Chapter 2
Oh, fuck. I’m a bad, bad man, but I can’t help myself. After a hard workout, my manhood gets hard, as if in response. All the rage and passion surges through me. Now, I stand in the waterfall shower, the hot water slapping against my body, running down my muscles.
I’ve got my dick in my hand, stroking, wishing this was happening for real. I shouldn’t let myself think like this, not about a woman who’s less than half my age—a woman who needs no part in my life. I haven’t even seen her in over two years. She was nineteen the last time I saw her, standing at the doorway of their shitbox home, my curvy woman with those thick legs on display in her PJ shorts.
She had that cute-as-fucksmile on her face. Cautious but tough, like she could handle anything I could give her. In my fantasy, I walk down the path, bring my hands to her breasts, push them together, and feel she’s not wearing a bra. I tear down her top and feast on her perfect, full nipples, grinding my hand up her thigh at the same time.
I’m rubbing her pussy, and she’s already wet for me. I grab her hips and turn her around. I’m getting close, going far quicker than I would in real life. I’d want—need—to make her cream first. My blood is hot. My body is burning. Precome leaks out of my tip like it’s fire.
In the fantasy, she turns, showing me her thick, round, naked ass. She’s got that tough smile on her face.“Fuck me hard. Make me pregnant.”
Then, I’m doing it, the thrusts in my imagination timed with my hand stroking quickly up and down my cock, slick with shower water. I groan as I lean over, wrap my arms around her, and try to hold her at the end. But as my seed wastefully splatters on the shower floor, she disappears.
I open my eyes. I’m a bad, bad man. I promised myself I’d stop masturbating over her, a nineteen-year-old woman. Well, twenty-one now, but not the last time I saw her. I’m thirty-nine. I’ve never been much of a math whizz, but that makes me eighteen years older than her. I could’ve had a child who was older than she is now.
Quickly washing myself, I bury the feeling or try to.
“My life is simple,” I tell Lion, my Great Dane, who sits very dignified on the corner of the living room couch, watching TV. I sit beside him and stroke his head, putting my feet on the footrest and watching the game or trying to. My hair’s still wet from the shower, drawing my mind to what I did. What Istillwant to do. “I do some good, don’t I? Enough good for a bad man?”
Lion yawns. He doesn’t like it when I talk like this, but I can’t talk to anybody else about it. My circle is small. My social life is nonexistent. I’ve got people I can call if I need them, and they know I’m always here, but I don’t talk much. I do my work quietly.
I tilt my head when I hear it—buzzing from deeper in the apartment. I stand, my senses flaring momentarily, but this place is locked down to all hell. If I ever needed to keep somebody here, it’d take a tank to get in or out. Luckily, that’s never been the case.
My cell phone is on charge, vibrating against the glass end table in my bedroom. Lion must’ve thought something bad was going to happen. He looms at the door, his ears flopping down almost aggressively, his tail perked.
It’s a number I don’t recognize. I let it go to voicemail, then read the text that the same number sent to me.
It’s Amelia. I’m not sure you remember me.
I almost laugh at the absurdity of the statement. I remember that tight ponytail in her
hair and the spark in her eyes. She’s ready to start her adventure with me and our family. She’s ready to give herself to me.
My mom’s in trouble. I need to ask you a few questions. Please answer.
As soon as I finish reading her text, the phone vibrates again. I sigh and sit on the edge of the bed, wondering what new mess this is. Who has Simone gotten involved with?
I answer the call, making myself cold as I do before violence. Or a job. Or both.
“Amelia,” I say, failing right away. My voice gets too husky. My throat is tight. I wish she were sitting on my lap, my hand resting on her leg. Or her chest, so I could feel her heartbeat. Then I’d lean in and taste her lips.
“M-Michael?” she says, with a cute stutter. “I need to know something.”
“Explain what’s happening.”
“No, I just… I don’t know if I can.”
“Can what? Trust me?”
She swallows. I imagine her twisting the phone cord around her hand, even if she’s using a cell. Maybe she’s biting her lip. Then I see me approaching her, wrapping my arms around her, holding her tight so she doesn’t have to be afraid.
“Did you give Mom the money to buy this place?” she says, her voice firmer now.
“Yes or no?”
I grit my teeth, goddamnit. “Explain what happened.”
“No, I—”
I don’t raise my voice, but my tone gets cold. Truly cold. It’s how I speak to drug lords and dons and supposed kingpins. “Explain. What. Happened.”