by CD Reiss
He leaned on the arm of the couch and crossed his ankles, the same posture as the night I’d gone to see him at his office..
“Whatever we get should be the exact opposite of what I had without you.”
“I think that’s reactionary.”
“That’s a big word that means nothing.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Who were we, standing half a room away from each other with our limbs crossed? How did any of this matter? How did it become important?
If he wanted to pass the next ten years in a big modern house overlooking the ocean, who was I to say otherwise? Wasn’t that a small price to pay to be with him?
“I want you to go to Paris,” he’d said. “You’ve never been.”
“Who’s going to watch you? Who’s going to make sure you don’t forget to do what you’re supposed to?”
“If you want children to take care of, that can be arranged.”
“I don’t.”
“Then you don’t need to baby me.”
Love was easy. Love, the way everyone else defined it, was the fun part. But every hell, every conflict, every bit of miserable anxiety in those first six months had been born of nothing but love. I’d thought that was my new life. Ten years of it at least, until his heart gave out and he had to find another. Then another ten. Or more. Or less. Or not. Or maybe. I was playing Russian roulette with God by being away so much, but I thought he wanted me away, and he thought I wanted to be away. I didn’t know whether to jump or crawl those first six months, and then he came to the studio and fucked me like an animal.
The morning after, with my ass aching and my cunt as sore as it had ever been, I woke up forgetting to wonder about his pills and his life. Just for a second. And in that crack in my wall of concern, bled something else I hadn’t thought about since Sequoia. It needled me every time I saw Declan, and disappeared behind the buzz of death seconds after Jonathan’s father was out of the room. Now that I thought of it in his arms with the sound of the ocean outside, I couldn’t go another second without telling him, even if it meant it was our last together.
His eyes were closed, light lashes casting darker shadows. His chest rose and fell under me, and his scar was hard white beneath my hand.
“Jonathan,” I whispered, hoping he was asleep.
“Yes,” he answered clearly, eyes still shut, as if he was wide awake and had been listening to my thoughts the entire time. I got my knees under me, the pain of every movement a reminder of how many times he’d brutalized me the night before, and how consistently I’d begged for it.
“I need to tell you something.”
He opened his eyes. Had they always been that green? Or was it a trick of the light and my fear of losing him?
“Okay, go ahead.” He reached out and stroked the top of my breast. I pulled his hand away and held it in my lap. I paused. A hundred years passed, and he said nothing. Not a word of encouragement or doubt. I could have hung myself in the amount of time he’d wait. As always, he was a patient man in all things.
“When you were, I mean you weren’t yourself,” I started, “and you were dying right in front of me. I thought you were second on the list for a transplant. It was like…I thought that was it.” His brow creased, as if he didn’t understand what I was talking about. God, there were so many little details and I wanted to tell this story fast and dirty so I could get it over with.
“You hate your father already, so it’s not like this is going to make it worse. I went to him because I wanted something.”
“What did he want in exchange?” His voice was hard and cold, and the implications of his assumptions justified the tone.
“Forgiveness from you. Enough to get your mother back to him.”
He put his hand over his face and rubbed his eyes. “That’s what that whole thing was about. I barely remember it.” He patted my hand, then rubbed my fingers. “What did you want?”
I balled my hand into a fist. I didn’t want his affection. I couldn’t bear to feel it stop when I put the pieces together for him.
“So, I saw Brad’s list. I didn’t understand how it worked. So I thought what I was seeing was…You were second, and I thought it meant you were going to die. It seemed like a guarantee. And Paulie Patalano was brain dead and right on the fourth floor.”
Unable to stand the weight of his gaze, I looked in my lap, where his hand rested in mine, fourth finger still circled by the cheap silver keyring.
“I thought your father could get me access to Paulie’s room.”
He moved his hand away, placing it at his side. I wished he’d slapped me in the face. It would have been somehow kinder.
“Did he?”
“He did. He’s very clever. And everything you said about him is probably right. But I was the one who went in there. I was going to do it. I was going to end him so you could get his heart.” I didn’t mention Jessica’s part. What I’d done was my choice and my responsibility. Now wasn’t the time to diffuse it with Jessica-shaped shadow play. “I knew what it meant. I knew that if my plan worked, you’d have a heart in your chest that you thought was stolen. You never would have felt right about yourself. I knew I was condemning you, in a way. And us. I knew you wouldn’t forgive me. I was ending us. And I should say I’m sorry, but I’d do it again if I thought it would save your life.”
“You didn’t do it, though.”
“Brad texted me while I was in the room. He had a heart from that poor guy in Ojai. The one who jogs and hates spicy food, apparently. So, I didn’t have to go through with it.”
He took my hand again and rubbed each finger as if considering their ability to do harm.
“God saved you,” he whispered.
“You believe in God? You believe he’d step in and save me? And he’d kill someone to do it?”
“God was in Brad’s text. I believe that. But swear to me, I mean I don’t think that circumstance will recur, but swear to me you won’t ever consider something like that again.”
“I won’t let you die if I can prevent it. I don’t feel right about it. I won’t pretend I do, but it’s like how a soldier must feel when he kills the enemy. I’m sure it doesn’t feel good, but there wasn’t a choice. And if it comes to me not having a choice again, I’ll do it again.”
I searched his face for distaste, or foul rancor, and found none. Then I looked for disquiet or emotional blankness, and found none of that either. I couldn’t read him, even when he took my arms and pulled me forward, onto him. I rested my head on his chest.
“I have to tell you,” he said, “I’m scared of death. But you? You put death to shame.”
“Do you still love me?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to leave me?”
“No.”
“Do you forgive me?”
“I forgive you. I fear you. I am in awe of you.”
I’d thought I was committed to him before. I thought I’d given him my whole heart, and that I owned him completely. But I hadn’t. And maybe I’d spend the rest of his life realizing I’d never owned him, loved him or committed to him fully. Maybe it was a matter of the changing acoustics of an ever-expanding heart.
I kissed his scar, and he stroked my hair. I worked down his body, and took his cock in my mouth. I wanted to eat him alive, swallow his forgiveness, eat his compassion, to become him, to own his pain and kindness, his sadism and his maturity, holding it to myself, wrapped in a drum-tight skin of gratitude.
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acknowledgements
It’s possible, if you pay attention to such things, that you’ve noticed a lack of acknow
ledgements in the back of my books. This goes back to the serial format. I felt that I needed a sense of immediacy. I didn’t want to give you the impression I was done. Tune in next week for another exciting episode…
Well, it’s time, because this song was the product of many voices.
I asked my husband for permission to write erotica, and he said okay. He’s never read these books, but honey, if you’re reading these now, maybe I’m dead. And if so, I love you. You are my king, my alpha and omega, my silent inspiration. You make me feel beautiful.
My children had nothing to do with these books, but I love them.
Cassie Cox is my editor. Thank her, and her boss Lynn McNamee (who edited Submit) for the fact that you can read these at all. They kept me readable without changing my voice. Eva and Jenx did proofreads in record time – thank you. Author gold.
For insight into the art world, thanks to Jenny Hagar. For the “typical” journey from lounge act to superstar, thanks to Nicole Kristal. For medical stuff, thanks to Dr. Alan Nayes, who I have possibly misunderstood repeatedly. Obviously, boo-boos are all mine.
I used a number of betas throughout: Stephanie, Julia, Nikki, Violet, Becs, thank you. My God, what crap I would have released without you.
Speaking of Violet….baby, thanks for sending that long missive about how I should write erotica. I don’t know what inspired you to send it, as it was unprompted, but man, if there is a universal will, it was speaking through you.
Thanks to The Book Snob for deepening Sing with a simple line in an email.
Thanks to Erik Gevers for all the formatting help. Gold Gold.
Renee Barratt helped with the cover of Tease. The hand looked geriatric until she showed me her little trick.
Gary, Anne, Aria. You guys tolerated a lot of crap from me at work, as I wedged my actual job responsibilities in between promotional tasks. Without that job, I would have died financially and artistically, and for whatever it’s worth, it’s been the one job I didn’t want to actually leave.
We’re almost to the end here….
My fellow writers, thank you for sharing your experiences, wisdom, and sympathy. Thanks for tolerating my surprise at my modest success. Thanks for not chewing me out when I deserved it and always staying supportive. The communities of II, The Eclective, and the EWF have been my havens.
The book blogging community is a committed society of book lovers. They work jobs and have families, and yet, they find time to tirelessly support this new wave of literature. I can’t mention every blogger who has gifted me with a positive review, but I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the women who talked me through tough times, suggested new ways to promote (I’m looking at you, Evil Bloggess), and carried me when I was down. Fifty5cent book blog, Jessy’s Book Club, Nikki at Bookaholics, Sinfully Sexy Book Reviews, S&M’s Book Obsessions, and Lorie Economos…a glass of wine to you. Or, in the case of Mistress L….here’s a Twinkie.
Cafecito Organico/Helio coffee, Curious Palate, Pipers, and of course, Starbucks on Venice Boulevard….thank you.
Christy Wilson set up my Wiki so anyone could register and add to it.
Go contribute to it! We need you!
Last.
Some of you have been with me from the beginning. You’ve waited for each new episode. You’ve discussed plot turns endlessly. You’ve distributed bonus scenes at my request.
You experienced this serial as it was intended. You never judged the way I released these because you sensed that this wasn’t just a novel that I chopped up. It’s a true, structural serial, and you guys have been as much a part of the final product as any of the abovementioned. Thank you so much for just reading and experiencing the story I envisioned, in the way I envisioned it.
Until next time, and there will be a next time…farewell.
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If you love hot Mafia men, check out my Corruption Series. Spin and Ruin are full length and ready.
Theresa Drazen wants to know one thing.
Is there something wrong with her?
Because from what she can see, she has money, brains, a body that does the job. Yet, she keeps getting shelved. Most recently, by her fiancé who happens to be the DA.
And she'll get over it, really. No problem. She'll just have a nice, short encounter with a mysterious Italian named Antonio who may or may not be involved with some kind of alleged criminal activity...blah blah...
Let's call a spade a spade.
He's a mobster.
Let's face a few more facts.
He's hot. He's smart. And if anyone breathes on her the wrong way, he's got no problem beating their head against a Porsche until they're willing to lick up their own vomit to make it stop.
Just about everything about that turns her on.
Yeah. There's something wrong with her.
**MATURE AUDIENCES--Rough sex. Dirty talk. Criminal activity. Cursing. Fisticuffs. Closed course. Professional driver. Do not try this at home.**
Spin and Ruin are full length and ready. Book Three, RULE will be out July 2015
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Fiona Drazen's life as a celebutante and submissive slave in The Perdition Series starts with KICK, and continues with book two, USE.
It's a serial, so expect short books, every few months, as other projects allow.
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My Goodreads fan group is called CD Canaries: join the group!
Facebook fan-run group, go here. Most fun, guaranteed.
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