Every Minute I Love You (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 3)

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  I shake my head, feeling despondent, as he turns on the shower. “Don’t get your wound wet,” I warn. He rinses off and I hand him a towel.

  “You could’ve gotten in with me.”

  “I really just need to be alone.”

  The next morning, I’m up before dawn. I quietly clean the house. I finish my tea. I make a pot of coffee just to smell it. And I draw out a quick sketch of the house and where I anticipate these bottle jacks will need to go. It’s not the safest route, but it will temporarily fix the problem.

  In his boxers, Deacon meanders out from the bedroom in a daze. He is not a morning person—at all. I blink and ignore the morning wood as he proceeds to yawn and scratch and yawn and scratch some more. He grabs a cup of coffee and lights a smoke as the silence is about to make my head explode.

  “You cleaned,” he says, setting the cup down in front of me. He isn’t thinking as he grabs another cup. He sits down at the table and realizes what he did. “Fuck! I’m sorry.”

  “How many times?”

  “… What?” He sleepily questions.

  Adjusting my hat, I look up from my drawing. “How many times did you put your dick in my girl?”

  “Twice.”

  I give a frown of disappointment. “You were there for fourteen days and you only pounded my bitch twice? What the hell, man!”

  I get up and head outside. I toss on my Henley and scout around the house looking for the ideal crawl space. He follows me, in his boxers. “You’re going to get poison ivy all over your feet.”

  “I’m impervious to poison ivy.”

  “Hmph,” I snicker, crouching down and shining my flashlight under the house.

  “Are you aware how much money you have?”

  “What does it matter, Cruz?” I yell, sticking my head into the opening. I back out and hop up. “It doesn’t matter if I have one green dollar or a billion; I want to do this for you.”

  I walk off, still pissed he only had her twice. I grab two of the jacks and some of the plates from the truck. I stride back over to get a full-on frontal view of him pissing. “What?”

  “Nothing,” I huff. “There are bathrooms for that.” I glance around at the ground and grimace. “It’s muddier than pig shit out here.”

  “Don’t act like you’re too good. I’ve seen you drunk and scrolling your name. I’ve seen you stoned and playing helicopter. I’ve seen you get off, get in, and get down, so don’t be your typical judge-y self.”

  “… Judge-y?”

  “Judge-y,” he repeats. “If you act like this around The Chairman, it will not fare well.”

  I’m going to hit him.

  No, no… I’m not because of his head wound.

  “This is what I mean about being an asshole. Don’t be distant.”

  Grabbing his arms, I shove his ass against the siding of the house. “Don’t fucking call me an asshole when you are the one who got to spend time with my girl. I have a right to be goddamned angry.”

  “You told me to do it! You made me go! Or did you forget that in your snow-induced coma?”

  I pull back, ready to swing, and walk away. “Don’t fucking talk to me.”

  I don’t see Deacon for several hours. Under the house, I hear him—washing his hands, flushing the toilet, and taking a shower. He walks from room to room and I wonder what the hell he is doing.

  Wedging myself out from beneath the house, I take a breath. My clothes are covered in mud; I am filthy. I walk around to the front to have a smoke and grab two more jacks when he appears on the porch, holding a plate and a bottle of water. My nose twitches from the smell of garlic and tomatoes. I’ve got built-in birthright radar when it comes to Italian food.

  “What the hell did you make?” I ask, stepping up onto the deck. “We gotta get you some stairs. Oh, my God… You made homemade ravioli…” We sit on his makeshift, mismatched furniture as I go to steal the fork from his hand. He slaps my arm—Thank God he didn’t pop my hand—and gives a damp washcloth to me.

  “Let me take care of you,” he says, picking one up and blowing on it.

  “I’m not a fucking princess, put the damn ravioli in my mouth.”

  He sighs, “Why must you be so difficult?”

  Pulling off my long sleeve shirt, I lean back, crack my neck, and take a long gulp of water. Mud is everywhere—caked on my boots, jeans, arms, and hair. I am disgusting and this bastard not only made me food but brought me a rag. I wipe my face off. “I’m sorry I’m a douche canoe. Thank you for making the ravioli for me. Did you at least make her come?”

  He rolls his eyes and shoves the fork in my mouth. “What do you think? You think I went all the way over there, hopped up on her like some sort of animal, got my rocks off, and yelled yeehaw?”

  “Better not have,” I warn. “My subs better have been good to each other.”

  “We were, Sir.” He pauses, thinking about saying more. “Until she threw me into the dungeon with the Goro gang.”

  I do a double-take and think about saying—she fuckin what?—but instead, I opt for something even more shocking. “That’s my girl.”

  49

  Skidding Hot Collision

  By mid-afternoon, I finish the leveling of his swamp shack to the best of my ability. It is better, though nowhere near perfect. He needs a good foundation guy who won’t take him for a ride. “I’m going to call Brody Brinks.”

  “Who dat?” Deacon says, and I grin. He sounds so native. Louisianan. He’s washing dishes as I strip off my clothes.

  “He’s an architect/builder out of Houston. He did the original build on my house with Kaci. I’m sure he can recommend someone to help you get this place back together. He may even be willing to do it himself if he thinks it’s worth it. Brody is a good guy and a friend of Joe Kaiser.”

  “That’s Mayor Joe Kaiser,” Deacon corrects, pointing with his soapy hand. “Get those clothes in the washing machine. It’s empty, just for you, Snookums.”

  “Thanks, Honeybear,” I snort, dropping my jeans. I pick my garments up off the floor and walk stark naked through his kitchen in nothing but my sexhat and socks. I put my clothes in the machine and lean with my forearm against the door frame as I pull off my socks. “It was so nasty under there.”

  His eyes widen at the sight of me. “Give me your hat.”

  I toss it and start the machine. “Are you seriously going to hand wash my hat?”

  “Yes,” he says, scrubbing at the mud, as I stand beside him. His eyes blink to me. “It’s about respect.”

  I place my hand on his cheek and give him a kiss. “I’m sorry I’m a dick.”

  “I enjoy you being a dick, just not with me.” A wide grin spreads over my cheeks. I pass behind him on the way to the fridge and smack his ass. “… Are you seriously hungry again?”

  “I worked all day,” I excuse, peering in his leftover containers. “How old is this chicken?”

  “That is from the day before I saw you at the park.”

  I count back, using my fingers cause I’m a goof sometimes, and swipe the bleu cheese from the door. Standing on the opposite side of the kitchen, I prop against the cabinet and shred the chicken into the glass jar of almost empty dressing. Drying his hands, he turns towards me. I grab a fork from the drawer. “Are you seriously…” I take a mammoth sized forkful and shove it in my mouth. “Dear God, what am I going to do with you?”

  “… I thought I was panache?” I mumble out.

  “You are,” he alleges, shaking his head. “Until it comes to sauces or bleu cheese. Then you become some sort of primal savage.”

  With my mouth full of chicken, I keep my lips tight and grin as my eyes ignite with trouble.

  “You love meat.”

  “I love your meat,” I reply, whirling the chicken in the sauce.

  “Do you eat pussy with this much gusto?”

  “I eat ass with this much gusto,” I mutter with my mouth packed. He laughs as I swallow. “I tend to go slower with puss, more to
savor. More places for my tongue to explore.” I lift my brows repeatedly.

  “Oh God,” Deacon says, checking his phone. “Ma invited Serene and Nico.”

  “Fuck!” I blabber out. “No rim job for you tonight.”

  His expression—what?—causes my snickering. “Stay until Monday.”

  I shift my gaze from side-to-side, not really expecting him to ask. I take my time and swallow as he keeps a steady pleading gaze on me. “If I was here,” I question, dropping the playful in exchange for a serious tone. “How would that calendar look?”

  “Every day would be yours, Sir.”

  “You like pussy?”

  “I do,” he affirms. “But this isn’t about body parts. This is about the fact that I like you more.”

  “Nice answer,” I praise, dipping my finger as far as it will go into the jar and licking it. I’m struggling to get all of the goodness out.

  “Hey, Raniero!”

  I look up just in time to catch the spatula coming at my face. With a delighted smirk, I say, “Thanks, Cruz.”

  “Anytime, baby.”

  We take my truck to Trudy’s house. On the way, I stop and buy a bouquet of flowers and two bottles of wine. Deacon smiles as I hand him a miniature bottle of vodka.

  Never arrive empty handed.

  After downing the bottle, he asks, “Do you think of everything?”

  “You’re stressed about dinner with Pico.”

  I pull out onto the road and he whispers, “I’m stressed because I slept with Serene.”

  Immediately, I veer off onto the shoulder. “… You what?”

  “Iris put me in the dungeon for three days with Serene,” he says, staring out the windshield and refusing to look at me. “She trained me, Sal.”

  “Three days?”

  “Yeah,” he admits, turning towards me. “And I didn’t want you to be mad.”

  “I wondered why you were being so…serving.”

  “Nico is going to kill me,” he replies as I scratch my head. “I’m going to end up on his target board with two dozen shivs in me.”

  I light a smoke and contemplate the situation. “You know, I spent years under Serene and we never had sex until 2015.”

  His mouth gapes open. “Are you serious?”

  I nod. “Ya, I finally got fed up and fucked her on the kitchen table.”

  “The kitchen table?”

  “It was time,” I recall, knowing how much she and I had been through. “I had been her prized whipping boy for so long, and I grew into a place where Dominance was overriding my inherent need for masochism. She was really proud of me.”

  “Why do you think she…had me?”

  I take a drag and hand him the smoke. “I don’t know what her motivations were, but you need to keep this between you and me.” I swivel to drive and ask, “Is it still going on? I mean, was this an isolated incident or are you having an affair?”

  He is silent.

  And without another word, I drive.

  I guess you could say I’m on pins and needles at the dinner table. Everyone is being pleasant enough, but there is a noticeable tension between Serene and Deacon. Not a bad kind of tension, but a they’re-going-to-sneak-off-to-the-kitchen-and-bang-real-quick tension.

  I don’t think anyone else—aside from the three of us—notices. Serene gets up to clear the plates, which is arguably an odd thing for Serene to ever do, and Deacon follows. Pico and Nico are bonding over motorcycles when I glance at Trudy.

  Big. Fucking. Mistake.

  There are maybe three people in the world who can speed-read my mind.

  Dominic Gennaro. Iris Nakamura. And Trudy-fucking-Diaz.

  I excuse myself to go to the bathroom because I may puke. Turning on the light, I shut the door and see the manicured French nails curling around the door as Trudy weasels in.

  “What is going on, punkin?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She steps closer, getting up in my face. Keeping her volume low, she demands, “Don’t lie to me!”

  “Serene and Deacon are…”

  Her eyes are about to pop out of her skull as she covers her mouth in horror. “Oh…my…fucking…God!”

  She grabs for the door knob when I slide in front of it. “No,” I warn. “You are not going out there and making a scene.”

  “That whore is fucking my son!”

  “That whore, as you say, is married to a serial killer,” I forcefully remind. “And while some of her loverboys may be forgotten, I don’t know if Deacon will be forgiven.”

  Crossing her arms over her chest, Trudy fumes. I have never seen her so mad. “Move out of the way, Raniero, before I call Pico.”

  “Trudy…” I warn, tightening my jaw. “Don’t fucking hand Nick the blade.”

  “I’ll behave,” she lies as her nose stays high in the air. “Nico won’t know.”

  I move out of the way and she bursts through the door. Any hope of praying she isn’t going to blow is pointless. I’m hot on her heels when we stumble into the kitchen and see Serene, sitting on the dryer with Deacon’s hands and mouth all over the girls.

  Stop.

  Note: The engorged bosom of lactating mothers is HOT AF, and I cannot wait until Iris is divinely round with a full baby belly.

  “Oh lord,” I mumble, barely missing my grab of Trudy’s arm to stop her attack. She grabs a butcher knife from the block and runs full steam towards Serene. Tugging onto Serene’s arm, she yanks her out the backdoor. I pull Deacon back.

  “Go stand in front of the door to the dining room and do not let anyone come in here.”

  His reaction is—vacant—stunned—scared.

  And I want to slap the holy fuck out of him, but right now, I have more pressing things to worry about, like Trudy chopping Serene into bits. I slip outside to hear the women, quibbling behind the storage barn.

  This is not the typical cat fight…pussy fight…meowala.

  Talons are out and cruel words are zipping past like bullets out of a semi-automatic. “Why the hell are you fucking my son, you bitch?”

  “I’m working with him.”

  “At what?” Trudy angrily hisses. “Latching on!”

  I step around the corner to see Trudy slapping the hell out of Serene. They start wrestling and I, briefly—for a moment, consider just letting the two MIHFs (Moms I Have Fucked) go at it. There is loads of glorious auburn and red hair getting tangled, pristine makeup getting smeared, jewelry getting broken, and clothes ripping off. I’ve almost got a boner when I interrupt, “Ladies, you need to calm down.”

  “Fuck you!” Trudy snaps, pulling a plug of Serene’s hair out. “She’s not getting my only son!”

  Have I mentioned, I really don’t want to be doing this?

  Wedging my stocky build between the two five-four nothings, I split them apart. I’ve got my back pressing Trudy against the shed and I’m holding Serene back.

  “You don’t understand!” Serene yells. “I need it!”

  “You… You need young boys to contaminate?”

  “He’s thirty,” I remind Trudy as she digs her nails into my sides. “You need to let him go. He’s an adult, capable of making his own decisions and mistakes.”

  Trudy tries to get out from behind me and squeals, “How can you possibly defend this?”

  “Because it is his life…whether he is fucking a dozen random girls, Mistress Serene, or me.”

  “… Or Iris,” Serene mumbles.

  And I lose it.

  I let go of Trudy and crash Serene to the ground. Heaving, I straddle over the top of her waist as her crystal blue eyes peer up to me. The rage in my veins is about to boil over when she whispers, “Be careful what you do here, Kid,” she warns, almost tempting me. “You aren’t invincible.”

  “Neither are you, Stephanie.”

  I get up from the grass and pick her ass up. I extend my arms like Jesus and command, “Get over here. Both of you.”

  Serene is the first to concede, la
ying her head on my left shoulder. I look at Trudy and she at me. I dart one eyebrow up with a scolding stare as she folds herself into my right side and I tighten my arms around them both. “We are all scared. We are all tense. But I will not lose the only family I truly have to stupidity.”

  “… or milk,” Trudy giggles as Serene breaks down. She reaches out to touch Trudy’s arm and before I fucking know it, these two have eliminated my ass from the equation and are crying on each other’s shoulder.

  “I will take you shopping this week to replace your bracelet and blouse,” Serene kindly offers. “I’m sorry about Deacon, but he’s just…”

  “Oh, believe me, honey…I know all about my son’s just parts.”

  They’re laughing and recovering and…

  One kiss on the cheek turns into tongues and hands and…

  Oh. Dear. God.

  With the throbbing in my trousers, I walk away, leaving the dolls to do whatever they are about to do. And now, I understand how Merritt Cruz came into existence because the fire in his grandmothers was the same in Deacon and Kaci.

  I open the side door to see Deacon quietly washing dishes. We stare at one another for a good minute until I rush over and plant my own Raniero-tongue-lashing on his lips. He breathes, “What was that for?”

  “Just being you, babe.”

  Sunday afternoon, Deacon and I decide to make an appearance in town. We’re at Kate’s Café, sitting outside, and eating sandwiches on brioche buns, which are to die for.

  Everything is carefree and easy with the great company and pleasant temperature. Traffic is light with a few church stragglers hitting up the restaurants. The vintage Harley rumbles up and parks beside my truck. The helmet comes off to a shower of blonde hair. “Well, well, Sal Raniero.”

  “And if it isn’t the enchanting Lula Gregory.”

  I smile and we give one another a modified bro-sis shake of respect. Don’t get me wrong, Lula is gorgeous with Tank’s piercing blue eyes and physique, but she is not my type. She is ex-military and husky. Not athletic like Jaid, but Lula could get in an MMA ring and probably give me a run for my money.