Blood And Roses: Fallen Part 2

She seems to realize what she's doing and the lip sucking action stops abruptly. "You lied to my parents," she says, as though she's just suddenly remembered that point. "You lied about what you do for a living, and you lied about being my f.u.c.king road trip partner. I thought you didn't do that?"

"I don't normally. I don't lie to anyone. I will certainly never lie to you, Sloane, but I will lie for you. Only you." Maybe the lip thing's caused me to lower my guard for a minute, because it almost even surprises me when I hear myself say that. Sloane opens her mouth, looking mildly stunned. Now's probably the perfect time to raise that f.u.c.king guard again, before anything else slips out. "Is there anything else, Sloane? We only have thirteen minutes left."

She makes a pssshhh sound, placing her hands against my chest, as though she's about to push me away, but I pre-empt her, leaning in with my body so that I'm pressed up tight against her. I know she can feel me. I know she can feel my c.o.c.k digging into the gap between her legs, begging to be let in. She swallows, and her fingers curl ever so slightly against my pecs. I totally have her.

"We can't do anything with thirteen minutes," she murmurs.

This is perhaps one of the greatest challenges that has ever been issued to me. I finally give in and let go of the smile I've been holding on to; it's changed now, though. Before, I was merely entertained by how unbelievable this girl is. Now, I'm going to show her how unbelievable I can be. "Oh, angry girl. I am about to make you eat those words."

"What-"

I completely ignore whatever she is about to say and lower my head so that I'm pressing my lips, teeth, tongue against the skin of her neck. She doesn't get more than that one word out. She should have been expecting this. She should have known better when she put on those f.u.c.king shorts this morning. I grab hold of her hands and I clasp them behind her back, pulling her away from the wall. She makes a gasping sound as I collect her up-she's not entirely weightless against me, which makes me incredibly f.u.c.king happy. She has curves. Nice ones that I constantly think about palming and licking and biting and doing all kinds of messed-up things to. If she were skin and bone and weighed nothing at all, then I wouldn't want her the way that I do. I drop to my knees on the floor right where I stand, and then I fall on top of her, pinning her under my body. It takes me two seconds to find my way beneath the flimsy shirt she's wearing. None of this s.h.i.t is Zeth-proof. Not even close. I can't get to her properly, so I tear the material, ripping it straight off her body. I lean back and let myself enjoy the view for a moment.

No. f.u.c.king. Bra.

Sloane's arms are out to her sides, her hands clenched into fists, but she's relaxed. She's not worried. She's not trying to fend me off, or fight her way free. She's telling me everything I need to know with her eyes; with the way her chest is rising and falling like she's just finished a hundred-meter sprint; by the way her nipples are drawn tight and are dark pink, pleading for some attention; by the way she's wriggling her pelvis underneath me, pushing upward, letting me know what she wants.

"How long?" she pants.

"Eleven minutes."

"Oh, G.o.d." She grabs hold of my hand, pulling it toward her mouth. Her pink tongue parts her lips, and she licks the tip of my index finger. As if that's not enough to set my head roaring, she then gently bites down with her perfect teeth, sending what feels like an electric shock darting around my body.

"f.u.c.k, no," I tell her, pulling back my hand. "We don't have time for that."

She looks pained, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s heaving as her breathing quickens. "Then what do we have time for?"

I rock back onto my heels, reaching for my bag. I have something for her. I have something for her that I think she's going to like. I hear her groan when she sees what I'm doing-she has mixed feelings about this bag, I know. But I also know that her excitement levels just shot through the roof, because she's grabbed hold of the weft of her bedroom carpet with both hands and she's squeezing so tight her hands have turned white.

"Patience, angry girl. Patience." Yeah, right. f.u.c.k patience. I tear open the zip on the bag, and I find what I'm after almost immediately. It's a small, oval-shaped device, a new addition to my bag of tricks. I've never used anything like it before, but I know what it's going to do to her. I put it down while I grab hold of her by the ankle, pulling her along the carpet toward me.

"What the h.e.l.l is that?" she asks. "I'm not doing-"

"I'm not interested in that. I'm interested in you closing your eyes. I'm interested in you letting yourself go."

She stops talking, staring up at me, while I open her fly and rip her shorts roughly over her thighs. f.u.c.k. Sloane in her panties-motherf.u.c.king black lace-and nothing else is a h.e.l.l of a sight. Her cheeks are flushed, and her lips are swollen and red, and I know she's been biting them again. I want to bite them, too. I want... I want to... No. I shake that thought out of my head, crushing it down with a colossal force. Not f.u.c.king right now. Now I have other things to attend to. "Open your legs for me, Sloane."

I run my hands down the insides of her thighs, enjoying the sheer silk-soft feeling of her skin underneath my fingertips. She does as I ask her to, hitching up her knees and then letting them fall to either side, exposing herself to me. No more comments. No more objections. No more talking whatsoever. The only sound is our ragged breathing as I carefully stroke my fingers over her p.u.s.s.y. A violent spike of adrenaline rocks through me when I feel how wet her panties are.

I've never been one to get worked up over girls ruining their underwear, but with Sloane it's different. It's been different since the beginning, when I f.u.c.ked her back at the apartment. I claimed her underwear then, and I'll be claiming this pair, too. I tease the slinky garment off her hips, and then I descend on her body like an unstoppable force. I am an unstoppable force. Not even I can stop myself now. I climb up, resting on one elbow, and then I trace my tongue across her chest, feeling the heavy weight of her breast in my hand. I work my tongue over her nipple, licking and sucking; my d.i.c.k throbs painfully when she inhales in a sharp breath and her hands reach up and bury themselves in my hair.

It feels so f.u.c.king good to have her pull me to her, but I can't allow that right now. If she does that, I'll be tearing my clothes off and sinking myself b.a.l.l.s-deep inside her, and that would blow my remaining seven-minute deadline right out of the water. The last thing we right now is Lacey standing in the doorway, complaining about me taking too long. I sit back, grabbing hold of both of Sloane's wrists.

"No touching," I growl. A look of shock draws her expression a little flat, and I realize that she's taken my command entirely the wrong way. She thinks I don't want her hands on me. f.u.c.k. This is the problem, right here. This is the problem with caring what the other person is thinking. Things were a h.e.l.l of a lot easier when I didn't give two f.u.c.ks.

Six minutes.

I grab hold of my new little toy, and then I bend myself down, letting my eyes travel up the length of Sloane's body. Some guys don't eat p.u.s.s.y. But then again, some guys aren't really f.u.c.king good at it like I am. It's the best way of getting a girl off-the most enjoyable way I've found. And making Sloane come with my tongue is perhaps the most amazing rush I've ever felt. Period.

I start off slow. She's so wet now, and she tastes f.u.c.king incredible. I groan, trailing my tongue over her p.u.s.s.y, around her c.l.i.t, circling and flicking the tip over her so that she starts to tremble. She's already good and ready, but I give her a minute to settle in before I press the narrowest end of the vibrator against her p.u.s.s.y. This isn't your average vibrator, though. It's a tens vibrator-the kind that not only vibrates but produces an electrical charge. I've got it on the lowest setting to start with, but it won't be staying there for long.

Sloane rocks her hips against my mouth, moaning under her breath, and I slide the thing inside her, slowly, waiting for her to tense. She does stiffen slightly, but then a low groan emanates from the back of her throat and her body arches toward the ceiling-yeah that's what I thought.

I want to f.u.c.k this girl so bad. I want to tie her up and tear into her so f.u.c.king hard that she can't walk straight for a week, but it's just not on the cards. More's the pity. I can't carry on without something, though. Something to quench this fire raging inside me. There's only one thing that can immediately do that.

I'm quick when I find the knife in the duffel. It's out and the business end is gripped in my fist before Sloane has chance to check out what I'm doing. Her head kicks back straight away when I start flicking my tongue over her c.l.i.t again. Her breath starts to come in stuttering gasps now. I want to taste her. I want to taste her as she comes all over my tongue, and I want it now. I put down the knife long enough to crank the setting on the tens vibrator, turning it up to the next level. Sloane's legs kick out straight, and she lets out a startled cry. "You got this," I growl. "You can take it."

And she can. She does. My b.a.l.l.s are drawn up and tight next to my body, furiously demanding that I do something to release the tension I'm almost crushed under right now, but I put that out of my mind. This is her. This is just for her.

"Come for me, angry girl," I tell her. "Do it for me. Now. Don't make me f.u.c.king wait."

As soon as the words have left my mouth, she's obliging my request. I get what I want, and at the same time I tighten my fist around the blade of the knife, feeling something as powerful and intense right along side her.

And then Sloane does something that makes the feeling transform into something else entirely. She screams as she comes, but she doesn't scream for G.o.d, or f.u.c.k like most people might. She doesn't scream that.

She screams my f.u.c.king name.

I let go of the knife and hiss a little at the release of pressure. The cut in the center of my palm's pretty deep, but I'm not gonna hang around to investigate it right now. We're down to our last minute before Lacey starts leaning on the car horn. Plus, I don't know why but Sloane calling out for me has made me want to completely forget the timeframe I gave Lacey and stay here with Sloane all f.u.c.king night. Make her call out for me again.

I get to my feet and Sloane remains on the floor, naked, in a tangle of arms and legs. She looks like she can barely move. Her eyes seem glazed, as though she can barely see. I feel an immense surge of pride. Yeah. I make that puddle of a human being. I place the vibrator back in the bag, along with Sloane's panties-I said I was going to keep them-and she raises an eyebrow at me. She doesn't object, though.

"You'd better hurry," she says, her eyes focusing on me. I love that she doesn't cover herself up from me; I love that we're past that.

"Don't worry. I'm gone," I growl. I clench my fist into a ball, letting the pain rattle through my nerve endings. Enjoying it. I feel like telling her I'll see her later, but Sloane doesn't know she'll be calling tonight and asking me to get her, so I don't say that. Instead, I say, "Where'd you learned to clear a building like that?"

She laughs, closing her eyes. "Where d'you think? Call of Duty."

Ha! This girl is one of a kind. I let out a sharp laugh, and then I turn and I go. My hard-on is causing me some serious f.u.c.king grief as I walk away from Sloane's naked, perfect f.u.c.king body. It's killing me, but when you're out of time, you're out of time. Besides, being denied the opportunity to sink your d.i.c.k into a girl like Sloane can only make the waiting sweeter. She's a girl worth waiting for. I mean, come on. Call of f.u.c.king Duty? I don't know a single girl on the face of the planet who plays CoD. That last little tidbit has me entertained right up until I get outside the house and I see that Lacey is pulling a sour face at me out of her window.

"You're nineteen seconds late," she informs me, as I get in the car. Despite the front seat now being vacant, Lacey's remained in the back as always. "You've never been late."

"I've been late plenty of times, Lace." I turn the engine over, pulling in a sharp breath when I forget all about my hand, which is bleeding copiously everywhere, and I try to grip onto the steering wheel. Looks like I'll be one-handing it back to the warehouse.

I know Lacey notices that I'm bleeding; she notices everything, but she doesn't say anything. Not until she comes out with this little gem.

"You are so in love with that girl."

I glance at her in the rearview, intending on sending her the most hateful look ever concocted by a man, but instead I catch sight of Sloane's house disappearing into the trees behind us. My stomach twists a little as it vanishes from sight.

"I don't love her," I say. "I don't love anyone."

Lacey makes a soft sound of laughter over my shoulder. "Of course you do. You love me. And now you love Sloane, too." She sighs softly, finishing her outrageous statement with a few distracted words that make my head spin. "You see, once you open up your heart to one person, Zeth...it's so much easier for others to slip in unnoticed, too."

There's a note taped to the warehouse entrance when we get home.

The prodigal son returneth. Come by whenever you're ready. We'll kill the fatted calf.

C.

I have no idea how Charlie knows I'm back already, but I knew I wouldn't be able to hide it. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d never showed an interest in where I was living once I moved out of his place twelve years ago, but if he's been f.u.c.king spying on me then it's reasonable to a.s.sume he's known about the warehouse for a long time. Years, I'm sure. I rip the note from the door and go inside, fuming.

Come by whenever you're ready. Yeah, right. That's clearly an invitation. Charlie letting me know he's ready and waiting for me. Well, guess what, a.s.shole? You won't be ready for what I'm f.u.c.king bringing.

I throw down my duffel and the bag I've brought in for Lace, and then I start stalking around the warehouse, calculating. I don't realize the note is still screwed up in my hand until Lacey takes it from me. She carries it to the sofa, where she wraps herself up in her favorite blanket, and then she reads it.

"Do you know about the prodigal son?" she asks.

"Yes." I keep stomping. f.u.c.king prodigal son. Charlie thinks he's so f.u.c.king smart, quoting bible references at me. He knows it's a reference I'll easily understand, too. The d.u.c.h.ess, his partner, always was quietly strong in her faith. Catholic. She read from the bible to me every night when I first went to live with them as a snot-nosed kid. She did it for years, regardless of whether I wanted her to or not.

"Charlie thinks you've taken something from him." Lacey tells me. "Something that requires forgiveness."

"What?"

She nods her head, golden curls bobbing around her face. "Yep. Sloane's father explained it to me on the drive back from church camp. The prodigal son-he demanded his inheritance from his father before he was even dead. That was really rude, even back then. He took a third of everything his father had, and his father gave it willingly. The son went away and wasted everything his father had given him, and eventually he found himself starving and alone. He decided to go back home and to beg that his father allow him to be one of his servants. For his father to take pity on him. Instead of his dad being mad at him, he forgave his son and welcomed him home. There was a huge celebration and the prodigal son was given all these fancy clothes to wear. He was reinstated back to his original position as a son of the household." Lacey carefully folds the piece of paper, blotting out Charlie's handwritten scrawl. She looks up at me. "Charlie thinks you've asked for too much, and now he's letting you know...if you come home and say you're sorry, all will be forgotten."

I just stare blankly at Lacey. When the h.e.l.l did she get so G.o.dd.a.m.n smart? I wouldn't have expected her to read that much into the note, even though it's exactly what Charlie intended his brief message to convey. That parable is a metaphor for G.o.d's unceasing forgiveness of the repentant soul. Only Charlie would be vain enough to cast himself as the character of the father in this story. a.s.shole. And there's no way I'll be given any fancy f.u.c.king clothes to wear if I go back to Charlie's place when he's expecting me. I have my throat cut for me and make no mistake.

"Are you a member of Pastor Romera's flock now?" I ask, returning to my pacing.

Lacey slumps back into the sofa, rolling her eyes. "He's a nice man."

"He didn't care that we'd found his daughter." A fact that still strikes me as extremely f.u.c.king suspicious. I didn't say anything to Sloane, but that s.h.i.t was cold.

Lacey shrugs, picking up the TV remote. "I think he cared. He just couldn't show it."

Eleven f.u.c.king thirty. Eleven thirty at night, and Sloane still hasn't text for a pick up. The girl either has stones of steel, or she's prouder than anyone I've ever met on the face of the planet. Knowing her, I'm plumping for the stones of steel option-she was ridiculously, stupidly brave back at Julio's-but that doesn't stop me from pacing the warehouse, picking up random bits of Lacey's c.r.a.p and putting them back down in pretty much the same place a few minutes later.

"Are you supposed to be tidying?" Lacey asks. She's still perched in front of the TV, tapping her fingertips against her knees-index finger, middle finger, ring finger, pinkie. Pinkie, ring finger, middle finger, index finger. Wash and repeat. It's one of her things. This is the first time I've seen it in a while, though. The coping mechanism is an absentminded thing she does when she's already relatively calm. The coping mechanisms she had in rotation before I fled to California were the more drastic ones she employs when she isn't relatively calm at all-the ones that involve pills and razor blades.

"I can't help it if your s.h.i.t is everywhere," I growl. It really is; Lacey's not the tidiest person I've ever met, but right now the warehouse looks like a bomb's just gone off inside it. That has a lot to do with the fact that she trashed it when she slit her wrists a couple of weeks back and I haven't been here to let a cleaning crew in. Letting strangers into my home is not a wise idea with Charlie on the rampage. I wouldn't be surprised if that f.u.c.ker's already been in here, tossing the place, looking for a hint as to where I vanished for a week. Hard to know for sure with all the junk everywhere.

"You should wear an ap.r.o.n. Would suit you," Lacey says, still tap, tap, tapping. She flicks over the channel as I gather up a huge pile of her clothes and dump them right on top of her where she sits on the couch. Right over her head. "Hey!"

"You have a bedroom, Lacey. And a wardrobe. And a bunch of other furniture used to house clothing. Use it. Use them. Don't use the f.u.c.king floor."

I'm in a foul mood. First Charlie's pointed little dig, and now this. She should have text by now. She should have called me, even, begging for me to go collect her. So I can keep her safe. And yet the stubborn woman hasn't made a squeak. Lacey burrows out of her clothes, throwing a pair of paint-stained jeans at me.

"I'll tidy up my s.h.i.t, Zeth, when you tidy up yours!"

I don't know what the h.e.l.l she's talking about now; I lived like a G.o.dd.a.m.n monk before she showed up. Didn't even own the TV. I had enough furnishings to make sure I had somewhere to keep my stash of aged whiskey and I had somewhere to sit and drink it, and that was about it. Suited me just fine. I indulge Lacey, though.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," she says, wrestling her way off the couch, s.n.a.t.c.hing up her stuff as she goes. "That you should just quit pacing around this place and go and f.u.c.king get her! And after that, you should get an early night and not keep me awake with all your freaky s.e.x noise. I have an appointment in the morning and you"-she stabs me in the chest with her index finger- "need to drive me."

"What kind of appointment?" I already know what kind of appointment. I know exactly what kind-the only kind Lacey has ever had in the six months she's been squatting like a vagrant in my living s.p.a.ce. The kind that involves that Newan b.i.t.c.h.

"Don't play dumb, buster," Lace growls. She's hilarious when she tries to act tough, but I approve of the attempt. It's way better than when she locks herself in her room and stays so quiet that I think she might actually, really be dead. "It's at ten am. I already got Sloane to make an appointment."

"How? When did you speak to her?" I ask the questions way too quickly, like some f.u.c.king school kid quizzing his friends about his f.u.c.king crush. I need to get a grip. "You didn't mention anything to her in the car."

Lacey reaches into her pocket and pulls out her cell phone. She raps me with it right between the eyes. I think about killing her. "I used this. She's pretty good at responding. But first you actually need to text her first. You can use mine if yours is broken." She slaps the phone into my hand and then hustles down the hallway toward her room, kicking along the errant clothes that escape her pile as she goes.

"Hey, man, what's up?"

"Just calling to let you know I found Rick."

I haven't called Sloane. I've pounded the s.h.i.t out of my heavy bag, swearing with each and every hit, using the extra anger to smash my fist into the worn fabric just that little bit harder. It's one a.m. when Michael calls.

"Yeah?" I wipe sweat from my face, stopping it from running into my eyes. "Where was he? What did he have to say for himself?"

"He was in three pieces in a dumpster a block away from Disneyland. And he wasn't really in a talkative mood."

I take one final, furious swipe at the heavy bag. The impact jars all the way up my arm, ringing bells inside my head. "f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k."

"Yeah, boss. It was pretty bad. And when I say bad, I'm talking internal organs."

s.h.i.t. Yeah, so I didn't really like Rick, but I put him in Anaheim. I told him to wait there for me. And it was my stupid admission to Julio that sent his boys down there to investigate. I might as well have just shot him in the head back on the docks when he met with those bikers. Would have been a far more pleasant demise by the sounds of things.

"Where are you now?" I ask Michael.

"Already back at the other place. I'm just doing some...housekeeping."

The other place. My crazy s.e.x pad, as Sloane calls it. She's the last girl I f.u.c.ked inside those four walls; no further gatherings will ever be hosted there. It's just a ridiculous suck on my funds now that it doesn't serve a purpose. I should sell it.

"Okay, when you're done there, do me a favor and slip by the girl's place. Make sure everything's quiet over there?"

"Sure thing."

"Let me know as soon as you've got eyes on the building." I end the call, and I quit on the heavy bag. I start on the chin-ups instead. I'm bench-pressing when Michael calls back an hour later.

"Got eyes, boss."

Weirdly it feels like a weight's been lifted from me as soon as he tells me this. That weightless, light feeling lasts all of five seconds, though. Michael continues. "I've got eyes on the place and it's totally empty. She's not here. The place is sealed up tight. No lights. No car. No Sloane."

No lights. No car. No Sloane.

Each one of those statements feels like a huge hit to the stomach. "Well, where the f.u.c.k is she then?"

Michael makes a brief, strangled sound on the other end of the phone. For all of the world, it sounds as if the motherf.u.c.ker just laughed. "There was a note under a rock on the front doorstep, boss. It's not addressed to anyone, but I'm pretty sure it's for you."

"Tell me," I grind out.

Another strangled coughing sound on the other end of the line. "It says, serve you right if I were dead, a.s.shole."