Mine

by Kenya Wright

  The frown left my face. “No. You’re not old enough.”

  “Mom lets me have wine sometimes with my dinner. People let their kids drink wine in France.”

  “We’re not in France.”

  She poured herself a glass and me too. “Have one with me.”

  I was happy she was back from the date. “Maybe.”

  We had one glass together. I grilled her more about Jefferey. Then we shifted the conversation to what I’d been doing in the Army. We ended up having another glass and another. Minutes passed, and we’d inched closer and closer to each other in the kitchen.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” Her voice reached places inside me I didn’t know could be touched.

  “You’ve grown up into a beautiful woman.”

  She smiled. Her curly, black hair fell over the side of her face, hiding one of those deep brown eyes.

  “He didn’t kiss me,” she whispered and stared at my mouth. “Either he was too scared, or he didn’t want to.”

  “Trust me. He wanted to.”

  “Then, you messed it up.”

  “Good. You shouldn’t be kissing douchebags either.”

  Humor hit her eyes. “Then, maybe I should kiss you.”

  I paused. I was going to tell her that could never happen, but I knew that deep inside I wanted it to be a lie. Something pulled me to her. Her calming energy soothed my soul.

  Her words were bold. Only eighteen, she knew what she wanted and went for it. While I’d sought adventure in the Army, I still didn’t know what I expected out of life. I was just happy that I’d survived.

  A tense silence filled the room as she waited for my response.

  I didn’t know what to say. My cock had jerked in my jeans. My feelings twisted. She was young, just a few weeks from turning eighteen. Most likely she’d been a virgin, whereas I was in my early twenties and fucked any chick that loved a uniform.

  But my cock remained hard, and I knew I had to kiss her. One day, if not that day. The desire burned inside me and irritated the shit out of me too.

  “No,” I whispered. “You shouldn’t kiss me either.”

  A little bit of embarrassment hit her.

  “You deserve so much more, Zuzu.”

  She shook her head. “You’re wrong.”

  “Trust me.” I touched her chin, unable to not touch her a little. “One day, you will be kissed by someone who will die for you.”

  Sighing, she turned away and took a sip of her wine. “To kissing a man that will die for me.”

  I raised my glass as a tiny bit of jealousy hit me. While I wanted someone to love her and be worthy, I couldn’t think of anyone else who could fill those shoes, but me.

  Back in the car, I opened my eyes, knowing I wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  If she wants a kiss, then I’ll kiss her. I’ll make love to that mouth.

  And how pathetic the situation had been, after I left her there without one kiss. Instead of taking her into my arms, I had rushed off to my room and locked the door. I had imagined her coming to my room late at night, craving a kiss and more.

  If she hadn’t been kissed much, then maybe she hadn’t been fucked either, and I knew how good Zola’s virgin pussy could be.

  Gritting my teeth, I sat in the limo, imagining her sneaking into my room like she used to, getting under my covers, and slipping her hands on my cock. Eighteen of course, but so young and innocent, she would’ve wondered about what my cock looked like, her pussy would’ve been wet, and she would’ve been hungry to see.

  And I’d let her search my body with her hands. I would pretend to be asleep and let her slide fingertips up my cock, marveling at the size and wondering how it would fit her.

  And, as her hand explored my cock, cum would spill at the tip and touch her fingers.

  What would she have thought?

  I pictured her licking those cum-sticky fingers, loving the taste, wanting me to cum in her mouth one day.

  I thought about this in the limo with that fat cock tight in my hands. Over my pants, I stroked the tip and dreamed of Zola, undressed, and wide open. York and Mrs. Ellen would be asleep next door and my cock would move in and out of her.

  And we would try to keep it down, but it would be hard. The pussy would be too good, and she would love it too much.

  My cock came close to pushing out of my pants.

  I let him go and sighed.

  It’s only a matter of time. I can’t wait anymore.

  13

  An Eye-catching Bouquet

  BROKENHEARTED

  I had a present for them, a sort of lover’s bouquet of death.

  It was a large, black, square hat box—12 inches by 12 inches by 9 inches. The kind a florist placed a beautiful arrangement of roses in. When I’d purchased it, there’d been three dozen stunning rose gold metallic blooms with a customized greeting card to Zola from me.

  Flowers were the best way to tell that special someone how you felt.

  The gold stems were ten inches long. I’d added my own special decorations for each. Twelves eyes to show her I’d always be watching. Each eye sat at the center. On some, blood trickled down. On others, a little flesh stuck to the gold.

  There would be more presents ahead, but I had to admit, this was the most eye-catching of them all. The stench of rotting love burned my nostrils. Once I placed the top onto the box, the smell went away.

  How heavy the box was? All those eyes. All that gold. All those dead souls stuck to the stems of roses. The petals were gone, but the thorns were still there. Blood and decay, all wrapped in the finest tissue paper, lined with gold.

  What would they think after a present so grand? How much of my plan would continue?

  14

  Red Flags

  Hunter

  Baptiste called right as I was rubbing my cock in the limo and close to coming in my pants. I took out my phone and made sure not to wake Zola.

  Good ole’ Baptiste went straight to business.

  He’d grabbed Stark from the airport and they went to check out Zola’s place some more. Fresh eyes always helped a situation. After a few minutes of Stark’s assessment, they hadn't found anything more.

  Whoever had destroyed Zola's apartment had known what they were doing. No prints. No fibers. Nothing to connect the dots and lead them to the stalker. Just tons of semen from many different sources.

  What are you trying to say?

  “So, I don’t know,” Baptiste admitted.

  “We’ll just all stay close to her.”

  “Good,” Baptiste agreed. “I figured you would say that. I’m in front of the hotel now, waiting for you two to return.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you in a few.” I ended the call with dread in my chest.

  I’d wanted Zola’s stalker discovered within twenty-four hours. The clock ticked, and my team hadn’t come any closer. This needed to be solved soon. From the damage to her apartment and those letters, it was clear this psycho wouldn’t stop until he got what he wanted. My plan was to get my hands on him first.

  We arrived at the hotel, and I shifted back into bodyguard mode. True to his word, Baptiste stood right in the front.

  Baptiste opened the door. “Oh, she’s asleep. I could carry her—”

  “No.” I placed Zola in my arms, hungry to have a reason to touch her. Honestly, I wished she wouldn’t wake up until we reached the penthouse. Already, my body responded to her warmth as she slumbered against me.

  I took my time getting us both out of the car. Zola was tall with those sexy long legs, but she had a small, curvy frame. I could lift her just right and fuck the shit out of her.

  Come on. You’re supposed to be back in bodyguard mode.

  I tried to tell my cock that, but he didn’t get the memo.

  Baptiste stepped to my side, holding a thick file in his hand. He grabbed Zola’s purse when I left the car.

  “How close do you want me to her?” Baptiste asked.

  �
��Not that close. She shouldn’t even know you’re around half the time.”

  “We’re looking into her team more too. I already have a file on them.” He held it up in one hand and held the purse in the other. “We have eyes on everyone as well.”

  “Good. Keep someone in front each person’s house. Have them followed until I’m more relaxed. Also, I want someone to go back for the last three months and get me every paparazzi picture of Zola. Check for any of the same people in the background.”

  Taking a look around, I entered the hotel and went straight for the elevator.

  Baptiste hit the button. “She’s beautiful.”

  “It’s not your job to notice.”

  “You pay me to assess the situations.”

  “Assessing that she’s gorgeous is too simple for your skills. Use them for larger scale things.”

  The door opened.

  We stepped on it.

  Baptiste smirked. “You’re also a bit possessive of her.”

  “What gave that away?”

  “The maddening grip you have on her right now. You look like you never want to put her down.”

  “I don’t need to be assessed.”

  “No one can be trusted.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Not even me?”

  “Not even you. I’m here to do my job.” He winked at me. “I’m suspicious of everyone.”

  “Very funny.”

  “We need this done quick.”

  “I agree.”

  “And you’ll help me with the other thing?” Baptiste asked.

  I groaned.

  “Have you at least read my funeral instructions?”

  “I’m not killing you.”

  Silence filled the elevator.

  Baptiste ended the quiet. “Zola is the one you always send bright pink roses to. I just realized it.”

  “You didn’t. You know that I have a small…obsession for her.”

  “One that you think is dirty.”

  “I’ve never said that.”

  “But you do.” Baptiste shrugged. “She’s not your sister by blood.”

  “I know.”

  “What I’m trying to say to you is this.” Baptiste looked my way. “Have some fun, Hunter. After Nakita…” Baptiste turned back to the elevator doors. “Never mind… Just don’t hide your feelings. And never be afraid when you love. It’s the worst way to live.”

  I’m trying.

  I thought of Nakita and sighed. “Thank you for the advice.”

  “Always.” He nodded at me. “I’m here to do anything I can. I want this completed.” Baptiste had said those last words with a sense of urgency. “I have things that you need to do, Hunter. Again, did you read my instructions?”

  Unease filled my chest. “We just buried Nakita. Some guy’s stalking Zola, and you want me to spend my free time reading the death wishes of my best friend?”

  “It’s all how you look at it.”

  The elevator doors opened.

  We left and made it to the hotel suite.

  When we entered, I didn’t take Zola to her room. Instead, I took her to my suite. Baptiste eyed me as he opened the door but was smart enough to say nothing else. I lay her on my bed, happy with myself for the first time today.

  Baptiste held Zola’s purse.

  I gestured behind me. “Just put it over there.”

  Baptiste shook his head and placed the purse on the nightstand instead. “No man, you can’t put a woman’s purse on the floor.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’ll go broke.” Baptiste knocked on wood and left the suite.

  I followed. “How the fuck can you remember all of this stuff?”

  “Because it lives in my head.”

  We did a sweep of the suite and then returned to the living room to go over tomorrow’s schedule.

  Baptiste had only found one problem. He spotted a mirror, turned right, saw the other mirror across from it, and cursed. “Why would someone do this?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Do what?”

  Baptiste hurried and removed one of the mirrors and then lay it on the floor. “You’re not supposed to place two mirrors opposite of each other. It opens up a doorway to the devil.”

  “Well, we don’t want that.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Can we get back to reality?” I asked. “We have a lot to discuss.”

  Zola would be doing a video shoot on Trigger’s new song. I wasn’t excited about seeing the asshole again. If he didn’t behave himself, I would break more fingers.

  I caught Baptiste up on this evening’s events and my suspicions of all the people around Zola. He promised to go to the site earlier and scope the place out. We’d have more men there, before the video shoot began. They’d linger to the side and keep their eyes out.

  “She works with Trigger tomorrow.” I frowned. “Let’s hope he behaves.”

  “I could get a bullet in his head without anyone noticing.”

  “I have no doubts about that. Let’s try not to kill him, if he’s not the guy.”

  “And if he is?” Baptiste asked.

  I smiled. “Then, let me have time with him.”

  “Will we need Charlie to come clean?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “It shouldn’t be that messy. One guy. One body to dispose. I wouldn’t be worth my money if I needed help with everything.”

  “Okay. I’ll hold on calling Charlie.” Baptiste handed me the thick file. “Here’s some light reading for the evening.”

  “Thank you.” I pointed in the back. “Take Zola’s room for tonight. Get some sleep. I’ll stand watch for a few hours and then we’ll switch.”

  Baptiste didn’t move. “You know, we have other ways to find and kill this stalker.”

  I thought back to Baptiste’s methods for finding Nakita’s killers. I stirred with unease. “Let’s leave your voodoo ceremonies out of it for now.”

  “Let me know. Human sacrifices are hard to come by in New York and the voodoo underground here is expensive—”

  “We’re good. I’m not sacrificing people to figure out Zola’s stalker. I’ll find his ass the old-fashioned way.”

  “By killing every man around her?”

  “That sounds like at least an option B or C.”

  Smirking, he left. “See you later.”

  Baptiste never said goodbye or goodnight. It was too final for him. Instead, he kept it at see ya later or until next time.

  I opened up the file and studied Baptiste’s assessment of each person. As usual, Baptiste had been precise and efficient. He could know everything about a person in just a few days of watching them.

  He’d been here for barely twenty-four hours and already had a thick file, divided in four sections. One was on Trigger. The other three sections discussed Alexander, Takako, and CiCi. After a good hour of reading over all his notes, I jotted down a few summary points in my leather journal.

  I was looking for red flags, indicators that matched a typical stalker.

  There were several. Most stalkers had narcissistic parents—uncaring and lacking empathy. Most of the time, one of the parents were abusive. A narcissistic parent only did what served their own emotional needs. They made up realities and had preconceived and outlandish ideas of who the kids should be. And when the kid didn’t meet those expectations, the parent hurt them, either physically, sexually, emotionally, or mentally.

  My own mother’s face flashed in my head.

  She fit the narcissistic description along with falling under several other mental illnesses—borderline personality and so on. Had Mrs. Ellen not taken me away, I could’ve been a stalker or some other sociopath.

  By six, I’d already had a sick fascination with blood and death. I’d dreamed about hurting my mother, cutting her face and watching the blood trickle away. It could’ve been a defense mechanism due to all the things she’d been doing to me. Or it was a sign of how broken I’d already been at such a young age.

&nb
sp; Once Mrs. Ellen took me away, she’d had me talk to a therapist.

  Dr. Stein taught me about narcissism and other mental illnesses. She tried her best to show me that it wasn’t all my fault. Sometimes, I even believed her. She gave Mrs. Ellen strict instructions to cut all contact between my mother and me. That was the other thing that had saved my life.

  The narcissist parent only worsened with age. And they damaged the kid more in his or her adult years. If the kid left them, the narcissist parent hounded them to come back. They made them feel guilty, only for the kid to return and be hurt again. So, the kid would leave, and the cycle would continue.

  This sort of parent stalked and abused, guilted and shamed. And they did so with no remorse. And the kid never really knows what the problem is, just that something is wrong with them, not their Dad or Mom. And the cycle continued.

  Dr. Stein gave me advice when I turned eighteen and considered visiting my mother in jail.

  “You shouldn’t have any contact with her,” she said on our last visit.

  “Okay.”

  “If she does find you, change your phone number.”

  I nodded.

  “Having a narcissist parent can be emotionally damaging to a child.”

  I gave her a nervous smile. “I’ve gathered that.”

  She held her hands in her lap. “But Hunter…there is still hope.”

  “Is there?”

  “Find support groups.”

  “I’ll be fighting for this country. I won’t have time for that.”

  “The Army will have a chaplain or psychiatrist for you.”

  “I’ll consider it.” I knew I wouldn’t. I’d only gone to see Dr. Stein because of Mrs. Ellen. And although the doctor helped, I still hated talking about my childhood. As soon as I entered boot camp, I planned on pushing the whole situation out of my head.

  Dr. Stein hadn’t finished. She grabbed my attention. “Hunter, keep in mind that no matter what you were taught, she can’t love you because she doesn’t even know how to love herself.”