Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
The hardest times are when she comes home from work at ten, tired and sore. I want to scoop her up into my lap, rub her feet and make her a midnight snack, but I can't bring myself to do anything more than give her curt nods of acknowledgment because I'm afraid that if I touch her in any way, no matter how innocent, I'm not going to be able to stop.
Above all else, the thing that drives me to the very edge are her eyes. They tell me everything. They're black when she's angry and lit from within when she's joyous. There's a glint at the corner when she's feeling good about herself and about to do something that will drive me wild. And then there are the times when her eyes are big and clear and all I see in them is my reflection—as if I make up her whole world.
How in the hot hell am I supposed to turn away from all that? It's impossible.
"When's your next shift?" I ask. It's Saturday and I'm half hopeful she has to go in so that my dick can have time to deflate, but I also hate that she works at all. I'm fucked up.
"Not until tomorrow night. I'm going to cut up some strawberries and have some ice cream with them later. Do you want any?"
An image of me spreading the cold, sweet treat all over her body makes me light-headed.
"Leka? Leka? Hey, you still with me?"
Bitsy's at the table, nudging me.
"I'm good," I croak and escape to the bedroom, hoping my enormous hard-on isn't too visible.
Bitsy mutters something that sounds very close to "you coward" as I run away.
* * *
The long line of black SUVs filling the alley behind Marjory’s gives me ample warning that I’m not going to be happy with what I find inside the restaurant. Beefer’s weepy, shivering daughter crouching under the single bulb above the back door drives home the point. This is going to be a bad night.
I knew that Cesaro was bound to show up at some point, but I’d hoped, probably uselessly, that it would be during a time that Bitsy was out of town. I don’t much like the fact they’re sharing the same zip code at the moment.
I pull out my phone and shoot off a quick text.
Change of plans. Will be a long night. Don’t wait up.
She gets off her cleaning shift at two. I’ll have to send a car for her. I don’t trust cabs this late at night. Having taken care of Bitsy the best I can, I pull off my suit coat and drop it around Camella’s bare shoulders. I wish she’d start wearing more than a couple of Band-Aids. It’s winter and the girl has got to be cold. I can’t tell whether half of the stream of air flowing from Camella’s lips is condensation or smoke from her joint.
“Need a ride somewhere?” Mason should be somewhere inside. “Why don’t I call Mason to take you home. Your dad’s gonna be here for a while.”
She shakes her head with enough force to set her large hoop earrings swinging. “No.”
This is another girl who should be far away from Cesaro’s clutches. I try once more. “You want some cake from Magnolia’s?” Bitsy and I waited in line for like two hours the other day for the newest creation. The cake really wasn’t worth it, but Bit’s euphoric delight over it was.
“Don’t wanna,” she mumbles as she clutches the lapels of my jacket tight with one hand.
“Let me know.” I tuck my phone in my back pocket and enter the stockroom to find Beefer looming over our chef.
“What’s he doing here?” I demand.
The man doesn’t look up from the stove as he answers. “There’s a shipment of rocket launchers and AK47s being moved up to the north. A Korean group is funding this, and word on the street the Tongs are going to try to move on it. Big nationalist rivalry or some shit. Cesaro wants to make sure we don’t fuck this up. It could mean more money in the future. Don’t turn it over yet.” Beefer grabs Justin’s arm to prevent him from touching the smoking meat. “Cesaro likes his cow dead.”
I peek out the window and see Cesaro camped in the corner annoying the fuck out of the rest of the patrons with his loud voice and non-stop cigar smoke. The few patrons that are left are finishing quickly. Soon, the place will be empty of everyone but Cesaro and his four bodyguards. Three are new and one is Arturo’s favorite, Sterno.
The last one is a surprise to me. Since Arturo’s death, Cesaro’s wiped out most of the old guard. During the previous visits, there was a different fourth—an Eastern European with a heavy accent. Laszio or something close to that.