Secrets She Keeps

by Amarie Avant

  “Evan!” She gasps in excitement, begging for a hard fuck.

  I pay her no mind, my hands skim over her breasts as I bring that ass back against my cock. No penetration has Reese’s shrill moan, from such a quick movement, transform into a harsh hiss of anger. Damn, her body feels so soft and good. My hand reaches her flat abdomen, catching a good lather there.

  With her body leaning into me, I reach over and pour more liquid soap into my hand before continuing the trail over her body. A melodic moan entices me to continue my trail to silky curls, and my thumb softly caresses her tiny bud. Reese arches her back, ready to take this dick. My cock is straining and pulsating. I turn her around, her lips fly to mine. I ease myself inside of her while massaging her breast and kissing her neck. Her back is against the fogged shower glass, the small of her back creating a delicate arch that allows my erection to bless her body even more.

  I alternate from passionate to slow and steady strokes. I grip the hair at the nape of Reese’s neck, as she begs for the pain. But pain she doesn’t get.

  “Evan, pah… pahlezzzz!” Reese gasps.

  “Look, beautiful,” I tell her, as I watch my cock slowly slide in and out of her hollowness. Water streams down her face as she glances down. Her pussy is soaking wet for me, begging me to burst inside of her.

  “I-I… Evan, babe, fuck me,” Reese implores, hips bucking against me.

  I don’t just want to fuck her. My hand clamps around her throat, squeezing softly. With my chest against hers, my dick is fully enveloped in her sex.

  “Please,” she murmurs, head tilted and desiring a taste.

  I grant her that. My lips feast off hers, as I love on her body.

  My hand finds her nipple and I squeeze hard as her pussy walls contract against my dick. Warm torrents of water flows down on us, and my semen torpedoes into Reese’s body.

  Fuck me. If I fall in love with my new stepsister will I get into heaven?

  Chapter 14

  Evan

  My forearm comes out, fist flexed so the muscle is rock hard as the junkie’s chest slams into it.

  Bet he didn't see that coming. Derek Cooper had been running at full speed. He bent the corner, over exerting himself to elude the patrol cops. But now as his body has to react to physics, it slams in the exact opposite direction it once was headed. Derek falls. And his ass doesn't catch him. No. His back hits the ground with a thud, knocking the polluted air out of him.

  For a second, Derek is content lying on the gum and graffiti-tagged asphalt. His groan is dazed, eyes closed. But I'm not satisfied. Last night I fucked Reese like I loved her. We laid in each other's arms until three a.m. We’d kissed and chatted about nothing, but it meant all the world to her. We were just preparing to continue our canoodling on the roof, and watch the sunrise. And now, let her tell it, I owe her a fucking pinky finger.

  It’s barely six a.m. and here I am, gripping Cooper by his equally tagged up arm. Frustrated to the max, I yank him into standing position.

  “Come the fuck on, dude!” Derek's voice is labored. “I've got a lawyer, man, take it easy.”

  “You mean the friggen public pretender. C’mon, bro, you have better luck joining the team.”

  “You sure about that? I'm no snitch.”

  I glance at his mouth; it has a dime-sized perfectly round burn a telltale sign of Cooper’s addiction to meth.

  “Well, you’re gonna be a fucking snitch today.” As I slap cuffs on him, a squad car stops right in front of us. The cop is gazing at me in amazement. He’s eager to know just how I caught up to Cooper. Hell, these Armani shoes aren't a fan of running. So I've got a knack for navigating the cobwebs within the tiny brains of perpetrators.

  I slam my hand down on top of Derek's head as is protocol while he gets into the back of the car. Shit. Miranda rights. I mumble them in one breath before slamming the door in his face.

  Tyrone’s supped-up Challenger stops behind the cruiser. I get in.

  He's sipping on a drink from Starbucks.

  “Bro, you grabbed breakfast while I was doing all the heavy lifting?”

  “We ain’t rookies anymore. The heavy lifting is over, now the rookie cops on the beat scurry like roaches.” Tyrone chuckles, before nodding toward the cup holder. My foam cup is piping hot, there's a slither of steam coming from the tiny plastic hole on top.

  “Too bad we aren't anywhere near your kid sister’s place. You still haven't tried to hook your favorite partner up.”

  “You’re my only partner. And I’d kill you before making a love connection,” I mumble. Our eyes connect. We've never kept secrets from each other but today is a new day.

  “Speaking of tail, you don't step out the house less than suited up, Evan. We've been on the scene since the sun came up. You’re dressed for GQ but you're being way too mean to ol’ Derek.”

  I chuckle. “My bad, before noon, you're bad cop.”

  “Usually, but you ruined the rotate,” Tyrone says, turning west on Wilshire Boulevard. “I’m bad cop, with a knack for roughing ‘em up while sipping my caramel macchiato. You’re good cop, by the book—bitter, black coffee.”

  I wave him off.

  Tyrone pulls onto La Brea behind the squad car. “Once Cooper is in the interrogation room, that shit isn't going to fly with you beating him into the ground like Incredible Hulk. So like I said, dressed for GQ but not smooth at all. Like you haven't banged a female in a day or so.”

  I take a deep breath. We've always talked about the women we had sex with. It probably started with a stakeout, and it just stuck, not that I say my partner’s name, but Tyrone and I have never been less than candid. Since Reese, I've been mum about my sex life. And I don't plan on saying shit, even if her identity is not disclosed.

  My way out comes an instant later...

  A plume of smoke rises in the middle of the intersection off Wilshire and Fairfax. Tires screech as three modified Land Rover Defenders come zooming to a stop in the middle of the crossing. A few of the cars, who’d been preparing to go, slam into the backs of each other.

  Submachine guns let loose. One distracted driver turns the wheel of his Corvette as bullets blaze through the hood. The gunman doesn’t even flinch as the Corvette veers to the left in the nick of time and rams into a light pole.

  My hand goes straight to my gun, my head popping down below the dash. The sound pummels through my chest cavity. I open the passenger door. Tyrone signals me as he opens his door.

  An ocean of pedestrians on the sidewalk scatter in all directions.AA A young mother eyes me in terror as she lies atop her toddler, at the entrance of a baby boutique. Next to them is a gunned down bicyclist.

  My head pops up to the window, as I crouch on the ground. The gunner’s sole interest is Derek Cooper. The rookie cops in the front seat of the cruiser both have their heads slumped. I realize the driver is laid against the horn because that's the only constant as the terrorists change magazines. I target one of the drivers.

  The Russians! No redneck hicks like Riker. These guys smuggle vodka. There's no time to determine why they've just decided to join the party.

  I aim for the third driver, with white-blonde hair. He’s spraying an endless supply of bullets.

  My head ducks. Glass breaks over my hair. I dip low and aim for his feet. The leather of his boot puffs as a bullet blazes into it.

  He begins to crumple. I aim for another gunner, but a teenage girl thrusts herself at me. She must’ve noticed my badge. There’s primal fear prickled in her gray eyes. In a nanosecond, I’ve looked her over.

  “Get in, lie down,” I shout.

  She crouches down in the backseat of Tyrone’s car.

  They shout something in their native language and then their SUV doors open and slam in sequence. I stand up and shoot at the rear tires.

  “Fuck.” I shout punching into the air.

  I jog toward the police cruiser. All casualties.

  Then I see one of the Russians on my side of the street.
It's the one who had the shock of white hair. His tailored, silver suit is filled with soot from the asphalt. There’s a salting of glass shards around him. He’s also sporting a gunshot in the abdomen, as he curls into the fetal position. Feather eyelashes close against evil, pale-blue eyes.

  This motherfucker better not die. Or I'll kill him myself.

  Chapter 15

  Reese

  Throat clamped shut; I place a hand at my chest in an attempt to complete such an automatic function as breathing. Then my hand rises up to my face as I fan myself. My face burns due to an onslaught of tears. I’m standing at the oven of Flour Shoppe.

  Jamie and Maria both have their arms around Luis, as if to protect their bear cub. Sandra grabs my hands and says, “We have all decided to take a pay cut.”

  The only action I am currently capable of is nodding repeatedly with tears streaming down my cheeks.

  “Quit all of that crying, Reesita,” Maria chides, “We are family. You took a chance on me. Luis. Er… Jamie you’ve known since high school, so I’d say he got the job by association–which technically is a chance in itself!”

  Jamie huffs, “I won’t even address that comment. But yes, we are all willing to pitch in a few hours, or rather take off a few hours in order to keep Luis. Group hug.”

  They all surround me in an energetic embrace as I become a blubbering mess. This is the part that being in a small business is made of. Having a cohesive team who works together and genuinely care for each other. Once we all part, I’m in the middle of thanking them when Maria gasps.

  “Is that your hermano… brother?” Her dark-brown eyes are wide as she glances at the tiny flat screen bolted against the wall. Before my crew came in to say how they would sacrifice for Luis’s sake, I’d been baking while watching Chef Franco de Leon instruct how to make flan. A dessert I have yet to master, at least not to my full potential, since I’m my worst critic. The news broadcast must have cut into the middle of the segment.

  The video clip, which seemed to suck the air out of the entire room, showed a young woman running toward Evan as he crouched near the door of a vehicle. At the bottom of the screen, it indicated that footage was taken from an actual bystander. The high-impact snippet disappeared and an aerial-view popped up. It expanded from the La Brea Tar Pits to Wilshire Blvd and Fairfax Ave.

  Glass clutters the middle of the street, cars crashed into each other. A cherry-red Corvette has wrapped itself around the light pole. The damn ticker, is the Channel 5 headline of “Two cop fatalities.” The television is on mute, since it is usually reserved for the Food Network channel or the likes. This allows myself or another baker to jot down new concepts when recipes are displayed, and everyone likes to listen to music anyhow.

  A bell jingles in the tiny dining area of Flour, and for the first time ever, the sound echoes so piercingly in my ears. I glance around for the television remote, though I haven’t seen the darn thing since the TV was bolted on the wall.

  Sandra picks up the stationary iPad before I can, “It’s your two p.m., potential wedding clients. You’re not feeling well, Reese, allow me to take charge of the taste testing,” she ends, gesturing toward the back door.

  “I ummm…” Shaking my head, I attempt to stave off the jarring in my ears, and the derailing thoughts in my brain. Evan is okay. He has to be okay!

  “Sandra’s got it, Reese’s Pieces,” Jamie asserts himself, ever my anchor when needed. “I’m taking you upstairs.”

  My oldest friend is just as frazzled as I am while we climb the stairs to my apartment. Once inside, Jamie commandeers the remote since the damn thing would probably just shake its way out of my hand anyway. A toothpaste commercial pops into view as we sink onto the couch in my apartment. Grumbling under his breath, Jamie attempts to fast forward the commercials.

  “Dammit, this is real-time. I only watch recorded shows,” he tries to make small talk, but I can’t snatch my eyes away from the gorgeous teeth model with her Cheshire cat’s grin. The tooth-whitening commercial segues into one with a cross-terrain vehicle traveling around the countryside to a more eye-catching luxury nightlife and back again. Frustrated beyond repair, I pull out my cell phone. With tremors in my fingers, I dial Evan’s number. No answer. And because there is no such thing as being a creeper during times like this, I concede to dialing my stepbrother’s cell phone number repeatedly.

  After the umpteenth away-ring, the bitter copper taste in my mouth finally keys me to the fact that I've bitten the inside of my lip raw. Besides the fleeting taste of blood, my entire body is numb with worry. Evan was the first face I saw, as a young girl ran to him in the middle of a shootout! Now where the hell is he!

  “He’s gotta be okay,” Jamie’s soothing tone seeps through my thoughts. “Evan seems like such a nice guy. He’s gotta be okay.”

  “He is,” I reply, lips barely parting.

  “Should we call Lolita? His father?” Jamie asks, clearly the confidence in him is dwindling by the second. I’m breaking, so he does too.

  After a few more commercials, the screen quickly displays the aerial-view of La Brea once more before transporting to a viewing of a sea of shocked Los Angelenos directly dead center in the aftermath.

  A blue-eyed, blonde-haired, Japanese anchorwoman has positioned herself at the forefront of the television frame. Her tone is crisp, articulate, and peppered with sincerity, “I am standing at the perimeter of the La Brea Tar Pits, the scene behind me is the aftermath of one of the deadliest shootouts in over a decade…”

  As the newscaster sheds light on what occurred, and gives honorable mentions to the two officers who were gunned down, I continue to bite my lip. Is it bad that I am more concerned with Evan’s welfare than the two fallen officers?

  For over an hour, I watch as the scene unfolds with multiple ambulances and other first responders on the sight. The next daytime show prepares to come on, but it’s also interrupted for the live broadcast.

  Around four p.m., a press conference is held. The police commissioner begins the customary spiel about the department’s quest to keep the city safe. A liaison from the Federal Bureau of Investigations also advises that this gruesome act, all though terroristic in nature, will be handled… They mention having leads, and one suspect, in critical condition, has been apprehended.

  My mind goes numb and I no longer hear the agent’s confident words because inside I only have one quest.

  Pent-up air expels from my lungs as Evan and Tyrone stand before an arsenal of microphones. Jamie tosses an arm around me as they continue along with the press conference.

  Evan’s voice is articulate, confident even. I’ve been on pins and needles since hearing about two fatally shot cops. After so many unanswered calls to his cell phone, I press pause on the Channel 5 breaking news and a sob wracks through me.

  Jamie clings to me. My eyes won't tear away from the television. The screen is frozen. I take in his square jaw. Confident, brown eyes that promise to keep Los Angeles safe. Those lips, which have been used to proffer passion, are slightly ajar, mid-eloquence.

  He. Is. Safe.

  Jamie utters the words too. “Everything is okay, Reese.”

  As my friend gingerly sits me onto the couch, I can hear my father returning home for the very last time in the background. C'mere, doll, he had said.

  The shootout of terror off La Brea takes me back to the mansion I once lived in. The glamour and glitz came at a high price to a father who would do anything for his family, or should I say primarily for his love of money.

  But the biggest problem of all? My father once was a cop too. Milo died crooked, but he was once revered on the police force. The very same symbol behind Evan’s head during the debriefing just now was the shield decal on my father’s badge.

  As the tears begin to slither down my cheeks, I go through the motions. Evan and I have gotten entirely too close.

  “Thank you, God, for keeping Evan safe. I swear on my life there will be no more sleeping with my st
epbrother…”

  Chapter 16

  Reese

  It’s still shocking how Evan saved me from only God knows what at the hands of Mr. Big and Buff biker guy. Now, I have slipped into one of my all-time favorite outfits, the one I wore during the Flour Shoppe grand opening. Marc Jacobs graces my curves in a light-silver dress. It’s classy. Not too short and it leaves nothing to be desired in the boob department, I’m here for the drinks. I want to be shit-faced, because Evan and I have reached the end of the line and I’m afraid to tell him as much.

  He'd called me once he had free time, which was a nanosecond during the chaos in the background. He'd said “everything was okay” just paperwork and, he tried to softly mention the gloom over the slain rookies. I'd given him a bit of encouragement, at least I attempted, my family hasn't fully succeeded in the “give a damn” department.

  I sigh as the strobe lights make my dress look light-blue. I’m sitting VIP in Powerhouse, since Jamie’s Argentinian boyfriend would offer no less. Jamie, Sandra, Maria and I sit in a U-shaped leather booth. The back arches all the way to the ceiling; crystal studs give the seats an ultra-chic swag.

  “Are you ready to get wasted?” Sandra shouts into my ear, but the words barely reach out to me over the pristine speakers. My faux energy has finally rubbed off on her. The blondie exudes the vigor that I used this afternoon to force them all to dress in their best and go out on a Wednesday night.

  I try to reach for Maria’s shot glass. The server that keeps bringing a round of premium vodka must not have heard my friend decline the alcohol, saying she wasn’t drinking tonight. Or more than likely the waitress took Jamie’s boy toy–the club owner’s–words to heart when he told her to keep ‘em coming, and that she does. As I toss back Maria’s shot, I hate myself even more for the text I left Evan right before getting into the taxi tonight.