by Silla Webb
Belle shoves a chair over to the cabinet and stands, rummaging through the cabinets and canisters. “You gots anthing yummy to eat, Healthy Lady?”
“Are you hungry for good food or happy food?” I know the answer before she responds because we stopped at Chick-Fila on the way home.
“Give me the suga, lady. You know how I like it.” Her chubby little fingers motion toward me.
I open the cabinet and pull out a variety of snacks and place them in the basket Kenny and I often use to tote snacks to the living room. Kenny and I have a sleepover at least one night a weekend.
“Think you can handle this, kid?” I place Belle’s feet on the ground then reach her the basket. She looks it over and grins from ear to ear. “Fruit Roll-Ups. My favorite.” She winks, her alternative to a thumbs-up with her full hands.
Belle climbs under the tent with Ken-man and positions the snack basket between them. “Auntie, TV!”
“You got it, kiddo.” I flip the tube onto Ken-man’s Netflix cue and hand him the remote.
“Auntie is reading. Just yell if ya need anything. Got it?”
Faces stuffed with cookies, popcorn, and juice boxes, they reply with nods and turn their attention to the TV. I climb in my favorite corner of the couch and grab my Kindle, flipping to the book Bryn conned me into reading.
Two chapters into the book, I realize the only noise filling the air of the room is the sound of the TV and soft snores coming from inside the tent. I tiptoe over and find Ken-man and Belle snuggled up together, a Fruit Roll-Up gripped tight in Belle’s little palm, and snack wrappers strewn all about the space. The sight is freakin’ precious, and I quickly swipe my cell from the end table and snap a few pictures to send to Madden. I tuck the phone in my back pocket and go about cleaning up the mess.
I’m still a bit sticky from sweatin’ in the heat and playing with the kids all day, so I sneak a quick shower and return to the couch and my Kindle before the kids even notice I’m gone. I tug the throw over my legs and open the Kindle, starting the first sentence of the next chapter before I doze off into a fitful sleep.
*~*
I startle awake, wondering what show I left the TV on and why the volume is so loud. In my sleep-induced haze, I blindly search the coffee table for the remote, but I can’t find it. I stumble to my feet, searching the end table when I hear Ken-man’s voice as quiet as a whisper.
“It’s okay, Belly. Don’t cwy. Don’t cwy, Belly. You’s makin’ me sad.”
I stoop to my knees and crawl inside the tent. Belle is sittin’ up, criss-cross applesauce, rubbin’ her eyes as she cries out in her sleep, her words indiscernible. Kenny attempts to calm her with a sweet hand patting her knee gently. “I’s sowwy, Auntie. She not hear me. She cwies and cwies and don’t stop.”
“It’s okay, Ken-man. Let Auntie try.”
“Is she’s sick, Auntie?” Kenny is starting to panic, unsure of how to calm his friend.
“No, bubba. She’s okay. Can Auntie sit beside Belle?” Kenny shuffles away, giving me the room I need to move closer. I’ve never dealt with a child experiencing a night terror, but I want to be cautious in how I approach Belle so I don’t startle her and upset her more. Very gently, I pull Belle into my lap and sway from side to side, humming a lullaby. The words of the lullaby are a whisper on my lips, and I rub soothing circles against Belle’s back.
“Mo-momma,” she cries out. “Wh-where’s Momma?” Kenny grasps Belle’s hand, and she startles awake, her lip quivering as tears drip from her lashes. She sucks in a breath and sits up in my lap, brushing the matted hair out of her face.
She looks around the space, dark and unfamiliar. Panic flashes in her eyes, and her spine stiffens. “Where’s my daddy?” And the ugly cry is on. Not just for Belle. Ken-man sucks back a tear as he lays against my side.
“Whys you sad, Belly? You go see your daddy tomorrow. Thrwee, ‘member?”
“JoJo?” Belle questions.
“Belly, it’s okay. You’re safe with JoJo.”
She nods, the corner of her lip still trembling. “I-is Daddy otay?”
“Yes, baby. Your daddy is okay. Remember, we’re having a slumber party.”
“You promise, I’s go home to my daddy when it’s this many?” She attempts to hold up three fingers, wiping her face with the back of her other hand.
“I will take you now, baby girl, if you want to go.”
Belle shakes her head from side to side. “I’m a big girl, JoJo. I’m otay.”
Kenny pats her hand again. “It’s okay, Belly. Auntie JoJo and me will both give you cuddles.”
Kenny relaxes back into his pillow, and Belle lies between us, holding on to us both until the morning sun greets the new day.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
MADDEN
“Another round of beers on the buff fucker!” Maverick yells over the music to the waitress, although we’re all still nursing our third longnecks.
I pull my attention away from the game on the TV. Nash Walters throws his third knuckleball this inning strikin’ the Boston Whalers out—a-fuckin-gain. Dude’s got an arm, but I hate him by default simply because of how he acts with Jo. Handsy. Flirty.
I notice a movement out of the corner of my eye. Maverick’s groping a handful of the waitress’ ass as she clears the empty bottles from the tabletop. She leans in and whispers something to Maverick, and he laughs, shaking his head as she walks away. I turn my attention back to the game, torturing myself. Nash Walters is the star pitcher for the Savannah Sailors. Sure, he ain’t makin’ it in the Majors, but he’s got notoriety, clout—and he obviously isn’t a pathetic overweight fuck. No, his muscles probably have muscles, if that were even possible. He probably has a high metabolism and can eat whatever the hell he wants without it going straight to his gut. Me, I gain five pounds just thinking about a cupcake. And just the way he looks at Jo, the way her smile beams when he leans in close or picks her up. Fuck.
Kissing her was stupid.
She doesn’t want me.
If she did, she wouldn’t have pushed me away.
She wouldn’t have left my arms and walked right fuckin’ into his.
Fuck. I slam my beer back and chug the contents. Pulling it away, I look at the label and realize how much I’ve missed the taste of Budweiser. Not any of that light shit tonight. Hell no. I’m knockin’ ’em back just like I used to without a care in the world. And I’ll regret it when I hit the gym on Monday, if I actually let Jo weigh me in. If the numbers haven’t dropped like I imagine they have, I’ll be a brooding dick. It’s a safer bet to just feel the looseness in my jeans or shirts. But stepping on the scale. Hell no.
“You assholes can get your own drinks, while I get some pussy,” Maverick interrupts my self-loathing as he knocks the barstool over as he stands. He walks toward the back of the bar, out of sight for the smoke-filled haze hangin’ over the air.
I turn my attention back to the game, wishin’ ill-will and harm on Nash Walters. If the asshole breaks an arm, he can’t be all handsy with my girl.
My girl…
Fuckin’ hell.
“Taint sucker took our damn waitress!” Carter complains, and I shrug, hopin’ he’d take the hint that I’m in no mood for their bullshit antics tonight.
“She sucked anyway.”
“We’ll find out for sure in about six minutes.” Carter laughs and kicks back his barstool. “Let’s head to the bar, get our own fuckin’ drinks.”
I follow him to the bar and straddle a stool, Nash Walters all but forgotten. The game lights up every TV behind the bar too. I should’ve kept my ass at home. Sulking there would have been less expensive, the cleanliness wouldn’t be questionable—thank you, Momma for having pity on my sorry ass—and there’s a cabinet full of Belle’s favorite snacks.
The bartenders are slingin’ drinks as quick as they can make them, and you’ll only get spit in your beer if you’re rude or rush them. I’ve got enough madness swirlin’ around in the noggin’ to k
eep me busy ’til another drink is placed before me, and I’ve got all fuckin’ night to wait.
For the first time in two years, I’m out drinkin’. Since taking custody of Belle, my sole focus has been raisin’ her. Sure, I’d nurse a beer at a cookout or when me and the guys would play poker, but only if I’d planned for Belle to stay with Laney or Momma.
Finally, the bartender makes her way toward us, and I wave two fingers in her direction. She places the beers on the counter and continues on her loop around to the other patrons.
Carter swats at my shoulder, and I turn on my stool, following the direction of where he’s pointin’ with his bottle. “Know her?”
My spine stiffens, ramrod straight as I lock eyes with a beautiful brunette. She winks and tips her shot glass in my direction, a silent moment passing between us.
“Can’t say I do.” I focus on Carter, unsure if I’m interested or not.
“Fuck, Mad. You gotta get your head straight. How many dates were a bust?”
I scoff, dismissing him with a wave of the hand.
“You got someone holdin’ ya back, Mad?” I ignore him. “That pass at Jo get you anywhere?”
“Fuck off, Carter.”
“Hey, you?” a bubbly voice from my side catches my attention. I turn to find the woman Carter pointed to standing beside me. “Mind if I join y’all?” She looks at the occupied stools around us and attempts to squeeze in between Carter and me.
“By all means,” Carter says, climbing off his stool and sliding his phone in his pocket.
“Where the hell you goin’?”
“Warden just called. Pipe’s busted under the sink in the bathroom.”
My head ain’t on right tonight. Maybe it’s the beer. Maybe it’s annoyance. Or maybe it’s the fact that a woman has approached me at the bar, and my nerves are full throttle now. So my response to Carter’s problem is dumb as hell. “Why didn’t she call a plumber?”
Carter laughs. “Asking questions like that will put you out of business.” He tosses a fifty-dollar-bill down on the bar. “Drinks are on me tonight.” He claps a hand on my shoulder and turns to my newfound friend. “Take it easy on this asshole, ‘k, sugar.”
She grins like the Cheshire Cat, her eyes dark in mischievous slits. “Mmm, I do love a good ol’ Southern boy and all that charm.”
Carter shakes his head as he leaves the Skybox, leavin’ me alone with … erhm. “I didn’t catch your name.”
She offers her hand in an eloquent gesture, and I accept it, her skin soft against the rough callouses of my hand. “Sawyer.”
“Madden.”
“Hmm… Your hands are awfully rough, so I know you’re a workin’ man. What do you do, Madden?”
“Construction. And you?”
“I’m more of a free spirit with many talents.” Alrighty then. I have no fuckin’ clue what that means. Is she a ventriloquist, a hooker? Who the fuck knows? Her smile is wicked as she rolls her lips between her teeth and applies pressure. It’s sexy as fuck and a clear indication she likes pain.
But she’s interestin’ enough, and the conversation is light and easygoin’. The bartender loops around to us, and I offer to buy her a drink on Carter’s dime. “What’s your poison, sweetheart?”
“Between the Sheets,” she tells the bartender. She turns to me and grips my thigh. “And that’s an open invitation.”
Did …
Wait just a fuckin’ minute here, y’all.
I heard that right, right? That wasn’t the alcohol-induced cloud in my brain makin’ me hear shit?
The bartender places the drink in front of Sawyer, and she nods in appreciation. Sawyer pulls the cherry from the glass and makes a show of sucking it between her luscious lips before flipping it back onto her tongue. Trying hard—fuck—not to watch, I pull my beer back and avert my gaze to the TV, fuckin’ Nash Walters’ face reminding me of all the bullshit I’ve sulked about tonight.
Sawyer’s hand grips my thigh again, working its way closer to my junk as she leans in and whispers, “Maybe we could have more fun back at my place?” Her lips are soft against the shell of my ear, a weak spot I’d long forgotten about. Yes, it’s been that fuckin’ long since I’ve had sex with anyone other than myself. For years, my hand has been my only pleasure, so fuck yes—I’m considering this.
I’ve never had a one-night stand, ever.
But what the hell could it hurt?
Dating has been a bust.
Jordan has put me in the friend zone. And as Carter and Mav suggested—I’ll only get over Jo if I get under someone else.
It wouldn’t be a one-night stand if something more would come from this, and we have spent the last hour gettin’ to know one another over drinks, so I think this could pass as a date. Yeah, anything to rationalize this into anything other than a one-night stand.
I smirk and stand from the barstool, gripping Sawyer’s hand in mine. “Sounds like a damn good plan, sweetheart.” I have no idea where the hell this confidence comes from, but I let her lead the way as we stroll out of the bar into the humid night.
*~*
What in the ever-lovin’ fuck have I gotten myself into?
Sawyer is fuckin’ psycho! Why-oh-why has every woman I’ve attempted to get to know been a damn lunatic? Free spirit, my motherfuckin’ ass. Succubus is more like it. I’m fairly certain she brought me to her place to devour my soul. She couldn’t keep her hands off me on the ride to her apartment, groping at my dick like it was a nine-inch sausage and she hadn’t eaten in days. Sure, I’m down for head, and yeah, I’m out of practice, but she nearly caused me to wreck three damn times and run a red light. Thank fuck no cops were around to witness any traffic infractions because I don’t even know if I’d blow the below the legal limit right now.
We get to her apartment, and she opens the unlocked door and pulls me in behind her. She isn’t bashful about what she wants, climbin’ my six feet, three-inch frame like a damn tree and lockin’ her heels into my ass. Her mouth is hot on mine, basically cannibalizing my face like Hannibal Lector, and the deep, hungry groans that work their way out of her throat have me convinced I’m her spiritual sacrifice.
She releases me for a breath and begins stripping her shirt over her head, one arm tight around my shoulder for leverage and her legs still wrapped around my waist. Her breasts are freed from the confines of her shirt, completely braless which is impressive as hell because they’re round and perky and thick, and before I realize it my face is between her cleavage fuckin’ motor boatin’ the fuck out of her tits. I’ve always wanted to do that, and in my drunken haze, I seize the opportunity.
Sawyer grinds against me, working her heat up and down my abs, groaning wildly in my ear as I suck and kiss on her breasts. She’s a wildcat, clawing at my shoulders and biting my chest. “Bedroom,” she demands, suckin’ my earlobe between her teeth again, and a shudder rolls through me, my dick impossibly hard. I walk backward with her, kissing, sucking, and gnawing at my face, completely unsure of where to go, but I stumble through a hallway, my wide shoulders bouncing against the narrow walls. She motions with her head toward a door, and I push through, unable to see my surroundings through the darkness. I walk into the room, my eyes slightly adjusting to the dim as my knees hit a firm foundation. Assuming it’s the bed, I toss Sawyer on her back. The laughter that emits from her chest is kinda terrifying, and I should probably consider the moments that have led up to this one as a sign to run, but she’s already got my dick worked up, so I’m too far in this to back out now.
Before I can climb onto the bed, she sits up and pulls the tiny shorts off her ass, sans panties, and I wonder if the psycho even owns undergarments. Or maybe she is a hooker. Fuck. Where’s my wallet? Is this one of those schemes where the hooker traps you and robs you? Shit, the mess I get myself into when my head is fucked over a woman and alcohol.
I’m once again so lost in my drunk head that I don’t even realize my belt has been unbuckled, pants unbuttoned, unzipped an
d down around my ass along with my boxer briefs—because I’m normal—and Sawyer has my dick in her mouth.
I repeat.
Sawyer has my dick … in her mouth.
And it feels pretty damn good. I silently pray that I can hold my load longer than sixty seconds, and I’ll probably be fine as long as she doesn’t…
Well fuck me runnin’. Sawyer sucks the head of my dick between her thick lips like it’s a blow pop, twisting and releasing with a pop as her nails graze just behind my ball-sack. And I know without a doubt that if I don’t take control of the situation now, she’s gonna drink my come because I don’t last long.
I pull her mouth away from my cock and pick her up under her arms and throw her back onto the bed. Her cackle has the hairs on the back of my neck standing straight up. Too many signs have directed me to run for my life, but I’m obviously thinking with the wrong head.
Currently the one that is swollen and purple and in need of release. I kick my ankles out of my jeans and grip my cock, slow strokes as I climb on to the bed. Sawyer opens her legs, silently inviting me for a fuck, as she twists her nipples between her manicured nails. Looking down at her pussy, shaved and soft, and I’ll be fuckin’ damned—her clit is pierced, I realize there ain’t no damn way I’m stickin’ my dick in a rando without a raincoat.
“Condom?” My voice is low and strained, but lo and behold, Psycho Lector leans across the bed and into the nightstand where a wholesale size box of Trojans sit. She buys her fuckin’ condoms at Costco. What the fuck.
Sawyer sits up and rips the foil wrapper with her teeth. It’s obvious she knows how to seduce her victims. She kisses the head before rolling the condom over my length. Sawyer lays back on the bed and pulls two fingers between her lips and sucks, and I clench my damn ass cheeks and tighten my spine to stave off the impending orgasm. She flicks her piercing, rolling her nails around her clit as her back arches from the bed. Her narrowed eyes pin on me, laced with an evil seduction. I wrap my hands around her knees and pull her toward me, lining my dick up with her entrance. Sliding deep within her warmth, I set the pace as I work her up. No point in being intimate. It’s a quick fuck. Nothing more.
