“Mom,” I tap her on the shoulder. “Mom,” I say with more volume and another tap. Nothing. She remains in the deep untroubled sleep of an alcoholic.
My hands on my hips, while my eyes peruse the room, I take in the empty dishes all over the coffee table and the ashtray full of cigarette butts. Shaking my head, I blow out a long sigh and begin to clear the dishes away. Stacking them in my arms like a Jenga puzzle, I carry them to the kitchen. Rinse, load, repeat. Three trips between the living room and kitchen, and the coffee table is once again clear. I empty the ashtray and secure the trash bag before carrying it to the curb, along with the ten other bags that have been piling up in the garage. Tomorrow is trash day.
I wipe down the kitchen counters and quickly clean her downstairs bathroom. I don’t want to be here anymore. This place brings back all the feelings of helplessness I experienced at my father’s hand. It’s a miracle my mom is still alive.
There was one time when I was sixteen, he strangled her right in front of me. Paralyzed by fear and what I was seeing, I couldn’t move. It was only at the last second when I punched my dad in the nose that he finally let her go. She fell to the ground gasping for air, and he became preoccupied with stopping the blood flowing from his nose. That was the first time I ever fought back, but not the last.
EIGHT YEARS AGO
“Where have you been?” My father’s voice grinds out through clenched teeth. Fuck. Squeezing my eyes shut for a moment - this isn’t going to go well. Missing my curfew by ten minutes is no different than coming home two hours late in his eyes. The only difference is the severity of the punishment.
Pleading for leniency won’t do me any good. There’s no changing his mind.
“I was with Zoe. When I dropped her off her parents wanted me to come inside for a few minutes. They kept me longer than I planned,” I lie, hoping he can’t see through it.
I had every intention of arriving home on time until Zoe decided to suck my dick. We’ll be going to separate colleges in two weeks and she’s eager to please me. She wants us to remain a couple even though we’ll be in different states.
She’s attending UMass and I’m off to NYU. I don’t plan on carrying on a long-distance relationship. I’m only eighteen and there’s plenty of other pussy to try out, but for now I’ll take what she wants to give me. And tonight, it was head. Not even the fear of one of my father’s beatings could have kept me from seeing that blow job through to the end. Once I’d shot my load down her throat, there was a moment’s panic while I thought about the repercussions of missing curfew.
“I’m not stupid, boy. You were getting your dick wet.” He rises from the recliner.
“No, I wasn’t,” I argue as he walks toward me. Fear grips me, its icy cold fingers squeeze my throat making it difficult to breathe. I fight the urge to flee, even though every fiber of my being is screaming at me to.
He grips my hair on top, tugging hard; clumps are being pulled out. I follow his hand, leaning my head back. He slaps me across the right cheek, hard.
My eyes water at the unexpected sting and before I have a chance to regroup he backhands me across the left one. The metallic tang of blood on my tongue clues me in my lip is split. I confirm it by tracing my tongue over my bottom lip, grimacing when I feel the slit. It feels large and there’s a good amount of blood.
Do I need stitches?
“You still want to lie to me, boy?” He pulls harder on my hair. I arch my back to keep him from ripping out chunks. I know I need to get out of his hold.
My thoughts race and jumble while I try to come up with a course of action. My father takes care of it for me though, when he pulls me backward once more. I claw at his face and gouge at his eyes, my arm stretched out as far as possible.
Catching him by surprise, he loosens his grip and I pull free from his hold. My scalp is on fire, my breathing is labored and all I want to do is hurt him. My teeth clench as the anger courses through me. My chest puffs with each breath.
No one should feel this way about their dad. He steps toward me and my right fist meets his jaw with a satisfying crack.
He stumbles back two steps and I follow. The rage takes over and I want to fuck him up so bad he never lays another hand on me. I strike him again, this one a left cross to the eye. His eyebrow splits, blood trickles down his face. He stands there eerily grinning like a demon or something out of a horror movie.
“Feeling froggy are you?” He gestures with his hand for me to come closer. Scared enough to piss my pants, I know this is the time I need to take a stand. I can’t back down now.
Oblivious to what might be coming, I charge forward a battle cry falling from my lips. I make it two steps before his fist slams into my jaw, catching me right on the sweet spot. I’m out like a light before I even hit the ground.
* * *
Rubbing a hand over my hair covered jaw, I can still feel the bastard’s punch now. I learned a valuable lesson that day - to keep my hands up and protect my face. I’m glad he’s dead, I only wish it could have been me pulling the trigger.
It’s been three years since he died at the hands of Jack Doyle, a Boston Police officer. That day, the two Boston cops went to my parent’s house to break up a domestic dispute, which wasn’t out of the norm where they were concerned. While they were questioning my parents, my father pulled out a gun, aiming for my mother. Kyle McKenzie, one of the officers, stepped in front of her and took a bullet to the head. His partner immediately shot my father. One small bullet did what I could never do and now I would never have the chance.
I wanted him to die by my hand and for a long time I blamed Kyle McKenzie and his partner for cheating me of the opportunity. I even went so far as to seek revenge, using Kyle’s girlfriend Janny as a pawn to do so. I grimace as I think about how I stalked Janny. I took it too far; masturbating over her drugged form and even touching her when she wasn’t aware.
I won’t go so far as to say I’m remorseful, I don’t do remorse. Time has made me realize my anger might have been displaced. Instead of being directed at my father for all the hell he put us through, I channeled it into hating Kyle for being the catalyst for his death.
Chapter Sixteen
Zack
Waiting has never been something I’ve enjoyed, but I’ve learned the value in staying the course. Lana’s been avoiding me for three days now. I gave her some space and hoped she’d come to grips with what we did, but it doesn’t seem to be happening. She needs a reminder of how great we are together.
Staring out of one of my living room windows, like a hawk searching for prey, I wait for her to return home from work. When I see her car parking along the curb, it’s time for action. Shrugging my coat on, I leave my apartment and head down the stairs. I have to make it appear I’m leaving and not like I’ve been sitting, watching, desperately waiting for her to come home.
When I step off the final step, Lana is coming in the front entrance. I grip the edge of the door in my hand, holding it for her. At first, she’s startled by my presence, and then flustered by it if her pink cheeks are any indication.
“Hey, how are you?” I ask, as though I didn’t just have my cock buried inside her three days ago. I restrain the urge to slam her up against the wall and kiss her until she begs for it again.
“Hi,” she replies, then bites on her lip. She stares up at me, her large eyes shining an emerald green today. When we were together the other night, I couldn’t tell what color they were. The lighting was too dim. Finding out what color they are when I’m buried inside her is on my short list of things to do.
“How was work?” I close the door behind her. She pulls her pink gloves off and shoves them in her coat pocket.
Her shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. “It was okay, nothing too exciting happened.”
Studying her face, I notice the dark circles under her eyes. I cup her cheek in my hand. “You look tired.” My thumb gently sweeps back and forth over her cheekbone. I cup the other side, holding her fac
e between my hands. “Let me cook dinner for you tonight. You look like you could use a break.”
Her eyes look away, bouncing around the entryway, and then return to me. “Let me do this for you,” I urge, smiling at her.
She doesn’t answer me at first. Her face is an open book, though. I can see her indecision and reservations as if she’s voicing them out loud.
“It’s just dinner, Lana,” I reassure her.
Her eyes are large green pools of worry staring up at me.
“Have I given you a reason to doubt my word?” I fight back the whisper of annoyance I’m feeling. Why is she making this so fucking hard?
She shakes her head. “No, you haven’t. I’ll come to dinner.” She flashes me a quick close lipped smile, and I fight to keep my relaxed appearance.
I want to shake some sense into her - kiss some sense into her. I know I need to be gentle and patient with her, but patience in not what I learned growing up in the house I did. Those two words are the opposite of everything I’ve ever experienced.
“Try not to look so excited about it.” My tone is more sarcastic than I intended it to be.
She places her hand on my arm. “I am looking forward to dinner with you. I’m sorry for being so weird still.” She lets her hand slip off my arm then sweeps her long bangs out of her eyes. “I’ve never done this before.” She drops her head forward studying the hardwood floor. When she raises her head, and meets my gaze she continues. “When I slept with Christopher we were already in a relationship. This,” she gestures back and forth between us, “is different, and I’m not sure how I feel about it.”
I place my hand on her shoulder. “Why do we have to figure it out now? I’m not pressuring you in any way.” Gently squeezing her shoulder, I continue, “Can we just have dinner and leave what happened the other night out of it?” I ask, my eyebrow raised.
She smiles. “Yes, I’d like that.”
“My place, six-thirty sharp.” My hand slides up to grip the back of her neck. “Don’t make me come for you.” My fingertips trail down her back and fall away. I turn, heading to the front door. Keeping up the ruse I was on my way out when she returned home, I walk to the packie and grab a couple bottles of wine to go with dinner. I whistle Three Blind Mice all the way back to my apartment.
Lana’s knock on my door comes at six-twenty-five. I smile; she’s obedient. Wiping my hands on the dish towel, I drop it on the granite countertop, striding from the kitchen to the entry. Stopping in front of the door, I run my fingers through my hair and then mentally slap myself for acting like a fucking girl.
Lana could be the best thing that ever happened to me or the worst. The jury’s still out.
Seeing her smiling face when I open the door, my doubt melts away. Whatever the outcome of our time together, it will be worth it in the end. She’s making me a better person - making me want to be a better person for her, if not for myself.
“Hi, come on in.” I step back, closing the door behind her.
“Here,” she holds out a plate of chocolate cupcakes. As I take them from her my mouth is already watering. “I made these yesterday. I know you liked them last time.”
“Thanks, you can share your cupcakes with me any time you want.” I wink at her. “Have a seat.” I gesture toward the kitchen table and chairs. I already have plates and silverware set up for us. “I’m just finishing up now. Dinner should be ready in a few.” I crack open the oven door, checking on the steak I have broiling. The beep of the microwave lets me know the potatoes are done. I remove the scorching hot bag, quickly dropping it on the counter before it can burn my fingers.
Lana’s giggle has me glancing in her direction.
“What? That motherfucker’s hot.”
She giggles again, rolling her eyes. “That’s what potholders are for.”
“Anything cooked in the microwave isn’t hot enough to justify using those. Have you ever had potatoes cooked in a bag?” Her eyes light up with amusement, she presses her lips together holding in the laughter.
“You can laugh now, but once you taste these babies you’ll never go through the hassle of making them any other way.” I cut the top of the bag open, dumping them into a large glass bowl. “Golden potatoes cooked to perfection in only eight minutes. It’s foolproof.”
She giggles, and I savor the musical sound of it. I want to hear her laugh all the time. I want to be the reason she’s so happy.
When I remove the pan of steak and place it down on the stovetop, the fire alarm immediately goes off. Every fucking time I use this oven it sets off the goddamn alarm. The noise is so loud, it’s deafening. Lana covers her ears and begins to laugh.
Grabbing the towel off the counter, I wave it in front of the overly sensitive device. I want to pull it from the wall and smash it into a hundred pieces, but I don’t. I take a deep, calming breath and restrain myself.
The shrieking siren stops almost immediately. Motherfucker.
Frustrated, I throw the towel onto the counter and run my fingers through my hair. This isn’t going how I wanted it to.
Chapter Sixteen
Lana
Watching Zack prepare dinner has been entertaining. It’s adorable how flustered he is now that the fire alarm went off. He uses his fingers to rake his hair back, then places both hands on his hips like he doesn’t know what to do next.
“Do you need any help?” I ask.
His eyes snap in my direction. “No, I’ve got it.” He moves quickly and efficiently placing the steak on a platter and setting it on the table. He adds bread and butter before handing me a glass of wine. I wasn’t going to drink tonight, but since he already poured it I might as well.
He sits down across from me. “Dig in; don’t be shy.” Both of us spend the next few minutes focusing on our meal.
“This is delicious. I can’t believe how good the potatoes are.” I scoop another bite into my mouth.
“I told you. Stick with me and I’ll teach you all kinds of new and interesting things.”
He smirks. His smirk is deadly. I want to kiss it right off his lips.
“Tell me about your family,” I say, then take a sip of wine.
His eyebrows draw together. “I don’t like to talk about my family.” He studies the food on his plate. “I didn’t have a good home life growing up.”
“Do you have any siblings?” I ask ignoring what he said. He’s pushed me to talk about my past. He needs to do the same.
“Yes, I have one younger sister, Chloe. She lives in New Mexico, and I barely ever hear from her.”
“She doesn’t talk to my mother at all.” He shakes his head, before looking at me.
“How did you get the scar on your stomach?” I noticed it the other night when he was naked, but there wasn’t exactly the time to mention it.
“I was in a bad car accident last year.”
“I thought you didn’t have a car in New York?” I question.
“I didn’t. I wasn’t driving, a friend of mine was. I got a large piece of glass in my stomach.”
“Oh, Zack. That’s horrible.”
His expression is forlorn. “I’d rather talk about something else.”
I nod my head. “I understand what it’s like to not want to talk about things from your past.” I have a long list of things I don’t like to talk about, and most of those things involve Christopher. Thinking about him has my stomach clenching. I place my hand over the affected area and rub, hoping it settles soon. I want to do Zack’s meal justice.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, cutting the steak on his plate. “Did I poison you?” He gestures to my stomach with his knife.
I giggle. “No, it’s delicious. Besides, food poisoning doesn’t hit you that fast. I’ll have to let you know tomorrow whether I made it through unscathed.” I flash him a smile.
“I’ve never accidentally poisoned someone before,” he mentions, his eyebrows raised.
“Does that mean you’ve only poisoned people deliberat
ely?” I laugh and sip on my wine.
“Only the ones I thought deserved it,” he replies deadpan. I giggle and continue to consume my meal.
After dinner is over, I try to help Zack clean up, but he won’t hear of it. He directs me to the living room, and I sink down on his large brown couch. My eyes scan the room, taking in his eclectic tastes in artwork. He has black and white photos of New York City, a framed Sons of Anarchy poster, and a colorful print of a Picasso painting hanging on his white walls. There are no curtains on his windows, only blinds and no extra pillows on his couch. He could use a woman’s touch.
Do I want to be that woman? Curling into a ball, I rest my head on the arm of his couch. I don’t want to think about it now.
My eyes are heavy and I just want to rest them for a few minutes.
“Lana.” The gentle stroke of fingers on my cheek, stirs me from my sleep. When my eyes open, I’m confused at first.
Where am I?
Blinking a few times, Zack comes into focus. He’s kneeling on the floor beside the couch. My eyes sleepily study his handsome face, tracing over the masculine shape of his lips. Kissing him the other night was better than I imagined it would be. Everything we did was mind blowing. I’m not ready to sleep with him again, but a kiss wouldn’t hurt - would it?
I slide my hands around his neck, urging him down to me. His eyes flash with desire, and then I see uncertainty.
“Kiss me.” I put pressure on the nape of his neck again.
“Lana, I don’t want you to regret this.” He intently studies my face for signs of indecision, but he won’t find any. I want him to kiss me. I need his lips on mine.
“Zack, shut up and kiss me,” I order.
He smiles and then slowly lowers his mouth. The first contact is whisper soft. My eyes drift shut. I want to feel everything he does and savor it. He brushes my lips with his once more, before drawing back, teasing me. “Zack,” I groan in frustration. He chuckles.
The Complete Quake Series Page 46
