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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  After a couple of hours, we hit the panhandle of Texas, where everything is flat. The roads are relatively empty, and we’re boys on two wheels. I need not specify what we’re doing.

  I will say, Deacon’s golden locks look incredible blowing at that rate of speed. He’s a bastard to race against, and I concede—I won’t win. Give me a dirt track and some mud, game on. But this is out of my league.

  We pass briefly through New Mexico and stop in Trinidad, just inside the border of Colorado. Even seeing the base of the mountain ranges starts to clear my head.

  Filthy and sweaty, we rumble into the truck stop. We plan to grab a quick bite to eat, take a piss, and get back on the road. I’ve already made reservations at some swanky place in Boulder. I’m sure we’ll be quite the sight walking into their grand lobby.

  Ask me if I care.

  “Good ride,” Deacon mentions as I follow him into the vast convenience store. We take off in separate directions. I take a leak and then browse the abundance of jerky flavors. With a nudge to my shoulder, he nods his head to come on. I notice his glancing around as we walk past the bathrooms to the shower stalls.

  I cannot help but think of Iris.

  Scouting the hallway, he captures my eyes with his and smirks, unlocking the door and pulling me inside. Pushing my body against the door, he grips the front of my hoodie and moves with urgency. His lips are on mine in seconds as we combust into a firestorm. “I can’t take this anymore,” he mutters against my mouth. “I fucking need you now.”

  “Jesus, Cruz.”

  Dropping to his knees, he admires my erection tucked beneath the denim. “I hate how well you can pack a pair of jeans.”

  “Because you never get a pair that fit,” I mutter, keeping my voice low. “Stop talking and suck me.”

  And he does.

  I’m waiting in the office of Dr. Harry the next afternoon. My knees are violently shaking until Deacon lays his hand on me. “Calm. Breathe.”

  “Mr…” Dr. Harry says, looking at the file. “Raniero?” He turns back into his office.

  “Good luck!” Deacon says, swatting my ass.

  Taking a seat in the leather chair across from his desk, I watch his skimming of my case…err, chart. “I’ve spoken with Dr. Mierne Risen.” I panic, darting my gaze in every which direction except on him. “I think we need to start some medication.”

  “… You’re not going to talk to me?”

  He closes the file, drops his glasses on top of the folder, and rubs his eyes. “Mr. Raniero…”

  “Sal,” I interject.

  “Sal, I see hundreds of these cases every week. You guys go out into the field, abuse your bodies, and neglect your mind. I don’t need to pick you apart to make a diagnosis.”

  “Will you at least humor me?”

  He sighs. “I’ll humor you. I think you’re a classic case of bipolar disorder with overlying anxiety and PTSD.”

  I cross my eyes and tilt my head back as I slump in the chair. “I know it’s not what you want to hear. But you’re not accustomed…you’re not trained to hear other people…guys in your line of work are alpha-type, on-the-spot decision-makers, and it works. It’s how you stay alive. But in the context of your mental health and well-being, eventually, it fails like everything else. During your forties, your eyesight falters, your joints start to ache with arthritis, etc. You’ve done a lot of work for someone so young. You’ve busted your psyche.”

  “… Can you fix me?”

  “Fix is a loose term,” he replies, picking up his glasses and pecking at his keyboard. “If you’re asking if I can put you back to where you were at fifteen—no. I’m not a therapist, but I do recommend if you feel like you need to talk to someone, then you do. Don’t do it for any other reason than you want to or you’re just wasting your time. I’m a butt-kicking psychiatrist who has been where you are.”

  Strumming my fingers together, I say, “What if I do nothing?”

  “You will continue to deplete your reserves, and the behavior will likely get worse. The paranoid delusions, hallucinations, nightmares, promiscuity, drinking, and other issues will only continue to amplify. You put yourself at risk for addiction. And eventually, you will end up in the psychiatric ward for an extended hospitalization.”

  “Fuck…”

  Showing some bedside manner, he breaks into a laugh. “That’s not an unusual reaction.”

  “I’m a happy guy.”

  “This isn’t about being happy, Sal.”

  Popping my jaw, I say, “How many medications?”

  He tilts back and forth. “Probably four pills several times per day and two injections a month.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ.”

  Clasping his hands together, he snickers, “Also not an unusual reaction. Your psyche is in dire need of help. All these behaviors you are displaying is your brain screaming for some relief. The only other option is moving to an island and disassociating yourself with any stress points.”

  “I can’t get out of it…”

  “No, this is one time you can’t get out of it,” he acknowledges, consoling. “But if we can find the balance in the pharmaceuticals and you do the work—alone or with a therapist—we can get you balanced.”

  “What if they don’t work?”

  “They’ll work,” he assures. “But we’re going to have to achieve the proper dosing for maintenance. No two patients are ever the same.”

  Bending over, I tuck my head between my knees and hear him get up. His hand rubs over my back. “Look, son, I’m being honest with you. You are twenty-five years old and far too young to be struggling as bad as you are. I don’t want to send you away without discussing the use of prescriptions. I don’t want you to be a suicide case. I want to treat you and get you past merely surviving to thrive, but you need to be patient with yourself.”

  With my eyes swollen from sobbing, I lift and say, “Okay. Do it.”

  He quickly veers around his desk and asks, “Any problem in doing your injections?”

  “No,” I mumble.

  “Anything else?”

  I blink up and ask, “When is the self-harm too much?”

  “Almost every physician will tell you any at all is cause for alarm. We aren’t programmed to crave pain the way you do. My best advice regarding your fetish is you walk away until you’re more stable and capable of handling the responsibility of your actions.”

  With a handful of prescriptions ordered, I leave his office and walk out to the waiting room. Deacon stands up fast and sees the agony in my expression. “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” I mumble. “I’m falling apart in my core.”

  Behind the reception desk, Connie says, “He’d like to see you again in six weeks, Sal.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  She hands the reminder card to me, and I head for the door as Deacon asks, “Where are we going?”

  “To say goodbye to Juliet.”

  We pick up all the scripts on our way back to the hotel. I’m sullen as we walk inside the lobby. We head up to the room, and I grab a bottle of water. I line up the multi-colored and different shaped pills in a row as Deacon studies my moves from the sofa. I toss all four pills in my mouth, gulp a mouthful of water, and swallow. I close my eyes.

  I hate medication.

  Dropping my jeans, I rustle in the large bag. I draw up the serums to make me better and jab the needle into my thigh. “Your ability to do that is remarkable.”

  “You could do it,” I contend.

  “I don’t know,” he says, stretched out on the sofa. “I don’t really like needles.”

  I shudder with disbelief. “Have you seen how much ink is on your body?”

  “It’s different,” he replies, sitting up. “Why don’t we go down to the bar and make some trouble? Staying in this room isn’t helping you. All you’ll do is keep spinning what you have to do over in your mind. We can leave first thing in the morning. Come have a beer with me.”

  I
agree.

  Getting up, he says, “I fucking hate it when you get quiet.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Across the street to the mall to get us some clothes.”

  While he’s gone, I take a shower and call Iris. “Hey, Baby, it’s me. I just wanted to tell you how much I love you. I hope you’re doing good. Give me a call when you get this.”

  We never say bye.

  It’s too close to the end, and we’re certainly not doing that, either.

  Deacon returns in record time with four fucking bags and a huge smile. “What the hell? How are we going to get all this home?”

  “I don’t fucking know,” he says, pulling a box out of the bag. “Look at these damn shoes!”

  Glancing at the bright turquoise high-tops, I roll my eyes. I should never let Deacon go shopping with Iris. I’ll have to build a new closet because the boy loves to shop. Just like his mother. “I got you something.” He hands a small envelope from his jacket to me.

  “Why is this concerning me?”

  “It’s not what you think,” he replies.

  My eyes light up. “You found someone with needles.”

  “I did!” He excitedly flutters his brows. “Get your damn dick right.”

  “I will but not tonight.” I wink.

  I dress while he showers. Bastard even bought me my cologne. I’m pacing around in the black slacks and dark grey shirt as I call Iris again. “You’re starting to worry me. Please call me. I love you.”

  With the towel wrapped around his waist, Deacon stands in the doorway and says, “Maybe you need to give her some space.”

  “Maybe I already suffocated her.”

  “You don’t believe that,” he says, yanking off the towel as I sit on the sofa and prop my right ankle on my left knee. He rubs the towel over his head and drapes it around his neck. I’m overtly staring. “What?”

  “You’re fucking gorgeous.”

  He beams a wide grin at me. “Are we going to go have some fun?”

  “Ya,” I say, curling my finger at him. He steps closer between the coffee table and sofa. I take the palm of my hand and run it over his gentle washboard. I blink up. “Don’t let me go.”

  “I’m never letting you go,” he promises, picking up the chain I put on his neck so many years ago. “May I go get dressed, Sir?”

  I twirl my finger, and he spins. “I love that ass.” I pop his flesh with the back of my hand. “Go get dressed, and then I want my bands back.”

  “… All of them?”

  Not thinking, I mention, “Nah, but I need the ones from Kace.”

  Putting on his jeans, he rapidly looks up. “When the hell did she stop being the cunt, whore, bitch I married?”

  “When I decided, I needed to stop hating her.”

  “Peace looks better on you than war, brother.”

  I take in the sight I thought I’d never see. “Cruz, did you buy jeans that fit?”

  “Yeah,” he whines, walking stiff-legged like a robot as he buttons up the white shirt. “But oh, my fucking God…”

  “Tuck your shirt.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  I lift a brow. And that is all it takes.

  With a huff, he unzips before smoothing the fabric down. “Better.”

  I smirk and pucker my lips a few times as he spins. “Damn boy, you look good.” He is sexy as fuck with his pouty bottom lip sticking out, and his damp hair slicked back but not combed. His ass looks incredible, and I think I’m jealous.

  “I feel like my dick is in a paperclip.”

  “Just wait until you get a boner on the dance floor.” I chuckle.

  He repeatedly blinks at me. “How the fuck am I dancing in these?”

  I lift my shoulders with a shrug. “Girls love that shit.”

  “You seem entertained.”

  With a suggestive glare, I ask, “… Did you just call me a girl?”

  “Nah, if anyone is the girl in this relationship, it damn sure ain’t you, Snookums.”

  53

  Have you seen Sal Raniero?

  Three hours, a large vegetarian pizza, ten wings slathered in loads of bleu cheese, a dozen craft beers, and as many tequila shots between us later, we’re in the back of a taxi going to some club our waitress recommended. There is a line around the building as the thumping rhythm rallies up the crowd.

  We pull up to the door and step out. There is a bouncer moving people along to the back of the line. Deacon hands him a couple hundred, and we’re in. We are getting our wrist bands when Deacon shouts to the cute, pink-haired, pierced babe behind the counter, “Can we get a table?”

  “I’ve only got one,” she booms, bopping along to the music. “It’s in the second tier in the corner. The view is good, though. It’s five hundred for the night.”

  I smirk at her. “How much are you?”

  My question is unexpected, and she grins and laughs. “There are plenty of hot babes ready to attend to your needs.”

  Again, I ask, “And how much are you?”

  “I’ll do it for a grand.”

  “I’ll give you two if you’ll sit in my lap,” I counter as she agrees with a grin. She gives me a high-five, and Deacon pays her. I pull a smoke out as she finds a replacement for the counter. Bounding down the few steps, she flicks her lighter, and I smirk. I know good, attentive service because I did it, and I appreciate it.

  “What are we drinking boys?”

  “Patron,” I say.

  “Salt and Limes?”

  I shake my head as we follow her into the club. The colorful strobe lights zip over the entire place as the music pulses through my body. I haven’t been to a club in years, and it feels good. It feels like home.

  Leading the way to the table, she takes my hand. “Here we are.”

  The excellent spot proves worth the charge as I scan over the entire place and realize I don’t have a piece on me for the first time in ages. That feels good, too. I hope the girl is worth it. My gut tells me she is. “What’s your names?”

  “Luke,” I say, smiling. “And he’s Vince.”

  “Awesome!” she says, lining up the glasses and opening the bottle. “I’m Riesling!”

  Well, we’re all embellishing our names.

  “Cheers to a memorable night!”

  “Cheers!” Deacon boasts as we down the shots. “Show Luke a good time tonight. He’s getting married in a few weeks.”

  I give him a disdainful glare. I don’t want to think about it. The idea of marrying anyone other than Iris is nothing less than nauseating. “Let’s do another!”

  We’re half-way through the bottle and Riesling is sitting on my lap when Deacon decides it’s time to hit the dance floor. He’s been eyeing this hot little blonde thing gyrating near the bar.

  “So, what do you do, Luke?”

  “I’m a mobster,” I slur out, proudly.

  She stops breathing, and her expression stills. “… Seriously? Like for reals?”

  “Ya, like for reals.”

  “Holy shit,” she says, wrapping her arm around me. Her taut white button-down is a half-shirt. I spot the black lace bra matching the ripped leggings and short red and black plaid mini-skirt. She pulls my hand, holding the cigarette to her lips. “Your friend looks like he’s having fun!”

  I was too busy staring at her rack to notice Deacon removed his shirt and stole the show. He’s cutting it up, the center of attention, and I’m not surprised. For reasons we won’t discuss, I know the boy can move.

  “That’s great!” I laugh, watching him in the packed house. “He’s having fun.”

  “You should be having fun, too!” Pulling the large vial from between her tits, she questions, “Interested in partaking?”

  Partake. Partaking. Partook.

  It’s a trigger word in all forms for my Pixie memories.

  With a snarl, I stuff the pain away. “Sure, why not?”

  We leave the table and make our way to the backroom
. The ganja smell fits the motif of black painted walls with purple velvet sofas and orange cushions. People are getting lap dances, blow jobs, fucking, shooting up—it’s a parlor of seedy activity.

  We find an empty corner, and I sit down on the sofa as she plops on her knees. The glass top tables are filthy, covered in booze, drugs, and cum. She’s cutting lines and lures, “Here, babe.”

  I’m no stranger to drugs. They loaded me at Sibyl, I partook with Cristos in the backseat of his car, and I’ve done the occasional line off my mistress’ belly.

  The secrets we keep.

  But in my current state of despair, I fail to realize two critical things. Every single time, they were a high-grade pure, not cut with something else. And two, I’ve got enough happy pills in my system to make a corpse grin. I’m usually good about keeping tabs on how much alcohol I’ve consumed, but I just don’t care anymore. I don’t have a gun. I don’t have a badge. I don’t have my girl. And in truth, I don’t have my life anymore as I fall to my knees in front of the table and snort a couple of lines.

  I’m twenty-five, single, and ready to party.

  Just forget about it all.

  Fuck it.

  Half an hour later, Riesling grinds on my lap with her shirt wide open. My hands are under her skirt on her hips. I can feel her panties, and I know this isn’t right. I know she isn’t right. I keep burying my nose in her tits, but no matter how many times I inhale, I can’t smell Iris.

  She isn’t her because she isn’t here.

  Riesling rocks her body against mine, and I’m thinking of my Angel and her riding my cock. I imagine her lush tits bouncing, and before I know it, I’m fucking coming in my pants. Riesling is so high, and she doesn’t even know.

  “I gotta take a piss,” I mutter as she flops onto the sofa. Knowing I’m never seeing her again, I say, “Thank you.”

  The wild club mesmerizes with the colorful strobes and pounding music. I find my way to the restrooms which are unisex in a huge hallway with about two dozen stalls. I stumble my way to the last one and close the door. I take a nice long piss, which feels fantastic. Pulling out my phone, I check my texts, praying to see one from my Dandy.