Authors: Dani Alexander
Unsurprisingly, she hung up on me. “Cheating, conniving, dumb, stupid,
bitch
!”
I took a deep breath and redialed. “You need a lesson about how to treat women,” Peter said.
“Nina,
please
put my father on the phone.” I smiled at Peter with teeth clenched so tight, plaque could crumble off.
“I’ll see if he’s in.”
I knew damn well he was in, I could hear his cigar humidifier.
Which meant the cow was in his office. Most likely under his desk giving him a blow job. This bothered me why? I wouldn’t have recognize my mother if she gave
me
a blow job. Why should I care if my father banged his dumb secretary?
“It’s your son,” Nina whispered loud enough to shatter glass.
“Austin?” My father said into the receiver. Not ‘son’. Not ‘boy’ as his father referred to me. Just Austin, the client. I heard papers shuffling and a thump. What I imagined was dipshit Nina bumping her head as she tried to stand under the desk. I wished it had been her skull cracking against my father’s nuts.
“You have more than one son?” The silence and measured breath wasn’t something I thought about at the time. Later I’d put it together. But now, I was too focused on Peter’s hand in mine, his thumb tracing circles over my skin. “Your clients are about to be interrogated downtown.”
“Are they in custody?”
“No. They’re coming in voluntarily, at my request.” “I’ll need a few hours to wrap things up here.” “You mean unwrap Nina’s mouth from your cock,” I snapped.
“Don’t be crass, boy.” Ah, there it was. The earth was back in its orbit now.
I bit back an automatic apology. Even after all these years bile rose up at the mere thought of apologizing to my father.
“Meet us at the downtown station in two hours.” “Very well. Have them call the office immediately.” He hung up without so much as a goodbye.
“
Asshole
,” I muttered and laid my cell on the dashboard.
It didn’t take long to reach the house. Seconds after I hung up, Peter hit the brakes at the mouth of the alley. “I should warn you, there’s reporters everywhere.”
Fuck.
“They better not be in my fucking parking spot.” He drove on, flipping the visor down as various types of cameras and video equipment were shoved near the windows.
“Detective, is Nikolaj Stakosha innocent?” “Detective Glass, has he told you how he murdered Nikki the Nail?”
The shouts were muffled through the glass. I ignored them and gently grabbed Peter’s arm as he crawled the car past them.
“Listen, don’t respond to any of them. Not ‘no comment’. Not ‘yes’, not ‘no’. Don’t even move your head in affirmation or denial.”
He turned the car off and looked around, then calmly met my eyes. “Okay.”
“Whatever they ask, you don’t say a word. Whatever I say, you don’t repeat, don’t agree or disagree, just walk past them.
Some of the more unscrupulous reporters will not hesitate to edit your nod or comment, attaching it to a different question.” “Okay.”
“Keep your eyes on the ground.”
“
Okay
,” he sighed.
When we climbed out of the car, we were swarmed. I pushed Peter ahead of me as questions accompanied the jam of microphones and cameras at our mouths.
The last thing I needed was to alienate the press. With my job on shaky ground and my fellow officers cursing my face, I
wanted allies, not enemies. So, although I wanted to scream at them to get off my lawn, waving a cane and smacking my lips; as coolly as possible, I closed the gate behind us.
At least with the press here, an arsonist wouldn’t have a chance at my house.
Would It Be Okay If I Stomped My Foot Until Someone Let Me Fucking Shower?
My living room smelled of herbs and garlic. A lot of garlic. The aroma was overwhelming all other senses. It didn’t help that it was nearly noon and I hadn’t eaten yet. The way my stomach rumbled in appreciation said it was more interested in food than the rest of me was. What I wanted was a shower and a change of clothes. Green scrubs were comfortable until you started smelling cinnamon and male sweat, and then they were just an embarrassing show of your manhood.
“Is it true?” Cai asked, chewing his lip and then his thumbnail.
Rosafa exited the kitchen, a kerchief tied to her hair, clothes covering all her skin. No wonder sweat beaded the exposed parts of her face. With so much going on, I forgot to ask her about Muslim propriety. Too late now. “It is all on fire?” “We can talk more later. Right now we have to get downtown. Cai, I’m sorry but the cat will have to wait. It escaped and is probably at the pound.” “Are you okay?” He asked, wide grey eyes taking in my appearance.
“Yeah, kid.” I grinned at him, watching the relief roll out of his shoulders with a breathy laugh.
“I go get the cat,” Rosafa offered. “There is casserole here.
You need to eat.”
“I will, when I get back,” I promised. “Really we’ll talk and eat when we get back. Both of you need to stay inside. Don’t talk to the press and don’t let anyone but the police or fire department inside the house.”
“Cai, I’ll get Begone,” Peter said, ruffling his brother’s hair as I had wanted to do hours ago. “Do what he says.” “Where’s Darryl?”
Peter turned from the kitchen and looked around, as if my question had just reminded him that our party was missing one person. “Probably still sleeping.”
“No, he went to the hospital,” Rosa informed us. “He said your friend is hurt.”
“It’s Tilda, Rabbit. Darryl saw her on the news,” Cai pointed at my muted TV as all of our heads swiveled to the screen. The news had changed, obviously, but tickers paraded at the bottom announcing the injury count had risen from five to seven. Peter immediately picked up his phone to start texting.
“I need to shower. Badly. Tell Darryl to get here,” I ordered and climbed the stairs, suddenly aware of the sharp pain in my ass, and not at all from what a few days ago I’d assumed would be its cause.
Peter’s Trick
Because of the wounds, I had washed my hair in the sink and was now sponging off the dirt away from the shower’s spray, turning off the water between rinses. Peter’s conversation filled in the quiet spaces.
“Flowers… Tilda loves daffodils… No one else we know?…
We can come get you… We don’t have the money to—… He said we could stay here… I don’t know how long. Days maybe?
Enough time to get some cash together… Insurance is going to whoever got hurt, Dare. Just set up another gig.” Doubtful Peter knew that I could hear him speaking on the phone through the bathroom door. Or maybe he didn’t care. But the conversation was battering my already bruised spirit, and I wished I weren’t hearing it.
“Then set up a private one if Kevin thinks it’s too soon. We need the cash!” His whispered hiss slid under the door and sucked the air from the room. My forehead pressed against the tile.
The sponge in my hand released a gush of water meant for a final rinse, but in the heated squeeze of my fist, it drained out unused. I drowned out the rest of the conversation by keeping the shower at full blast and standing out of the jets as I sponged myself clean.
Once finished, I toweled off and harkened back to my discussion with Peter at the hospital. I was trying to find the place where I had incorrectly concluded Peter and I had reached an understanding about us. How could I have been so wrong?
It also reminded me about what he was going to say. Maybe the clue to what had been going on in his head was in the statement the nurse had interrupted:
“We could try—” We could try what? A threesome? We had been talking about my attraction to the doctor. Was that his answer? Was it all about sex with Peter? Maybe I had been reading things into his behavior that I had wanted to see. Maybe I should just forget
about it all.
Wrapping the damp towel around my waist, I tucked in the edges and opened the bathroom door. Peter was lying on my bed, arms stretched above him and shirt riding high on his abdomen, exposing the thin trail of hair from bellybutton to waistband. Maybe it was all about sex with me?
“Peter?” His eyes were closed, body still except for the deep rise and fall of his chest.
“Hm?” The sea of blue opened up, tugging at my breath until it surrendered in a heavy exhale.
“Is your friend okay?”
Don’t do that ‘gig’. What were you going to say at the hospital? Am I just a means to an end?
Today was like reliving the first time I brought him home. Coming out of the shower with him lying on my bed, me pulling clothes on under my towel, avoiding looking at him as if he were the sun and I’d go blind from staring.
“Not really, she had some smoke inhalation problems and burns. But we’ll take care of her. Everyone else we know is okay. Lots of people got hurt from trying to get out too fast.
And some cars hit each other in the parking lot.” The towel fell as I buttoned my khakis, I leaned to pick it up, powerless to stop my gaze from meeting his. “Good,” I whispered, eyes following the curve of his neck. I cleared my throat and tried again, “Good.”
“You like me stretched out on your bed.” The come hither smile wasn’t sexy, it was pure torture for me.
“We have to go,” I replied, ready to throw everything I felt for Peter in the nearest trash and tie up the bag. Let it fester there with my already condemned sanity.
“Why are you pissed?”
“I’m not,” I said, sounding defeated and more tired than I’d felt in years. I was worn out more from my confused status with Peter than because of the fire, my job, Cai and any number of other things combined.
Grabbing a shirt from my closet I whirled around when his palms whispered over my naked back. “Ask me!” “What?” He laughed nervously.
“Ask me for money, Peter.” I grabbed his wrists and pushed him against the wall.
He looked everywhere but at me, no attempt to free himself.
He was definitely stronger than I, but right that second I didn’t care if he was being patronizing. If it forced him to answer me, then patronizing I’d take.
“No,” he murmured.
“Ask me for money, goddamn you.” I punctuated it with a slam of his wrists, hard enough to jar, but not painful—I hoped.
The next time my shirt wouldn’t be there to cushion it. I was that pissed.
“I have!” He spat back, easily extricating his hands and pushing me away. I grabbed his arm, turning him around.
“For Cai. For sex. Not for you. You’d rather go fuck a bunch of strangers—”
“I don’t fuck anyone but Darryl anymore,” he denied. “It’s just a show for a bunch of voyeurs. No one gets hurt.” “I get hurt!”
“I don’t have any other way, Austin.” “You have me. Ask me,” I said, hating the pleading sound in my voice.
“No.”
“Jesus Christ, why the fuck not?”
“Because I don’t want you to be a fucking
trick
!” The shout was so loud I felt the vibrations along my spine.
I had no time to process his admission. His lips crashed into mine, sending my back into the wall. Whether from the pain clawing up my spine from my injuries, or the pleasure from his heated lips, I moaned loudly, folding my hands into his hair.
My Ass!
This was what I’d been waiting for. Peter, stripped of emotional restraint, wildly tugging and biting, sucking at my mouth, fingers like claws in my back. I pulled him closer, my lips parting
invitingly. He invaded my mouth with his tongue darting in time with his grinding hips. I hoped to God that his frantic hands weren’t going to move lower; the last thing I wanted was to interrupt this because I was screaming in pain. Thankfully, his grip eased, hands caressing instead of groping, mouth gentling against mine.
“We don’t have time for this,” I mumbled, curling my tongue along his upper lip.
In response, he dragged my bottom lip leisurely through his teeth before releasing it, leaving it throbbing with pleasure.
“Then…stop kissing…me.”
“I don’t think I can.” I kissed his cheek, his jaw, his eyelids.
His mouth. I leaned into him and lost myself in his taste.
My phone shrilled on the bureau next to us. I ignored it, focusing instead on the slide of stubble against my jaw, the rough hands trailing sun-like warmth over my ribs. I lifted my chin, directing his mouth to my neck, but he had something else in mind.
I was in too much of a hazy stupor to resist when he flipped me around. My hands flattened against the wall, heart racing as he resumed kissing my neck and skated his tongue down the center of my back. He cupped and squeezed my crotch, then unbuttoned my pants. They glided silently to my feet. I inhaled sharply as my boxers slid down just enough to expose my ass. I barely comprehended what position Peter was in, and what it could mean. My last functioning brain cell was consumed by my excitement.
The room was silent, save for my harsh, escalating breaths.
Bracing against the wall, feeling his hands and lips at the base of
my spine, I nervously complained, “My ass hurts.” “You’ve been sticking the wrong things in it.” I sensed his lips twitch against my skin. “Use my cock next time,” he said, reaching around and snapping the elastic front of my boxers.