Cherry Blossoms: A Losing His Wife Novel

by KT Morrison

  Rocco stormed back to the truck and he climbed in. He couldn’t look at her. He sat next to her, door of the truck still open, staring wildly into his deadened dashboard. A rage passed over him. His skin was flush and red, he trembled with an explosive negative energy. She could see him shaking. Her scalp tingled, she held her breath. Something was going to happen.

  He slammed his massive iron fist into the face of the truck’s stereo. It exploded. With one punch he’d destroyed the centre of his dashboard. Chunks and splinters of plastic sprang and pinged around the cab. He was enraged. He drew back and slammed his fist into the broken black stereo again and again. Three more times. Four. The stereo broke in two, it pushed and slammed deep into the cavity, the shape of its setting warped with his power.

  “Rocco, Rocco!” Nia screamed and cried. She leapt on him, threw herself over him, clutched his arm and squeezed her body against it. “Stop, stop, please!” She gripped his arm to herself, felt him shaking, felt how he could just toss her aside if he wanted to. He stopped.

  “Oh, Rocco. Oh shit, Rocco,” she gasped.

  His fist had destroyed what was left of the stereo. He'd smashed it to pieces. It was an angry vacant space now. Staring guiltless and black at them. Like a smile missing its teeth.

  “Rocco, fuck, your fuckin hand,” she said. She pulled back from him and her hands slipped down his muscle and pulled his arm up by the wrist. His hand was bloody but barely torn. His knuckles looked blue and swollen and they would get worse but he’d hardly broken his skin. His bones could be smashed in there, though. “Rocco, your...look at your hand, you maniac.”

  He sat slumped in his chair, brow lowered, his eyes as vacant as the absence of the stereo, his surly mouth turned down. He was satiated, but still something roiled in him.

  “Jesus,” she hissed, and she climbed between the seats, bent over the console and rifled through his gym bag tucked into the footwell behind her seat. She grabbed a T-shirt, some socks, opened her door, jumped down in her skirt and her thousand dollar shoes and stumbled frantically around the truck to his open door. She had her water bottle from her lunch and she stood at Rocco’s boots, him looking down on her like a warrior king on a throne and she took his hand. She held it flat, looked at it in the morning sun, shook her head at the damage he’d done for nothing.

  “Fuck, Rocco,” she whispered. She used the T-shirt and her water to clean the blood from his hand. It washed from him in dirty bloody rivulets, down between her new shoes. “God, you're so fuckin crazy,” she said. He was silent still. She took his dormant, lifeless hand and she held it, looked it over again. She couldn’t believe he still had his fingers and they all looked straight. His knuckles had begun to swell but they weren’t out of line. “Oh, Rocco,” she whined. She took a sock of his and gently tied it around his grip. “How’s that?” she said. He shrugged. “Too tight?” He shook his head. She took the matching sock and tied it around as well, for more support. She held his massive hand now, both hers wrapped around opposite edges, so tiny and delicate compared to his. She felt her eyes swell. She didn’t cry, but she suddenly felt a lot of pain for her friend. She held his hand against her chest and looked up to his eyes. She sniffed, blinked away some wet, held his hand up to her lips and gently pressed them on the fronts of his fingers just below his wrapped knuckles.

  “Rocco, we should go to the hospital,” she whispered.

  He took his hand from her, looked out the window at the trees, the last place he’d seen his phone, said, “No, we got work to do.”

  NIA

  “This isn’t the right neighbourhood, Rocco.”

  He was quiet again. Didn’t answer her. They were in Aliston, in a rural area, not a dense subdivision, but an enclave of sprawling expensive homes.

  “We’re supposed to be on the east side of the highway,” she said, looking at a map on her laptop.

  Still nothing from him. His lifted truck prowled the quiet streets. Sprinklers watered lawns, kids rode bikes, four people played tennis on a private court, running around, all with tans and wearing their whites.

  “Where are we going?” she asked him.

  He nodded ahead with his chin, barely a movement. He didn't even grunt.

  Unscheduled stops were not the norm. They were supposed to be in Aliston to meet with a homeowner about adding a formed water slide that led to their existing pool, and two tiers of gardens to surround it. They weren't late but they didn't have much time for a distraction.

  “Do we have time for this?” she asked him.

  He nodded.

  She closed up the notebook on her lap, put it back in its bag and watched out the windows as they passed these expensive homes. They were set back from the road, long spacious lawns, filled with old gardens and huge, aging trees—an old and well-established neighbourhood. They came to the end of the street, a cul-de-sac. Two homes dotted the curve at the knob end of the quiet gravel road. Rocco headed up the driveway to the left, under the canopy of big old maple trees. “What's this place?” she said, looking out through the windshield at the looming two storey mansion.

  “Did their pool,” he said.

  It was a beautiful home. Victorian, red brick, like an enormous pretty farmhouse. It had all the intricate scrollwork and eaves brackets in bright white, beautiful flowering gardens, wrought iron fencing that spread on either side, groomed shrubs blossoming through. The driveway was empty.

  Rocco's big hand, wrapped with two socks, now stained, grabbed the gear and put his truck in park. He turned the key and shut his truck down, diesel monster rattling until it was quiet. He looked up at the quiet house, looked at its blank windows.

  He opened his door and stepped down to the driveway, said, “Come on.”

  She got out and followed him. He led her down the side of the house and went to a side door and knocked. She looked through the windows, could see a pristine gleaming, marble and stainless steel kitchen, dark and lifeless. No laundry on the kitchen table, no dishes in the sink. It look unused.

  “What is this place?” she asked him, leaning against the brick and watching him. He knocked again, put his hands on his hips and looked down at the stoop, waiting and thinking.

  “We did their pool last summer.”

  “I don't think they're home. Did they want some landscaping?”

  “They're never home. More money than brains. He works investments. Spend most of their time in Asia. One week here in the summer. One week in the winter. Needed a hundred-fifty-grand pool and landscaping for two weeks of the year.”

  She smiled. “They're an easy touch. Looking to drum up some work?”

  “Mnh,” he grunted, nodded his chin. “Come on,” he said now, and he touched her forearm with a finger, stepped the one stair off the low, covered patio and walked the brick pathway to the wrought iron gate that led to their backyard. He reached through the rungs and flicked a lock on the other side, unlatched the gate, then swung it open. He went through and she followed. The path swelled to a broad brick-lined pool, forty feet long, twenty across, sparkling with fresh clean water. The pump was on, water gurgled at the surface. There was a tennis court behind tall black chain link fence, empty, net not drawn across. A wide wooden shed at the back of the pool beyond the slide and the diving board. It was done in the style of the house. Victorian, tall, fish scale mansard roof, with decorative finishes like a gingerbread house. “Jesus,” she said, “you build that?”

  “Yeah. Got it done for them.”

  “Wow, they spent a fortune,” she said.

  “They did.”

  He walked along the left, past flowers and then chain link, looking out over the tennis court to the neighbours beyond. Their yard was barely visible through the trees. He went to the Victorian miniature. It had two doorways. A single and a double. The double wide looked like they might keep furniture or a lawn tractor in there, though she was sure they had maintenance do that for them. Rocco went to the single door on the right side, set between two windows crosse
d with white muntins. He opened it and stood with gestured arm for Nia to go first.

  She walked through the doorway and into the dark room. Rocco reached in on her right and he flipped a switch. They were in a big, spacious and warm cedar-panelled room. It was clean and empty, the pool equipment the only things in there. Pump and filter chugging, heater pumping out BTUs, making the room damp and hot. Skimmers and vacuums and hoses were arranged neatly on the right wall, nestled on hooks. The right side looked like it could be a sauna, perhaps changing rooms.

  “What are we doing here?” she said, but she knew. He turned the light off again, made the room dark. He pulled the shades up on the window to let the sunlight in and he closed the door behind him.

  An excitement swelled up in her. His breaths were loud and lusty, she could hear them over the pump. He watched her, looked down on her like she was meat, like something he was going to stick his huge cock in.

  “We have time for this?” she asked, a certain telling gasp to her voice.

  He pulled his black T-shirt up and threw it aside. He stood topless, hairy and masculine. She could smell his heat, his sweat. One hand caressed the other while he still looked her up and down, his big thumb pressing and rubbing the palm of his bashed hand.

  “You think you're going to fuck me?”

  He walked to her and she walked backwards, feeling her heart pounding, feeling a tingle buzzing up the backs of her legs, her knees wobbled. She stumbled against the metal of the gas heater, felt its top edge at the curve of her rump. He had her pinned against it.

  “You want it, don't you? You want to get fucked.”

  “I'm married,” she said, and she put her hands behind her, leaned on the heater, the heel of her palm curling the hard metal edge.

  “You're fuckin amazing,” he said, and he inched closer til he was pressed to her.

  Her hands went to the button on his jeans and she pinched the fabric, pushed the button through the slot. His hand came up, took her chin in between thumb and forefinger and he lifted her to face him. She could smell the blood on his hand, the smell of laundered socks. He kissed her. She pulled from him, let him kiss her neck. She drew his zipper down.

  His hands gripped her upper arms tight and he shook her, held her firmly away from him. She looked to him and he kissed her again, his lips pressing to hers, mashing them, spreading them. She pulled away again.

  “Fuck, Nia,” he growled. He grabbed her by her neck, the rough cotton of the sock wrapped around him scratching her, his grip closing off her voice. He kissed her again, sucking on her lips and pulling them into his mouth. His hand was like a vice on her, within seconds she could barely see, her vision went dim, she opened her mouth and his tongue violated her, thrust into her. She bit him.

  “Fuck,” he roared. He let her go. “You fuckin crazy whore,” he said, his hand going to his mouth.

  She laughed, gripped her blouse and peeled it off, stood there, leaning on the heater in just her bra and skirt and sexy heels. “You're fine,” she said to him through lowered brows.

  He came to her again, wary. Grabbed her roughly behind her neck and pulled her to him, he kissed her hair, her ear, down over her neck, bending to get close to her. She pressed herself to his hot bare chest, ran her hands over her enormous lover. “God, Rocco, you feel good.”

  He growled, pulled her by her hair to look in her eyes. His un-bandaged hand slipped up her thigh and it made her lips quiver. He saw them quiver and that made her gasp and laugh. Her chest rose and swelled with her ragged breaths. He touched her through her panties.

  “Oh, ah,” she sighed and closed her eyes. “What are you going to do to that?” she asked him.

  “You want it destroyed?”

  “Wreck it for me, Rocco. Fuck it.”

  “It’s fuckin dripping, Nia,” he said.

  She was, she could feel it. The heat in here, the sneaking off, private property, threat of discovery, his smell, his power, how he destroyed that radio with his fist. She wanted his cock now more than ever.

  “I want to suck that big cock,” she whispered in his ear.

  Those huge hands slipped into her panties, she felt him grab the waistband and he tore them in two easily. Her lover had ruined another pair of her panties. “Ah,” she gasped, writhing against him, feeling the fabric floss her thighs and graze her sex as he pulled the torn remains free. She shimmied her hips and rubbed her thighs together, felt her own wetness seeping from her, making her skin slide wetly.

  “Oh, fuck Rocco, I’ve missed you.”

  He groaned again and lowered, kissed her neck and her collar. She fumbled with his fly, getting it tugged open. He kissed her chin, her jaw, across her cheek and under her eye.

  Her hands were inside his pants, slipped into his briefs, feeling his incredible size, squeezing and grasping, stroking it as best she could. He was hard.

  He kissed her lips again and she pulled away and squat down low between his legs. He sighed and mumbled, leaned both hands out on the heater, bent at the waist as she pulled his cock free from all that fabric, grabbed handfuls of denim and yanked his pants down his thighs. That big thing swung in her face.

  She grabbed it, peeled the skin back and licked the topside of his glans. She pressed her lips to it, let it plunge into her mouth, fill it up. She squeezed his balls with her other hand.

  “Nia,” he roared suddenly and he stopped her, stuck his hands in her armpits and lifted her to him, looked in her eyes, then sat her ass on the heater.

  He kissed her savagely, grabbed her lips with his, thrust his tongue into her mouth, unafraid of her teeth. She let him, leaned back with it, and he fell over top of her. His hand gripped his cock and he had it between her legs searching for her opening. She was so wet he slipped right along, and the head of it pierced her easily.

  “Oh, fuck, Rocco,” she cried, turned her head.

  He slid deeper, spreading her, hurting her but she wanted it all. “That’s it, fuck me, Rocco.” Her knees came up, her calves tucked over his hips and he fucked her. Shallow at first but he had himself wet from her in no time. He thrust deep and easy, looking into her eyes. She shut her eyes and let her hands roam over him, feel his soft flesh, the immense powerful brute that lay underneath it. She ran her nails lightly up his strong arms, twisted her head back and forth as he filled her up now, the high pain his size delivered lost in throbbing hungry ecstasy. “That’s it, Rocco, that’s it, Rocco,” she gasped as her body heaved with his building passion.

  His lips were attacking hers again and she couldn’t breathe. She grabbed at his neck and she turned from him. “Stop it, Rocco,” she whispered.

  “What am I to you?” he growled, still fucking her.

  “What?” she said.

  “You fuckin whore. You just want this hole filled. Is that it?”

  “Yes,” she sighed.

  She wrapped her legs right around him, locked her heels, she fucked him back, her belly rolling, her hips bucking, getting it deep and hard.

  Both hands went around her neck again, squeezed her like he wanted to kill her. Her eyes bugged, and she felt like she would black out. In three pumps of her pounding heart her brain was ready to give up. His lips pressed again, mashing against hers. She shut them tight. Everything shutting tight. Her pussy clamped, her muscles seized. Her nails scrabbled along his steely forearms. She dug her nails into him and ripped his skin. His thumbs came off and blood rushed into her brain and she reeled. She struggled for breath around his kisses, her body bucked by his forceful intrusion. A wave of nameless wild and unyielding pleasure washed over her like they dumped a whole bottle of morphine into her drip bag.

  “Agh,” she gurgled, a long wet and ragged scoring cold inhale of breath. She coughed while he continued to pound into her, she cried out hoarse with his thrusts now, grabbing at his hands still at her throat.

  “Ah, ah, ah,” she gasped, her hands clawing and ripping, she pinched his knuckles, dug her fingers into the socks wrapped around his inj
ured hand. He didn’t stop.

  “Fuck you,” she hacked, her voice harsh wet and raspy. She punched his arms, banged her balled fists on them.

  He plunged deep and kissed her again, she spit around his mouth, “Get off me.”

  “What the fuck do you want from me?” he yelled.

  “I want you to get the fuck off me, Rocco,” she sneered, her hands up on his chest now, her fingers through his chest hair, her eyes mean.

  “What the fuck am I to you, Nia? What the fuck do you want from me?”

  She banged her fists on his chest, pounded him, wriggled in his iron grip but his cock was deep and his hands were strong.

  “If I want a man with feelings I got one at home, okay?”

  “You’re a fucking no-good cunt, you know that? You just want to be used, you fucking whore.”

  He yanked her up by her neck, her feet coming right off the ground, a shoe kicking off and clattering to the cedar floor. His cock slipped free, dangled between them. He flipped her around, and bent her over the heater

  “I can’t even look at your bitch face any more, you fuckin hear me?”

  “Ah,” she gasped as she felt that big cock force her open wide. He shoved it in deep. He pressed her head to the heater, her cheek mashed to it until her lips parted, pouting and misaligned. She grabbed at its smooth hard surface and her nails tore at it, splitting one.

  “Ow, fuck Rocco,” she cried.

  “Shut the fuck up,” he grunted as he fucked her.

  She was powerless. She was nothing. She had no value. Just a helpless little girl, a warm bag of flesh with a hole in it to take a cock. He powered into her, deep aggressive strokes that drove to her core. She felt every bit of him, felt every vein, every wrinkle on him, could feel the imprint of each of his fingers pressing into her, the hot metal flat against her—his thighs, his hips as they slapped, her own shaking with his thrusts. She lifted off, somewhere dark and scary and oh-so-sad, somewhere she didn’t like but always teased her. Tears rolled from her, down her cheek, over the bridge of her nose, plopping onto the heater. She sobbed with his thrusts. Old hairy arms went around her and squeezed her, lurking in those jagged-scar corners of her childhood, voices teasing and pestering, fingers touching where they shouldn’t—