by Finn, Emilia
“We have an hour,” she pants. “Do that thing again. The thing with your tongue.”
I stumble with a smile, carry her toward my dark bedroom, then dump her on my bed. I climb on before she finishes bouncing and go to work tearing her panties from beneath her beautiful wraparound dress.
I should be protecting my heart, my sanity, my life. I should be protecting hers too. But instead, my heart races with excitement, my hunger too rabid to slow, and my hands touch her most secret places just minutes before I slide inside and use up every single of the sixty minutes she gifts me with.
I’m already in way over my head.
There’s no way this can end well.
14
Eric
“Oy, Captain!”
I slow my steps and turn toward Mac’s shouting voice. With my hands in my pockets and my hat pulled low so the flaps cover my ears from the fall breeze, I stop at the midway point between the garage and the diner. It’s only a couple blocks between the two, just a couple minutes to walk from home to heaven.
I still taste this kid’s mom on my tongue. My stomach is still knotted because of her, but at the same time, mellowed the fuck out. I came twice in our hour last night, once on her luscious tits, and the other while wrapped in her warmth. And now I find myself facing her kid when the sun has barely come up.
It’s… weird.
“Hey, Mac.” I stop in place and wait for him to catch up. His hair is still weird as hell, his clothes still too big, and his limp much more obvious when he jogs. As soon as he’s by my side, I turn and slowly continue toward the diner. “Why do you call me captain?”
“‘Cause the other guys do.” He makes the duh eyes. “They call you Cap, right?”
“Right. But they’re my friends from a different world. That word has a different meaning to them. You could just call me Eric.” I shrug. “I mean, it’s not a big deal.”
He flashes a smartass grin. “I could call you FuckWhit. It rhymes with DeWhit, did you know that?”
“Nope.” I purse my lips. “I had no clue that rhymes. Not one single kid tried that shit with me in school.”
His chest bounces with silent laughter. “So I’ll call you Captain. It’s kinda fun anyway.”
“Whatever. What are you doing out here? And why do you limp like that?”
“Like what?” Dramatically, he snaps his legs straight and walks in an A-frame. “This is how everyone walks. Maybe you’re the weirdo.”
“Maybe you have a sickness that prevents you from speaking unless it’s with sarcasm. Is there a block between your mouth and brain? Did your mom drop you when you were a baby?”
“Ya know, she probably did. But I doubt it’s related. I’m just so awesome, I can’t keep it all contained. My brilliance drips from my pores.”
“Like sweat?”
“Exactly!” He swings an arm out and smacks my shoulder, smarting the bruised muscle and making me miss a step. “I don’t sweat at training. I leak awesome all over the place.”
“Sounds unsanitary.”
He chuckles. “Only if you don’t wanna be awesome like me.” Walking normally again, he forces me to turn a block too soon, an attempt, I suspect, to make our trip last longer. “No, I busted my leg real bad a while back. I was being a dick, playing at the old steel mill with Benny and the girls. It was hot as hell in there, sweaty.”
“I thought you don’t sweat?”
“Shut up.” His dimples pop and make him look younger than he is. I forget sometimes that he’s only fourteen. That he’s a child, despite his swearing and pimping ways. “It was hot; the place was kinda steamy, so there was like a film of moisture everywhere. I was walking along the gantry crane and slipped. Fell twenty feet and cracked my brains open.”
My steps falter as I look at his head. “No shit?”
“Shit. Cracked my cranium, broke my leg, busted myself up kinda bad. My poor mom nearly died that day, I scared her so bad.”
“I bet she did.”
“Anyway, surgery and rehab got me standing again. I still go to appointments once a week to get my walk back to normal, and sometimes I take pain meds if my leg hurts too bad. But I try to minimize those. I don’t like taking them.”
His father’s face flashes through my mind. Slurred words. Pockmarked skin. Cloudy eyes. “You worried about addiction?”
“Nah. But they’re expensive as fuck. My mom can’t afford shit like that, so I try to walk it off most of the time. And on the other days when I’m not busy with school or PT, I fight at the gym, which helps too. Contrary to my mother’s belief,” he adds dryly, “fighting helps me loosen up. She thinks I’ll break my leg again, but I won’t. Training keeps me warm and limber, so I like it there, plus their gym doc keeps an eye on me. She rubs my leg down most days, which really helps. She’s a freakin’ angel, and she’s hot too.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re talking about Andi Conner? Officer Cruz’s girl?”
“Uh-huh. She wears booty shorts almost all the time,” he snickers. “I mean, a guy can appreciate nice legs, right? I’m not hurting anybody. But I don’t talk to Ben about that. He’d snap my neck.”
“Because Andi is his aunt!”
“That’s what I’m saying!” He throws his hands up with a laugh. “I know how not to die, so I keep my eyes to myself.”
“You’re playing with fire, kid. I swear, if you were twenty-five and not twelve, you’d be facing a beat down right now. Cruz doesn’t like to share.”
He snorts. “What’s he gonna do? Take his leg off and beat me with it?” He snickers. “Nah, you’re reading way too far into this. Cruz is cool; Andi is cool, and I’m just saying, the gym has nice eye candy.”
“How does your girlfriend feel about all this looking you’re not doing?”
“Shut up. I don’t have a girlfriend.” He stops in the street and fights the grin trying to split his face. “She’s got nice legs too, though. Seriously nice. But like I said, I know how not to die. It’s actually safer for me to look at Andi’s legs than it is to look at anyone else’s. Self-preservation 101: don’t look at anyone whose daddy is five times bigger than you and knows how to fight. My momma didn’t raise no fool.”
“You’re trouble.” We continue walking along the quiet street. The morning air is crisp and clean, the perfect weather before winter smashes us.
Mac lifts his shoulders in dismissal for what I know is a future of beatdowns from that girl’s parents. Look at her wrong, he’s dead. Break her heart, he’s gonna find himself in a shallow grave with a mouthful of motor oil.
“Mom freaks out most of the time when I go to the gym, ‘cause she’s scared I’m gonna get more hurt. But at the same time, she knows I’m on lockdown there and not breaking any laws or roaming the streets, so she’s able to work without worrying about me. She’s been slinging double shifts since that day at the mill, just to pay back the bills I created.”
“Bet you feel bad about that.”
His scoff holds absolutely none of the humor from moments ago. “I’m sick to my stomach with how bad I feel. I didn’t mean for that to happen, and now my poor mom has to work extra hard because I’m an asshole. I put in a little time at the diner when I can, washing dishes, bussing tables, mopping floors or whatever, and whatever Franky pays me, I stuff into the jar we keep on our fridge. It’s our savings jar, which used to be kinda full, but it isn’t anymore. I only make a few bucks here and there, but I put it in the jar and try to help a little.”
“I saw the necklace you gave your mom for her birthday.”
Now he smiles. “Yeah, the Rollers give me money sometimes too when I work at the gym. I told my mom they paid me a hundred bucks to clean the machines. They actually paid me two-fifty, because I cleaned those machines for a whole week and they knew her birthday was coming up. I spent fifty on her necklace and slowly dripped the two hundred into the jar.” His eyes come back to mine. “Not all at once, though, because she’d notice. So I drop twenty here, twenty t
here. Twenty more into her tip jar at the diner. My plan is working. And when I’m grown up and finished school, I’m probably gonna be world champion where they pay me millions, so I’ll fix the rest up then, and she’ll never have to work again.”
I slow as we approach the next corner and frown. “World champion what?”
“Fighter, duh. Though Zeke’s gonna be a problem with all that.”
“Zeke, your dad?”
“Yeah, but we don’t call him my dad. He doesn’t deserve the recognition. When I become champion, he’s gonna be the first to do TV interviews. He’ll throw himself at them and claim his father of the year fame. I’m not sure how I’m gonna take care of that yet.”
“You’re making plans to make plans for a future that isn’t a reality yet?” Our eyes meet. “You’re worrying yourself about something Zeke might do just in case you become champion?”
“Yup.” He rubs the heel of his palm over the top of his thigh as though to massage away an ache. “I’m gonna be champion, and when that happens, I’ll be famous like the Rollers. When that happens, I’m gonna be rich. And Zeke can sniff out money like a bloodhound. He’ll want his cut, even if it comes via paid interviews. He’ll say nasty shit about my mom. They’ll ask why he’s absent in my life, and he’ll for sure throw my mom under the bus and say she kept me from him or some bullshit. It’s not true, but he’ll say it anyway. He’ll toss her like trash, so that’s gonna be a problem for me. Not sure how to fix it yet.”
“Well, I mean, you have time, right? No need to panic right now.”
“Right.” He sinks his hands into his pockets and watches his feet as we walk. “I have four or five years.”
“Four or five years? Kid, you’re planning to be famous in five years? What the fuck?”
“I plan to be the youngest UFC champion in fighting history. I can’t do that if I get too old. I have shit to do, money to make, and a woman to take care of. So a busted brain is nothing but an inconvenience for me. My PT sessions are a tool to help me get where I’m going.”
“Jesus.” I draw in a long breath and let it out again on a huff. “I’m not sure the world is ready for you, Mac. Your plans are admirable, but your determination is kinda scary. And now I get why you think I’m old. You wanna reach your peak twenty years younger than where I’m at now.”
“Exactly.” He skips forward on a laugh as we round the final corner. “You’re old as fuck, DeWhit. I’m embarrassed for you.”
“You’re a little prick.” I push off at a jog to catch up. “I’ll beat your ass and bust your leg again.”
“Mac!” Katrina’s voice cracks from the front door of the diner and draws our eyes up with a snap. My knees hyperextend when I slam on the brakes and stop threatening her kid in public. “Baby, why is your backpack still in the booth when you should be walking your ass to school?”
“I was stretching my legs, Mom. Relax.” The little smartass jogs forward, unable to hide the odd hitch to his stride as he moves, and drops a fast kiss on her cheek as he passes into the diner.
“Get your bag. Go to school.”
I pretend I wasn’t just running or calling her kid a prick in the street. Instead, I drop my hands into my pockets and blame my racing heart on my jog. Katrina stands at the door so the rising sun reflects off the diner windows and sparkles through her dark hair. She’s beautiful, and the glistening red lipstick she wears tempts me to take a bite, to taste her on my tongue, and ask for another few minutes alone.
Pink warms her cheeks as I approach, but she doesn’t avoid my eyes like she did yesterday. Standing tall and barely jostling when her son rushes back through the door and away, she watches him for a moment as he escapes down the block, then her eyes come back to mine, her lips quirking into a small grin. “Morning.”
“Good morning.” As soon as Mac turns onto the next block, I take a step closer and let the tips of my fingers brush her hip. I love seeing her in tight jeans and a Franky’s shirt at work. I love seeing her in a wraparound dress and beautiful heels at night. Jesus, I just love seeing her, full stop. She’s so beautiful, she makes it so the early morning breeze feels crisper, the sunrise warmer, and the oxygen I breathe cleaner. She’s got me twisting myself into knots and breaking rules I set down for myself more than a decade ago. Rules I put down while my head hung over the ceramic toilet bowl and my stomach was trying to tear itself away from my body. I made those rules in my darkest days and vowed to never let history repeat itself. And yet…
“You look beautiful.” I don’t lean forward and kiss her the way I want to. Because she has rules too. “Have you been working long?”
“Half an hour or so.” She nods in the direction Mac just ran. “Did you forget the thing about talking to my son? Why were you talking to him?”
And there they are. “He caught up to me as I was walking here. He was just saying hey. Told me how he’s gonna be a champion fighter.”
“Oh.” She laughs under her breath. “That’s what he keeps telling me. It makes me proud, but at the same time, freaks me out that he might get hurt. He’s still my baby, ya know? I’m not ready for him to step up to grown men in an octagon.”
“He’ll be okay. His confidence will secure him the win every time.”
“But confidence can quickly turn to arrogance,” she counters, “and we all love watching an arrogant jerk get smacked down. The world will be rooting for him to lose, then they’ll cheer when he’s knocked to his ass.”
“Only if he’s obnoxious,” I reassure her. “Confidence is inspiring. Obnoxious is annoying. He’ll figure out where the line is eventually. Plus, everyone loves an underdog story. Busted leg, slinging dishes in his spare time, can’t do math, single mom.”
There’s no one on the street this early as Katrina purses her lips. “I mean, that’s one way to point out my flaws.”
“No.” I chuckle. “I’m not pointing out flaws. I’m pointing out the reasons for his character. The obstacles he’s overcome, and those he still has coming. He’s a good kid, Katrina. And I feel like maybe he’s going to achieve his goals no matter what anyone else thinks.”
“Yeah, well…” She drops her gaze to the ground and lets her long hair cover her face. I’d give anything to have the freedom to tuck it back. To stare into her eyes and ask for a good morning kiss. “He’s determined,” she murmurs. “So there’s that. I want his dreams to come true, I really do, but I’d prefer it if they didn’t include two-hundred-pound fighting machines and fists flying at his head.” Her eyes come up. “It’s a bit much for a mother to handle sometimes.”
“He’ll be okay. He’s not stepping up to grown men yet.” The street remains empty but for a couple cars that meander on by. I glance over her shoulder into the diner, but no one pays us any attention, so I take this chance to lean forward just one more inch and loop my finger in hers. Our hands are basically hidden by our bodies and her apron, but our close proximity is telling in itself. I absolutely shouldn’t be claiming her, but there’s a part of my soul that really fucking wants to. It’s terrifying; it’s thrilling. It’s forbidden, but isn’t that the point? “I really enjoyed last night,” I whisper. “Thanks for coming over.”
She glances away shyly when warmth fills her cheeks. “I probably owe you more cookies.”
“I’ll eat them.” I flash a hungry smile. “And I’ll think of you when I do.”
“No teasing.” She squeezes my hand. I catch subtle movement inside the diner, then a glimpse of Stefan over Katrina’s shoulder. The heavy cook stops in the doorway by the kitchen and locks eyes with me. He stares, narrows his glare as he studies me from my feet to my head, then he breaks contact and glances at Katrina.
As though coming to a decision, he flashes a grin and a slow nod, then turns away.
Approval?
“Zeke called me up not long ago.” Katrina’s hesitant words register in my brain a moment too late. Like an electrical shock, my muscles twitch, and my eyes come back to hers. “He was seen by
a judge last night,” she continues. “I guess the dude was working overtime or something. He granted bail pending payment of his fines—and an additional five thousand dollars.”
“You’re not paying that money, Katrina.” My post-sex, post-Stefan’s-smile mellow escapes my body in a hot flash. “Absolutely not. I’ll confiscate your bank cards and have Soph move your money before you wash it down the drain like that.”
And just like that, her spine snaps straight and that bad attitude from the night Zeke was in the diner spikes. “First of all, Cap, nobody makes my decisions but me. Nobody. I’m thirty years old, not thirteen, and just because you got into my pants doesn’t mean you get into my bank. But second, no, I’m not paying it. I can’t afford it, for starters, and even if I could, I wouldn’t. That would essentially be me paying to have the bum sleep on my couch, and I’m not into that kind of torture. That would be stupid.”
“Did he ask you to pay it?”
“Of course,” she huffs. “He begged me to help him out, and waxed poetic about how he misses Mac, how it’s his birthday soon, Zeke’s, not Mac’s, and how he’d like to take him camping for the weekend.”
“When was the last time he took his son camping?”
A single snort turns to a belly-jumping guffaw as though hysteria is finally taking her under. “Not one single time in the last fourteen years. He wants to guilt me into this, that way the next time I get mad and spit about being a deadbeat, he’ll say he wanted to go camping, but I was the one who stopped them.”
He infuriates me. I don’t even know the dude, but he had something precious within reach, and instead of cherishing it, he walked away, but not before spitting in their faces. “It’s not true. Everything you do is in Mac’s best interest.”
“I know. I’m not a stupid fifteen-year-old anymore, and I don’t lack self-confidence when it comes to being a mother. I might struggle every damn day; I might literally scrape my coins together to pay the bills, and maybe I have to walk to work twenty days out of each month because my car’s a piece of shit. I might swear too much and make my kid stay up late way too often, but despite it all, I am a good mother, and nobody can convince me otherwise. I know what gaslighting is, and I know my son’s father is trash. I told him no on the phone, and I stand by it. But I still had to listen to him bitch about it. He’s super pissed now, cussing me out on the work phone until Franky hung it up and forced me to walk away.” Her eyes blaze as she tugs her finger from my grip. “He makes me so angry that my hands shake. He almost acts like we should beg for his attention, and when we don’t, he cries about it and blames me for all his troubles.”
