eyes well up with tears as she ruffles my curls with her chubby little fingers. “Oh! I got you something!” She flies back to Carmella, who is grinning at me. She’d swallow. “Here,” she says, handing me the Wiggs Correctional ball cap. “It’s yours!”
Famous Last Words (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 2) Page 40
