SLACK: A Day in the Life of Ford Aston (Rook and Ronin Spin-off)

by JA Huss

  I think that’s cute.

  Ronnie’s father, Vern, has the barbecue fired up and is cooking enough meat to feed a small village. I doubt there’ll be leftovers.

  I get jostled around between the various first floor rooms, talking to her brothers and then her grandpa—who fills my head with the most gruesome war stories I’ve ever heard—and then eat and make a swift exit. Swift is relative since, I spend a few hours hanging out here.

  Ronnie shoots me the stink eye as I wave goodbye to them.

  Yeah, Spencer needs to take care of this shit. Because she is not happy. At all. And I don’t blame her, he’s being a selfish dick. He could at the very least explain himself.

  I take College down to Harmony and hang a left towards the freeway. My apartment complex is down this way and I want to bring my computer home to fuck around with tonight after the pet leaves. I’m gonna look up that guy Veronica was with. Just in case. If I never need to tell Spencer, fine. But it’s better to have the info ready than be scrounging around for it after the fact.

  There’s almost no traffic today and I hit every green light all the way down to my apartment. I turn into the driveway and park in my spot. The jog up the steps feels good after so much driving today and I hope the snow isn’t too bad tonight so I can run in the morning. Keep the routine. I like a routine.

  The apartment is cold and empty. I never liked the place and if it wasn't for Spencer’s guns hidden away in the third bedroom, I’d clear it out and be done with it. Chalk it up to a failed experiment with normalcy. But Spencer thinks it’s necessary, so I paid up the rent for a year.

  My phone buzzes in my jacket and I sift through the gifts and my new knife to find it. “Yes, Pam.” She’s my assistant in LA. Runs my whole life—from buying me clothes to setting up the pets.

  “The studio called Mr. Aston. You’re expected to show up on January fourth and pilot filming commences in New Zealand on the fourteenth for six weeks. Do you want me to book a flight for you on the third?”

  “Well, that’s good news, eh? We’re finally getting somewhere with this shitty career.” I sigh and take a seat on the couch as I picture leaving Denver for two months. I’m not ready to leave, to be honest. I’m not ready to let Rook go. I’ve enjoyed her too much and I’ve missed her even more this past month. I’ve barely seen her at all. Not since the last taping of Shrike Bikes. “Did we hear back from The Biker Channel on a Season Two?”

  “Yes, sir. They said second week in March.”

  “During the trials?”

  “Yes, sir. I think they specifically scheduled it that way for ratings.”

  “Of course they did. OK, well I’ll call you back and let you know about the flight.”

  “Merry Christmas, Mr. Aston. If you need anything, I’m on call as usual.”

  “Yes, thank you, Pam.” I press end and drop the phone on the cushion. Well, this is it. Life is changing. The only question is, what will I do with it?

  I’m not sure yet. All I know is that I’m the only one of my inner circle that is spending this day alone.

  Well, that’s not quite true, I’ve seen a ton of people today. But all of them are home or on their way home. I’m the only one who has nowhere to go.

  Well, that’s not true either. My mother has a party every Christmas Eve and I’m always on the guest list.

  But I’m not in the mood for a party and I’m not in the mood to go home. I’m avoiding home. But my reprieve is up. I have nowhere else to go. And maybe if I didn’t have that pet coming over I might be tempted to sit Christmas out up here. There’s no distractions. No one would look for me here. I’d definitely be left alone.

  But after all these years of successfully spending Christmas by myself, I suddenly have some apprehension about it. And this apartment is not a good place to sit and get drunk. At least my Denver condo is in the middle of the city. I could go join other pathetic loners at whatever place is open. And there is always one place open nearby, no matter where I am in the world. There’s always some bar owner who relates to us loners and agrees to house the rejected for a night of drowning away one’s loneliness.

  But the pet is coming over and if I’m being perfectly honest, I’m looking forward to her. She’s not bad as far as pets go. She’s got a nice body and she’s trained well enough. So I grab my phone and my computer, and go back outside into the newly chilled air, climb into my Bronco, and head south.

  The snow starts as soon as I hit I-70 and the drive into Denver is slick with ice as the wet roads freeze over. I get off the freeway and make my way down Broadway to my building. It’s nine PM and I’m just getting into the turn lane when my phone buzzes.

  “Now what the fuck?” I get stuck at the light so I grab my phone and find my mother’s face staring back at me. I reluctantly press answer. “Hi Mom.”

  “Ford?”

  “You called me, Mom. You know it’s Ford. I’m the only son you have.”

  “It’s just an expression, Ford. Can you go to the store and pick up some shallots? I thought I bought them yesterday, but they’re not here.”

  “Shallots? Where the hell am I gonna find shallots at nine o’clock on Christmas Eve?”

  “Eli’s Market is open. I called him and he’s waiting for you now, shallots in hand. He’s that nice Jewish man—”

  “I know who Eli is. He’s lived next door to us for twenty years.” I huff out a breath and then my turn-light goes green. “Fine, I’ll swing by Eli’s and bring you some shallots.”

  I hang up, annoyed. It’s a ploy, I know it. To get me to go to church. But it’s not gonna work. I flip a bitch and make my way over to Park Hill where my mom’s house is. Eli’s Market is a couple blocks down from us, off Colfax. Twenty minutes later I pull up to it and true to her word, Eli is standing there in the blowing snow, bag of shallots in hand. I pull up to him and roll my window down like this is a drive-up vegetable stand. “Thanks Mr. Maus,” I say as I grab the bag, simultaneously hand him a twenty, and tell him to keep the change as I roll the window back up. I have forty minutes to get back home for my pet date.

  Our street is lined with old trees that tower above the houses. Not all the houses are huge like ours. Spencer’s, for example, is just a modest four bedroom bungalow.

  Modest is not the word I’d use to describe our house. Pretentious, that’s more like it. A huge American foursquare—which is almost a contradictory statement, since foursquares are supposed to be humble. It has symmetrical windows on the first, second, and third floors, and I suspect this is why my mother wanted it. We both like orderly designs. The porch is deep and massive, spanning the entire front of the house. It has a wide, welcoming opening, and thick columns on either side of the steps that lead to the front door. It’s got seven bedrooms, six bathrooms, a carriage house where I lived for my senior year in high school, and an elaborate basement set up for dinner parties so the first floor can be used for chatting.

  It’s walled in with brick on all sides with a massive wrought iron gate that is open at the moment. There are parking attendants waving me off-property for parking, but I pull in anyway. I roll the window down and he immediately goes into his spiel about no parking in the driveway. “I live here. I’m pulling up, get out of my way.”

  Maybe my tone is a little much for a Christmas Eve party, or maybe he sees the flash of anger in my eyes—but his eyebrows go up in surprise and he moves off to the side. I pull up the driveway and park next to the kitchen door, then get out with my bag of shallots, and head inside.

  It’s like the North Pole threw up in here, that’s how fucking festive it is. People are laughing, someone is playing Christmas songs on the piano in the front room, the whole house smells like food, and the commercial kitchen is packed with cooks and servers.

  “Who needed shallots?” I call out to them.

  They stare at me, and then ignore me.

  “Right.” I set the shallots down on the counter and go find my mother. Traditionally, foursquare homes
are divided into four rooms per floor, which includes the kitchen, the formal dining room, living room, and family room. Our living and family rooms have been remodeled, so it’s just one great-room. My mother is standing in front of the windows, next to a man playing the piano. In fact, she’s standing a little too close to this man playing the piano. She’s laughing down at him with a twinkle in her eye and she’s got a champagne flute in her hand.

  Could my day get any more fucked up? Since when does my mother have a boyfriend?

  Maybe if you came around more than twice a year you’d know.

  People are talking to me as I make my way across the long front room, but they know better than to touch me or get too personal, so I glide right past them and tap my mother on the shoulder.

  My mom is kinda on the small side. Petite, I guess. She’s got her auburn hair piled up on her head and she’s wearing a conservative red dress that ends mid-calf. She turns and throws her hands up in excitement. “You made it!”

  “No,” I growl. “I came with your shallots but no one in the kitchen knows what I’m talking about.”

  “Oh,” she turns to the man playing the songs. “Gary, go tell the cooks what to do with the shallots, would you please?”

  He gets up and leaves, and then my mother turns back to me with a smile. “I wanted you to meet him. Can you say hello at least?”

  I just blink at her. “Meet him?”

  “Yes, Ford,” she says in her soothing mom voice. “I’ve been dating him for three months.”

  I turn away and walk out. I’m done with this fucking day.

  I don’t even know how I get back to my apartment garage, but I’m already here, sitting in my Bronco, trying to come to terms with what just happened. My mother has moved on.

  Shit that fucking stings like bad.

  I check my watch and it’s ten minutes past ten. Fuck. I grab my computer and get out. I jog over to the elevator, pressing the button repeatedly, hoping that will make it appear quicker. The doors finally open and I key in my penthouse code, then tap my foot the entire way up.

  The doors open and the naked pet is walking to the closet on the far end of the hall where I have them leave their clothes. She stops mid-stride and stares at me, her brows a bit furrowed.

  She might be pissed. I’ve left her waiting lots of times, but it is Christmas Eve.

  “Sorry,” I say as I quickly walk to my apartment door to unlock and open it. “If you’re staying, follow me in, close the door behind you, and stand at attention.”

  I go inside and drop my keys on the foyer table and then walk straight to the office to lock up my computer.

  The front door closes quietly behind me and her bare feet make a small padding sound as she walks into the living room.

  I smile.

  Finally. Finally, after all the bullshit I had to do today, I’m gonna get some satisfaction.

  Chapter Seven

  When I return to the living room my pet is standing ready in front of the window, not facing me. This is where I like them at night because the window is like a mirror and if they want, they can watch me walk up behind them. The rules state they will not look at me. But this pet cheats. Every single time. I can see her eyes trained on me like a target as soon as I appear in the living room. She knows I can see her and yet, she never averts her eyes—bowing her head is also against the rules and I’d definitely spank her for it tonight. I like an even chin with downcast eyes.

  This is how I know she’s playing a game. And not a sexual one, but a power one. Because if all she wanted was a spanking, she could bow her head and get it over with. But that’s not all she wants. She wants me to punish her on her terms, but she’s not in charge here. I am. So I’ve restrained myself for months.

  I take my white t-shirt off as I walk up behind her. I can see the color of her eyes—green—that’s how visible it is that she’s watching me. Her lips part, form a seductive o shape, and the smallest of moans comes out as she licks her lips.

  I squint my eyes down into slits as I consider what I’d like to do with her tonight. “Do you want to play, pet?” Her eyes in the window lift up a little so she can stare into my own through the glass. “You know I can see you, so why do you do it?”

  She looks away at this, but not because she was caught, but because she’s thinking. Considering if she should risk talking.

  If she talks, she’s out. She knows this.

  “Because you’re trying to tell me something?” I guess.

  She nods and holds my gaze.

  “Because you’re trying to tell me you’re not a pet?”

  She shakes out a no for this one, and I let out a breath as I lean into her neck and nip the tender skin near her nape. “Right answer, pet. But is it true?”

  She lets out a squeal and lifts her head. My hand automatically slides around the front of her throat. I palm it gently, then reach up under her jaw and press my thumb into the hollow under her ear, forcing her to turn her head towards me. She meets my gaze directly this time. In full defiance. And then she falters and takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly, to calm herself. “Do I make you anxious, pet?”

  She swallows and nods.

  “But you can leave any time you want. And yet, you never do. Why?”

  She squints her eyes at me.

  “Why do you come here? Why do you let me treat you like this? Why do you put up with me?” I wait to see if she’ll talk so I can throw her out and be done with it, but she holds her silence and redirects her gaze so it’s not trained on me. I rest my hands on the top of her shoulders and she shivers as I push my chest into her back. My hands drop down to her nipples and I twist them, not hard, just enough to make her moan. One hand remains on her breast but the other caresses its way down her stomach and rests on her hip. “Come with me,” I whisper in her ear.

  I lead her over to the buffet table in the dining room and remove a pair of handcuffs from a drawer. She presents her hands behind her back before I even ask, and my dick begins to grow as I fasten them carefully around her wrists. “You know what to do,” I tell her softly.

  She backs up a little, then bends over so her face is turned to the side, resting on the buffet, her arms are restrained in the small of her back, and her legs are slightly apart.

  “Open your legs more, pet. I need to know you want it, or I’ll send you home craving.”

  She widens her stance and then widens it again. Her eyes are open, looking up at me in defiance.

  “Do you realize it’s against the rules of play to look me in the eye?” I ask her.

  She considers me, almost thoughtfully. Like I just asked her what she wanted for dessert. And then she nods yes.

  “I should throw you out right now. Do you want me to be done with you?”

  She shakes no.

  “Then look away, bitch.”

  That word is like a slap and she closes her eyes, opens them, and redirects her gaze to the muted gray-colored walls. I smack her hard on the left cheek as soon as she relaxes and she yelps.

  She’s allowed to cry out in pain or pleasure, so I ignore this and pull her hair with my other hand, forcing her head back. “Now you may look at me, whore.” She does. She knows my patience has run its course. “You want to press me? You want the nice spankings? You want to come in here and try and control me?” My hand comes down hard on her ass and the redness appears at the same moment she cries out and pulls away. But I’ve still got a tight hold on her hair, so that snaps her back to attention.

  I lean into her neck again and whisper, “You forgot to count, pet.” And then I smack her twice and her fingers silently call out the numbers. One. Two. I pull her hair again and she whimpers this time. I’ve been rough with this pet before, but never angry. I rarely get angry, but I feel it tonight. I want to be angry.

  I step back and take a breath because I don’t want to send her away yet. I want to fuck this bitch. Bad. She’s been testing me for months and she’s still mine at the moment, so I
will take her. But I need to get a hold of this anger, at least long enough to get off and send her on her way. I grab the key to her cuffs and turn towards the bedroom. “Follow,” I call out as I walk away.

  Her feet slap against the polished tiles as she runs to catch up with me. Once inside the bedroom I point to the bed. “Sit.” She takes a resolving breath and sets herself atop the white down comforter.

  Once again I ask myself why? Why the fuck do these bitches put up with me? I sit down next to her, close enough to make her whole body move with my weight on the mattress. “Lie across my lap.” She puts her knees up on the bed and then bends over, sticking her ass way out, because her hands are still bound behind her back, so she’s forced to lower her face to my thigh and slide herself up into position. Which also forces her face to drag along my hardened dick, only the fabric of my jeans between her hot breath and my cock.

  This takes the anger away a little, because that right there, that was clever. And it tells me a lot of things. One—she’s OK with my insults. Two—she’s still not giving in to me, regardless of how well she’s following the rules. And three—she wants to be fucked just as bad as I want to fuck her.

  I’m not into being mean for the hell of it. I like them to submit, that’s all. I like to be in control. I like to call the shots. I like to be obeyed unconditionally. And almost all of the girls who make it beyond the first appointment do that, and do it well. But this girl has been skating on the edge of compliance the entire time she’s been my pet.

  She needs to go.

  Tonight is her last night, so I’m going to enjoy her to the fullest before I send her packing.

  I unlock her handcuffs and slide them off, tossing them on to the floor with a hard clunk. “Ready, pet?”

  She nods yes.

  “I’m going to turn your cheeks bright red for your disobedience. But I’ll make it worth it if you’re a very good girl.” She starts nodding her head when my hand comes down full force on her ass again, making both her legs kick up as she signs off a one. I slap them back down. “That’s not a good example of perfect behavior, pet.” I smack her again, harder, and this time she buffers the pain by sinking into my lap. I caress her ass for being good, rubbing her roundness, then stroking the back of her thighs, stopping in the dent behind her knee where I trace small, light circles.