by Kim Jones
I lean my head against the wall, letting the water rain down and wash away my sins. But there’s no cleansing for my soul. It’s tarnished beyond repair. Even though I feel remorse, it doesn’t count. Because now, I’m thinking of an even worse death for the ones who forced me to do this.
I close the door to my bedroom before turning on the light. I hear a groan from the bed and close my eyes. I’m really not in the mood.
“Seriously? Go away. It took forever to get your stench out of these sheets. Don’t come in here and fuck it up now.” I ignore her, keeping my back turned as I pull some shorts on. I turn out the light and climb into bed, anxious to fall asleep and escape from reality. “What the hell are—”
“Not tonight, Diem,” I say, cutting her off. There’s no fight in my voice, because I just don’t have the energy. “Please,” I add, hoping she gets the message. She lays silent for a little while.
When she speaks, her tone isn’t bitchy, and there’s the slightest hint of concern. “You okay?”
I think about her question before answering. I could choose to say nothing, but I find myself telling her the truth. “Not this time.”
She doesn’t know what I mean, but minutes later she shifts slowly to her side. Then her small, bandaged hand comes to rest on my stomach. And when I wake up the next morning, it’s still there—giving me the courage I need to push the shit from last night to the back of my mind.
* * *
I’m starving. Diem has to be starving, but she has yet to demand anything since she sent me to the store the last time. She’s getting better, but it’s only been four days and her movements are still slow.
Standing in the living room, freshly showered with her short, wet, black hair brushed off her face and still wearing my shirt, she finally makes a confession. “I’ve eaten everything in the house. We’re completely out of food. So, are you gonna go shopping or do I need to hunt for some wildlife in the backyard?” Considering she didn’t snap at me and demand I do it, I feel like she’s making progress.
“Yeah, I’ll go. You wanna make a list?” Pulling her hand from behind her back, she hands me two pages of shit she thinks we need. I scan the list, frowning when I come to the part that mentions what she needs. “I have razors,” I say, then continue with the other things. “And shampoo, and soap, and lotion, deodorant . . . Eye cream? What is this shit?”
“You have the shittiest razors ever invented. You must have got them on sale. Five hundred for five bucks. And the shampoo smells like a man. So does the soap, and lotion, and deodorant. And I need the eye cream because I don’t want to look thirty.”
“You’re thirty?” I ask, completely shocked. I thought she was in her early twenties.
She smiles. “Hence the eye cream.” Then she adds, “Oh, and I don’t have any money on me. So, I’ll have to pay you back.”
I roll my eyes. No shit she didn’t have any money. She must not have any clothes either. “You gonna cook?” I ask, looking at the list again.
“Yes. But don’t expect me to become your personal chef. I’ll cook and you can eat it or fix your own.” That sounded fair enough to me. It was nice to see Diem finally coming around. Who knows? I might actually let her stay longer than necessary. “And while you’re at it, pick yourself up a new toothbrush.” My brow draws in confusion. I’d just bought a new toothbrush.
“I used yours to clean the toilet yesterday.” On second thought, she couldn’t leave soon enough.
* * *
Six hundred dollars and three hours later, I’m standing in the kitchen while Diem and I argue over what goes where.
“Nobody puts spices in the same cabinet as everything else. You have a special place dedicated for spices only,” she says, speaking slowly like I’m a small child.
“It’s my fucking house. I’ll put the shit where I want to.”
“Well, as long as I’m staying here and cooking, I need it to be organized.” I glare at her, holding a bottle of cinnamon in one hand and a bag of sugar in the other. I start to just let her win and put it where she wants me to, but then she snaps her fingers at me. I drop the sugar and cinnamon on the floor, and walk out, leaving her cussing at my retreating back.
That night, I eat my first home-cooked meal since Thanksgiving at Dirk’s last year. The meatloaf was dry, the potatoes clumpy. and the peas tasted like rubber. But I didn’t complain. Diem managed to eat as much if not more than me. Because she seemed to be moving slower than normal, I offered to do the dishes.
“Damn right you’re doing the dishes. I cooked.”
Tomorrow, I would be cooking. And I plan to poison her food.
When I see her walking toward my room, I know she’s going to get in my bed. I let her go, hoping she’ll be asleep by the time I’m finished. But when I walk in, she’s not there. I glance across the hall to see the bathroom door shut. Good. I’ll just lock her ass out.
I spread out in the bed, relaxing into the double-sized mattress. I hear her turn the doorknob, and smile when she can’t get it open. “Your pillow’s on the couch.”
No sooner are the words out of my mouth than the door is opened and she’s walking in, flipping on the light switch as she does. “I know. I got it.” She smiles, holding it in her arms along with the steak knife she used to break in. Her smile is an act though. I can tell she’s hurting.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she says, easing down on the bed and laying on her side. Her back is to me, but I can see the rise and fall of her body as she struggles to breathe. She flips to her stomach, and I notice her hand fist into the pillow.
“Diem, you’re not here for my amusement. If something’s wrong, tell me so I can help you.” I wait patiently for her answer that never comes. “Fine. You could have at least cut the light off,” I mumble, getting out of bed and flipping the switch.
I lay there in the darkness, waiting for her breathing to slow. When it finally does and I feel like she’s asleep, I allow my own eyes to close. And I find myself wondering once again why I even care.
9
“ZEKE.”
“Zeke.”
“Zeke!” I wake up, wondering if she was calling my name or if I was dreaming. “Wake up.” Her voice fills the room, and I know I wasn’t dreaming.
“What?” I ask, my words thick with sleep.
“I need a favor.” I finally open my eyes to see her standing next to my side of the bed. She looks like shit. “I need you to put this on my back and then cover it with this.” She holds up some kind of ointment in one hand and some gauze in the other.
“Could you not have told me this when I asked earlier?” I grumble, sitting up.
“Well, I wouldn’t ask you at all, but I’m not a contortionist and can’t do it myself.”
I motion with my finger for her to turn around. When she does, she carefully removes my T-shirt and I’m left looking at her ass, barely covered by a pair of gray satin panties that don’t entirely cover her cheeks. I swallow at the sight. Her ass is toned, but not muscular. Her skin is flawless, and I want to touch it to see if it feels that way too. She shifts, and it jiggles slightly. My dick surges and I bite back a groan.
“Stop looking at my ass, Zeke,” she snaps. Reluctantly, I drag my eyes north until I land on the big cut that is centered in her back. It looks a little red and swollen, but other than that, it’s healing. Carrie did a good job of stitching her up.
“It looks good,” I say, squirting the ointment on her back.
“Squats.” I smile at her response.
“I meant the cut, babe. But your ass is nice too.”
“Don’t call me ‘babe.’ I’m not a pig.” I tape the gauze over the cut, and just ’cause I’m an asshole, I smack her ass when I’m finished. The joke’s on me though because my dick hardens further at the feel of it against my hand. Damn. It feels like satin. “I�
�m gonna let that one go. I’ll consider it payback for waking you.” Always playing games.
I lay back down and moments later hear her as she crawls in the bed. Then shifts. Then groans. Then shifts again. “Fucking ribs and back and hands,” she mumbles. She ends up on her side facing me. I look over at her, the moonlight casting a glow across the room. I frown; she really does look uncomfortable.
Knowing I’ll never get any sleep as long as she keeps wiggling, I flip to my back. “Come here,” I command, but my voice is off. It sounds like a tone I’d use when I wanted to do more to her than hold her.
She just stares at me, one eyebrow raised in suspicion. Moving closer to her, I wrap my arm around her shoulders until her head is on my chest. Grabbing her knee, I pull it across my legs. She shifts slightly until half of her body is laying on mine. It doesn’t take her long to relax further into me.
“Better?” Yes.
“Mmm.” And moments later, she’s asleep.
* * *
“You can’t do it like that,” Diem tells me the next evening, from her very comfortable position on the porch. Meanwhile, I’m in the yard cutting back the hedges that have nearly overtaken the front of my house. I thought it would be better than being locked inside with her. I was wrong. She was just as annoying outside.
“Why don’t you get your ass down here and do it?” I ask, leaning over to glare at her—sipping her fucking lemonade like a queen.
“Well, I would, but I’m not quite ready for manual labor, boss.”
“Yeah, and whose fault is that?” She doesn’t answer, and I’m glad for the break from her nagging.
“You should get a dog.”
“I already have one mutt around here. No need for another one.” I’m sure she’s giving me the finger, but she should have known better than to say some shit like that.
“I cannot wait to get the hell away from here,” she mumbles. Like she’s some kind of prisoner.
I stab the trimmers in the ground, then walk over and snatch the lemonade out of her hand. “Nothing between you and anywhere but here except air and opportunity.”
She gives me a disgusted look as she eyes the glass in my hand. Then she smiles. “Why, when I could stay here and make your life miserable too?”
“You’re doing a good fucking job at that.” I light a smoke, fighting the urge to stab her in the eye with it.
“Whatever. Admit it. You like having me around.”
I laugh. “Yeah, about as much as I like being told what to do. And what not to do. And how to eat, sleep, sit, and trim hedges. You can’t leave soon enough in my eyes, sweetheart.”
Her lips curl into a snarl at my words. “Stop it with the pet names. They weird me out.”
Handing her back the now-empty glass, I shoot her a wink. “Whatever you say, pretty girl.” As I get back to my yard work, I realize that not once had she asked me not to call her that.
Diem cooks again and it’s just as bad tonight as it was last night. It’s some kind of casserole that has the consistency of Jell-O and tastes like cardboard. I manage to eat three bites before I make a sandwich. The next meal we share will be pizza.
Per my usual ritual, I’m sitting in my recliner watching the Western Channel waiting for my eyes to get heavy enough to sleep. Since Diem has been here, I haven’t had a problem falling asleep at night as long as she is in bed with me. I don’t dwell on it though. The thought of me feeling safe around her makes me feel like a pussy.
“Move over,” she says, already acting like she’s fixing to sit in the chair with me.
“What? No. Get your ass on the couch. This is a one-person chair. Tonight and every other night, that one person is me.” She ignores me, easing her ass down on the arm of the recliner and leaning against my shoulder. In her hands she holds a big bowl. “What’s that?”
“This? This is a one-person bowl of ice cream,” she says, giving me a sardonic smile.
“Is there any more?”
“Nope,” she answers shortly, keeping her eyes on the TV.
“Give me a bite.” I’m practically whining.
“Move over.”
Letting out a loud breath, I pull out the recliner, noticing her pleased smile as I do. Smart-ass thinks she knows everything. Sliding over, I give her an inch of space that she manages to wiggle her little ass in.
“Now give me a bite.” She passes the bowl over, already absorbed in the show. I look down, and there’s a fourth of a spoonful left. Just enough to piss me off.
“Go fix us some more,” she demands.
I close my eyes, trying to calm down the beast inside me that begs to bite her face off. “You said there wasn’t any more,” I grit through my teeth.
“I lied. Hurry up while the commercials are on.” She grins up at me, her eyes flashing with mischief.
I slam the recliner shut with my feet, and the jerk of the chair causes her to wince and hold her side. I match her evil grin with my own. “Oops.”
“I hate you,” she calls as I make my way to the kitchen.
“I hate you more,” I yell over my shoulder. And really, I do.
By the third episode of Gunsmoke, Diem is laying across my chest. My arm is around her waist, her legs are tangled with mine, and we’re both finally comfortable. She looks up at me, her eyes shining with curiosity beneath her long, dark lashes.
“Kiss me.” My eyebrows raise in question. “Kiss me. Like you did that night in the bar.”
“Why?” I ask, feeling my blood rush faster to my cock.
“Because I want you to.”
I smirk. “No.”
She leans her head back further against my shoulder, her lips nearly touching my cheek. “Please?” Did she seriously just say please? Or was I hearing shit?
“I like when you beg,” I say, my gaze drifting from her lips to her eyes and back.
“Please, Zeke. Just kiss me.” She’s serious. And I’m hardening. Maybe she’ll beg for that too.
Cradling her face with my hand, my thumb runs over the fading bruise under her eye. Sliding my hand down her neck, I hold it, my mouth barely grazing over hers. “Like this?” I ask, planting a soft kiss on her parted lips.
“More,” she whispers, trying to move her mouth closer. But I move my hand to her throat, applying a little pressure to keep her where I want her.
My mouth covers hers, kissing her a little harder. When she parts her lips, I pull back. “Like that?”
“A little more,” she breathes, and I can feel her pulse quickening. Drawing a lazy circle around her lips with my tongue, she moans. As soon as it escapes her, I give her the kiss I know she wants. She tastes like ice cream and Diem. I never knew chocolate and watermelon were such a delicious combination.
She becomes limp in my arms, all but her hand that fists in my shirt. I grab her knee, moving it over my cock. When she feels it beneath my jeans, her moan deepens. Trailing my fingers up her thigh, I guide them beneath her shirt, caressing the smooth skin with my fingertips. Keeping my mouth on hers, I slip my hand into her panties, and she pushes against me, begging me to touch her.
The feel of her bare pussy against my fingers isn’t enough. So I part her lips, feeling the wet heat on my middle finger as I drag it up to her clit. Rubbing it in slow circles, I look down at her as her head falls back, breaking our kiss completely.
A guttural moan rips from her, and it’s the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. Her mouth is open, her eyes squeezed shut, and every few seconds, her breath catches in her throat. She is the epitome of sexy. Slowly, I drop my finger lower, shoving it inside her—groaning when I feel how wet and satiny her walls feel around me.
I can smell the sweet scent of her arousal from beneath her panties. If it’s intoxicating from here, I can only imagine what it must be like with my nose buried in her pussy. My tongue thrusting in and o
ut of her—tasting her . . . drinking her . . . fucking devouring her.
I can’t fuck her. She’s too hurt and I’m too anxious to trust myself to take it slow. I know that watching her come will give me the worst case of blue balls I’ve ever had. But I can’t deny her. Not now. So I work my magic with my hands, and soon, she’s coming in my arms. She doesn’t jerk or spasm like I expect, she simply goes limp—her entire body relaxing as she lets out a slow moan on a breath.
It’s like I’ve just lifted the weight of the world off her shoulders. Like I’m the world’s greatest drug—guaranteed to escape her from reality. Or, at least my fingers are. I cup her pussy in my hand, leaning down to kiss the hollow of her throat before sliding it out of her panties, up her stomach, and finally to her tits.
Fuck, they feel so good. I squeeze them gently, rubbing my thumb across her nipple as I wait for her to break through the fog. She’s still breathing slowly, every once in a while letting out a soft moan. She’s limp, spent, and sated. I still my hand, but the little moans continue and it doesn’t take me long to realize she’s asleep.
“You’re welcome,” I mutter, easing the recliner shut and standing with her in my arms. Figures I’d get the shitty end of this deal. Not only will I have to jerk off, but now I have to carry her ass to bed too. If I could put her to sleep this fast with my fingers, she’d be fucking comatose if I showed her what I could do with my tongue. I smirk at the thought.
Tomorrow, I just might have to try that.
* * *
My plan with Death Mob needs some rethinking. So Rookie and Carrie are coming over for what Diem thinks is a barbeque. She’s been here over a week, and even though she tries to hide it, she looks a little excited at the thought of company. I’m excited about not having to eat her cooking. I think the bitch is trying to kill me.
“I have a problem,” she announces, busting through the bathroom door while I’m in the shower.
“No shit you have problems, but which one are you talking about.”
She ignores my comment, and I hear her flip the lid down on the toilet and take a seat. “I don’t have any shoes.”
