Chapter Fifteen
The stench of bleach makes my nose twitch, thick in the air, burning my lungs as I inhale the odor. Ugh. The living room has been thoroughly scrubbed, faster than I thought humanly possible.
It’s clear, as I watch from the doorway, that this isn’t the first time this has happened. They seem more on top of things than the professional Crime Scene Clean-Up crews in the city, and those guys have plenty of experience.
Lorenzo stands just two feet or so in front of me, so close that I could touch him if I wanted. His plain white long sleeved shirt is all jacked up in the back from the gun he shoved behind him, right in his waistband. Freshly reloaded, I’m guessing. The silencer is no longer attached, fisted in his hand, as he stands there, staring at his black leather couch.
He’s trusting. Or maybe just reckless. I could snatch the gun from his pants and shoot him in the back of the head before he even knew it was happening. I’m not going to, of course. I’m just making a point.
I could.
If I wanted.
But I don’t.
“We could throw a blanket over it,” one of the guys says, breaking the silence. I don’t know his name. Hell, I don’t know his number. He’s just... one of them. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark features, dark voice. Everything about him is dark, down to his all black clothes.
They’re all wearing black, I realize, as I glance around the packed living room, except for Lorenzo, who dresses more like some hoodlum/model hybrid. It’s weird, right?
I don’t know.
I’m still not even sure what I’m doing here.
“A blanket,” Lorenzo says, not sounding convinced.
“Yeah, you know, or one of them covers,” the guy says. “The ones they put on couches. What are they called? Uh...”
“Couch covers,” Lorenzo says.
“That’s it!” The guy snaps his finger, pointing at Lorenzo, looking damn proud like that was some big revelation. “A couch cover!”
“That could work,” someone says—the oddball of the group, the lone blond guy in a room full of mostly Italians. “My granny has one of those on her couch, hiding this big ass wine stain. It’s ugly, you know, but it could do the trick.”
Lorenzo turns his head, regarding the blond, his expression as flat as his voice as he says, “You gonna go rob your granny of her couch cover?”
He shrugs. “Well, yeah, if you need it, sure.”
Lorenzo stares at him for a moment before turning back to the couch. I shift to the side a bit, peeking around him. There’s a bullet hole in the back of it, where the guy had been sitting. It’s not that bad, but it’s noticeable, which I guess is a problem.
“Just get rid of it,” Lorenzo says, waving toward it. “I’ll get a new one.”
The guys jump into action, teaming up and grabbing the couch, picking it up to move it.
They barely get it away from the wall when Lorenzo yells, raising his voice, damn near growling. “Put it back!”
The men are confused. You can see it in their faces as they cast him concerned looks, but I know what the issue is. Behind it, a hole is blown into the wall, a hell of a lot bigger than the one on the couch. Which, again, I’m guessing is problem.
They drop it back into place, stepping away, giving the couch a wide berth like it might attack them.
“Find some fucking duct tape or something,” Lorenzo says, turning, storming past me. “Fucking incompetence.”
He makes his way back to the library, the door slamming so hard I flinch.
The men stream out of the room, moving past me, all of them except for Seven, who stands near the window in silence. It doesn’t take half a dozen guys to find duct tape, but I’m guessing none of them want to be the one who ignore an order.
I head to the library to check on Lorenzo, my hand grasping the knob when Seven’s voice calls out, “Don’t do it.”
I stall, glancing back, seeing he followed me out, his expression serious.
“If the door opens, he’s liable to shoot,” he says. “He probably won’t even look to see who it is.”
I slowly pull my hand away from the knob, casting the door a sidelong look, as the men filter back through the hallway, one of them carrying a roll of silver duct tape.
“Come on,” Seven says, motioning to the living room where the men congregate. “Join us.”
I hesitate before going back that way, giving the library door one more look. The guy with the darkest features layers duct tape over the hole before dropping the roll onto the coffee table in front of him. They all go back to hanging out, like nothing had happened, barely missing a beat as they pick up liquor bottles, someone rolling a blunt.
I don’t know what they did with the body.
Someone took him out the back door before returning, empty-handed.
“Scarlet, right?” Seven asks, lingering by the door.
“That’s what he calls me,” I say, pausing beside him. “My name’s actually Morgan.”
Seven smiles, holding his hand out. “Pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Seven.”
I shake his hand. “Do you have a real name?”
“Bruno,” he says, “but you can just call me Seven. It makes things easier around here.”
“Seven,” I repeat. “It doesn’t bother you that he refuses to call you by your name?”
“Why, does it bother you?”
“No,” I say. “Not really.”
I’m surprised by my own answer. It’s true, it doesn’t bother me that he doesn’t call me Morgan, although the first time he called me Scarlet, it hit a nerve. Holding my arm up, I shove my hoodie sleeve up, glancing at the tattoo on my wrist. My Scarlet Letter, he calls it. If only he knew how close that was to reality...
“Is he okay?” I ask, dropping my arm again. “Lorenzo?”
“He’ll be fine,” Seven says. “He just loses his cool every now and then. When the door’s closed, leave him alone. When he feels better, he’ll come back out. His library is off limits so don’t go in without permission. If the door’s open and he’s in there, consider whether or not you really need him, because he’s just as liable to shoot you as he is to say ‘come in’.”
I blink at him. “I feel like I should be taking notes.”
“Probably ought to,” someone else says with a laugh. I glance over at the other guys. They’re all looking at me, but it was the blond that spoke. “He’s Natural Selection, live and in the flesh. If you want to make it, adapt, because it’s survival of the fittest around here. He weeds out the weak.”
Hence the missing numbers, I’m guessing, but I don’t say that. I don’t say anything.
Reintroductions are made by Seven. He calls me Morgan, giving the others the courtesy of their real names. Three, the blond guy, turns out to be Declan Jackson, while Five, the one with dark features, is named Frank Romano. The others, they all blend together, and I’m not trying to be an asshole about that, but they’re just Italian guys with Americanized names. There’s a Joey, a Johnny, something else... whatever.
There aren’t any more chairs, so I end up sitting on the coffee table, ignoring the alcohol, passing on smoking, trying to keep a clear head, but I get a contact high pretty quickly. They’re all nice, I guess… nicer than I’m used to. Time fades away as they kid around, and I laugh a bit at their antics. They’re almost like young boys, telling fart jokes.
I never hear the door reopen, but eventually, he’s just there. Frank’s telling a story, I’m barely paying attention, when he suddenly says, “Ain’t that right, boss?”
“You know it.”
Lorenzo’s voice is quiet, calling out from the doorway, looking like he might’ve been lurking awhile. His eyes are fixed on me, his expression unreadable. It’s like the man is an open book but whatever his story is just happens to be written in a different language.
One I can’t read at all.
It’s there, but what does it mean?
“Why don’t you fellas take off for the night?” he suggests, although it’s pretty clear that’s really an order, since they all immediately get to their feet, swiping the liquor bottles and carrying them along as they shuffle toward the front door. Mumbled goodbyes are cast my way from a few of them, but for the most part they just nod to Lorenzo before disappearing.
After the front door closes behind them, Lorenzo strolls my direction, stepping past me to survey the thick duct tape patch over the hole on the couch. “Which one of those jackasses…?”
“Frank,” I say, earning a peculiar look from him, his brow creasing with confusion. I roll my eyes. Of course. Does he even know their names? “Five, I guess you call him. His real name’s Frank.”
“I know his name,” Lorenzo says. “Just surprised you do.”
“If you know their names, why don’t you use them?”
“Same reason you don’t name a puppy unless you know you’re going to keep it.”
“Which is...?”
“Gotta keep them at a distance. Don’t want to get attached.”
Unbelievable. “So you dehumanize them, make them things and not people, because things are replaceable but people are one of a kind?”
“People aren’t one of a kind,” he says. “Puppies, you know, they love you, they play fetch with you, because you take care of their needs. Dogs out on the street, they kill whatever moves, whatever’s weak, whatever they’re sure they can beat, in order to survive. Affection is the only thing that keeps Lassie from going all Cujo.”
“I thought that was rabies.”
He turns to me. “I’m speaking metaphorically.”
“Yeah, well, you’re doing a shit job of it.”
Laughing, he steps over to me, cupping my chin and tilting my face up, his thumb gently stroking my cheek. “They’re wild animals, Scarlet. I see to their needs and they stay loyal because of it. But sometimes, you know, something goes wrong, so you don’t let yourself get attached, in case you have to put one of them down. You get me?”
Yeah, I get him.
I get him more than he could ever understand.
We’re just on different ends of the spectrum, him and I, both waiting for it all to fall apart, except he’ll kill someone when it happens to him, whereas I’m terrified of being the one to die. He’s braced and ready, locked and loaded, and I’m just free falling, dodging the crumbling pieces of my life as they rain down on me like meteorites.
“They respect you. I don’t think they’d ever turn on you.”
“Betrayal comes in many forms,” he says. “Sometimes it’s unintentional. Even the best-trained dog might snap at your hand if you try to take his food away. What do you do then?”
“Give him his food back.”
“Or... snap his neck.”
I shake my head. “You’re insane.”
“So you keep saying.”
He leans down, and I’ve got about a three second warning, long enough to inhale sharply, before he kisses me. His lips are the softest things about him, warm and gentle, like a slice of heaven wrapped in hell, so worth battling the flames to feel his fire.
My eyes close, and I kiss him back, grasping his forearm, like maybe touching him will keep me grounded. Touching him will keep me in the moment, will keep me from floating far, far away. My brain, it likes to disconnect, to send signals through my body to abort thinking, feeling, being, to just dissolve into nothing and reshape again when it’s over, because you can’t break what’s not solid, but I don’t want to fade away with him. He ignites something inside of me, stirring up these little sparks in my gut that send jolts through my body, like a defibrillator to the heart.
It’s terrifying, but fuck, to feel alive again...
It’s nice.
Lorenzo pulls away abruptly, breaking the kiss, his voice low and rough, like sandpaper, as he says, “You’re doing it again.”
I open my eyes, regarding him as he steps back, my hands leaving his skin. “Doing what?”
“Switching off.”
I scoff. “Was not.”
Was I?
“What were you thinking about?” he asks.
“About not switching off.”
“Is that hard for you?”
“Harder than it probably should be.”
He laughs lightly, stepping further away, and nods out of the room. “Come with me.”
“Where to?”
“Upstairs.”
“What’s upstairs?”
“Salvation.”
Salvation.
Never has a word ever sounded so beautiful.
Standing up, I follow him, trailing him up the staircase onto the darkened second floor of the house. We walk past rooms to a door in the very back, and Lorenzo pushes it open, stepping aside, motioning for me to go in.
A bedroom. It’s probably the size of my entire apartment back in the city, but there’s very little inside of it, just the basics. The bed, though—the bed is monstrous, so massive he could throw orgies in it and never encounter another pair of testicles.
Okay, I’m exaggerating. It’s not that big. But still, half a dozen people could sleep comfortably.
Lorenzo steps into the room behind me. He doesn’t turn on a light. It’s dark and takes my eyes a moment to adjust as I glance around, my gaze settling on a pair of shoes sitting on top of a dresser.
My shoes, I realize. The red Louboutins I discarded in the street when I ran from him.
“Figured you’d want them back,” he says, seeing me looking. “Heard they were expensive.”
“You don’t even know,” I mumble. I paid a lot for those damn shoes, more than a person should ever pay, but it didn’t cost me money.
Lorenzo steps behind me, grabbing my hoodie to take it off. I raise my hands up, letting him pull it over my head, my heart racing as he tosses it onto the dresser, on top of the red heels, covering them.
He sweeps my hair aside, pushing it over my shoulder, and I shiver when I feel his breath against the back of my neck, his lips brushing against my skin.
“Tell me a story,” he says.
“What?”
“A story,” he says again. “Doesn’t even have to be your story. Hell, tell me your favorite fairy tale.”
“I, uh...”
I don’t know what to say. His arms wrap around me, his hands going straight to my breasts, yanking my black tank top down and shoving my plain white bra up, palming bare skin. His teeth graze the side of my neck as he kisses his way down to my shoulder blade.
“Go on,” he says. “I’m waiting.”
“There was a princess named Nella,” I say quietly. “She had a love affair with a prince, but they kept it a secret.”
“Why?”
Why?
Why? Why? Why?
Why is he asking me this, why am I telling him a story, when his hands are all over me, touching, caressing, his fingers tweaking my nipples, sending shockwaves down my spine?
“Because Nella had two older sisters who were jealous of her and would ruin it if they found out.”
His right hand drifts, running the length of my torso before slipping beneath the waistband of my sweatpants, no hesitation. He rubs me through the fabric of my plain white cotton underwear, fingertips roughly stroking my clit. Holy fuck. This man and those hands... he doesn’t play fair. At all. He presses buttons he’s got no business pressing.
“So what happened?” he asks, pushing against me, pressing into me. He’s hard, so damn hard... I can feel his cock against the small of my back. He practically manhandles me, shoving me toward the oversized bed, hand still down my pants, not missing a beat.
His fingers move the cotton aside, and I gasp when he touches me without the fabric barrier. It takes me a moment to find my voice again, to come up with words, as he forces my legs apart further.
“They made an underground glass tunnel leading from the prince’s castle straight to the princess’s bedroom so they, uh...”
I lose my words again when he drags me onto the bed, laying me down in the center of it. My heart races, thumping furiously as he hovers over me, cocking an eyebrow, staring down. “So they could fuck?”
“Basically.”
My voice sounds smaller than I want it to. I sound meek. Ugh. That’s not me. He’s still staring at me, but I think he hears my timid tone, too, because his expression shifts. “You’re not nervous, are you?”
“Nope.”
I answer way too fast, way too loud.
He smirks. He knows I’m lying.
“Tsk, tsk,” he says, his voice low, rough. “What did I say I did to people who lied to me?”
“You kill them,” I whisper.
“You’re goddamn right,” he says, gaze moving from my face, down to my chest before trailing even lower. “And what I’m about to do to you, Scarlet? If it doesn’t kill you...”
He trails off with a laugh.
I’m not sure if I like the sound of that.
My body, though, is most definitely a fan, every syllable he speaks bringing it more to life, like being roused from a deep, dark sleeping curse. That which does not kill me isn’t trying hard enough. He said that the first night we met.
Lorenzo strips me, tugging my pants down, taking the underwear with it, yanking the shoes from my feet and tossing them to the floor, the clothes following.
“So they built some magical tunnel to sneak around and fuck,” he says, kissing down my stomach, his tongue swirling around my belly button, dipping inside of it. I squirm, shivering at the sensation, and unconsciously reach for him, but he grabs my wrists, stopping me, his gaze returning to my face, his expression dead serious. “I’m about to fuck you with my mouth like you’ve never been fucked before, and you’re going to keep telling me that story. You got me?”
“I, uh…” Wow. “Okay.”
“You stop, I stop,” he says, his gaze flickering down, right between my legs. “And I’m not going to want to stop, so you better not make me.”
I’m not sure how this is going to work, my nerves through the roof. He’s right—it might kill me. Because yeah, I’ve slept around… I’ve been passed around, like a piece of meat… but men that go down for the fun of it are unicorns.
At least, among men in the business of sleeping with women like me.
Gripping my wrists, he pins them flat against the bed as he settles between my thighs. I look down at him, watching in the darkness, chest aching, heart racing, and adrenaline rushing through my veins, fueled by anticipation. He’s just a breath away. He’s right there. His eyes flicker up, a warning in them.
Oh, shit, right, I’m supposed to be talking.
“They made this glass tunnel so they could sneak off together,” I repeat, stalling again, gasping, the moment his mouth is on me. He starts slow, running light circles around my clit with his tongue, but it’s enough to make me arch my back and squirm.
Wait, ugh, how does this story go?
“Every night, the prince would go see her, just run there, buck fucking naked, slip into her room and they’d, uh… fuck.” I throw my head back, the curse damn near catching in my throat, when his lips encircle my clit and he sucks on it, sending pleasure through me. “Fuck, every night... he runs over there. But the sisters, they find out, and they decide, you know, they can’t have that. They can’t let them... fuck.”
It’s torture, what he’s doing. I can’t see. I don’t know. But his mouth is fully on me now, tongue doing whatever it does, flicking and licking, sucking and fucking, completely devouring me, like he’s starving. I try to yank my arms from his grasp, but he isn’t budging, his grip damn tight. I want to grab him by the hair and pull him closer, desperate for more friction, but I think I’m just as likely to punch him if he frees me, because Jesus Christ, what is he doing to me?
“The prince, he doesn’t know,” I say breathlessly. “That night, he runs through the tunnel, no clothes on. The glass is smashed, he’s cut up, blah blah blah, uhhh... he, uh... Christ, that feels good.”
Lorenzo laughs. The asshole laughs. His mouth is on my pussy, my clit pulsating from the feeling, the sensation damn near shoving me over the edge, an orgasm building, because he’s laughing.
Yeah, I’d punch him.
“He’s cut up, bleeding out... I don’t know... dying. It’s killing him... fuck, it’s killing me...” I swallow thickly, squeezing my eyes shut. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t stop, but I know he will if I don’t pull myself together. Asshole.
“The glass is magic. His cuts won’t heal. He’s still dying, so the King, oh god…” I shift my hips, my toes curling when he hits a spot that sends shockwaves rippling through me, my thighs trembling. Oh god… oh god… oh god. “The King promises whoever heals the Prince can marry him.”
Lorenzo releases my wrists, and I’m grateful for a brief moment, instantly running my hands through his thick, dark hair. He pushes a finger inside of me, maybe two, I don’t know, fucking me with them before abruptly pulling his mouth away. His gaze finds mine when I open my eyes, and I almost panic (did I pause too long?) before he speaks. “What if it’s a guy?”
He curves his fingers, hitting that sweet spot deep inside. The unicorn found the fucking Holy Grail.
Didn’t even need a map.
He navigated right there.
It feels so good I can’t make sense of anything else. It takes me a moment to remember he even spoke. “Uh, what?”
“What if a guy heals him?”
“I, uh… he marries him?” Did he really stop for that? “Are you seriously asking questions?”
He shrugs. “I’m curious.”
“It can’t wait?”
He smirks. “I like watching you squirm.”
His mouth is back on me after that, but I’ve lost my train of thought, because now that he’s added fingers to the mix, well, I really am going to die.
The pressure is building, and I’m panting, spewing out words.
I don’t know if they make sense.
“Nella, she goes to tell him goodbye, gonna die, no cure, I don’t know, holy fuck. But an ogre, you kill it, you save him. Nella overhears. Jesus Christ, don’t stop, please…” I fist his hair, my breath hitching. I’m thinking Lorenzo’s mouth could’ve saved the prince, because I don’t think there’s anything this mouth couldn’t do. “She murders the ogre, cures the prince, they marry… blah, blah, blah, oh god, I’m gonna… uh, Lorenzo!”
Orgasm tears through me. I gasp. My legs shake. He doesn’t stop, even though I’ve run out of words, doesn’t let up at all, his mouth working miracles as I buck my hips, practically fucking his face. Tingles engulf me, goose bumps coating my skin.
It’s short lived, the sky-high euphoria, but worth every damn second of stumbling through that story.
As soon as it fades, I relax back into the bed, my eyes closed, my muscles needing a moment to work again. Lorenzo sits up, his voice serious, matter of fact, as he says, “That was a terrible story.”
“You’re an asshole,” I mutter, peeking at him.
“Seriously, that’s your favorite fairy tale?”
“At least it has a happy ending.”
He shakes his head as he moves closer, climbing up the bed, hovering right over me again. He slowly licks his lips, making a shiver runs through me. “I might be an asshole, Scarlet, but that little game kept you from fading, didn’t it?”
Yeah, I guess it did.
He leans down, kissing me, fumbling with his pants, unbuttoning them.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” he says. “That okay with you?”
I nod. More than okay. I’m aching, my body on fire, desperate to feel him inside of me again. I hate that I want it so much, that I want him, but he’s like a drug, I think, one of those potent, addictive drugs that alters your brain chemistry.
“Good,” he says, retrieving a condom from the stand beside the bed. He hitches my legs up, settling between them, as he pulls his cock out, rolling the condom on.
He wastes no time thrusting inside.
I cry out as he fills me, tilting my head back, and barely have a chance to adjust before his body weight is pressing upon me, his hand around my throat. A chill of fear shoots down my spine, but he doesn’t squeeze. He could, though. Instead, he looks me dead in the face and says, “You zone out, I choke you. Whether or not I let go is anybody’s guess. You still okay with this?”
I nod, no hesitation.
I probably shouldn’t.
Hell, I know I shouldn’t.
Would he let go? I like to think so. But I’m not sure, and that’s what causes the panic to trickle into my chest, spiking my system. It’s sick. Maybe I’m sick, the fact that it excites me, that being just a breath away from death makes me feel alive again.
I shift my body beneath him until he slips out a bit before I buck my hips up, slamming into him so he fills me. He’s thick, and rock hard, but I’m so slick he just slides right in, like he was made to be inside me. His expression goes slack. I can practically see the pleasure flow through him. The man is rough around the edges, something so primal about him, but there’s something else there, something unexpected.
So much passion.
He moves then. He starts fucking me, just like he said he would, slamming hard, one hand still on my throat, the other digging into my hip as he pins me beneath him. Every thrust knocks the air from my lungs as I gasp, and whimper, and moan...
“You like that?” he asks, his voice low, barely a murmur against my lips before he kisses me so hard it hurts. “You like giving me this beautiful pussy? Like me taking it hard? Beating it? Fucking it? Killing it?”
“Yes,” I whisper, chills coating me as I let out a shaky breath. “I love it.”
“Love it, do you?” he asks with a little laugh, nudging my head aside to kiss along my jawline. “Savage little thing, aren’t you? Is that what your Scarlet Letter stands for?”
“Not even close.”
He bites my chin, and I hiss, flinching, before he pulls back to look at me. His movements slow a bit, but he’s still hitting deep, hard, pain tickling my stomach with every thrust.
“Seductive,” he says. “Submissive.”
He’s just spewing out S-words, I know, but that last one grates a nerve. My cheek twitches, and I tense, nails digging into his skin as I rake my hands along his shoulder blades. His eyes widen, the corner of his mouth lifting. Amused.
“Don’t like that one, huh?”
“Fuck you.”
The hand on my throat shifts up a bit, fingers pressing into the skin, not cutting off the air to my lungs, but it makes me lightheaded. He increases his pace, pounding into me, the room filled with the sound of skin slapping, cries escaping my throat. My vision blurs, my entire body tingling, but I keep my eyes fixed on him out of pure principle. He expects me to fade. He thinks I’m going to float away. But fuck him, if he thinks I’m submissive.
Fuck. Him.
I might love the way he makes me feel, but seriously, fuck him.
“You want to hurt me, don’t you?” he asks as I claw his back so hard I have to be drawing blood. “Got a bit of a sadistic side, don’t you, Scarlet? You like to give it as much as you take it, want to fuck up my face some more as I wreck this beautiful pussy of yours?”
He lets go of my throat, pulling away.
I don’t respond, because what can I say?
He forces my knees up to my chest, my legs over his shoulders as he shifts position, driving deeper, harder, faster. Oh god. His fingers find my clit, rubbing, stroking, and I can do nothing but make noise as he makes me come, over and over.
I don’t know how much I can take, and he’s not letting up. I’m soaked with sweat, my body trembling, muscles aching... even my fingers hurt from clutching his back. Eventually, he starts to slow down, hitting a few deep strokes. His face is nuzzled into my neck, teeth nipping at the skin as he grunts.
He stills then, lying down, not even trying to keep his weight off of me. Fuck, he’s heavy. I wrap my arms around him, too exhausted to fight it, and hear him muttering under his breath. “I feel like I could actually sleep tonight.”
* * *
Lorenzo does sleep, it turns out.
Me? Not so much.
For someone with a talent for zoning out, I can’t shut my mind off, lying next to him. I watch him sleep for a while, like a creep, staring at the steady rise and fall of his chest. Every time I move, he stirs a bit, and I feel guilty as hell, disturbing his slumber, so I just lay there in silence until I can’t take it any longer.
Carefully, I climb out of the bed, pulling my clothes on and tiptoeing out of the room before making my way downstairs. It’s still dark, but I can see where I’m going, in that space right before sunrise where the world is just starting to lighten.
I pause at the bottom of the staircase, my gaze drifting to the living room to the right of me, seeing someone standing in the doorway. A young guy, dressed in a black cable-knit sweater, wearing khakis and black boots. The younger brother, I’m guessing.
He shakes his head, staring into the living room. “Do I even want to know what happened to the couch?”
“It got a hole in it,” I say vaguely, not sure how much Lorenzo would share with him.
The guy startles at the sound of my voice, turning around. “You’re not Lorenzo.”
“Well, that’s something to be grateful for, huh?”
He seems to be about my age and looks just like Lorenzo… or well, how I imagine Lorenzo would look if the world hadn’t hurt him. Fresh-faced, wide-eyed, and kind of adorable, frankly. How he keeps any sort of innocence living in the same house as the menace upstairs, I don’t know, but I commend him for it.
Every moment I spend with the guy, I feel myself slipping further.
“I’m Leo,” he says, holding his hand out. “You are?”
“Morgan,” I say, shaking his hand lightly. Manners. Huh.
Someone’s apple fell far from the family tree.
“I’d ask how you know my brother, but well, I’m sure I probably don’t want to know.”
“Probably not,” I admit.
Before either of us can speak again, there’s noise on the stairs, footsteps that aren’t trying to tiptoe. Leo glances up, something akin to shock crossing his face before he spins around so fast it’s like he’s twirling. “Jesus, Lorenzo! Really, bro? Really?”
I glanced behind me, eyes widening. Lorenzo’s buck-naked, like the prince running through the glass tunnel, waltzing down the stairs like he’s not got a care in the world.
He’s groggy, only half-awake, everything prominently on display.
“Don’t act like you’ve never seen a dick before, Pretty Boy,” Lorenzo says, skirting around me, brushing against me. “I know you’ve got one. I used to change your diapers, remember?”
“No, I don’t remember,” Leo says, “but you certainly remind me enough.”
“That’s because it earns me the right to do whatever I damn well please,” Lorenzo says. “I wiped your ass, made your lunches, taught you how to treat a woman, and I let your girlfriend eat my groceries. Let me air my balls out without jumping my ass about it.”
Leo turns around then, laughing, no longer seeming to care or notice his brother’s not wearing clothes. “You taught me how to treat a woman?”
“I did,” he says, strolling past us, heading down the hallway, calling back as he says, “Showed you exactly what not to do if you were trying to keep one.”
Lorenzo disappears into the back of the house, past the library. Kitchen, I’m guessing. Process of elimination.
“Well, you certainly did that,” Leo mutters, turning to me, his cheeks flushing. “Sorry about that. He’s, uh… well, he’s him.”
Okay, that makes me laugh, which isn’t the response Leo expects, based on the strange look he gives me, but he’s apologizing for his brother—a genuine apology for Lorenzo’s behavior.
I’m wondering how the hell that apple even came from the same tree at this point, frankly.
“He doesn’t bother me,” I say. “I mean, he’s a pain in the ass, but him being naked is probably the least bothersome thing about him.”
“Ah, yeah, guess it isn’t the first time you’ve seen… it,” he says, laughing awkwardly. “You know, since you’re here at six in the morning. It’s just, well, I usually don’t see them, since they don’t often stick around to chat.”
He’s flustered. There’s no way this guy even came from the same orchard as Lorenzo, much less the same tree. “They?”
“Yeah, the ladies that my brother—”
“Fucks,” Lorenzo says, stepping out from the kitchen, carrying an orange. “The women I fuck. They’re usually out of here before Pretty Boy makes it out of bed, so he’s not used to this whole ‘morning after’ thing.”
Pretty Boy.
He doesn’t even call his brother by his name?
“Oh, well then… my bad,” I say as I give Leo a smile. “Next time I’ll just have to skedaddle before you catch me, then.”
Leo’s eyes widen, those words shocking him for some reason—maybe even shocking him more than his brother waltzing between us naked again does. “Next time?”
Lorenzo stalls on the bottom step as he starts to peel his orange. His cock is like two feet to the left of me, and I’m trying damn hard not to look, to keep my eyes straight ahead, but it’s shining like a beacon over there, trying to draw me in.
“You’ll have to excuse my brother, Scarlet,” Lorenzo says. “He thinks you’re one of my wham-bam’s. I tend to impose a ‘one ride per person’ rule, so next times are pretty unheard of.”
Ignoring how the mention of Lorenzo’s stream of women makes my stomach coil, I nod. “Understandable.”
“I didn’t realize there was something other than that,” Leo says, eyes narrowing as he looks at his brother, clearly completely over the fact that he’s not wearing clothes. “Care to fill me in?”
“No, not really,” Lorenzo says, starting up the stairs. “By the way, Scarlet, you forgot your shoes.”
I look down at my feet before it strikes me—the Louboutins. “Oh, can you bring them to me?”
“Fuck do I look like, a delivery boy?”
Lorenzo doesn’t say anything else, trekking up the stairs.
I scowl, keeping my eyes on Leo. “I should probably, you know…” I point up the stairs. “Go get them.”
Before Leo can respond, a shrill scream pierces the air, loud enough to make my hair stand on end. Leo runs his hands down his face as Lorenzo’s voice echoes from upstairs: “Oh, give me a break, I know you’ve seen a dick before, Firecracker. I hear my brother fucking you all the time.”
I head up the steps, passing a shell-shocked looking blonde along the way, but she barely notices me, zeroing in on Leo.
“I know, I know,” Leo mutters when she approaches. “You saw my brother naked.”
Shaking my head, I set off along the second floor, finding Lorenzo’s bedroom door wide open. He sits on the edge of his bed, peeling his orange, still not wearing any clothes. I hesitate in front of him, eyes scanning him, unable to avoid ogling him any longer. I’ve seen it all, yes, but I haven’t exactly taken a lot of time to look, if you know what I mean. I wouldn’t call him ripped, but he’s definitely fit, some definition to his muscles. And the cock? Yeah, okay, it’s gorgeous… if you can call a cock gorgeous, which I can, because I don’t know how else to describe it. He’s definitely more of a show-er than a grower, eight and a half inches, thick and cut, veins running along the shaft, and Jesus Christ, okay… I’ve got to stop looking.
My eyes flicker to Lorenzo’s face. He’s watching me, taking a bite of an orange wedge.
“Came for my shoes,” I say, nodding toward where they sit on the dresser.
He says nothing, chewing in silence.
“Figure I should take them back before one of those wham-bam’s you parade through here tries to steal them.”
“Yeah, I’m sure your clients tip extra for you to keep them on while they fuck you.”
Ouch. “Touché.”
“Anyway, before you run off again,” he says, tearing off another wedge of orange, “we should talk about payment.”
I cringe. Payment.
Ouch, for real this time.
“You know what? Fuck you, Lorenzo. Seriously, fuck you. I should’ve known you were completely full of shit when you said you’d respect me, that you wouldn’t do this.” I wave around us, like that’ll help me make sense, as he just stares at me, still chewing. “You’re an asshole. Seriously. I didn’t fuck you last night for money. That wasn’t what it was to me, and maybe it’s what it was for you, whatever, but just, ugh… fuck you.”
I snatch my shoes from the top of his dresser when his calm voice says, “You keep everything you make unless it’s a job I ordered. In that case, I pay you a commission based on your contribution.”
I stall at those words. “What?”
“You’re working for me now, right? That was the deal? I’m just laying out the terms, letting you know how working for me is going to go. When I need you, be there, but otherwise you can do whatever you want. The world is yours, Scarlet.”
“I, uh… ugh.” Payment. “I thought you meant…”
“I told you I don’t pay for pussy.”
“I know, I just thought…”
“Thought I was saying it to hurt you? Thought I was just getting a low blow in?”
“Yes.”
He shakes his head, still eating the orange as he stands up.
I don’t ogle this time.
I want to.
God, I really want to.
But I don’t.
He approaches me slowly. “I like fucking and fighting, Scarlet. I won’t lie about that. I like fucking you. I like fighting you. I’ll push your buttons all goddamn night long and make you want to rip me apart, but I’m not in the business of hurting people for no reason. I don’t get off on that.”
“Sorry.”
He makes a face of disgust at that word. “Don’t apologize to me.”
“You just touched a nerve, you know.”
“Don’t make excuses, either. Calm your tits and it’ll be okay.”
“Calm my tits.”
“Yes.” His eyes flicker to my chest, and I know he’s imagining them. “As gorgeous as those tits are, calm them.”
“Fine.” I scowl. “You’re still an asshole, you know.”
“I know.” He breaks off a wedge from the orange, holding it out to me. “Want some?”
I hesitate, staring at it in his hand. “Ugh, no.”
“I swear to fuck, Scarlet. I’ll forgive a lot of things, but if you tell me you don’t eat oranges, we’re going to have a problem.”
I roll my eyes. “I learned long ago not to take candy from strangers.”
“We’re not strangers,” he says, motioning to himself. “You’ve seen me naked.”
“I’m getting the feeling a lot of people have seen you naked.”
“Not as many as have seen you.”
Ouch for the third time.
“I should go,” I say.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“Back to the apartment.”
“Is it safe there?”
“Probably not.”
He nods, popping the orange in his mouth, before turning away. “Do me a favor, will you?”
“What?”
“Don’t get yourself killed.”
“I’ll do my best.”
I walk out, leaving him there, with no clothes on.
I’ve done a lot of difficult things in my life. A lot. But that’s ranking up there among some horrific things, because walking away from him right now is proving harder than I thought it would be. It’s not even that I won’t see him again, because I will. I have a sneaking suspicion I’m going to be seeing him quite often. But at the moment, something inside of me is tugging, trying to pull me back to him like we’re magnets, but I need to put some space between us—at least until I figure things out.
Because Lorenzo?
He’s not the kind of guy you get attached to.
Especially when you’re me.
I can’t let him get so far under my skin that I can’t get him back out again.
I head downstairs, clutching the heels, and encounter Leo still standing in the doorway to the living room, the blonde beside him.
His girlfriend, I’m guessing.
She glances up at me, and I expect some level of bitchiness, because really, in my experience, most feel threatened by a strange woman suddenly appearing, but she smiles instead, full-blown grinning. “You must be Cinderella.”
That slows my steps. “What?”
“Lorenzo had your shoes,” Leo says. “He was looking for you, said you ran away from him. Kind of sounded like Cinderella.”
I laugh, looking at the shoes.
Pretty sure Cinderella didn’t rob the prince before making her escape.
Also pretty sure the prince didn’t consider killing Cinderella whenever he found her.
“I knew you’d pop up eventually,” the bubbly blonde says. “I mean, come on, any woman would come back for a pair of red patent leather Louboutins. I had a pair once... or well, my best friend did.” She laughs. “You know when your best friend has something, you do, too.”
I wish I could say I knew what that was like. People just seem to come in-and-out of my life. “You got a name? I think Lorenzo called you—”
“Firecracker.” She rolls her eyes. “Name’s Melody Carmichael.”
“I’m Morgan,” I say. “What size do you wear?”
“Uh, an eight… or well, a thirty-nine and a half.”
I flip the shoes over, glancing at the thirty-nine on the sole as I hold the shoes out to her. “It’s your lucky day, Melody Carmichael. They might be snug, but I’m sure you can make them work.”
Her eyes widen. “Are you kidding me? No way, I can’t take your shoes!”
“You can,” I say. “I have to warn you, though. Those shoes were a gift I never asked for, a gift I never wanted, and ever since I got them, I’ve been plagued with terrible luck. I’m not exactly superstitious, but I’d rather not risk it anymore. So take them, if you want them, but just... don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She squeals, kicking her black flats off, and takes the red heels, slipping them on her feet. “You, Morgan, are totally my new best friend.”
I laugh, shaking my head.
We’ll see how long that lasts...