The Sirens of SaSS Anthology

by Anthology

  She stepped forward. “I mean, is that the truth?”

  He poured a full glass and took a swig.

  “Why don't you talk to your boyfriend over there,” he said. “He ever tell you how he borrowed money from that trust fund?”

  What?

  “Oh, I see by your face, our man Trick here hasn't told you everything.”

  Trick's mouth screwed into a frown. “No, I didn't tell her that her brother was a worse fuckup than she wanted to see. Yes, Rachel, I withdrew funds twice to help pay for Jay's gambling. He begged me not to tell you.” Trick eyed Jay with a look of disgust. “I see you've graduated to drugs now. Not a wise move, but then I wasn't wise withdrawing the money to cover for you.” He took two steps forward, and Rachel noticed Jay stiffen. “So tell her the whole story. How I made you pay it back. How you didn't like that very much. How you stole it all eventually.”

  “Was my fucking money,” Jay said into his glass. “Jesus, man . . .” He pointed at Trick with his index finger. “You made it so fucking easy. It was as if you were inviting me to take it. You made transfers in front of me. Same password all the time. Rachel with an ‘at’ sign and a three for the ‘e.’ Pussy. You probably still haven't changed it. You deserved to go down for stupidity if nothing else.”

  Rachel strode over to him, and her palm cracked the side of his face before she could even think. The tumbler flew from his hand, and scotch splashed in an arc, wetting the oriental carpet under their feet. Her blow wasn't hard enough. She wanted to pummel the shit out of him.

  “What the hell?” Jay pitched sideways and then straightened, putting his hand where she'd slapped him.

  “You bastard. I have news for you. That money was ours.”

  “I was going to cut you in when things turned around.”

  Trick grabbed her arm before she could punch him. “Whoa, whoa. Everybody calm down here.” He pulled her backward and behind him.

  “I'm going to hate you for the rest of my life,” Rachel ground out, staring hard at Jay.

  “You always were a bit of an emotional wreck, Rachel,” he slurred.

  Trick threw his arm in front of her to stop her lurch toward Jay just as a soccer mom might when braking hard to prevent someone from getting thrown through a car windshield.

  “Fuck, man, it was like taking candy from a baby. Candy. Baby.” Jay leaned forward and waggled his chin at Trick.

  How could he not punch the guy? She wanted to.

  “We're done here,” Trick said. “Thanks for all that info, bro.” He pointed to the corner of the room. “Security cameras. They're everywhere.”

  “Not admissible in court.”

  “I don't care. I only needed you to confess to your sister, who is worth a hell of a lot more than three million.”

  He waved his hand and reached for the Oban again. “Take her.”

  “I have a better idea.” She strode to the door and opened it. Max pushed off the opposite wall, a cigarette in hand.

  She turned back to Jay. “I'll let Max take you.”

  Jay's face blanched.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It had taken Trick a full twenty minutes to get Rachel to realize having Max “disappear” Jay wouldn't bring the justice she craved. Harm wasn't what she was after. Instead, she'd wanted him to wallow in all the hurt she'd suffered through in the last three years. It took a little longer to convince Max to stand down. What shocked Trick the most, however, was how much he hadn't wanted or needed such violent revenge. For three years retribution was all he could think about. It all dissolved watching Jay, handcuffed and trembling, being lowered into the back of a car by the local sheriff. Trick understood the abject terror Jay must be feeling right now. The idiot was sure to do time for the baggies of heroin found tucked into his jeans. The drug discovery would at least get Jay held in jail while they sorted out the rest of the mess. Re-opening the embezzlement case, retracing the money—if there was any left—and exoneration would take time. After seeing Jay, he decided he wanted the felony charge off his record. Perhaps he’d never allowed himself to hope such a thing was possible before. Now it was. Rachel also needed more processing time, which he gave her in the form of angry sex in between bouts of even angrier tears. He was okay with it all. But today? All he cared about was getting Rachel both literally and figuratively over the threshold of his apartment.

  She touched the blindfold as he carried her up the final steps. “Are we there yet?” she asked.

  “Close.”

  He angled her body so her legs wouldn't hit the door frame and stepped into the apartment.

  “New paint smell. I love it,” she said. “A paint store?”

  He chuckled, not taking the bait to tell her more. His footfalls sounded loud in the empty living area. When he got to the bedroom door, he eased her down until her feet hit the parquet floor.

  “Now?” she asked.

  “Now.”

  She ripped off the blindfold, a gleeful smile turning up the corners of her mouth. She gasped. “You remembered.”

  “Of course I did.”

  The Happy Birthday banner spanned the length of the headboard over their new bed. It had been delivered that morning just in time for his surprise, new digs in which they’d start their new life.

  She turned, threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you. I'd almost forgotten with everything that has happened. Is this your new place?” She looked around. “You're going to need more furniture than just a bed, Trick.”

  “No, I'm not, and this is our place. You said—”

  “I know what I said.” She looked down at her hands. Her eyes were still a little puffy from lack of sleep.

  “It's resolved.” He lifted her chin so she'd have to look at him. “You said you'd move in with me once it was. Wouldn't you like to declare this birthday the one where we officially start over?”

  “And not at the surprise party waiting for me at Shakedown?”

  “Who told?” His eyes narrowed.

  “I'd never out Max.” She dramatically batted her eyelashes, something she must have picked up from the dancers.

  He took a long moment to stare down at the woman he thought he'd lost forever. She looked the same yet different—freer and more alive than he'd ever recalled, despite the edge of sadness that she wore like a veil.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “We finally get back to where we belong, living together, and I won't press the whole marriage thing, which was going to be next.”

  She paled.

  “That scary? The thought of marrying me?”

  “I hocked your ring.” She stepped backward. “How do I—”

  “You mean this one?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the Cartier two-carat solitaire pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Holy hell.” She took it from him. “How did you find it?”

  “Declan knows every pawn shop from here to Fredericksburg, Virginia. He put out the word. I managed to buy it back once Declan explained it to the new owner.”

  She peered up at him under those long, dark eyelashes. “You're always going to be wearing that smug look, aren't you?”

  “Yep.”

  She lifted the ring to the light as if she couldn't believe it was real.

  He took the diamond from her. “So, Miss Rachel Grant . . .” He lifted her hand and positioned the ring at the tip of her fourth finger. “Will you?”

  “Marry you?”

  He slipped it over her knuckle. “Why, yes, Miss Grant, I will marry you. I figure we've already got the ‘for richer or poorer’ part down.”

  She laughed and pulled her hand back. “Well, I don't know. How do I know if you're good in bed, Mr. Masters?”

  “I thought you were worried that's all we had.”

  “I know we have more than that.” Her face colored. “At least I do now. You're a better man than I ever thought, Trick.”

  He lifted her hands and stared at the ring on her finger. Th
e clichéd symbol meant more to him than he could say. He kissed the back of her hand.

  She pointed to the mattress. “Is this new?”

  “Never been touched before.”

  “Care to prove the ‘good in bed’ thing? I mean, I know you're good on a desk, but it's been so long since—”

  He silenced her budding speech with his mouth. For long minutes, he used his tongue and lips to remove any of her doubts. When he released her, her eyes shone with a lustful acquiescence.

  “Care to christen my birthday present?” she asked.

  God, he loved this woman. He led her to the bed, sat, and pulled her to straddle him. “I care very much,” he said and rocked his pelvis so she could feel how much he agreed with her suggestion.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Legs splayed on either side, Rachel took a long moment to appreciate his growing arousal pressing against her clit. An almost imperceptible moan left his throat when she arched her hips, a greedy taunt to urge him to harden more. His cock, captured behind his jeans, thickened, and she allowed her ego to swell a little at the fact she was the cause of his response.

  His fingers crept up her shirt, his eyes firing with a fierce determination. The way he looked at her—probably always had looked at her—made her feel like every man's fantasy. But she was his, and he was hers. A sense of belonging hit her with such power, her eyes pricked. She was terrified, overwhelmed, and oh, so, grateful for the recent turn of events. The truth really did set one free. His hand cradled her face as if understanding something had shifted at that moment. Now that she was free of her shirt, the fingers of his other hand skimmed her lower back and trailed up her spine in long lazy caresses.

  “God, you're beautiful, Rachel.” His beautiful blue-gray eyes shone.

  She felt beautiful. Her vision softened, and she let her legs melt over his muscular thighs as his fingers drifted down to possessively grasp her ass. She brushed her breasts against his chest, earning her a small sigh from his lips. In a dizzying rush, she gave in to all the sensation and love she felt for this man.

  With one hand full of her ass cheek, the other slipped her bra down, baring her breasts. Her body already hummed with desire, so no argument came from her. He could rip her clothes to shreds, and she wouldn't care. When his hot mouth latched onto one nipple, a long groan left her throat. He suckled one breast and then moved to the other. God, what he could do with his tongue. She soon was so wet between her legs, she wondered if she'd slip off his lap. Her hips rocked with a mind of their own. Whimpering, her hands threaded his hair. As if urged by her moans, he pulled harder on her nipple, and she grew impossibly more turned on. She wanted nothing more than to impale herself on that thick ridge she felt under her pussy.

  She pushed on his shoulders, wanting to reach down and unbutton his jeans, but he held her fast. When she thought she couldn't take anymore, her nipples feeling raw and sore, he flipped her off him so her back hit the mattress in a hard bounce.

  “Oh, firm,” she said.

  “You said you like it hard.” He chuckled as he knelt down and whisked her panties down to her ankles. He placed his hands under her knees and yanked her toward him. His face was between her thighs in seconds, and she keened loudly when his wet, hot mouth found its way home. His tongue traced in small circles until her back arched and her groans echoed in the near-empty room. Licking, sucking, lapping at her, he was readying her for his cock. Just imagining him inside her, deep, hard, and rough, called up her orgasm. It rolled through her so completely, she stopped breathing. Her body jerked and her mind spiraled through the pleasure until her diaphragm forced her to gulp in air.

  His hands released their grip on her hips, and he eased up. “Higher,” he ordered.

  On elbows, she inched herself backward, her thighs sticky and shaky. He split her legs with his knees and when he pitched into her, hard, the last little bit of tension in her heart released like a fist uncurling.

  His hands were on either side of her face, his chest pressing against her aching nipples, and his lips moved over her mouth in a tongue-tangling kiss. The raw masculine scrape of his five o'clock shadow on her face called up more arousal, and her thighs grew slicker as a second orgasm built and teased her. She arched her hips trying to capture more of him, but he pressed her more into the mattress to keep her body from asking, to keep her in a position only available for taking.

  For long minutes, he moved her body around the bed—their bed— and worked her over as if seeking to possess her, body and soul. She didn’t try to resist, as his need to reclaim her filled her with a power she’d thought lost forever. There he was, wanting her and needing her, openly and with no reservation.

  Later, when they were both spent, they lay on their sides staring at one another like two teenagers who’d just discovered love. That’s when it occurred to her. She hadn’t visualized a stop sign in weeks. Somehow she knew, she might never need to call up again. Trick had been right—life could be better after tragedy.

  “I love you, Trick.” She brushed a shock of hair from his forehead. “Thank you for not giving up.”

  “Never.” He pulled her so she lay on top of him, and her body rose and fell with his breath. At some point, her mind drifted, and as she slipped from awake to asleep, she envisioned a dusty stop sign leaning against a concrete wall, nestled between a mechanical bull and a Chinese dragon. It didn’t cause a moment of pause.

  Stop sign, meet Trick Masters, the man I love.

  THE END

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  THE CLIENT

  A short story by Jennifer L. Armentrout

  This house does not suit my needs.

  I had seen that seven-word sentence more times than I was willing to admit. It was the same exactly worded email sent over and over, always starting with Ms. Amanda Patterson, with the inevitable This house does not suit my needs. That damn sentence was always followed with I will await your next attempt. Then it was signed Darian St. Xavier.

  I should’ve known immediately with a name like that, he was going to be a problem. Then again, most of my clients were … different. I was a realtor with a specialty.

  But this client was the hardest I’d ever worked with.

  And for the last six months, I’d desperately been trying to find the perfect home for him. Which, at many points during this journey, had felt like an impossible endeavor.

  Sitting in my nice and toasty car, I punched the button on the steering wheel, turning down the music blaring from some hard rock channel. I needed to relax and be hopeful. That’s the advice my mother would’ve given me if she were still alive.

  Be hopeful.

  Good things come your way when you’re hopeful.

  So, I was going to try my hardest to do just that. Brushing back meticulously smooth strands of brown hair, I closed my eyes. I drew in a deep, calming breath as I worked the tension out of my shoulders and arms. I’ve got this. I’ve totally got this.

  Tonight might be the night. This was the first time he’d ever asked to view a house for the second time. God, I hoped it was, because I hated feeling like I couldn’t perform for a buyer. Not that it wasn’t about the money. Closing on this deal meant one hell of a commission check, but I was damn good at my job. One of the top and youngest realtors in the Potomac area that dealt with the … well, different type of buyers. I had a reputation for finding homes for the most peculiar of buyers and closing them in record time, all the while never once treating my clients like they were different than me.

  And Darian St. Fuck-Face was
ruining it for me, making me doubt my ability to close the deal. Damn it. I had enough doubt in my life lately. I didn’t need it creeping into my career.

  Never in my decade-long run as a realtor was I having such a hard time finding a house for a client.

  Or a client that had so many needs.

  Recently renovated. Gourmet kitchen. Upgraded bathrooms. Vaulted ceilings. Ceiling fans in every room. These were mostly common requests, but Darian St. Xavier? He took needs to a whole new level. My client wanted all of these things plus acreage. He did not want to see a single neighbor. That alone limited available homes. But he didn’t just want a modest-size home. Oh no, he wanted what basically constituted a mansion. Not one of the mcmansions that dominated the area, but a real one. The house had to be well over five thousand square feet and needed to have a theater space. A bar area. A library and a panic room. Yes, a legit panic room or, at least, a walk-in safe. I tried not to think about why my client wanted a walk-in safe or what he’d keep in there.

  Because I seriously doubted it was money.

  And, of course, he wanted a fully finished, windowless basement.

  Fully. Finished. Windowless. Basement.

  Most realtors didn’t have to deal with requests like that. Not me, though. Most buyers wanted their basement to feel like it wasn’t below ground. They wanted it light and airy. But I didn’t work with most buyers. My specialty was finding homes for those who were not remotely human.

  Which meant I hadn’t even laid eyes on Darian St. Xavier. That was common in my field. I almost always worked with human assistants. Rarely did I meet the buyers face to face.

  So, for all I knew, he could be a highly evolved llama that had learned how to communicate via email.

  Okay, that was dumb, because I knew exactly what he was, but again, he was different. Unlike the others I’d worked with, he was a ghost. Nothing on social media. And his kind usually loved being on social media, but he didn’t have a Facebook or Twitter, an Instagram, or even a LinkedIn profile. He was nonexistent and that was more than a little bizarre in the digital age.