The sun was fading by the time I headed back. I was thinking about Iris, my brain on the spin cycle as I tried to come up with a solution to get out of the mess I was in. It wasn’t cut and dry.
If I broke up with Emily, my father would know I was going after Iris and his immediate reaction would be to issue a hit. I hated to think how much her head was worth. Or that any number of guys or gals I knew would sail my ass down the river for the kind of coin he’d offer. Desperation made a man do stupid shit, including paying half a mil or more to expedite the services. Desperation made me pull into the dive bar twenty miles from home.
I needed company.
And I needed it asap.
My head was on the fast track to a place of pure hatred, where I would fly to Guam, steal the girl, and disappear into the jungle. What jungle didn’t fucking matter. The foliage would conceal us and money would buy the silence, but it was only a matter of time before luck and money weren’t enough. And one or both of us would end up dead.
Thing was I knew none of my associations in safehouses or other agencies would keep our secrets hidden for long. They were as gluttonous as the next guy. The only people I truly trusted were The Unholy.
I strode inside the smoky bar, ordered a beer, and meandered through the crowded place to the far end by the pool tables. Next to the wall, I took an empty seat on a stool as a hot little number with auburn hair in a black and red corset passed by. She was shooting against some scrawny looking, wannabe bear type. He looked like a biker reject with no cut and tattooed sleeves.
The waitress came by and I ordered another two bottles with two double shots of Patron. I had to erase the current thoughts of my dandelion’s brains being splattered in my hands. It was a lethal place for my mind and I knew it. Mistakes would happen if I continued doing the laundry of possibly.
My drinks came and I downed the four shots and ordered two more doubles. I had started in on my third beer when hotness asked, “You want to play a round, Sal?”
God, did I want to play around.
I nodded.
“Cause sugar, you shouldn’t be driving anytime soon.”
And that was how I met June Tulip.
She knew me because I was the Juliet poster boy.
What I didn’t know was I would end up following her home. With my wrists tied to her bed frame and a blindfold covering my eyes, I let her empty my sack until dawn.
She brought breakfast to me at two the next afternoon and we ended up spending the weekend together—mostly with my dick in her while we watched baseball.
My tame kink with June was the most I’d had since the night in the club with Amber. I was a recovering addict and her cheap drug only made my cravings worse.
Her four house slaves had never met a man such as myself. And while tempting to teach a few lessons, I knew I couldn’t, but that didn’t stop me from allowing their absolute subservience over me. Her girls did a fine job of licking my dick clean, but Juliet-caliber they were not. June, however, knew her shit and rivaled Serene in gear. Her penchant wasn’t whips, but paddles and restraint. Her slaves wore wrist and ankle cuffs, t-shirts, and thongs all the time. She kept a cruel ruler to frequently swat their asses.
She was a hard Mistress. Her slaves were well behaved, though slightly mouthy and remarkably sloppy.
After three days, I went home and June followed with her slaves. We cleaned for the next two days.
“Why don’t you let me help you find some better stock?”
“Do you know how hard it is to find anyone looking to move to Nebraska for eleven months?”
“Let me help you,” I said as we sat in my kitchen, sipping on sweet peach powdered tea. “I got a few friends.”
“Don’t I know it, Golden Boy.”
I won’t say June became the light in my darkness, but she serves as a flicker to guide my way back home. She reminds me of who I am, what I want, and where my heart longs to be despite my denial of such.
In a situation like this, my typical M.O. (modus operandi) would be to turn the other cheek and run, but a middle-aged woman like June is always irresistible to my fledgling. I couldn’t resist her if I tried, this much I understand about myself. If she had been my age, I would’ve railroaded her, taken the lead, and notched my belt with another one-nighter, but June proved a woman worth getting to know on her stories alone.
“Would you like to come over for dinner and the fireworks? Cotton is coming home and bringing the boys.”
Her daughter, Cotton Tulip, has two sons—Trent and Troy—by different fathers but refuses to marry anyone. She works two, sometimes three jobs, to make ends meet. I know all of this because I listen to June a lot, but I have zero interest in Cotton or her habits. I can’t say how much or what she does, but I know the zombie-look in her eyes. She’s on something, and I jump at every chance to be a male role model for the boys.
“I’d love to.”
9
Ghost-tripping Haunt
On July 5, Swain picks me up from the private airport. My hands are still in the cages. I’m going to my house outside of Boston which is not the same as I left it for one clear, distinct reason—Deacon Cruz isn’t there. He’s in Texas, but I only know that because Trudy called on Fourth of July to check in on me. They were attending Quad-F (Fourth, Firework, Frolic, & Fuck) at Juliet, and I hated to admit how jealously angry that made me.
I’m already mad when I get home.
Emily opens the door as soon as Swain’s black Benz pulls in the driveway. He carries my bags as she rushes to kiss me. She’s careful not to bump my hands. I reluctantly plant an unemotional peck on her lips.
“How are you?”
“I need a fucking cigarette,” I gruff like an asshole as we walk inside to the house that looks like a florist shop. They aren’t for me but from me. “And something to drink.”
“Come inside,” she pleasantly offers. “Should I make the normal?”
The new normal in the presence of Emily is a variation of The Godfather—don’t laugh—with whiskey and amaretto. I prefer it with Disaronno and peach whiskey—ya, ya…I know.
Peach fucking everything. Peach oatmeal. Peach protein shakes. Peach smoothies. Peaches in my salad. Grilled peaches with chicken. Peaches in my pasta with a light cream sauce. Glazed peaches on salmon. Peaches and Canadian Bacon on pizza—Deacon did it. Peachy fucking alcohol. I swear if there was a decent peach cigarette, I’d be inhaling it. And if Emily at all tasted like my girl’s peach pussy, I’d be drinking that, too.
Every day—I consume peaches.
I’m goddamned whipped.
On the way out to Nebraska, we stopped at a convenience store, I bought peach tea and a jar of peach baby food—it was all they had. Deacon looked at me from the passenger seat as I cracked my prize possession open. “Are you seriously about to eat baby food?”
“It was this or peach gummy rings and I had those last night on your cock. Can I eat my peaches in peace please?”
Sitting in my leather recliner, I note how she cared enough to put sports on the screen. This bitch loves me, so why can’t I love her? Any man would be happy to have a girl as malleable as Em. She deserves so much more than a man in love with another woman. But I cannot stop.
“Here’s your drink,” she says, putting the straw in my mouth. She filled a medium sized canning jar with the calming amber tranquility. I’ve refused any narcotics since twenty-four hours post surgery. It fucking hurts, but I won’t risk it, especially knowing where I’ve been in the last year.
I take a long slurp and she sets it on the table beside me. From her back pocket, she pulls out a fresh pack of Camels and taps them in her palm like an old pro. She says nothing as she strikes the match and inhales. “Since when did you start smoking?”
“I don’t, but I will for you.”
God, I’m such a fucking dick.
“The house looks amazing,” I compliment at how clean it is. “Have you been watching me?”
“For mon
ths, I have, but I can’t make my laundry smell as good as yours.”
“Extra softener and don’t over dry the linens,” I inform, taking another drag from her fingers as she kneels beside the chair. “You didn’t call.”
“Deacon called after the surgery and let me know how it went. I knew you needed time alone.”
“How is work?” I ask, knowing she recently took the position as curator for a local art gallery. “Do you like it?”
“It’s good. I’m able to set my own hours, which is nice. I have a new artist having an opening this weekend, so I need to attend the party if I can.”
I nod as she offers another drink. “Swain will be here.”
“Is Deacon…”
“I don’t know.”
I spend the next few days between the chair and the bathtub. Swain is easy going and doesn’t mind washing my dick or wiping my ass. Emily would happily do it, but I feel like I’m already putting her through enough hell in our unrequited fairytale of love.
I’m yelling at baseball on the tv Saturday afternoon when she appears from the bedroom in a short midnight blue dress. I literally do a double take. She is a far cry from the jeans, t-shirts, and ponytails of the previous week. “You look incredible.”
“I wish you could go with me.”
“Swain is driving you,” I remind.
She rolls her eyes. “I know. And Cat is bringing me home. I will be fine. Will you be okay for the hour he is gone?”
I nod and she leaves. Both Cat and Dom are attending the opening because it is Emily’s first show. Dom will have a few guys to watch over the exhibition as well as regular staff security and I feel good about the safety factor.
What I don’t feel good about is her scent wafting through the air and the erection throbbing in my gray sweats for which I can do nothing about.
Thankfully, Swain is bringing home wings, bleu cheese, and beer—so at least, there is that. I miss fucking Deacon like crazy. When he was here, I had lip service I could count on 24/7. I have no interest in having Swain cross that bridge. I want Deacon. I need Deacon.
It’s all too much as I struggle to reach the pill bottles. They’re almost full except for one day. I have pain pills, muscle relaxers, and nausea meds. I grab the Oxy, wrangle the bottle open, and take two with a gulp of peach sparkling water…and peach vodka.
And I sleep for the first time in days.
I awake with her hand on my chest. “Lucas, I’m home. You didn’t eat. Are you hungry?”
I glance at the sofa, hoping Dom or Swain are here. “I need to piss.”
She pushes the button on the automatic recliner and I sit up. “You took some pain pills.”
“Just two.”
She giggles as we walk across the living room. In her heels, she is a nice height to me. On appearances, we win the dream couple award. My dark olive skin and raven hair shadows her creamy pale flesh and light blonde locks. I frame her nicely and she easily fits me. We look good together.
She flips on the light in the bathroom, blinding me with the brightness of the white tiles I insisted upon. She chose the turquoise accents and insisted on the cedar soaking tub, bidet, double sinks, and massive shower with a steam option. The clear glass doors with a solitary lotus in each pane were my contribution.
At the toilet, I stand and wait for assistance. She doesn’t hesitate, dropping the front of my sweats and holding my dick while I relieve myself. She gives me a firm but gentle shake and flushes for me.
I hate being dependent, but I hated the idea of being down for six months (three for each hand) even more. This should be my final surgery, assuming I don’t encounter any bricks, but this is me—and I make no promises. Emily agreed to care for me, but I haven’t really allowed her to do such to the full extent necessary.
After washing her hands, she pulls her hair down and goes to take off the dress. Wanting to pretend I’m whole, I mumble, “Leave it on.”
“Are you hungry?”
“I’m starving.”
Sitting at our kitchen table in the dark, she feeds my hot wings to me. She drowns each one in bleu cheese and I cannot help but snicker. “You been watching me?”
“For months,” she says, feeding me a bite.
“Did you eat?”
“A had a blackened beef and bleu cheese salad at the restaurant,” she replies, offering another torn off piece of chicken. “And I brought you home a piece of cheesecake with peach and mango sauce.”
Let me repeat this in case I have not made it clear—I am an asshole for not loving this girl the way I should.
“You love me?”
“More than you can possibly ever know.”
Her big blue eyes blink at mine. Her lashes are long and dark; she has them, along with her nails done—in come fuck me red—every few weeks. She is Sal Raniero’s spoiled bride to be, but it doesn’t alleviate my guilt. If anything, her willingness to conform into my world makes it all worse.
She always dresses and acts appropriately whether in family functions or business dinners. I’ve never seen her let loose or drop the ball. She has been, for all intents and purposes, auditioning for this role of Mrs. Raniero for ten months. We make love regularly. She likes being head down and ass up. She swallows. She gives hand jobs with those CFMR nails.
She tolerates my friendship, which is really more of a love affair, with Deacon Cruz and doesn’t question it or her place. She behaves with my credit card. She wears her seat belt and drives the Range Rover SUV more like a grandmother than a twenty-year-old girl.
“I’m sorry I missed your birthday.”
“It’s okay,” she says, staring at the bouquet of lavender and white roses on the table. Don’t think I just sent white. There is also a dozen yellow, pink, red, and mixed bunches of flowers. I sent twenty arrangements. When I say our house looked like a florist shop, I meant it. “Serene and Nico brought my baby brother to see me. And Cristos even called. It meant a lot. We wished each other a happy birthday.”
Delarte and Emily share the same birthday—July 4.
Old Sal would have shown her real fireworks at Juliet. “You done? You’re slowing down.”
I glance up as the emotions unexpectedly hit like an eighteen-wheeler. “I’m sorry for being distant.”
“I’ve gotten used to it.”
“I don’t want you getting used to it. I don’t want there to be this silence…this void…between us anymore.”
Scurrying to clean up the mess and before I can stop her—not that I really can stop her—she is in the kitchen. I study her at the sink and I know by the way her head is drooping that she is crying. And it is my fault.
Under the lights in the kitchen, she spins towards me. “If you don’t need anything else, I’m going to bed.”
“Let me come with you,” I mutter, offering to leave my resident spot in the living room.
“You can.” She clicks off the light. “But I’m going to take a shower and read until I pass out.”
I follow her to the bedroom and watch her undress. Her slim figure glides easily out of the dress. She’s wearing a matching vanilla lace panty and bra set with stockings. She bends over in front of me to unfasten her heels.
Shit.
“Fuck me.”
She lifts upright and her hair scatters down her back. “Hmm?”
“Fuck me,” I repeat, standing by the edge of the bed. “Come take my pants off and ride my dick.”
“Lucas…”
“Don’t fucking Lucas me. Do it. I want my fiancée to screw me.”
Without another peep, she saunters over and pulls my shirt off. Her lips and hands press over my pecs as she lowers to her knees and pulls my pants off. Her hands are on my belly when she wraps her mouth around the head of my cock.
“God, I want to touch you.”
Releasing her lips from my erection, she peers up and whispers, “You can’t.”
I shove my body into the middle of the bed and lift my arms to prop on the pillow
s to either side of me so she doesn’t bump them. “You look like Jesus.”
Not exactly the look I was going for.
“You want to confess your sins?”
“I just want to sin,” she mutters, straddling over me. Her fingers fist around my cock as she lowers down easy and slow. “It’s been awhile. Don’t move.”
“I’m not moving,” I assure, feeling her wetness soaking around my shaft. It is heaven after weeks of absence.
“I know you and that hip dance from beneath.”
I mischievously grin.
Someone has been paying way too much attention.
10
Ghetto Thug
By mid-September, the cages are off and I’m back in the office. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m growing way too close to Em. My first day back at work, I stopped off at a jewelry store and bought her a pair of diamond earrings and matching bracelet. I took her to La Chapelle the following Friday and we made love all weekend between delivery orders.
She loves me, like really loves me. She lets me fuck her and watch baseball. She lets me eat her out while she watches romantic comedies and nibbles on pizza. We share bottles of beer and oddly enough, she still lights my smokes. Near the end of my time in the cages, I even let her bathe me and take care of my bathroom business.
“What’s it like…” she asked as I sat on the bidet. Her hands were cleaning my junk and my ass. “Being with another man?”
I was slightly stunned. “I’ve only been with two,” I replied with the truth. I didn’t count Fink or Cristos’ fascination with sucking my dick or my encounter in the alleyway. “Dom because he was my Master and Deacon because he is my…”
“Submissive,” she whispered, blinking up to me. “Deacon is your submissive.”
“He’s more than that.”
“Would you ever be with another man?”
“No,” I declared, standing as she dried me off. “My love for Deacon is solitary.”
Every Minute I Love You (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 3) Page 8
