by Dani Wyatt
My Angel.
My babygirl.
But it’s what I need. It’s what I’ve always needed, I just didn’t know it until I met her.
I would tell her to open her legs for me, order her to play with herself so I know exactly what she likes, how to reward her when she is a good girl. Fuck, I gripped my cock so tight, thinking of how her pussy would feel. My stroke sessions are more fits of lust-filled anger than pleasure. I want her so badly it hurts. I need the release because I’m sure I will never truly have her and that is my own private torture.
Pulses shoot up my cock, thick and hard simply from the memory of my morning fantasy, and I shift in the chair where I sit facing the front of the desk, hoping my brother won’t notice the hard-on that is beginning to fill the front of my pants.
That’s never happened before at the mere thought of a woman. Hell, I haven’t gotten hard for anyone in so many years I don’t even bother to count anymore. Until three months ago, and my cock seems to be eighteen years old again. Wiley and half hard twenty-four seven.
I rub an open hand over my jaw and mouth, unconsciously grooming my beard in an attempt to regain control of my pulse. I twist my neck and let out a huff as I try to shake away the endless fantasies of her, a girl who shows absolutely zero interest in me. A girl I can’t get out of my head.
My angel. My Cassie.
The four words out of her mouth that first day I met her told me I was a goner. You would have thought they were more provocative than, ‘Can I help you?’. But that’s all it took.
“I even have a few girls in mind.” Erik soils my daydream. “My cast-offs, shall we say. I’m sure they would be happy to take one for the team.” My baby brother doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up sometimes.
“Fuck you, Erik.” I point a meaty finger in his direction. “Getting laid is not the answer to everything. And those women should kick your ass not sleep with you. You need to learn to treat them with more respect.”
I turn away so that I won’t see his reaction. This is the exact same room I walked out of last year. Nothing has changed, and everything has changed. Erik has managed to turn what was my center of organization, my control room, into something more chaotic than I could ever find comfortable. But it doesn’t matter. He’s the Chief Executive Officer of Foundation Demolition now.
Right or wrong, that chapter of my life is over.
“I just think getting laid couldn’t hurt but okay, bad joke.” He scribbles on a yellow legal pad in front of him then his eyes snap up to me with something I think might be pity. “Look, you weren’t wrong about letting the demo go forward that day. You did everything right.” Erik puts down the pen and drums his fingers on the desk, watching me as I avert my own line of sight from his. He knows me well enough to realize I’m still stuck on that fucking day but him bringing it up every time we see each other pisses me off.
He’s ramping up for another lecture on how I should come back to the business.With a thrust of my chin I set him straight. “Well, I clearly wasn’t right either. I don’t want to talk about it.” My fingers squeeze my knees and I shake my head. “We’ve run circles around this and it’s better this way. You’re doing a great job and I’m not bringing unnecessary attention to the business.” I shift back and forth in the chair, bring a palm up to run a few hard strokes over my head and as belly twists tight. I want to be somewhere else.
Erik’s upper lip twitches the way it does when he’s nervous. “You were the best though. No one knew how to rig a building like you did. It was almost magical, how you just knew where each impact should go. Every detonation in the right order. Like you were conducting a symphony of destruction. Dad taught us both well, but you had something else. Like Rain Man for building implosions.”
“Except being the best didn’t save that girl, did it?” The harshness in my voice reminds us both how fresh the pain is for me.
Pain. I shake my head thinking of the word, trying to clear it, wondering how I can think what I’m feeling equals pain. I’m fucking alive. This isn’t pain, it’s just emotion. I’m an asshole.
Erik’s chest rises and falls with a deep breath and he rolls a pen back and forth under his fingers, but I’m done here. I shoot him a look that says “no arguments” as I grunt and push off on the chair, rising to my feet.
My foot, I should say.
Singular. My constant reminder of that day’s error in judgement.
“Do you need anything else?” I clasp my hands together, rubbing them until the friction creates heat. My forehead draws tight as the sun assaults my eyes looking out the window so that I don’t have to see his concern. We’re on the seventh floor of the Foundation building, looking across the Detroit River to the Canadian Club sign. Somehow it helps settle me. That sign has been in my memory since Dad had his first office on this site. Seems like a thousand years ago.
Foundation Demo’s first location was nothing more than a single story, brick square, with bars on the windows and no running water. Two more office buildings were added to the group after that first one, then seven years ago we built this glass and metal monstrosity to house the new, international team of demolition experts. We’re the best, no one doubts that.
“No, I don’t need anything else. What I still fucking need is for you to let this other stuff go.” Erik has a habit of thinking he’s right about everything and he’s the one that needs to learn to let stuff go. We’ve gone a few rounds over the years because he refuses to see things any way but his. “I mean, fifty thousand to another rehab? Fifty thousand? Do you even know how much that is?” He rubs the back of his neck as I shift my weight off my prosthetic as I move behind the chair. The new one they just fitted me with is still a bit stiff and it’s digging into what’s left of my calf muscle.
I do know how much money that is, and it’s not like I don’t have the cash. He’s just pissed because he sees it as a waste. Never mind he’s the one that has a garage full of vintage motorcycles, a Porsche 911 Turbo and two Aston Martin Db5s. He fancies himself the James Bond of building demolition. Somehow those trinkets are worthy of the expense in his mind, but not my spending money on trying to fucking help people out of a death spiral.
“What the fuck do you care? It’s my fucking money. My percentage of the profits, Erik, this is what I want to do with it. Don’t cock-block me man, you’ll lose. You know I won’t fucking back down.” I suck my lips against my teeth with a quick crack of my neck. I love my baby brother, but we’re not too old to throw down if need be. He’s sandpaper on my nerves right now and he knows it.
If Mom was still here, the only thing she’d say to us is, “Take it outside, boys. Supper’s at seven.”
“That’s enough, man. Come on.” Erik cracks his palm against the desk, toppling the picture of Mom and Dad sitting at the corner.
I reach over to right it and he’s drumming his fingers again, making heat start to rise from my core. God, I miss my parents.
He should know he’s pushing for a brotherly beatdown, but he keeps going anyway. “Some junkie broke into your demo site. You didn’t do anything wrong here. Fucking tweakers looking for a place to squat for the night. One dies and it’s her own fault and now it’s your responsibility to save them all?” He throws his hands up and his voice hits a high note.
“Do you fucking think people want to be addicts? You think they enjoy that fucking life? ‘There but by the grace of God go I.’ That’s what Mom used to say. You should think about it.” I point at the photo, then raise my hand up to cover my eyes and pinch at the corners of my forehead. The pressure from my fingers somehow relieves the pressure inside my head.
Erik huffs a dramatic sigh as I rub my temples. I’m thinking about her, the woman they found in the rubble. Thinking maybe if someone had given her a chance, showed her they cared, maybe she’d be alive today.
I know Erik doesn’t want to hear what I say next but I don’t care. “Do you know Sarah Templeton had been on her own since she was fiftee
n? Ran away from home because her mother’s boyfriend thought she was his personal sex toy? Then she found a new ‘boyfriend’ who promptly beat her ass until she went to work for him. He also made sure he got a needle in her arm, so by the time she was sixteen she’d already been arrested eight times for prostitution and four times for possession. But, yeah, I guess she just needed to pull herself up by her bootstraps, right?” My nostrils flare as I stare him down.
He’s the baby, and sometimes he needs the hammer between the eyes because he can’t see things from any perspective but his own. “Not everyone has the same foundation as we had, Erik. Keep that in mind.” After the accident I wanted to know everything I could about the woman that died. Sarah Templeton. Even then I hated how the company lawyers tried to paint her as a low life. They wouldn’t even use her name.
Like somehow her life mattered less because of her background. I didn’t notice it before this all happened, but people assign a different value to women when they sell their body. When they have an addiction. It was so clear to me during the investigation and the case that somehow to most people, the human that was Sarah Templeton didn’t matter all that much and it infuriated me.
My brother stares right back at me, calculating whether it’s in his own interests to keep poking the bear.
Erik, my sister Cindy and I had an amazing childhood. Even when we were dirt poor and supper was the one meal you could count on, we were happy. Erik doesn’t seem to grasp the trauma some people go though in their lives. Most of the addicts I’ve gotten to know since the accident have something horrible in their past. Something that finds their weakness and turns them to the dark road. He has no fucking idea how lucky he is.
From the way he settles back in his chair and his shoulders fall a few inches I think he’s decided to keep his mouth shut for the moment. Smart choice.
“Now. Are we done?” My voice thickens as I stuff my hands down in my pockets. The muscles in my shoulders ache and twitch. My mouth is dry and I just need to be out of here. I can’t stop thinking of where I want to be. Even if it’s just looking at her. I came here to sign some IRS shit for him but the conversation quickly turned and I’m ready to be gone.
“Yep. I guess we are. Thanks for coming by to sign. Fucking IRS wants to know every fucking thing.” Erik leans back in the chair. He’s got Mom’s fair skin, Nordic light hair and lean build, while I, on the other hand, take after our father. Mom used to say Dad and I descended from some ancient human-grizzly hybrid and from the view I get in the mirror every morning she’s not far off. Even my voice comes out of me as a half growl most of the time. “I’m changing your direct deposit like you asked. Once a month still fine?”
“I don’t care. Whatever. I don’t need the money.” I pick up the picture of Mom and Dad from the edge of the desk, looking at how they still smiled at each other after fifty-two years of marriage. It makes me happy and sad at the same time, and I dust the top of the frame with my index finger before setting it back in place, turning it to face him.
I’ve left the business in any official capacity, but Erik and my sister insisted I keep drawing a salary. I also have a lot of zeros behind my company profit sharing account, but I only use that now for donations and contributions to the rehabs I support. I’m starting a scholarship sort of deal with three of the best rehabs across the country. The ones where the fucking celebrities go when they need to dry out, the best places. The programs that actually work, where you’re not a junkie, you’re just a hero in need of a rest. But the real addicts, the folks on the street with nothing and no one, don’t get to go to those facilities. No money, no help. I want to change that.
“You earned your checks, man. You turned this business around in the last ten years. I just hope I don’t fuck it up. You ever want to come back, no questions. The whole wine business thing with Cindy—” He laughs and pushes back in his chair with a knowing grin. “We both know you’re just there to get her started. Hell, you don’t even drink...”
He busts out with a hearty laugh as I back away toward the closed door, anxious to get back outside in the fresh air. I’m done. The room starts to feel smaller and smaller, and my heart is starting to pump faster knowing the sympathetic stares and averted eyes I’m going to get from the staff when I walk back toward the elevator.
“Hey, it’s something to do. Cindy needed some help. I’m a glorified gopher over there, but if she needs me, I’ll stick around for as long as she wants.”
“So now both of you are off doing your wine thing and I’m here steering the ship. Not sure that’s what Dad had in mind when he left the company to all of us.”
“Cindy never cared about blowing shit up. She’s happy as hell now that she’s bought the distributorship.”
She’s doing well. She has around seventy employees and the new building is almost ready. The warehouse is state of the art. Ten sections kept at perfect temperatures for the different kinds of wine. Fuck if I know anything about it, but she’s in hog heaven. I just do what I’m told and that’s fine for now. Keeps me busy. I can even bring my two mutts, Tinder and Leopold along to the offices.
I’m almost to the door when I turn around one last time to see Erik look at his watch then his fingers click on his keyboard.
“Okay.” Erik stops typing and reaches up to the ceiling, stretching and leaning side to side. “Well, I have work to do. You go run your little errands for sissy and take care of those in need and those vicious dogs of yours. I’ll be here blowing shit up.”
As I turn, I can’t help but think of where I want to be. Who I want to be talking to. I step forward, my gait slightly off balance. My fingers grip the cool metal handle of the door and a rush of blood streams down south. I know when I leave here my next stop will be to see her.
I lean to my right. The pressure from my prosthetic needs adjusting. Finding a specialist that could form fit and teach a six-foot-seven-inch, three-hundred-and-seventeen-pound man how to walk again with the bottom of one leg blown off hasn’t been an easy road.
Erik pushes back from his place behind the desk and steps forward as I start to open the door. I pivot taking one quick look back his way. Squinting into the morning sun as it streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
“One more thing.” His voice changes, the lightness gone.
He nods slightly and looks down at a thick folder at the corner of the desk. For some reason he can’t meet my eyes.
Our mutual discomfort heightened by the fact that one black boot is sticking out from under the hem of my charcoal gray slacks. Where the other boot should be, there’s just slick, curved metal.
“We settled the last of the claim.” He flips up the corner of the folder, then closes it again. “It’s done. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I wanted you to know. It wasn’t your fault, but we settled and accepted all of their terms just as you asked. Now, you just need to settle it with yourself, Magnus. It was an accident. You weren’t at fault.”
I sniff. My hand tenses on the door handle, the veins traversing the bones leading to each finger in thick rivers. My desire to turn the knob falters as the words tumble out of my mouth. “Tell that to Sarah Templeton.” My head starts to pound. “Oh wait, you can’t, can you?”
I force my wrist to turn my hand.
The click of the handle, the blast of air as I jerk open the door. I feel like I’m watching the whole thing from somewhere else. The irony of the entire situation is that Sarah’s piece of shit mother came out of the woodwork after her daughter died. Found some TV attorney to take her case of wrongful death against me and the corporation. Erik wanted it to go to trial, but I put my foot down. We paid off that worthless bitch because there was no way I was letting Sarah’s name be dragged through the mud. Her mother did jack shit for her until she was dead, then all of a sudden she was the grieving, long suffering, maternal figure. Sarah deserves some peace, even now. The ancillary benefit of settling out of court was it kept both Sarah and the entire sad event
out of the media.
I shoot off one final barb. “Doesn’t feel settled to me.”
Erik shakes his head and looks down, but I finally walk away. I turn the corner out of his office away from the elevators and onto the stairs, sparing us all the forced smiles and averted eyes on my way out.
AVAILABLE NOW ON AMAZON
Valentine’s Rose
C H A P T E R O N E
Tanner
The last fifteen minutes of the hour-long drive to her flower shop my dick is diamond hard. Visions of her laying under me as I drive her into the bed taunt me as I try to steer.
Her skin is the perfect shade of pink. I imagine her blonde tresses that usually hang down in waves to brush the swell of her amazing tits, turned into a wild, fresh-fucked mess in my mind. And all because of me.
But unfortunately that’s all in my head. More than likely, it will always be in my head. Because there’s a damn good chance that my perfect woman will never speak to me and there’s no way in this life I will ever look at anyone else. It’s been a good six years since I touched a woman and until I can touch my Rose, it’s just me and my shower gel until they put me in the ground.
Thinking of her makes the last few miles of winding mountain road even more treacherous. It divides my concentration so that these fucking hairpin turns become a deathtrap. They’re already a bitch to maneuver with the slush left on the road and the less than tight steering on my delivery truck.
“Steady there, boss.” Norman, my part-time help at the greenhouses and full-time pain-in-the-ass, taunts me from the passenger seat.
The fact that I can’t fight my hard on, even with a dude sitting next to me, tells you just how gone I am over this girl. A girl that’s barely spoken ten words to me in the last three months.
