All to make me come home again.
All to make me Sal again.
In the bigger picture, we appear as a hiccup, a mere fantasy gone awry, but a closer look under the magnifying glass reveals so much more about the chronicity of our debilitating love. And it is—I am aware.
And that is the reason he cannot bring a certain girl into the mix. His loyalty stands firmly planted between two teams. There is no room for four. And the sons—who remain strong as four—are now focused by two, fighting in a savage battle to save one.
“Don’t move,” he asks of me. “Wait…”
Latching my fingers to his hips, I prepare to rocket forth. “What am I waiting for?”
“I just want to feel the rush of your blood and the beat of your heart.”
“You never know when the last time you will make love with someone will be,” I confess my hidden fears. “You never know when it will all be over.”
“Exactly,” he whispers, lifting onto his forearms. He tosses his hair back, showing his shimmering, sweating skin. “I won’t ever take advantage of the moment because I know what is at stake. I was convinced you were never coming back to me. I went to see a therapist. I went for long rides on desolate, lonely roads. I thought we were through.”
My eyes weep from his honesty. And now it is my turn. “Baby… No… We won’t ever end, but sometimes we scare me. We are going to go on until the end.”
“We scare me, too.”
I yank my dick out of his ass, pull off the sheath, and roll him over. “Just tell me we won’t kill her… I can deal with anything but that…”
“If we accidentally kill her, then we’re going down, too,” he mutters, gripping onto my biceps. “Because we will not live through the fall of our Queen, Sir.”
Laying my head on his shoulder, I sob because the ticking clock grows louder and louder with every passing day. Soon, the metronome-like rhythm will evolve into cathedral bells on Christmas morning, threatening my insanity.
“I’m wasting time with all this other shit getting in my way. I’ve got to prove myself worthy for The Chairman, not be cleaning up Dom’s messes or humoring Nico’s whims or dealing with Emily’s need to have a thing of her own. I need more time.”
“No, you don’t,” Deacon whispers, swiping his tongue against my lip. “I’m certain your invitation will be in the mail soon.”
I breathe. “How do you know?”
“Because I met with Keishi and spoke with him for hours,” he says, brushing his hands over my naked flesh. “He has some concerns with the name.”
“What does he want my name to be?” I plead, almost begging. “I will fucking drop the Raniero if it means having Iris.”
“Sal Nakamura,” he teases, tightly gripping my ass. “It could be a thing. Stop letting the shit worry you; let me take care of it.”
“You’re busy…”
“Dammit, Sal… I have a full staff, ready and willing, on my command. Let me handle the bullshit.”
“We need to pull away from PacWest,” I mention, as his hand slips between our bodies. He aims for the target and slowly pulls my body down onto his hardened shaft. “What are you doing?”
“Fucking you, from below, Sir.”
“Jesus fuck…” My eyes roll back as my head lulls. His fingers lace into mine. “You’ve been paying too close attention.”
“You have no idea what I’ve been up to.”
With the dance of his hips, he wraps our locked fingers around my cock and we bind around the flesh. The grip is tight as I drip the spit from my mouth onto my magic cross. It slides around, coalescing with the pre-cum as we move fluidly in a singular thrusting motion. All of our sins await confession and the love takes hold. “Don’t fucking stop, you bitch.”
“Would I do that to you?”
“You might,” I consider. “You can be an ass.”
His one hand leaves mine and he latches to my hip and guides my body along the track to my temporary salvation. We’ve fasted for so long. We’re hungry—starving—and ravenous in our consumption. “This love was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to admit. This need for you. This lust for you. And I’m not going to let anyone hurt you while lying down. I will stand up. I will fight. And if I have to die for you, I will, Sal.”
His words hit like a thousand razorblades digging into my soul. “Don’t say that…Deacon…”
“We know there is a chance one of us isn’t going to make it out of this, and if there is a choice—if there is ever a choice—I’m going down on the sword.”
Sweat and tears fall to his chest as his absolute conviction rises up from the center and he solely conquers the mountain. I’m humbled and terrified. “I shouldn’t have shown up here.”
Within the binding love, he rages—sacred and profane, “Why, because this is too difficult for you to hear? Kill the Saint and save yourself.”
“Because I don’t want to lose you anymore than I want to lose her!”
“So leave,” he hisses, pushing against my abs. “Get your body off of mine or stop thinking we won’t have losses, but you don’t get to do both. You don’t get to do that. You have to be stronger than that. And you have to remember this triangle we built is psychotically spinning without any sobriety in the three of us. Iris is just as lost as she ever was, and if you think three years has changed that, you are fooling yourself.”
“What has changed?”
“Her waistline. Her resolve. Her attitude. Her behavior. She knows who she is and what is expected of her; I suggest you familiarize yourself with that, too.”
“You bastard,” I snap, trying to get up, but he holds me steady.
His intense stare is as unrelenting as it is unapologetic. “But the one thing that hasn’t changed is her craving for you.”
“And for you…”
“You don’t want to know,” he warns with a precise incision, dissecting my heart in two. “I passed your tests. I passed their tests. And I’m still standing, trying to make it from one day to the next, and I’m doing it alone. You don’t get to back down, not when I put myself out on the plank for you and offered myself to the great white shark himself. You’re going to stand up proud and swagger over there like the son of a bitch I know you are. And you are going to own it. All of it.”
“My last name…”
“Ignore your fucking name. Forget about it. Let him get to know you, Sal. Your identity. Your choice. Your means. Your heart. Your soul. Because trust me when I say, the name really doesn’t matter. He isn’t petty in his judgement. He’s warm and so devoted to his granddaughter. He understands what he’s asking us to do…and he acknowledges he’s putting a massive target on her back…but he’s willing to break tradition for her to have this chance.”
“You make it sound like he is in love with her…”
“He is!” He lights the match for my lantern, illuminating the pits below. “Don’t fail her… Because she is fucking scared as hell, and she needs you to guide her way through the catacombs.”
Knowing the wicked devil in my perpetual hell, I fire back, “She needs you, too.”
“No,” he corrects with a shake of his head. “She wants me. I’m not necessary; you are. And I’m fine with that as long as I have a spot when you make it to your kingdom. I can take the scraps and leftovers out in the yard like a rabid hellhound as long as I get to lick the wounds of my Master.”
“Make me come, slut.”
“Gladly,” he mutters, bargaining with his tantalizing tone. “But you have to take my leash and follow my lead and promise to not let go. Regardless of what you see or hear or what the venomous demons’ spit, you accept the punishment and you allow the push.”
“Who is pushing me?”
His sly grin evokes a danger. “Salvatore Rainero’s Saint.”
48
I’m Pretty Sure Everyone Hates Me
I decide to stay through the weekend.
In Deacon’s bed. With his dick in my orifices.
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By Friday night, I determine we need jacks and steel plates to level up the house. I’m tired of being turned every which direction on the bed while trying to enjoy his gifts and seeing the slant of the floor. It’s fucking hard with my mental map.
He’s driving his beast of a truck up to Austin to go to the big hardware store while I ride shotgun and flip through the pictures on his phone. There are thousands and I steal a lot of the ones of Iris, making a folder on my phone and using an app to hide the thing.
Ain’t technology great?
We’re two young guys, in jeans and boots, wandering past all the do-it-yourselfers planning on their weekend of putting up ceiling fans and lights and blinds, heading to construction. It’s eight o’clock at night and if history repeats itself, the department will be empty. I grab about eight bottle jacks and a few dozen steel plates.
A few of those random DIYers are in the building department cashier line. I don’t think anything of it as I grab a couple of Monsters from the fridge. We wait like nice, polite young men, not the thugs we are. Not the lovers we are.
The cashier girl—Didi—is cute and blonde and flirting with us. “Shit, Deacon, go grab me about six of those 2x4’s,” I say, pointing at the rack right behind the line.
He runs off like the good little bottom he is.
“Sorry about that,” I excuse to Didi as she pulls out her book and scans the barcode to try and hurry up her line, which now includes an older couple with a complete bathroom overhaul—sink, toilet, and shower surround.
I go to grab my wallet when I feel someone grab my hand.
“You should call Ma when you’re in town, babe.”
“Holy shit!” I spin around and hug Trudy. “What are you doing here?”
She glances to Pico as I hand over my credit card. “He’s going to paint my bathroom this weekend. We came up to go to that new fusion Tex-Mex fish place.”
Deacon strides up with his arm full of lumber. His nostrils flare wide. I mean like if the boy could breathe fire, he would’ve incinerated Pico Neves. He gives the respectful, yet disdainful nod—you know it.
I finish paying for our materials, and we move out of the way.
“Why don’t we have dinner tomorrow night?”
Oh. God. Here. Goes. My. Sexfest.
Because he is so pissed, Deacon says nothing, so I reply, “Sure. Sounds great!” I feel Deacon’s dragon breath inching closer by the minute to me. “Can we bring anything?”
“Just yourselves,” Trudy says with a big grin. She is happy. Pico is happy. And this makes me happy because six months ago, she endured something no one ever should. However, Deacon is not so happy. See he doesn’t mind Pico as a business associate. In fact, he welcomes it, but if he thinks about Pico sticking his dick in his ma—all fucking hell breaks loose. “My house say about 6-ish?”
I give Trudy a kiss on the cheek and a handshake turned bro-hug to Pico.
Everything is calm.
We may make it out with my hellhound not biting anyone until Pico bumps Deacon’s shoulder and proceeds to egg on, “I like your Mama.”
I quickly place my hand on Deacon’s back, and we exit without any altercation. By the time we get back to the truck, he is ranting with all kinds of bullshit about how she doesn’t know what kind of man he is. I put his nonsense on ignore. Pico isn’t a bad guy. He’s a lot like Deacon. Scary but true.
I load our shit alone while he stands there smoking like it’s the only thing keeping his ass in check. Still, he goes on and on. “Hold up, babe.”
Twisting my ball cap around, I sprint across the parking lot to the older couple and proceed to start loading the new bathroom stuff onto the back of their trailer. Deacon shows up with innocent puppy eyes, screaming love me. He helps me and we bid the couple farewell.
“This is why you deserve Iris more than I do,” he says, breaking down, as I pull out a smoke. “And I tried to convey this very thing to The Chairman, but I’m bad with words when I’m nervous.”
The cigarette dangles in my lips as I say, “What the fuck are you on about now, Cruz?”
“You...” He stops and stares up at the light with bugs buzzing all around it. With the wind blowing his hair, I see the dampness in his eyes and know he’s about to run a fucking river through the home improvement store parking lot. “You are so much better than me. You are kinder, gentler, and more polished. You’ve got more panache. And no one thinks that because you never let them see it, but I know…and Iris knows…it’s true. And that is the guy you need to let Keishi Nakamura meet, not the asshole you normally are.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say, flicking the lighter, as we walk back to the truck. Lightning zigzags across the sky and he tosses the keys to me. “Panache makes me sound flamboyant.”
“You can be amazingly full of panache at times, Sal.” I lift a brow, kiss my middle finger, and flip him off. “And vain. And slightly gay.”
“I’m never happy,” I refute, grinning. “But I may have a thing for your ass.”
“Good because my ass has a thing for you.”
After grabbing a box of chicken nuggets in the drive-thru, Deacon proceeds to feed me—Yes, slathering each one in bleu cheese dressing. I insisted they give me four cups, despite not ordering a salad. I flirted with the girl, telling her how I needed the sauce. Her grin and priceless response was worth the fuss as Deacon relaxed and started cutting up in the passenger seat.
With a suggestive grin, she taunted, “I can give you the sauce, honey.”
This is the topic of discussion on the way home as opposed to a million ways to kill Pico Neves and not get caught. “She called you honey! Can I call you honey tonight when you’re about to blow?”
“You call me honey and I swear I’m giving you a nose job.”
“But honey…” His fingers play with my curls beneath the bill of my hat. The sudden, torrential rainstorm on the backroads is making it hard to see.
“You need new windshield wipers,” I complain. “And some spotlights. It’s fucking dark out where you live.”
I don’t see the buck crossing the road as I jam on the brakes and we go sliding into the ditch. “Fuck!” I glance at Deacon bleeding. “Where the hell are you bleeding from?” I pull back his hand from his forehead and gape at the gash. “Why the fuck weren’t you wearing your seat belt?”
“I was feeding you.”
I roll my eyes and rip off my t-shirt, handing it to him. “Put this on your head until we get home. Then I’m stitching that up and whipping your ass for not wearing your seatbelt.”
“Sal, what the hell do I ride most of the time?”
“A motorcycle without a helmet,” I answer, fuming. I gripped the steering wheel so hard, my hands are swelling. “Seatbelt nowala!”
Deacon mutters, “Did the buck make it?”
“I can assume, since you are still here, the buck made it.”
“Can we go look?” He softly whispers as I pop it into four-wheel drive and drive along the ditch until I can get his big girl out. “I take it that is a no.” He huffs as I yank out of the ditch do a one-eighty on the road. I’m so damned angry with him. He is fucking bouncing with glee that we’re going to check on the thing that almost killed us.
I shine the lights all over the woods on both sides. “He made it.”
“Barely.”
“Barely counts,” I reply, curtailing any further comment with a flat hand. “Just don’t.”
We’re almost home when he says, “I’m sorry.”
“Stick a nugget in my mouth with your seatbelt on. And it better be dipped in bleu cheese.”
“I have to open a new one because the last one is all over my dick.”
In the middle of the road, I stop the truck and turn on the light. “Dear God…”
He takes one look at my awestruck and inspired gaze. “Sal…no…”
“How many cups do you have left?”
“None,” he says, giving me his best poker face. “None at all.�
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“Do you have bleu cheese at home?”
Knowing he does because his kitchen is stocked with everything I love, he sighs. “I hate you sometimes.”
“I hate you, too.” I mischievously grin. “And I’m gonna hate blow that dick when I get you home.”
“This is gonna be so gross,” he whines.
“One of our bodies would be gross in a black bag, too.”
And with that, he shuts up.
Sitting on the toilet lid, Deacon is playing my video game like a little kid while I give him some lidocaine injections around the wound. It’s not bad, mostly surface. I irrigate along the length and give it a moment.
“You know, a man named Lars taught me to do this on bananas with Kaci by my side,” I confide a piece of my past. “Her running stitches were fast, pretty, and straight. I was so jealous.”
“… Really?”
“Ya,” I say, distracting him. I don’t notice that he’s diverged from my game to my Iris folder. “This should be fine.”
“I don’t care if it scars,” he replies, flipping pictures. My girl is naked, wrapped provocatively in a sheet, on the screen when he asks, “When did you take this?”
“When I went to say goodbye to Anna.”
“Did you have time together?”
“Ya, we made love.”
“That was the last time she was with anyone until I went,” he innocently remarks. I crack my neck and finish the sutures. I place a bandage on it. “We’ll need to take that off tomorrow.”
He can tell I’m upset and grabs my hand. “You don’t get to be mad.”
“I am.” I move to pick up my gear, tossing it all into a small, black leather kit. “But not at you. I’m taking a shower and going to bed.”
“What?” He objects. “No blow job with bleu cheese dressing?”
Every Minute I Love You (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 3) Page 38
