Secrets She Keeps

by Amarie Avant

  Pearly-white teeth scour over the raspberry color of her bottom lip. She’s waiting for me to tear her apart, but not willing to request it.

  My hand clamps at the low ponytail at the back of her neck. I tug assertively. Her back is against the counter and now her chin juts up. My cock thumps against her thigh. Her eyes dance with wanton desire, but she says not one word.

  My mouth clamps over her bottom lip. I savor the taste; she’s been sampling my panna cotta. My tongue glides over the satin of hers, and Reese matches my hard kiss.

  Then I bite down on her lip. Reese yelps against my mouth.

  She tries to argue. “You sadist—”

  My mouth claims hers once more, kissing away her argument. In one quick swoop, I’ve grabbed the voluptuous meat of her ass, and placed her onto the granite countertop. Not satisfied with her position, she’s just out of my reach, just far enough away that I can’t use her body the way her body is begging me to use it. So my hands clamp against those curvy thighs of hers and I drag her ass closer to me in a matter of a second.

  There are certain times that I allow her to rule. She needs it. The false sense of domination decreases her likelihood of running from me. The image of Reese deciding to follow through with her uncertainty about us is unfathomable…

  She frowns at my roughness. Though her chest is heaving, those nipples are harder than ever, and her eyes are still heavy with lust, Reese exclaims, “Slamming me against the counter is the thanks I get for cooking your favorite meal?”

  “Everything you cook is my favorite, and Not at all, Reese.”

  “Humph.” Her brow is scrunched and her artifice is deliciously sinful. I have it in my mind to fuck that frown off her face.

  “Beautiful, that little attitude you have tells me that you preferred that I had continued to have my way with you, no matter how rough I got.”

  She folds her arms, eyes narrowed slightly, although those chocolate orbs are still twinkling.

  “I’ll get around to thanking you for dinner and dessert.” I cock my head to the refrigerator where the food is already prepared. “But I'm a man who enjoys his dessert first. And I do not save the best for last. I’m stinky. Now you’re stinky. Let’s shower.”

  Chapter 31

  Reese

  “Let’s shower? Evan, I was clean! I just took a shower. I boxed the last few items, squeezed in time to make sure you got fed, and took a shower, you cocky bastard,” I toss back since Evan has just dirtied me up with his sweat and has decided to force me to take a shower. My chest is still heaving, just a tad. I have never in my life been kissed with such passion. But then again, each time he kisses me, I take a moment to remind myself of my name, age, and other vital statistics.

  I want to say I love Evan, but I need him more.

  “The biggest fucking mistake you can ever make, doll, is to depend on a motherfucker. Promise me, Reese, you won’t ever place all your cards on the table for some…” Milo’s voice fades from my ears, probably because my mother had started her reprimanding for all his cussing.

  Evan grabs my chin. His lips slam down on mine. And he kisses away sordid recollections of my father. All thoughts period. Once again, my brain cannot comprehend that I usually play hard to get during his alpha trip.

  As his lips part from mine, an impish grin rainbows across my entire face.

  Evan pushes his tie askew. I reach up and grab his linen shirt. Might be deplorable but I grab until the silk buttons pop. His Italian marble, chiseled face doesn't contort one bit. He pulls out of the ruined shirt, and my eyes feast in on an eight pack of taut muscles. I reach for his chest. The back of my hand is washed with prickles of pain as Evan slaps my hand down.

  “Bastar—” The word is tossed back into my throat as is Evans tongue. He once again twirls his tongue around mine until I'm the simpleton he sought. Yeah, I need him to make the torment of my father disappear. Evan is my savior.

  His glorious lips travel along my jawline. He gnaws on the fragile bone just enough to make me even more giddy. Then down my slender neck to my chest as his hands grip along the inseam of my tiny exercise shorts. He yanks those down along with my panties. They go sailing over his shoulder.

  And then the chaotic sex with my very own superhero ceases. Evan’s chest puffs up and deflates. I tell myself not to reach for a touch, but then again the torture doesn't hold as much weight as the feel of his steel pecs beneath my palms. Yet and still, fear leaves me to be patient and abide by his timing. He's thoughtful. Those dark eyes have lightened some with consideration.

  Callused fingertips brush against my inner thighs, as Evan presses my legs wide. Cool air hits the gloss of my nether regions. Evan moves to his knees. All the air in my lungs expires as he nears my most treasured gift. My heart stops. The simplicity of breathing has been unlearned. The moment his tongue flicks out to taste my clit, my head softly kisses the cupboard. Eyes drifting closed. Air washes into my lungs as I sigh.

  This man has had a long day of work. But instead of requesting to be served, here he is pleasing me. My inner turmoil is tossed into oblivion as he offers to take me to heaven. My legs are draped over the broad taut muscles of his shoulders and I force myself not to twine my legs around him, hold him siege for a lifetime. Mist blinds my eyes, and I’m unaware until a single tear glides across the arch of my cheekbone.

  There’s no penetration on Evan’s end. Just his lips loving my second pair of lips. His tongue drags titillating and slow across the swells of my labia. My entire being is in a trance, hips tilting, back arching, beckoning him inside of me. But still he doesn’t go. My mouth opens, an orgasm rolls through me from hair follicle to engine-red toenails, so damn hard that not a single sound exits my lips. Bliss is saturated against my tongue.

  In an instant, Evan’s mouth is away from me. The sinking fear that I get during times where I rationalize how we do not belong, or how one day some bad shit is going to tear us apart, crashes through me. This pain in my chest is almost equivalent to the affliction of knowing I need to leave him one day.

  Yet and still, my soul, my body, my mind is eager for him to stay. “What are you doing?” I murmur curiosity and craving blurring my words, at least I’m somewhat confident that I inquired as much.

  Evan has arisen from the perfect spot, between my thighs. He stands before me and says, “You called me stinky, right?”

  I’m too baffled to speak. This bastard has a cocky smile on his face. My pain equates to his pleasure.

  “I assume dinner will cook for about an hour or so.” He pats his belly. “You declined my offer to accompany me in the shower. I think I'll survive.” There's a glimmer in his eye as he turns to walk away.

  I scoff. “Survive! What about me?” I say to the back of his curly, chocolate-brown head as he saunters away from the kitchen. “Get back here, sous chef,” I grit out each word, while hopping off the counter.

  Over his shoulder, Evan assures, “You've got this. I have faith in you.”

  I glance at the water guns. This has to be love, either that or I wanna kill him.

  An hour later, Evan has taped and pushed all of the boxes of knickknacks I refuse to part ways with from the top of the dining table onto the floor. After a hyped morning, I abandoned my efforts to save things Evan told me to toss yesterday while he was off and we conducted a more organized two-man moving party. We intended to spend the night tonight so I can prepare for the movers’ tomorrow morning.

  He’s set the table for two. It’s not fully romantic in any sense of the word, there are no tapered candles. Despite the fact that most of the entertainment utensils are packed away, my bloody house of horrors has been transformed. As I place a bowl of fresh Caesar salad on the table, I see my father sitting across from my mom and a younger me. Though this round four-seater dining table doesn’t compare to the large home I lived in as a child, not by a long stretch, the environment reminds me of… home.

  “What’s wrong?” Evan asks

  “Nothing,
” I shake my head, physically clearing it from the needless sentiments. This thing between him and I, well it will never last. Nobody goes half of their lifetime with shit being tossed at you all the while with such an optimistic outlook. Genuinely happy people are full of it. And my happiness used to reside in crafting the perfect chocolate soufflé, or infusing macaroons, better yet spending hours honing a wedding cake for someone else’s happiness. Now I have Nook, it’s a few months out of the gate with a team who will run it perfectly. The fear of failure with regard to Flour Shoppe has faded, because my happiness is in Evan. And contentment exists in the dismissal of the past…

  But my man is patient and my blasé response didn't cut it. I add, “I had the ingredients for Negroni; I Googled real Italian drinks and it came up.”

  He chuckles softly, though this is true, and placing myself at the butt of the joke deters his curiosity. I hate lying to Evan. And not ten minutes into the meal, have I already lied again.

  “Sal… um....” I begin, clearing my throat, “Mr. Giugliano hasn’t returned since… since I found out the sneaky snake was a liar.”

  Evan pauses for a moment, placing down his fork. His plate is all but polished off anyway. “Giugliano sent you the text saying he’d be out of touch at the beginning of last month. He hasn’t reached out to you since then?”

  Fingernails biting into the flesh of my palms, I shake my head. “No.” I count to three within the chaos of my brain before picking up the lukewarm wine that I found during a scavenger hunt for something quick for us to drink.

  Evan is silent once more.

  “I’m gonna start the dishwasher,” I arise abruptly. “I’ve gotta go cram everything in it so tomorrow morning, all I have to do is toss the odds and ends into the boxes, and then viola, the movers’ can’t charge me for extra time.”

  “Oh no you don’t,” Evan stands. His presence is overpowering, not to mention he blocks the way into the kitchen. These days any conversation about Milo ends in an argument, so I refuse. Any dialogue about that sneaky snake Sal follows then proceeds as two humans chatting then follows the same lines, with Evan asking me about him. And my guard rising higher than the Great Wall of China, only to be followed by an argument.

  “Evan, I don’t wanna argue about him…”

  His hazel eyes are speaking my language, honey-brown and full of empathy. Evan’s hands graze up my arms to my shoulders, and then sweep to the pulse at my neck as he kisses my collarbone tenderly. God, I need him to make love to me: mind, body, soul. Make me forget that we shouldn’t be. There’s a danger for Evan to be linked to Milo Benincassa’s daughter.

  I’ve never hated my father, never been disappointed in any of his actions. He was my dad, the only one I ever had so why be disappointed in his memory. But Milo’s actions can be linked to Evan… at least that’s what my racing mind believes. A heaviness still weighs down my heart.

  Chapter 32

  Evan

  The passenger door opens. Tyrone dips down and gets into my sports car. He’s holding two paper containers, the aroma of oil and pure goodness from the hotdog truck ahead of me wafts through my nostrils.

  “All beef, mustard for you,” Tyrone hands over my hotdog.

  “Thanks.” I nod my head.

  “The fucking works for me,” he says holding up his own hotdog with chili, cheese, and a heaping of french fries.

  “Dude, your heart hates you. If one of those french fries falls between the cracks of the center console and your seat, you die.”

  He gives a sinister giggle before attempting to demolish it in one bite.

  As I pull out of the spot and maneuver around the crowd surrounding the food vendor, he asks about the burgeoning LAPD/ FBI homicide task force.

  Unlike me, Tyrone has always been in the narc unit. The new task force is a good way to step the fuck up and solidify yourself with the Feds too. Raynor mentioned chatter of a stronger liaison between the LAPD and FBI a few years back when it was in the works.

  “They've got three openings. Two of ‘em already got our name on it. We should do it.” Tyrone rubs his hands in anticipation.

  “I don't know, bro. I'm comfortable at Detective III. I'll work my way up the loop. The program has made some positive strides now, but it's the gateway career only leading to one gate. And special agent isn’t in the cards for me.”

  A perimeter has been set around the active crime scene of Spectrum Diagnostic, a biopharmaceutical company located off Burton Way. The cement building is one story, but extends almost the entire block. The place is sectioned off in pieces. No expense has been spared with the front of the building, and upscale lobby. The laboratory has high-end equipment worth its weight in gold. And the third, and last section, is where prescription drugs are boxed, tagged and shipped to various pharmaceutical stores. Tyrone’s attempt to persuade me to the new LAPD/ FBI unit will have to come later, as we have a large scene to assess.

  We head to the back, where the action has taken place. There are boxes scattered all around the storage unit. The pallets against the wall which weren’t ransacked are stacked up fifteen-feet to the ceiling.

  “I need an inventory of every brand of pill currently manufactured and in the building,” I order the Spectrum Diagnostic manager as Tyrone makes a request for surveillance of the area.

  The manager loops a few pieces of blonde hair behind her ear. She seems to be calculating every single step, every thought as her pale-blue eyes look up to me for guidance. I wait for her to do as I had just requested since she’d already mentioned stock plummeting once the headlines broke loose for the umpteenth time.

  “Now, please,” I add, and then dismiss her in an instant.

  “Oh, yes, of course. I’ll go grab the catalogue right at this very instant,” she scurries past one of the tech team.

  The SID boys are already buzzing around various areas where different drugs are pre-stored since the entire lab has been ransacked. Shutters from cameras click. Areas are dusted for fingerprints. And evidence is bagged.

  With gloves on my hands, I crouch down near pre-packaged boxes, I grab a stray one from the floor. It reads ADDARELL. The most common form of speed, and the drug of choice for go-getter college students these days.

  “Mr. Zacarro…” the manager stands before me, fidgeting her fingers. She holds a clipboard out for my preview.

  “Thanks.” I take it and scan through the list of what’s been accounted for since the theft. “What is a volume?”

  “Each unit comes in forty pound boxes,” she responds, blue eyes less hopeful by the second.

  Fuck, there are eighty units of Codeine missing, amongst other highly addictive prescription drugs. Over one-thousand units of OxyContin places their losses in the hundreds of thousands solely for that opioid. I rub the back of my neck as Tyrone steps out of the surveillance room.

  “What’s the damage, Evan?”

  “Heavy hitters: Klonopin, Oxy, you know the drill.”

  “Alright, I have a team scanning through the surveillance cameras as we speak,” Tyrone says. “Spectrum wasn’t playing with regard to this control room. There’s literally a visual on all angles. If the perps aren’t ghosts, we got ‘em.”

  “Nope, we don’t play,” the manager speaks up, her thin lips spreading into a smile as she glances at Tyrone.

  “Zacarro,” calls out one of the SID workers.

  Ty heads back into the surveillance room, and I make my way to a tech named Jeff who has a spray of pimples on his forehead, he’s just that young. Jeff says, “Look what we have here,” he holds up a tiny blue piece of jean material stained in blood. I glance at the tiny blood trail on the floor. One of the perps had to have skinned his ankle while hightailing out of here.

  Jeff grins brightly. The young ones, they always want to be patted on the back at each interval.

  So I do it, and add in a wry tone, “Good job. Bag it. Tag it. Have that sent to the lab for testing.”

  Chapter 33

  Ree
se

  “He is my family and the man I am in love with, though funny story, I'm just too chickenshit to say the words aloud to him.” I declare, glaring into obsidian pupils. “You appear out of thin air and think you can ruin my life and force the hand of the man I care about! My father never mentioned you. I don't know you. Grandfather? Sheesh, we share the same blood but where I come from, blood and water have the same consistency. Besides, I know exactly what you want, exactly who you want!” I pause. Too damn angry to utter the name of the man I love and want to keep safe. Somewhere deep down in my gut I am aware that my grandfather wants to ruin Evan like Riker suggested and just as my father had been ruined…

  Clearing the constriction in my throat, my tone continues with precision. “Touch one hair on his head, I don't give a damn if you're the Boss of all Bosses, Sal, I'll slit your fucking throat myself.”

  And there it is.

  The monologue I have readdressed while sitting in the driver’s seat of my Chevy Cruze. I stop glaring at myself as if I'm my own enemy but The devil who meet me in sheep's clothing. Sweet Salvatore is now that ‘sneaky snake Sal.’ I never suspected that one of my most loyal customers at The Flour Shoppe, has turned out to be a lying snake. Sort of like my dad, Milo, his son. Guess the apple didn't even roll a friggen inch when it fell off the tree.

  But I loved my dad despite his faults. Milo had this way of making you fall for him before scaring the shit outta you.

  TAP, TAP, TAP.

  Shoulder’s stiffening, I practically jump out of my skin.

  Jamie stops knocking on the window and laughs erratically. Probably, on the outside looking in I appeared the crazed woman cussing myself out.

  As I grab my purse, and get out of the car, he’s doubled over, stomping his stiletto boots, bawling so hard that he has to clutch his ribs