“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he growls in my ear.
“I’m defending myself.” I whisper. I squeeze him and his knees buckle. A hand slams above my ear. If I turned my head, I could kiss the inside of his wrist. Down low, between my legs, I can feel my blood pulsing hard and hot.
My squeeze becomes a caress. The cock under my palm twitches. The arm next to my head trembles. Leka’s body is radiating an intense amount of heat and it’s burning through my clothes, under my skin and igniting my bloodstream. His breath becomes ragged. This is it. This is my opportunity. This is what I’ve been waiting for. The door is open. The gate is up. I rise on my tiptoes to kiss the jaw I’ve been dying to kiss. I part my lips—
“Stop.” The sound that comes out of him is tortured. “Don’t do this.” His words are one part angry, one part self-loathing.
It’s the self-loathing bit that pushes my heels to the ground and unsticks my hand from the front of his pants. I want him to love me with his whole heart, not resent me because I made him horny.
Tears prick my eyes, but I keep my lashes down so he can’t see. Is loving me so terrible? Is wanting me so wrong?
“Why?” I ask. “Why is this so wrong?”
“Because it is.”
I hate that he’s so defeated, as if loving me is the worst thing he could do.
“Sorry,” I mumble and slide out from under him. I walk, unsteadily, to the kitchen. My palm is on fire, tattooed with the imprint of his cock. In the kitchen, I open the freezer and stick my head inside, ostensibly looking for the cookies ’n’ cream ice cream, but really trying to cool off and gather my self-control.
Dimly, the sound of a phone buzzing registers. Someone has sent Leka a text. He must not like it because he curses.
“I have to go,” he says.
“Of course you do.” I slam the freezer door shut and turn around, leaning against the fridge.
The anguish on his face is gone. His jaw is set and his eyes are blank. It’s his work look. I hate that dead expression.
"Stay here and keep your phone on you,” he orders.
I know better than to ask, but I can't keep the question out of my mouth. "Where are you going?"
"Out."
And who protects you while you’re out? I think.
“Is it dangerous?” I have to know.
"It's…" He pauses and averts his eyes. Leka hasn't ever lied to me—at least, not outright. He hides things, but when confronted directly, he will never lie. I learned that when he carted me off to elementary school.
"It's what?"
"Strippers. We're having a company dinner at a strip club." He shoves the phone back into his front pocket and palms the abandoned shoulder holster. "Don't leave. Please," he tacks on.
My first instinct is to tell him to go to hell, but I’m emotionally worn out. All I can muster up is a warning. “If you touch one, I’ll cut your fingers off."
“I’m not touching anyone," he replies, shrugging on a jacket to hide the gun.
In a strange and sick way, the gun makes me feel marginally better. He really is going to work. You take singles if you’re going to have fun, not a weapon.
He stops at the door. With one hand on the door, he turns back and finally looks me in the eye. "I'd rather stay home than go to this."
I give him a tight nod of acknowledgment. The reassurance isn't much, but I'll take it. Once he leaves, though, I decide that I'm going to do a little shopping. He's not going to be the only one tortured by jealousy tonight.
29
Leka
She bought a dildo. The credit card fraud alert is for a bland company called FHP. I’m about to reject the charge when I recognize Bitsy’s card. As the crew piles out of the Escalade, I google the company. For Her Pleasure is a sex shop in midtown that touts itself as providing same-day delivery all hours of the day and night. The amount charged matches the “deal of the day,” one six-inch version that touted itself as close to the real thing.
I clench the phone in my hand until my knuckles turn white. A dildo is better than a real dick attached to a real man, I tell myself, but that truth doesn't make me feel better. All I can see in my head is a dick-shaped object delving between Bitsy’s thick thighs slick with her cream.
Can I be jealous of a rubber thing? Because I am. Because I want to reach through the computer and choke everyone who is beyond this stupid site. When I get home tonight I’m burning that piece of crap.
She must know I look at her credit card statement. I pay that bill monthly, although she hardly charges anything to it other than food, tampons, and lotion shit to pretty up her face. Not that she needs anything to make her look better. She’s fucking gorgeous. It’s why I sent her to an all-girls school where she’d be dick free.
“You coming, Leka?” Beefer sticks his face in the auto. “Everyone’s waiting.” I look up from the screen, and whatever is on my face makes Beefer take a step back. “Bad news?”
“I’m going home.”
I reach for the latch to close the car door, but Beefer resists. “No way. Unless your apartment is burning down, you need to come with us. You’re a live wire. If you don’t blow off steam, someone’s going to get hurt. And like you said earlier, we can’t afford to lose manpower. Not with a run tomorrow. You don’t have to stay long. Just wet the whistle, play nice with the girls, and let your boys know you’ve got their backs.”
Outside, the crew stands impatiently stomping their feet and blowing on their hands as they wait for me to claw through the reeds of heat and jealousy that threaten to choke off all good sense. If you don’t blow off steam, someone’s going to get hurt.
He’s right. I nearly broke down earlier. If she’d managed to make contact, I would’ve lost it. I climb out of the Escalade and join the crew on the sidewalk.
Snow, a new enforcer, greets me. “Didn’t think you were getting out of the car, Priest. Not to worry. I’ll protect you from those big bad strippers.”
He slaps his knee as he laughs.
“I thought he had a honey stashed away and doesn’t want us to find out,” chirps PJ with the same floppy-bang haircut that Snow is sporting. PJ’s a fairly new recruit but good with a gun. In fact, most of the crew is. There are very few guys still with us who’d worked when Stinky Steve was in charge. Cesaro cleaned house in every arm of the organization, wiping out the old guard. Everyone below me and Beefer got spared. Lucky, I guess.
“Nah, he’s got a ball and chain. I feel for ya, dude. I got a sister, too, and she’s always up in my business.” Snow reaches out and claps me on the shoulder. The wet cigar butt of Beefer’s foot soldier rubs against the fabric of my jacket. It wouldn’t be hard to whip my hand up and break his wrist, but fortunately for all of us, the door opens and a bouncer gestures for us to enter. Snow moves fast enough to win a medal somewhere.
I let everyone else go first. Inside, I scan the crowd. Despite the early hour—it’s only around eleven—there’s a lot of testosterone in the air.
“Good to see you out with us,” murmurs Donnie. He was one of Gerry’s friends but managed to survive the purge. He directs his gap-toothed smile in my direction. I give him a nod of acknowledgment. Donnie’s harmless but eager to please anyone. That kind of attitude will likely get him killed in the next five years. He’ll be busy doing favors for everyone, not realizing he’s pissing rivals off in the process.
“There are so many fucking babes here,” PJ exclaims. “I’m ’bout to nut in my pants just looking around.”
“I’m taking those two home.” Snow points to two brunettes who look so similar that they might be sisters.
“Yeah, man. Hit it!” PJ cheers.
“Nothing better than hanging with the boys,” Snow replies. “Free booze, naked chicks, and good music. Best night ever!” He punches a fistful of singles in the air and dives toward the stage.
Across the room, Beefer meets my eyes with a knowing smile. I told you so, his expression says.
> I try to put the image of Bitsy and the rubber dick out of my head and focus on what is making every other male in the joint frenzied with excitement. But I can’t summon any enthusiasm. The women gyrating on stage are doing so because they need the money, not because they’re in love with shaking their bare tits in front of a bunch of half-drunk meatheads.
I take a sip of a foul-tasting whiskey and dig my shoulders into the concrete wall. Snow must have a shitty home life if this is what qualifies for the “best” of anything. The best night is sitting on your own couch, watching television, eating microwave popcorn with the sweetest girl to breathe this godforsaken air sitting next to you.
Fuck. I wish I was with Bitsy. I’m glad her strawberry shampoo is smelling up the bathroom and that there five pairs of identical white tennis shoes resting inside the front door that trip me up every time I walk in. I’ve missed buying dozens of containers of yogurt only to have most of them expire before she remembers we have them. I’ve missed her brown eyes laughing at me from across the breakfast table and her cheerful voice telling me all about how the boys are too silly and the classes are too easy and that Sister Mary Katherine needs to pluck the mole hair nesting on her cheek.
I’m tired of hurting Bitsy to keep her safe, but there are no alternatives to the path we’re on. She can’t stay.
I throw back the rest of my glass. I’m going to have something five times as strong as this to drown out my bad mood.
Before I can make my way to the bar for a refill, Mason, the boy I had drive Camella home, appears next to me. He sticks his hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans. “This is lit, man,” he says in a tone that says he’d like to die.
“Not drinking?” I ask. Out of all the guys I work with, I probably hate Mason the least. He’s quiet, does what he’s told, and doesn’t engage in a lot of shit talking. This scene isn’t up his alley. The kid’s gay, but he’s not out—at least not to us. It doesn’t matter to me. As long as he’s loyal to Beefer, he can fuck whoever he wants. Besides, it’s one less dick out there that’s looking to violate Bitsy.
“I’m driving.”
I wonder if he volunteered for that task. If so, he’s smarter than I gave him credit for. “Good move.”
“Thanks. Gotta be honest. I didn’t expect you to come. Strippers and sex shows don’t seem to be your thing.”
“It’s not,” I admit.
We exchange surprised looks. I’m not usually that forthcoming. The Bitsy thing is messing with my head.
Mason breaks eye contact first. “You’d think that given who you are, you wouldn’t be doing anything you didn’t want to.”
“You regret hooking up with us?” He’s staring at the floor so I can’t read his expression.
“Nah, it’s just…” The kid searches for his words. “A guy should be able to do what he wants when he’s in your position.”
“There’s only one way out of this business, Mason, and it’s not by finding a new job.” Death is the only exit. I can’t get out, but I can get Bitsy out. Maybe even Mason. “You’re new. If you leave now, it’s possible no one would care.” Cesaro might not even know of Mason’s existence.
“Leave for what?” the kid replies. “If I had better options, I wouldn’t have hooked up with you all in the first place.”
And there it is. The reason we’re all here.
“Boy! Get me another drink,” Snow yells over.
Or most of us.
Mason stiffens slightly at the slur.
I give the kid a bit of free advice. “Snow once bit a guy’s nose off. It was about three years ago and we were moving some prescriptions up to Canada. We’d been on the road for a couple of days—five of us in a semi-tractor trading off driving, sleeping, and guarding the cargo. It was hot in the trailer because it was July. This kid named Rob complained, and Snow said that if he didn’t shut up, Snow’d give him eight inches of winter up his ass. Rob shot back that he didn’t think Snow had more than one ball in his pants, and Snow, well, he leaned over and bit Rob’s nose off.”
Mason turns pale—or as pale as the kid can get.
“Whatcha doing?” Beefer asks, lumbering up before Mason can respond.
“Mason’s getting Snow a drink.”
Mason nods and hops off.
“I like that kid,” Beefer comments. “He’s like you, though. Doesn’t like the girls.”
So Beefer does know.
“Thought that may be the way you leaned,” he adds.
“No.”
The boss rocks back on his heels, tucking his thumbs inside the waistband of his too-tight dress slacks. “That’s right. You like ’em young.”
It takes everything I have not to stiffen like Mason did.
“I like ’em private.”
Beefer smirks. “Nah. I understand where you’re coming from. I’m not a fan of used pussy either. Cesaro has the right idea—take the fresh ones. They’re tighter and hotter. Plus, if you raise them right, they won’t stray. Those used sluts will fuck any dick that waves a few bills in their direction. Look at these hoes”—he waves a hand toward the stage—“they wouldn’t give Snow and PJ the time of day outside this club, but tonight they’re crawling on their hands and knees.”
“They are strippers,” I point out mildly. This is literally their job. They’re trying to earn a living in a more honest way than we are, but Beefer wouldn’t want to hear that, so I keep the thought to myself.
Beefer harrumphs. “Yeah, well, if I don’t get off and good, I’m burning the whole place down.” He snaps his fingers, the rings on his digits clinking together at the base. Mason comes running. “Get me the two brunettes. I want to watch them eat each other out and then I want them to give me a blow job.”
Mason sets off to find a manager as Beefer moves toward the VIP rooms. “Come on,” Beefer tells me. “You can watch.”
It’s not a suggestion.
“After I get something to drink.” I’m going to need a lot of booze to last the night.
30
Leka
The low rumble of the furnace is the only sound in my apartment when I arrive home. In the entry are a pair of black boots, thin at the ankle and chunky around the heel.
I’m an adult now, I can hear her saying. White tennis shoes aren’t the only things I’ve grown out of.
The plastic bag full of yogurt brushes against my leg. Perhaps her shoe choice isn’t the only thing that’s changed. I shelve the dairy and strip out of my stinking clothes, tossing the sweat- and alcohol-drenched items into a heap in the corner of my bedroom. I might wash them in the morning or I might stick them in the trash. I’ll make up my mind later.
In the bathroom, I crank on the shower. Before I step under the water, I swallow four aspirin and stare at my sorry mug in the mirror. An exhausted, frustrated man stares back.
Beefer declared I needed a woman. He’d said that the night I took Bitsy to Vermont. He’d said that tonight after he sprayed his come all over the two girls’ faces and told me it was my turn.
But no one in that club was going to get me hard. Not the one with legs a mile long or the one with the butt that was so round it looked unreal. Not the two girls who looked like sisters that entertained the crew and moved Snow to show a deep reverence I hadn’t realized he was capable of. Not virgins, experienced women, burly men or slender, pretty twinks.
Sure, I get erections. Everyone does. I wake up with one, rub it out, and go on my way. The relief is the same as pissing or eating a good meal. That routine had been enough for me until Bitsy returned. Now it feels as if I’m one exposed, throbbing nerve.
I haven’t felt this weak and out-of-control since that day in the dress store when pieces of Bitsy’s clothing dropping to the floor one by one as she disrobed. I sat there in that chair with growing dread as my pants grew tight and my chest caved in. I couldn’t get out of that place fast enough.
Later, after the blood was cleaned up from the floor of Marjory’s, I chalked it up to adren
aline and my surroundings. All that soft stuff, all that lace, all those high heels. It wasn’t anything that I was familiar with. That’s why I felt those stirrings low in my gut. The same ones that are settling in now, making my balls tighten and my cock grow heavy.
I duck inside the shower, crank on the cold and try to freeze out those feelings. I didn’t save her all those years ago to put her life in danger now. She deserves to live a normal life—one where she’s not watching people get their necks sliced open or looking over her shoulder for someone to act out some dark revenge or coming home to someone who has to spend an hour in the shower scouring the blood off his hands. I scrub those hands across my face.
Bitsy deserves the world and I’m determined to give it to her.
Does her world include a man? Or do you plan for her to die alone?
I drop my forehead to the tile wall. These thoughts are gonna kill me. I shut off the water. The freezing temps aren’t doing anything for me. I could be in Antarctica and my dick would still be hard if Bitsy was around. I do a half-ass job of toweling off.
My feet carry me past my bedroom to the end of the hall and stop in front of Bitsy’s door. If I wasn’t so tired or so lonely, I would’ve been able to force myself back fifteen feet and into my own room. But I can’t stop myself from sinking to the floor.
Knowing she’s a breath away is killing me…and bringing me to life. The last four years I’ve been dead inside. I’ve eaten, slept, killed, come home to an empty apartment and lain in my bed until the sun came up. I take a deep breath and instead of stale air, strawberry and soap and floral perfume fill my lungs. The taint of the night drains away. The water, no matter how hot, can’t do that for me.
Bare assed, I sink to the floor. From here, I can see a tiny sliver of gold from the light under the microwave in the kitchen. I close my eyes and see her in front of me. She arches her back and her hard, erect nipples press against the thin fabric of her T-shirt. Her eyes are full of challenge and invitation. Take me if you dare.
Want You Page 20
