Two Hitmen: A Double Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Lawless Book 1) (14 page)

That was the beginning of it, I think, where I started to go so very badly off the rails. That feeling of how very wrong it was, I got kind of hooked on it. Wanted it, more and more.

Roger said, “All of those silly girls in high school.” We sat on the floor by his bed one slow summer Saturday and played Riddick on his X-Box. “All they want is to tell their friends they’ve been with me.” He drawled lazily, “Show off a mark and say, ‘Roger gave me that’.” he winced as he made the cruel impression of our year’s stereotypical ‘popular girl.’ “They don’t care about me, they don’t know anything about me. I’m just a damned trophy.”
 

“I don’t care about any of them, either.” He looked into my eyes. “I always wish they were you, sis.” His lip trembled. His face twisted as he wrenched the controller. Flames burst to fill the screen.

We played console games and hung out in his room a lot. About half of his time he spent out, debauching almost every member of the student body and half of the female teaching staff, and the other half flopped in his room. With me.

The way that he talked about all of them, it sounded more like they were the ones who were debauching him. He relished in telling me every detail, I mean
every
tiny detail of what they did to him.

I remember him sat against the side of his bed with his legs spread wide, his hand held his bluejeans and cupped his balls. He stretched as he told me exactly
 
how and what and where the plump, redheaded English teacher had sucked on him and probed in him with the tip of her tongue.

His eyes fastened on mine as he described her, stood over him as she slipped her panties down, then settled to sit over his face and press her hot, wet pussy into his lips.

He made like he didn’t want any of it and I knew that was a lie. When he said, “It’s you, sis. I want to do all of that stuff, but only with you.”

“Seems I’m the only person you
don’t
do it all with.”

“It’s true,” and he looked regretful like a long-eared puppy, “But it’s only you who understands me. You get me, sis.”

“Only I don’t. They do.”

He hardly ever even called me ‘Honey.’ It was always ‘Sis.’ On the rare times he did say, ‘Honey,’ it was long and slow, like he did it to tease. Once he was sat in the morning
 
shadow and he got that tone ion his voice. I knew he was going to say it.

His face was almost hidden, all I could see was the blaze of his eyes and his voice was low and growly. He asked me, what would you do? If you could do
anything
,” I knew what he was talking about and I squirmed in my little white shorts.

“What would you do?” I bit my lip and then, when he drew it out, as I knew he would, long and low, “Honey?” I came right there. Without even a touch I shook and I moaned as I crested and burst.

Those long, agonizing afternoons are still among my most cherished, hidden memories.

One hot Saturday morning Father shouted from the hallway, “Baz! Deirdre’s here for you.” Deirdre Macon was the oldest cheerleader, and she was the sexiest. This was the girl that all of the jocks and the whole football team panted after, howled at, and slavered over.

“I haven’t invited her,” he scowled. Then he looked up into my eyes, pleading. “If they throw themselves at me, what am I supposed to do, but really,” his temple creased, “Have these girls no pride at all?”

Roger pushed me and told me quickly to get inside his closet and hide. I said that I could just slip back to my room, but he said in an urgent whisper, “No, she’ll see you,” as he bundled me into the closet.

The closet had two sides. A mirror hung over one door, and the other door was slatted. He pushed me into the side with the slats, and I thought he must have made a mistake, because if you looked hard enough you could see inside the closet.

Deirdre wasn’t looking at the slats, though, so it didn’t really matter.

She leaned against him, “It’s so great to see you, Roger,” and he winced at her breathy Valley-girl meets gangsta bitch voice. Well, I assumed that was what made him wince as she wrapped herself around him. Whatever it was, his wince didn’t slow the flapping of her eyelashes.

Roger held her face, pulled her roughly to him by the waist. “Oh, yes,” her voice was extra-dreamy. “Do it, Roger. Do what you want with me.”

She nuzzled him and put her lips on his neck as his hands slid all over her body. She had on a crisp white shirt and a short pleated plaid skirt over black tights. She cooed into his neck.

“I know you might want to be rough, Roger. I don’t mind,” She rocked her hips, pressing her sex against the ridge of his cock, “I really don’t.”

He made her kneel on the floor and face the closet. Looking at the mirror, I guessed. Her nervous eyes flicked behind her and her face was a mass of conflict. He knelt behind her, put his hands over her body. Slid over her shirt, grabbed and squeezed her breasts. Then he lifted her skirt and ran his hands all over her thighs. He bit her neck and her eyes rolled.

Then he undid the first few buttons on her shirt. Her big breasts heaved, looking like they’d bust out of her black lacy push-up bra. He ripped downwards and the buttons flew off her shirt. Her breath fluttered, and she moaned as he slipped his fingers into the bra. One by one, he scooped her tits out.

He tweaked and pinched her nipple, then the other. His hand went to her throat and he bent her backwards to plant great hickies on her neck. As he did it, he looked up at the cupboard He sunk his lips to her breasts as his eyes found mine through the slats.

My breath caught as he yanked the shirt down over her shoulders. Right at the bottom it was still done up, so it was like she was tied up with it. Her neck craned towards him. She planted big, wet kisses wherever she could reach his face or his neck, but he pulled away from her each time.

I tingled all over as he pulled her skirt right up, enough that I could see her white cotton panties under her sheer black tights. Her stomach rolled. I found it hard to stay still. The tops of my thighs were hot and wet. I ached from my throbbing nub all the way to my own hard, sore nipples.

When he ripped her tights and rubbed the darkening, damp cotton of her panties, her hips writhed and snaked. Mine, too. As his fingers pressed along the center and the fabric clung to the folds of her crotch, her thighs opened and stretched apart, and I found my fingers had made their way into my own panties.

I had to bite my wrist to keep from making a noise as he pulled up the wet, white gusset and ripped it. His fingers dove into her swollen lips, hooked inside her and hammered in and out. My own fingers did exactly the same.

Her back arched, and her head lolled from side to side. She bit her lip as he pulled her thighs wider apart. She leaned back against him. I saw a spark of his wicked grin as looked up at me again and he pushed her back.

Then he hauled the front of his pants open.
 

My fingers opened my weeping folds and rubbed over my thrumming clit as he grabbed the back of her hair. His eyes flashed right into mine as he jammed his cock in her mouth. I don’t know how she didn’t hear me as my dam burst.

I bit into my arm and gushed into my hand as all of my muscles spasmed in orgasm. I couldn’t weigh then how much I wanted him and I didn’t care if it was wrong or right. I would have given anything to have taken her place, that ungrateful girl.

We had talked about it endlessly, he and I. “We can’t,” I said.

He looked very seriously into my eyes. “Not ever. Never.”

And then, one night there was the most horrible row and Roger wasn’t there the next morning, and we lost touch. Well, I lost touch with him, I guess. I don’t suppose he gave a thought to keeping in touch with me.

My stupid mother stayed Father. He had some scheme for having Roger declared illegitimate. That would have been easy enough, and he said the DNA would prove it. I got the feeling he’d had the tests done long ago. He wouldn’t take a chance on a thing like that.

In my life I never met a more penny-pinching, skinflint miserly man but if he wanted something, he had the wealth to get it. When something mattered to him, he would spend any amount.

His “duty” as he saw it meant that he couldn’t only have Roger made “A certified bastard,” as he put it, without establishing another line of inheritance. To do that would be simple enough, apparently. But it would mean granting the title of ‘Lady’ to Mother and Lord Chatterton hated the idea of that and, maybe even worse, he would have to have me, “the girl” named as the heir.

For that short time when Roger had been there with is, it was only then that I heard anything about Father’s wealth at all. Until; Roger came I thought “Lord” was just a silly title that he called himself by and it probably didn’t really mean anything.

Roger used to yell at him about how he kept the family in “poverty.” We weren’t poor by the standards that we saw around us, but Roger talked about castles, country estates and private jets. I couldn’t make much sense of it.

To me it seemed like there were two completely separate worlds. The one that we inhabited, and another one where Roger had been and maybe Father, but it was never going to be any part of my reality.

The things that Roger talked about, all the things he said, of course I believed them. I believed everything that he said. Somehow, though, I thought of them as part of a world that I would simply never see.

When Father wanted me to sign his papers, he tried to make me believe that he was giving that world to me. Not only allowing me to be there and see it, but to own it all. Completely.
 

I wanted none of it, I didn’t care about his money or his land or his stupid fairy-story titles. Deep down, I didn’t believe any of it. There was no contradiction, or at least I didn’t see one, in me believing in the world that Roger talked about, but not the one that Father said he wanted to give to me.

As soon as I possibly could, I got away. I got a place at a community college in Manhattan and a job in a bakery. In Orange, New Jersey, I shared a tiny, dark brown room with a billion roaches.

Half the time that I had for my studies was in the mornings and evenings, rattling on the train to and from Manhattan. I had to try to read or even write essays standing up and jammed between grey commuters.
 

Relationships for me were rare, brutish and short. I had a particularly horrible breakup with a boy who was more interested in my weight than I was—and not from any concern about my health.

I quickly began to suspect that his focus was much on my shape than the person inside it or anything else about me when he started to come around with big cakes. Then he wanted to watch me eat them. My sense of self-worth was not at the highest then so I agreed to eat a huge cream sponge and to let him watch.

I gorged on the cake. With with my hands I pulled it apart and stuffed gobs of cake and cream into my face. It felt bad. And in too good a way. The clean, overwhelming sensation of abandon seemed like the most powerful and positive thing.

Then I looked up from the mess on the paper plate and saw the fire in his eyes. I lost my appetite. In that second I got over him and resolved to take better care of myself. That resolution came more often than New Years.

Father called and harassed me for a signature on something. I never even fully understood what it was and I didn’t care. He said it was the most important thing for me and I’d just be poor forever if I didn’t sign and God knows what else. I hung up on him, but for the next month I felt really low.
 

It may have been longer. It could be that I just got used to feeling that way. Those days I was exhausted and miserable as well as being about to flunk college.

Even after all the work, all the damned double shifts and all the
 
damned, hard-earned money that I’d sunk into it, I was going to flunk out. My professor told me, “You need to get some proper sleep. You aren’t putting enough effort into your work.”

Well, duh! I was putting in more than enough effort, it’s just that most of it had to go on working to pay for my classes, my books, and my rent. Even though I lived way out in my tiny, toxic room in an Orange, NJ brownstone that should have been condemned in the 1900s, I still had hardly enough money to feed myself.

When Professor Harding called me into his office for a “serious talk,” I started to believe that somebody actually cared about my welfare. Especially when he encouraged me to rest on the couch in his study. Right up until I woke up with the smell of his penis, bouncing in his hand a few inches from my face.

That sunny afternoon I walked around Manhattan dejected. I felt lost in the familiar surrounding, out of place on the streets that I knew. I passed hip lunchtime shoppers in Union Square, meandered unseeing up Broadway and past the Flatiron in the hazy heat, I barely registered the spicy scents of lunch vendors in the amiable bustle around Madison Square Park.

Following nothing but my feet, I drifted alone through the crowds, up Madison and across to Park Avenue. Down by Grand Central, I saw a Hamptons Jitney minibus pull up. On a whim, I jumped on the little bus and took off for an afternoon at the beach.

The Jitney was full of immaculately dressed refugees from Manhattan to the Hamptons. Quiet voices with long vowels spoke the weary drawl of Long Island natives.

The long journey soothed me. As the dark, shiny Hudson slipped by below the ridge, the high canyons of the city gave way to scraggy suburbs. Along the endless roadwork delays and stop-start of the Long Island Expressway, I thought,
This must be one of the worst-named roads on the planet
.

Four passengers alighted at the Southampton stop with me. None of them wore drab jeans and dirty sneakers, or a grayish t-shirt. None of the other passengers departed without a car to meet them or an SUV parked nearby.

The route on foot from the Jitney stop to the beach came back to me like I was there yesterday. The bigger sky and a little salt in the breeze lifted my step as I crossed the dry grasses and my feet sank into the pale sand.