by Ella James
He shifts his eyes away from me, then back. He locks his jaw, then holds my gaze for a long moment. “I sell so I can give it to the med patients for free.”
“So... you’re like Robin Hood.” I look at his stark face, trying to find the kindness that I know is there. “How many of those patients do you have?”
“A lot.” He sighs and rubs his brow, as if he has a headache.
I nod slowly, wishing I knew him well enough to ask what’s wrong right now and get an honest answer.
His brows lift. “You disapprove?”
“No—I’m... surprised. Impressed, I guess.” I stroke a fingertip over the nugget in my hand. “I used to want to be a nurse, but I was afraid hospitals would remind me too much of my dad and sister.”
I watch his shoulders lift with one deep breath. He lets it out—and then his hands curl into fists.
“Let’s get out of here, Cleo.”
His voice is bitter.
I have no idea why.
THIS IS NOT GOING AS PLANNED.
It’s not Cleo’s fault. It’s mine.
I’m not doing this right. Maybe I can’t.
I can.
I just have to focus. Like now. I’m driving. She’s beside me. I don’t need to talk to her. I haven’t since we left Pecan, and why should I? The only way Cleo is different than the last girl hanging from my ropes is that there are more rules—for me. She’s not one of my submissives, but I think I could work her into that role. As a stand-in, anyway.
I would love to break her down and make her mine. I would love to see her tanned skin marked. I’m hard just picturing her round ass in the air, her blushing cheeks against my sheets. The way her shoulder blades would draw together when I pull her arms behind her back and bind them at the wrists.
I want my cock to live inside her throat. Inside her cunt. Inside her ass. I bet she would feel good from behind. She’s not a virgin but I’m guessing no one’s been inside her ass. These Southern girls don’t always go for that. Something about the Bible and sodomy, I think. Fucking literal interpretation if you ask me, but who would?
Cleo shifts in her seat. Can she feel my dirty thoughts? I almost hope she can.
But there’s the rub. I need to refrain from lusting after her until it’s time to get my rope out. I need to think of her as Cleo, possible business partner, until the need for her body becomes too great. I won’t let myself think of her sweet pussy until we’re walking up the stairs. Every other moment, it’s just business.
I don’t need her to be funny. I don’t need her to be kind. I don’t even need her to learn the logistics of stock and delivery—not really. When I go, I’ll shut down the import part of my little supply chain, as well as the smaller grow house on LaMont. The Pecan house is all she and Manning will need to continue turning enough profit to supply my VIP clients—the ones with medical needs—and pay themselves enough to make it worth their while. I know it won’t go on forever. I’ve got a plan for checking in on things, for discerning when Manning is ready to stop without asking him directly.
My hope for Cleo is that she can be the face of my enterprise for the VIPs and help Manning when he needs her—while padding her pocket book, of course. I’ll put Matt in charge of all the dealers. I’ve already started laying groundwork for that, although I haven’t told him. I won’t until it’s almost time for me to leave.
Cleo starts to hum.
My fingers twitch over the volume key on my steering wheel. This girl is all about the questions. I don’t want to answer any, so I let her hum “Friend of the Devil” without mentioning it’s one of my favorite Dead songs.
I think of Truman back at the Pecan house and I grit my teeth. I should have brought him with us. Manning doesn’t want a dog, and Cleo was ready to write songs about him. Tomorrow maybe. I couldn’t do it today. I don’t know why. It doesn’t matter.
I inhale deeply, working hard to keep my chest from rising with the effort. I may be unraveling, but I can fix it so Cleo never knows. I can keep my thirsts and all my pains a secret.
Three weeks. We said three weeks, but I may make it less. I may leave early. It wouldn’t hurt her. Nothing about my situation will touch her. I make that promise to myself as I park the Escalade beside a pear tree and kill the engine. Midday sunlight streaks in through the windshield, playing over Cleo’s heart-shaped face. After a minute of sitting there in silence, she casts her eyes to mine.
“Are you going to be this way the whole time I’m here?”
“What way?”
She lifts her brows. “A moody prick.”
My mouth twitches. It wants to bloom into a smile. I clamp my lips down, giving her a stern look. “You think I’m a moody prick?”
She shrugs. “I think you’re hot and cold. You say you’re going to protect me, we get high and mess around, and then you just ignore me? That’s annoying. I don’t want a boyfriend, Kellan, but if we’re going to mess around, you’ve gotta at least be cordial. I’m not that hard up for money, you know?”
So if I keep being “hot and cold,” she’ll leave. That’s what she’s saying.
I suck air in. Blow it out. “Fine.”
“Fine?” she echoes. She’s looking at me as if I have three heads. “What the hell does ‘fine’ mean?”
“It means fine. I’ll keep it lukewarm, just for you.”
She rolls her eyes. “Perfect.”
I pop the knuckles of my left hand, enjoying the dull throb. “For the record... you look good choked on my cock.” Too fucking good. I don’t blow down any woman’s throat. I seem to break that rule every time she puts her lips around my dick. I can’t let it happen again.
She quirks one elegant brow. “Well, as long as there’s that...” She rolls her eyes—but Cleo doesn’t get it. I haven’t accepted a blow job on a whim since I left USC in January 2011. Gillian came to see me in New York, but...
I shake my head. “It won’t happen again like that. I don’t get high,” I tell her, forcing myself to meet her eyes. They’re crystalline green—a color that I’ve hardly ever seen except on her. “I initiate what we do,” I add. “Every time.”
She shrugs. “Unless you don’t.”
“You want to get your pussy paddled?” The words spill from my lips as my dick stiffens.
“I don’t not want to.” She locks her jaw. Her eyes on mine are steely. Challenging.
Fuck me. “No?”
She thrusts her lower lip out. Fucking minx.
I breathe so deeply, I can feel my nostrils flare. “Do you want to get your pussy paddled, Cleo?”
“I don’t care.” Her eyes are emeralds; I can see the twinkle of rebellion there.
“Are you sure about that?”
The corner of her mouth wavers. Then she nods.
“Get out of the car then, Cleo. Go inside and wait up in your room.”
This is what we’re doing, then. I don’t know what. I don’t know what it’s called, but I can feel it taking shape inside me: something dangerous and beautiful.
I walk slowly up the stairs. I want to hear his footsteps, but the house is quiet and empty.
He told me to lie face down on the bed and take my leggings down. I spend a moment in the room, and then I go out on the balcony.
It’s a windy day. The treetops sway slowly. Pine bristles tremble with orchestral restraint. All around their roots, the river spills—an open vein. The rushing water hurts my ears, like someone turned the volume too loud.
I wait for him with my hands on the cold stone railing. I daydream him behind me. The way he will scoop me up. Throw me over his shoulders. Take me to the bed.
I didn’t plan on this. I didn’t plan for how exciting things would be with him.
I hear him moving—really there now. I can’t breathe. He grabs my elbows. I am whirled around. His face is cold and hard. I try to match his look.
“You’re a defiant girl, Cleo. It’s time for you to get your due.”
“What’s that?�
�� I ask, smiling naughtily.
“I’ll show you.” His low voice is strained. His cock is bulging in his slacks. I smile wider.
With his hands around my elbows, he pulls me down to the cement balcony. He urges me onto my hands. He yanks my tattered leggings down, pulling so hard they get stuck on my boots.
My stomach twists as I remember when he tore them. Then he smacks my ass—so hard I yelp. I rock forward on my arms.
“That’s for making me come down your throat.”
“What?” I snap.
He smacks my ass again.
“Ungrateful bastard!”
He hits me again.
“You loved that! I could—”
Again. I screech.
He hits me one more time, then growls, “What’s your safe word?”
“Hit me again,” I taunt. I look over my shoulder, at his poised palm. Little bolts of glee race through me. My ass stings bad. My heart is racing. I think I kind of love making him growl.
“Pick a safe word.” He sounds strained, as if pausing in mid-air like that is costing him. “One word to stop things—if it gets too much.”
He slaps my ass again, and I pant.
“Safe word?” he prods.
“Sloth.”
“What?”
“Sloth. My word is sloth, asshole.”
I wag my ass a little. It burns like hell, but I am ready for his hand. This fucked up game—I’m in. I fucking adore making him react.
A drama queen, a needy little girl: that’s what I was always called. I guess I am.
“Too scared?” I ask over my shoulder.
The breeze blows a strand of hair into my eyes. I look behind me.
No one’s there.
IT CAN’T BE TRUE. IT ISN’T TRUE. IT CAN’T BE TRUE.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I hold my forehead as the words spill through my brain. I wrap my other hand around the waist of my pants, keeping them from sagging.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
My hollow head and frenzied breathing keep out most of what’s around me. I cling to the details I need. I’m in an elevator, going down. I don’t have shoes.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
Is my jacket zipped? I look down.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I need to zip it. Can’t. I tuck its flaps together. Then I shove my hands under my arms and try to tamp my breathing down.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
The elevator lurches to a stop. My elbow bumps the mirrored wall. Too suddenly, the doors swish open, revealing a glossy, glass-ceilinged lobby. My insides are dead to the familiar sounds and colors. Even the novel sight of people wearing jeans and sweaters, laughing and chatting, ignites no feeling in me.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I try to quiet my gasping breaths. No dice. When the elevator bounces like the door’s about to shut, I step onto the glossy tile.
My feet.
“Oh, FUCK.”
For a minute, I forgot. I step from one foot to the other, trying to escape the pain. I grit my teeth so hard I hear a crack. I groan.
I start to walk.
There’s a row of glass doors over on my left, past the information desks. I tuck my chin against my chest and shuffle toward them. My tongue finds the fault line on my tooth and traces up and down.
When I get through one of the glass doors, into the building’s entry corridor, I’m forced to stop. Pain laps up my calves like streaks of fire. My breathing is so loud, a couple coming through the doors stops to stare. The woman reaches for me, but her husband yanks her arm down.
“Come on, Cindy...”
Good. I don’t need anybody recognizing me. Thinking of me makes me think of him. I squeeze my eyes shut.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I use my shoulder to push through the next door and keep my hands pulled close to my body.
The moment that I step outside is indescribable. The sunlight is so white, the air electric. I forgot the stench of smog. It reaches into my throat, filling my nose with the memory of living. My lungs deflate. My eyes blur as I watch cars file by. Taxis line up by the curb, and people—out, then in. People on the sidewalk. So much movement. Adjusting a hair band, sipping coffee, unzipping a purse.
Purpose and intention. Both feel sharp.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I disappear into the crowd, moving east. I’ve thought about this so many times, I know where I’m going, despite my current state.
I pull the jagged air into my lungs. Cement is cold beneath my aching feet. I pull my jacket closer.
I’m trying to move fast, but I’m so unsteady. People stare at me—of course they do. I look fresh out of a war zone.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
My mind swims: drinking in the chaos of Manhattan; reliving what just happened. I can’t believe I’m really out here. Christ, I’m almost scared.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I glance up the street and back behind me, looking for... what? A police officer? A frantic civilian?
One foot in front of the other... Keep on moving, Kellan. My lungs make a sound like tissue paper. The inside of my nose and throat is raw—raw and so painful, I’m starting to tremble and sweat.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I think of what I’m running from. A moan escapes. A woman in front of me turns to look at me. Her eyes widen. She spins around, lengthens her strides.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I’m moaning with every step I take now. Pain is a monsoon—drenching me inside and out. It’s a reminder of the many risks I’m taking. When I was there, I was comfortably numb. When I was there...
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
Finally, the subway. Fear penetrates the thick fog of denial as I move down the filthy stairwell. I try not to touch the rail, but I can’t descend without it. I wrap my fingers around the cool metal—consequences be damned.
It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I stick my dirty hand into the pocket of my jacket and flex my fingers, fumbling with my Metrocard. Somewhere nearby, a train thunders. I shiver. Inhale exhale. Quiet, Kellan.
It’s a losing battle. I’m panting like a runner. People back away and stare. I hear someone whisper, “no shoes,” and from another mouth, “addict.”
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
My head is still so foggy, but I realize I need to choose somewhere to go.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I can only think of one hotel right now: the Carlyle, where Lyon and I stayed with Dad before he said goodbye to us that day in November. Almost a year ago. I bring my fist to my mouth. I pull my hand down at the last minute.
Now the train is here. People moving.
I manage the two steps up without losing my balance. It smells... like dirty laundry and old fruit. I grab a nearby pole, close my eyes to bear the pain in my feet.
The train lurches. I clutch the pole and let my broken body sway and tremble with the rocking mot
ion.
Time thins out and starts to twist around things like a string. I can’t control the moaning. My knees can’t hold my weight. I’m on the floor and there’s a woman kneeling by me.
“Honey—you look ill. Are you okay?”
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I try to nod, even though the motion hurts my head.
“Would you like me to help you at the next stop?” she asks. “You’re not an addict, are you? You’re a veteran.”
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. I swallow, using the razorblade sensation in the back of my throat to stay conscious.
“We’re stopping now. You want me to help you off, honey, or call someone?”
I lick my cracked lips.
Hands and shoulders get me to my feet—maybe more than one set. I’m moving down the stairs. The hands let go. So much effort to stay standing. The next time I open my eyes, it’s because tears are spilling from them. I’m swaying under an awning. I don’t feel anything but pain.
“Come sit down, sir. Mr... ?”
“Walsh.” My voice is so soft, I doubt she hears me—but the answer satisfies me. I will never be Kellan Drake again.
“Sit here.” There’s a bench. I slump onto it, keening like an animal. I hear the stranger tsk around me, murmuring to herself.
“Okay now, here’s a cab for you,” she says in soothing tones. “Where should I have him take you? How about the VA Hospital?”
“Hotel,” I manage. I groan. “Cash.”
“You know, my grandson is a Navy SEAL. I’ve got cash—about a hundred in my wallet. But look here, I see an ATM right over there across the way.”
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I reach into my jacket and pull out my debit card. It feels strange in my fingers. I crack one lid and hold it out toward her shadow. “Zero three... zero... five.”
“How much would you like?”
“Max,” I croak.
I see a yellow cab through bleary eyes. I can’t seem to focus on the shadow woman’s face.
Maybe she’s my mother, come to guide me through—
