Eric wails out a blood curdling cry in my arms and Emily frantically darts up in bed, eyes wide. No words. Still no words. I love her voice. I just wish she would speak to me. To anybody.
“Stay.” Stacy pats her shoulder, coming to calm her.
Now why didn’t I think of that? Idiot!
“I’ll get him, sweetie.” He leans down, pecking her cheek and she nods, scooting back into bed and pulling out her other heavy breast.
“Here.” Stacy puts his arms out. Wanting to take my cranky son.
“No, I’ll do it.” I stand and take the few short steps to the bed.
“Here’s our son, Short Stack.” I sit next to her and place him into her eager arms. His soft cries fade into nothing as her skin comes in contact with his.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen something more beautiful in my life. The magnificent mother of my children relieving our son’s distress in a single touch. It’s like something straight out of the freakin’ Bible. All Holy and shit.
Eric’s mouth blindly searches her soft skin. Bumping against her nipple, he stops and latches on. As the suction takes place she leans back and he audibly draws nutrients from her body. Oh how I wish I could draw nutrients from her like that. I wonder what her breast milk tastes like? It is sweet? Sugary?
Hum…..
My cock rises, again.
Not now!
This is the worst possible time! Mind out of the gutter, Johnathan!
I just finished pumping Cammy full of my seed about an hour ago. I should be sated. Guess my dick didn’t get the message.
I close my eyes and reeling in the thoughts of old saggy titties, wrinkly and all deformed. Yuck! And baseball… Bring on the baseball. Batting, catchers. Home plate. Yes… Home plate. My home run… between Emily’s legs, my thick dick ramming into her tight un-stretched hole. The sprinkling of her light red hair just dusting the top of her pussy. Dammit. I’m one sick fucker.
Ok, football. How about that. Yeah… That… Maybe it will work.
Field goals, sweaty barbarian sized men tackling one another. Oh yep…That’s working. Slowly bringing my anaconda down to its flaccid state. Where is needs to stay!
“I want you to come home,” I sweetly tell her and she finally establishes eye contact, distress flashing like a beacon in her green eyes.
“It’s okay.” I instinctively rub her sheet covered leg. “You don’t have to until you’re ready. But we’ve got the babies’ beds all set up in your room. It’s really nice.” I smile.
She nods and extends her gaze back down to Eric. Caressing his fine hair.
“Now, about work.” I angle toward Stace, my hand still resting on Emily’s leg and she lets me keep it there. Point for me!
“The album is done. We have a large amount of fans and media seeking information about when we’re touring again,” he explains, running his hands through his unruly dirty blonde locks. His right foot resting comfortably on his jean clad left knee.
“We can’t do that now...” I wink at him to catch my drift.
“Well I don’t see much of a choice, Johnathan. The fans, after last year’s fiasco with rehab and cutting it short. We have some rather angry ones and the media is itching to get more. More of Stricken. More of, quite frankly. You. They want to see you. Hear from you. We are slowly falling behind two other top charting bands. If you plan on making this album go platinum, then you have to step it up. The concerts will have to be epic. Light shows, flashy performances, maybe even dancers.”
I literally cringe and he chuckles. Fuck dancers. That’s total hip-hop and gum-pop bullshit. Not rock. Rock is hot chicks with tits hanging out. Music to make you sweat and bang your head. To scream and jump around. To pull the animalistic rawness from inside your body, out. To become pure. Feeling the lyrics feeding your soul. The drums bouncing with your heart. The guitars, catching fire to your veins. It’s consuming. It’s… its rock.
“Can it be short?” I ask, leaving my other reservations to myself.
Hey, I’m trying to become a better man.
Even though I hate long tours; sleeping out of a suitcase is okay for twenty year olds. But I’m pushing thirty. I’m accustomed to certain luxuries that the small cramped quarters of a bus can’t provide. Like a place to punish and spank Cammy, quietly. Or a bed for babies. Hotels are great. Except the fact you have to come and go from them like a dick does a pussy. It’s not stationary enough. Not anymore.
“I guess,” he shrugs. “If that’s what you want. We probably won’t hit platinum, maybe gold. But okay.”
Dammit. I really need this album to go platinum. More so than any other album. I can’t go into the whys right now. But let’s just say it’s more personal than the rest of my music has ever been. D has helped with a bunch of the writing. And I’ve let out more emotions in these twelve songs, than I have anything else in my entire life. Those songs have to be recognized. They have to be heard by the entire world. They will knock the socks off of Redemption and Drowning Sinners. The two bands that are in the top ten rock albums right now. They don’t stand a motherfuckin’ chance.
“Write this down; Vegas, Miami, DC, Chicago and LA. Those are the best locations for this tour. Sell them out. Make them all VIP. This is going to be an extra hard concert to book tickets to. It will have all the bells and whistles and a few things nobody’s seen before,” I explain, all of a sudden feeling a little enthused. Nobody has heard our new music except a select few. Not even Cammy or Emily have had the privilege, yet. And I’m not sure if either of them will enjoy what I have created. Only time will tell.
With my hand sweetly caressing up and down Emily’s leg, I carry on the conversation with Stacy about our upcoming tour and what I need to do to prepare for it. First on my agenda will be tour bus shopping. The old bus for Price, Keith, D and the extra bodyguards. And an additional, even more lavish bus for me, Short Stack, the twins, Cammy, Dylan and Stace. If D will stay on his own motor coach, that is. Which frankly I don’t see happening. Unless he’s engrossed in pounding his sausage into some groupie slut-bag. Most likely with fake tits and a fat ass. Just how he likes them.
Hum… I wonder if they can customize built in baby cribs. With all the fancy trimmings. Like a mobile, monitors, changing table…etc…etc.
A slight snore breaks into the air and I glance over to see Em’s head lulled back, fast asleep. Reaching over, I push the button on her thick plastic railing to recline the bed more comfortably. My poor baby. I hope she gets better soon. Maybe this tour coming sooner, rather than later will be just the thing she needs to distract her. And ultimately give me the upper hand to do some serious wooing and a pinch of much needed groveling. Naked, on my knees, my tongue slick between her folds. Making her come in my mouth over and over. If I have any say on the matter.
“I’ll be working from here...”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, lifting a finger for him to ‘wait a minute,’ I cut Stacy off. And I stand, slipping my hand into my pocket, retrieving my phone.
Using my finger to slide across the screen to wake it up. It flashes that I have a text from Cammy. What could she want?
Poking my finger onto the ‘open’ messages. Pressing her name to see what she wants.
OH SHIT! She is going to kill me with that much hotness. I’m greeted with the ultimate dick hardening pic. My woman’s newly waxed cunt. Hell to the yes!
She knows just how I like it, silky-smooth.
My cock rises. Bad place, really bad fuckin’ time. Per usual. Damn me and my dirty mind.
“I gotta head, since she’s out.” I nod toward Emily asleep on the bed, my back to Stacy. Scissoring my legs and wiggling my hips I inconspicuously maneuver my hard dick without having to use my hands. Not an easy feat. It finally relents and slips itself to the side, pressed to the left and down slightly. Sitting flush against my tatted skin.
“Yup,” he pronounces, not sounding very happy.
“Do you need a break? I’ll stay...” I offer, int
ernally smacking myself in the head, feeling like a complete jerk for not asking sooner.
“No. Way. That’s my girl. I’ve got her as long as she needs me. And Kyle will be up tonight with my clothes so I can shower.”
I turn to face him.
“Thanks a lot, Stace. I’m sure she appreciates you being here.” I crack a half smile.
I’d rather be the one to take his spot. I finally get the opening to do the right thing and fill the void left by James. Except Stacy beat me to it. I should have jumped at the opportunity first thing, but by the time I got off work yesterday, Stacy was already here and holding her as she wept openly in his arms, ruthlessly tearing my heart out in the process. My body registering her pain in my own heart. It nearly killed me in the process.
I turned and left the room without announcing my arrival. Walking down the hospital’s depressingly stark white hall I made it to the unisex public restroom. I spent ten minutes reigning in the excruciating pain that radiated in my chest. My hands grasping the edge of the large bowled porcelain sink top, I hung my head to get a grip on my emotions. Nearly losing the battle as my eyes matted with thick watery tears. As much as I despise Emily with James, seeing her so torn up ripped me in two. My baby should never feel that kind of pain.
After I gathered my whit’s I went back to her room. To find her curled into the fetal position, encased on both sides in a Kyle and Stacy sandwich as more wretched tears tore from her lungs. I had no clue what to do as I stood at the end of her hospital bed, unnoticed. So I left again and tracked down a nurse to take me to see my children who were being cared for in the nursery. For two hours I sat in a wooden rocker with my children, in the nursery that has these kickass twinkling lights on the ceiling. Even Eric let me rock him for a few minutes without giving me his signature scrunched up, pissed off face, that he seems to demonstrate most times I try to hold him. I’ve come to the conclusion my son just doesn’t like me. Whether it’s my smell, voice, skin or something. He just can’t seem to stand me. Like mother, like son. I suppose. Or that’s how I feel some of the time. I realize a huge part of my Short Stack’s apprehension is what I’ve put her through. I just wish she’d get fully over that. It’s not like I can change the past for cryin’ out loud.
Reeling in my thoughts, I make my way to the side of her bed, lean down and place a sweet kiss on her forehead. A small grin perks up at the corner of her mouth, along with a soft sigh. Causing my heart to swell. I love this woman.
Turning to leave, I kiss both of my kids and send a two fingered wave toward Stace. My other hand on knob.
“I’ll be in touch.”
Nodding, he says, “And I’ll get back to work,” and he leans down and picks up a black laptop from the floor, next to his chair.
That’s my cue to exit, which I do. But not before I soak in another heart swelling glimpse of my baby, peacefully asleep in her hospital bed, wisps of her curly red hair trailing down her forehead. Damn, how’d I ever get so lucky to knock up a chick that amazing?
Chapter Nine
~James~
“James?” Sergeant Gonzales calls, breaking me from my reverie. I’ve been doing this a lot lately. Spending more time submerged in my memories with my Mama Bear, than anything else. It sure beats my painful reality, of her being two thousand miles away.
“Yes…Sergeant?” I reply, blatant irritability easily felt in my response.
“Would. You. Please. Call me Penelope.”
A demand, not a question. Still not going to happen — or should I rephrase that ‘over my rotted corpse'?
“No,” suffices more tactfully, and my thick arms fold over my chest, leaving me to feel completely naked without my guns. They’re sitting on a black box they call a nightstand in my bedroom. I’ll reiterate to emphasize it again, ‘They’re in my room.’ Not Gonzales’s.
Three days I’ve been shacked up, rather unhappily with her in a suburban soccer moms dream of a home. White two-story colonial, blue shutters, pristine lawn, white picket fence. Tall hedges encase the backyard that has a hot tub and a rather manly sized stainless state-of-the-art grill sitting on the classic grey paver patio, along with a four person outdoor furniture set.
All of this is sitting in a suburb right on the outskirts of DC. Evenly spaced next to a cookie cutter house of the same style and shape. Except it has green shutters and a rather large Maple tree in the front yard.
Even if Mama Bear and I lived together in our own space, it would never — I mean never— be as sterile and fake as this place. Where the rich with no imagination come to live. Spending months in a hospital gave me enough sterile environment and this is a hundred times worse. All because Emily’s not here. And I’m stuck living with Gonzales, an attractive Spanish woman that think’s it’s acceptable to wear shorts that show the bottom half of her butt cheeks when I’m in the house. Always fully clothed myself; mind you.
You’d think with her apparent ‘skillset,’ she’d possess proper civilian attire to be worn in the presence of company. Even if I’m supposed to be her for the lack of a better term—husband. I don’t have any want nor desire to know a thing about her.
“James?” She loudly huffs, standing in front of me, her stringy arms frustratingly taut and flexing at her sides. Wearing a black skintight dress and sparkly shoes only working girls should dress up in. Soaking in the sight of her sets my stomach off kilter and queasiness wracks my body.
“Yes? Gonzales,” I heatedly growl, swallowing hard to make the sour stomach feeling disperse. Pursing my lips, I glower at her.
“Are you going to go have dinner with me like we were ordered to do? Or do you not remember our assignment?” She stares down at me, sitting on the boring blue couch, her pretty eyes throwing out anger in shockwaves.
Good, maybe if she doesn’t like me, she'll learn to wear clothes meant for adult women and not prepubescent ten year olds.
Abruptly, I stand up and she tumbles backward. My arm instinctively shoots out and I grab her arm to steady her from falling in those ridiculous heels.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her eyes locked on my hand that’s still grasping her arm. So I remove it.
“Don’t mention it,” I shrug and push past her out of the living room and into the foyer to the front door.
“You coming?” I don’t even care to look back, as I sling the door open and pound my shit kickers down the steps of my own version of Stepford.
I pull the keys from my black dress pants. Yes, you heard me correctly. I said black dress pants. Yuck.
Clicking the key fob, I unlock the brand new green Lexus LFA sports car. That has to be worth a couple hundred grand. And I settle myself behind the sleek black wheel, my butt comfortably resting in the black leather seats. A moment later, Gonzales with high glossed lips, super straight hair and a dress no lady should wear to a fancy restaurant slides into the passenger seat. Tucking her hand between her legs to keep it from riding up and tossing her silver clutch onto the floorboard on her side.
Backing out of the driveway, I hit it in high gear and speedily make our way to ‘Dimitri’s’ a five star French restaurant that every time I vocalize the name I feel the need to point my nose to the ceiling and say it like a pompous jackass. Of the donkey variety.
The smoothness of the Lexus glides us like soft butter on bread up to the valet right out front of the old brick building that houses the elegant eatery. Shutting down the engine, I push open my door as the valet — a boy in his early twenties — opens Gonzales’s for her. As I stand and make my way to the curb, I make sure my blue—yes I said it—my blue dress shirt is tucked in properly. And it’s navy blue. That is the only reason I agreed to wearing it. And the mention of sporting a tie had me scoffing an under my breath sarcastic laugh.
Please—I may be a man of few words. But I am far from a pushover. The words Fuck and You entered into my thoughts and nearly burst from my lips when Gonzales hustled me to wear a tie. Needless to say James -1, Gonzales- 0.
W
aiting on the curb, I toss the blonde boy the keys and meet up with Gonzales by the front doors of snooty-falooty Dimitri’s. Sidling up next to me, her bracelet clad arm brushes up against mine as she attempts to tuck it through the bend in my elbow. To escort her into the building.
Ha—sorry, I have other plans, and that’s not happening lady. I pull away, leaving her to deal and hear a ‘humf’ blow out as she tosses her irritated arms over her chest. I’m not her play toy she can play dress up with, and cozy up next to. I’m her co-worker and outranking official. She’d do good to remember that. Before my normal cool demeanor turns into something of a cold ruthlessness that I can taste in the back of my mouth. It’s itching to come out and play. And that man I’ve been before isn’t nice, he isn’t sweet — and ruthless would be putting the way he is mildly.
“Mademoiselle and Monsieur Carter, dis way, s’il vous plait,” the flamboyantly, real and overly friendly French maître d’ says, menus in hand, escorting us to our table for two, that’s smack dab in the middle of the joint. Just as I requested for this assignment.
Courteously, he pulls out Gonzales’s or Mademoiselle Carter's, for all intents and purposes, chair. I intentionally take the opportunity to slip past him and find my own. His eyes frown at me as his mouth is pulled up into his superficial smile.
I know I was rude, not to have done the chair thing myself, for my wife. I can’t say my manners haven’t went out the window, making me feel really guilty. But she’s pushy and I don’t care for her and not even a diminutive amount has a thing to do with my Emily. It has everything to do with Gonzales. She may be pretty and have a rather exquisite eyes. Those are all unimportant parts of a person. At her core, she’s calculating, forceful, demanding and if I had long enough hair, I would have pulled it all out by now.
The maître d’ hands us our four choice menu, littered with pretentious food that even though I do have the funds, would never eat at an establishment like this. With plates of food starting at eighty dollars. I'm a pizza, snickers and beer or OJ kind of guy. Not fancyshmancy.
Stricken Rock Series: Complete Box Set Page 73
