“Fried chicken!” I snap my fingers, feeling restless in a way that chafes at me. “That’s what it is.”
“That’s what what is?” Dusty, the leader of this group of freaks, looks up from the cup of coffee he’s pouring. A deep line of confusion scars his forehead. “Chicken?”
“Can’t you smell it?” The room they gave the students for the NA meeting is down in the basement of the student center, two floors below the various restaurants circling the main area. One is a fried chicken chain and I swear the oily scent has seeped into the walls.
He sniffs the air, contemplative. “Yeah, kind of.”
I scratch my head like a bad habit, nails digging painfully into my scalp. “Fuck, now I’m hungry.”
“This will have to work for now.” Dusty hands me the paper cup of coffee and says, “Stop scratching.”
My sense of smell is back–apparently also my appetite. Thank fuck. Among the other side effects of my bender, I felt my muscle eating away at itself. Unlike Nick and Sy, who are genetically predisposed with a six-pack of abs and magically ripped, I have to work on keeping bulked up. I’m too tall, too lanky, too slack on my fighting physique.
There are other things I’ve noticed getting better. My hands are less shaky. I was able to ink the guys after the Fury the other night. There’s still the occasional tremor, but it feels good to be able to hold a pencil and pen. Losing the ability to create sucked.
And almost losing my best friends and Vinny…
Let’s just say I understand the concept of rock bottom a little better than I ever wanted to.
“Hate it here,” I mutter, eyeing the yellowing walls and flickering lights.
He gives me a disgruntled look. “It’s a support group for addicts. No one likes it here, kid.”
“Not the group,” I reply, grimacing at the grungy carpet. “The building.”
Humming, he stirs a sugar packet into his styrofoam cup. “Too institutional for you?” Dusty knows a little about my background at Saint Mary’s, which always makes my muscles tense to think about.
At some point, the university couldn’t deny the high level of substance abuse in the Greek system. The local and campus police can only cover up so much. So the Kings made a concession. This fucked up little group, complete with a certified counselor, is meant to clean up the destruction left in the wake of Lionel’s drugs. Dusty is a haggard fifty-something South Side expat, and if it weren’t for the way he commands the group with a quiet wisdom, one could miss entirely that he’s the one running it.
He’s wearing an Iron Maiden t-shirt.
I always tread a little carefully with him. Metal tees or no, counselors are just a few steps away from therapists, and therapists can be bought. “Not really,” I answer, trying to put my finger on why the building bothers me. “It’s yellow,” I say, pointing at the anemic fluorescence overhead. “And it’s old, but not old, you know? There’s no history or heart here, it’s just a room beneath the ground. Every breath we take is filling our lungs with vermillion and dead birds.”
He watches me with a blank expression taking this in. I brace myself for the usual bullshit psych jargon I’m used to being assaulted with. Dissociation. Sensory issues. Med balances. Brain chemistry. Experiments. “Son,” Dusty sighs, bringing a firm hand down on my shoulder. “That’s some weird-ass nonsense. Shut the fuck up and take a seat.”
I blink. “Oh.” And then, “Yeah, okay.”
“Looks like everyone’s here,” Dusty says, walking over to the circle of chairs. “Why don’t we go ahead and get started.”
I take a seat, even though it kills me. For some reason, I have the urge to walk. Run. Fight. Fuck. Jesus, just something. I settle for the sketchbook I balance in my lap, flipping it open to the clock diagram I’ve been working on for Vinny. Dusty is okay with me doodling during the meeting, probably because it gives me something to do with my hands that isn’t starting an epic round of contagious, neurotic scratching. It’s never bad until I’m here with the others. Just watching them scratch makes me want to, and watching me scratch makes them want to.
We’re a fucking sideshow.
It’s better not to make too much eye contact with them, anyway. We’re not just a bunch of junkies. We’re also all aligned with the Royal system in one way or another. Everything about this set up feels like a cliché. The dingy room, the circle of chairs, the participants reluctantly avoiding each other’s stares while taking a seat. It’s usually a rotation of six or seven people, most sent here directly by their frat’s leadership, who’d rather their guys get clean than maintain some flimsy pretense of stability. It’s kind of profound, when it doesn’t make me want to punch someone.
It’s mostly guys. There’s an LDZ sitting across from me who compulsively bounces his knee up and down. There’s a Beta Nu who I’m always assessing, wondering if my father has this guy in his sights as another Baron. There are two sacrificial Kappas, pledges to the Counts, who were clearly sent to pretend they aren’t the problem. Fuck, one of them sold me a hit of Scratch last month.
They’re not the only Kappas who have made an appearance, though. A couple weeks ago, Sutton herself showed up, greasy hair pulled back in a ponytail, pupils solid black. Her skin was so gray that she barely looked alive, and I sat as far away from her as possible, cringing against the energy pulsing off her in erratic, yellow-green waves. Obviously, she’s not here tonight, but that doesn’t mean her presence isn’t felt.
Everyone knows she’s dead and exactly what killed her.
“We all know the rules,” Dusty says, but then stops, his intro interrupted by a loud, jarring slam of the door. It’s a heavy metal thing that all the regulars have learned to ease shut. The guy standing frozen beneath our glares isn’t a regular, though.
It’s Lex Ashby.
He doesn’t look much better than Sutton did the last time she came. His skin is pale, dark bags beneath his eyes, and even though he’s dressed like an Ashby in his preppy white button-down, the arms are viciously wrinkled, as if he’s been pushing them up and down his forearms all day. His dark hair is winning a war with whatever product he’d slathered it with this morning, some locks sticking up while others flop limply against his forehead.
His gaze skitters over us skeptically. “This where all the junkies meet?”
“It’s the twenty-first century, kid.” Dusty nods to the empty chair next to mine. “We prefer to be called the pharmaceutically disadvantaged.”
Lex hesitates a moment, his hands curling into fists, but eventually stalks toward us, lowering himself woodenly into the silver folding chair next to mine. I shudder at the orange radiating off him, not-so-subtly scooting my chair a few inches to the right.
“I’m Dusty, the head junkie,” he says in his rough voice. “And you’re…?”
“Lex,” the guy mutters. After a moment, he adds, “Recreational junkie.”
“What’s your house alignment?” Dusty seems to know a lot about senior Royalty, but he knows fuck-all about our generation. To him, we’re all the same.
“Psi Nu.” Lex raises his chin, eyes flashing with that patented East End arrogance. “I’m in my senior year of pre-med.”
Dusty gives a low whistle. “Tough workload.”
Lex barks a mangled laugh. “Yeah, it is.” He tips forward suddenly, scrubbing two palms down his face. “I don’t have time for this shit.”
Dusty shrugs. “Then we don’t have time for your shit. If you don’t want to be here,” he thrusts a thumb over his shoulder, “then leave.”
Lex drags his hands down his face, bloodshot eyes rolling. “I can’t. I’m here on orders.”
“From your King,” Dusty guesses.
“From my father.”
“He wants you to get clean?” Dusty shares a look with a few select group members–me included. “At least you’ve got that. My old man wouldn’t have cared if I died in South Side’s slimiest gutter.”
Lex gives Dusty this long, disparaging look, like he’s the dumbest man alive. “It’s not like that. Ashbys don’t do this frilly kumbaya bullshit.”
This doesn’t faze Dusty at all. “Well, as long as you’re here, you might as well get acquainted with the rules.” He spins a finger. “Everything said in this room is confidential. All the inner-frat rivalry is left at the door. Nothing in here can be used against you. Who knows? You may actually embrace our frilly kumbaya bullshit–find an unlikely ally or two.” He pauses, but it’s crickets in here.
We play nice, but nobody’s walking out of here friends. There’s too much spilled blood.
Dusty shrugs it off. “Why don’t you tell us a little about yourself and how you got here?”
Lex shifts, eyes tightening. “Can someone else talk?”
“They can, but they won’t.” Dusty gestures to Lex. “Not sitting in front of a King’s son who’s only here to listen.”
Lex’s eyes flash angrily. “I’m not here to gather intel. I don’t even qualify to become a Prince!” When it’s clear no one gives a damn, he makes a low, frustrated sound. “I’m taking the MCAT this spring,” he starts, jaw tense. “Between finishing my pre-med classes and studying for the exams, the schedule is kicking my ass. I started taking a little bump here and there, just for concentration. Then I needed it to stay awake–alert. I guess along the way, a few things started slipping. Not my grades, but… other stuff. Family stuff.”
Dusty watches him carefully. “And your family is important to you?”
Lex gives Dusty a stiff, grim smile. “My father has high expectations.” I’d love to throw stones, but my glass house is a massive hotel and built by a man I didn’t even know had a secret identity until he tried to kill my girl.
Shit, we’re all so fucked.
Snorting, I mutter, “I hear that,” and Lex turns to stare me down.
“Your father’s Timothy Maddox,” he says.
“Yeah,” I answer, just as aggressively.
“What does he do when you screw up?”
Shrugging, I say, “Tries to lock me away in a mental hospital.” At the resulting hush, the LDZ giving me a bizarre look, I defensively add, “It only worked once.”
Dusty cuts in, “And what does yours do, Lex?” But Lex’s mouth presses into a flat, tense line.
He doesn’t answer.
Dusty tries a different tack. “So this is new for you? Using drugs to cope?” He has this way about him, where he asks these fucking intrusive questions, but you feel compelled to answer.
“Not exactly,” Lex eventually admits, brows crouched into a low scowl. “I partied like everyone else. Typical college stuff. A little weed. Some coke. Ritalin when I needed to focus on a big exam.” My eyes follow his gaze down to his hands. His fingers are slim. Elegant. The kind best served for skilled work. Similar to my own—artists’ hands. But also like my own, I see the small tremor running through them. “My dad didn’t even start caring until he had something for me to–” His words bite off, and I can practically see the gate closing, eyes going shuttered. “Whatever. Here I am.”
Dusty must sense that Lex has given everything he’s willing to part with. “Thanks for sharing, Lex. I’m sorry you had to meet us on such a shitty day, though.” His bushy eyebrows twitch as he looks over the group. “I know gossip travels fast through Forsyth, but I wanted to make sure everyone has heard about Sutton.” The majority of the room nods, although one of the Kappas noticeably stiffens while the other stares hard at the floor. “I’ve been told there’s a memorial service on Wednesday.” He gives a low, sarcastic chuckle. “Obviously, showing up for that may not be wise, but if anyone would like to say something, go ahead.”
The room is quiet enough to hear a pin drop. I’m not sure if it’s because of the harsh reality that any of us could have the same happen to us, or if no one wants to poke a viper nest. I use my thumb to smear the pencil shading on my paper and keep my mouth shut.
Dusty takes the reins, gazing thoughtfully into his cup of coffee. “I’ve gotta be honest, fellas, it’s hard watching someone lose the fight, no matter who they are.” There’s a weariness about him that makes me wonder how many members of this little sideshow have died over the course of him leading it. “Everyone here loves their war between east and west, north and south, cops and dealers. We accept the casualties, because there’s nothing we can relate to more than having a flesh-and-blood enemy to strike out against.” Dusty shakes his head. “But when the war is inside of us–when we’re the victim of our own battle–suddenly, it’s incomprehensible. Does that seem right to you?”
The resulting silence grows tense.
“Sutton was a bitch,” the Kappa says suddenly. All eyes jerk to him. A small smirk plays on his lips. “Kind of like an older sister who kept everyone in line. She liked to bake. Cookies mostly, but she also made these amazing cupcakes. She only made those for the Counts on their birthday.”
“Losing Perez fucked her up,” the other one says. His linked hands are balled into tight fists—his knuckles raw and scabbed. I watch him out of my periphery, eyes trained carefully on my sketchbook. I feel his gaze on me, though. The accusation. We took Perez from her—from them. “Shit’s dark back at the house. The old man is pretty much MIA. He even gave his dog to Lars. He’s keeping Amos at the Kappa house.”
No Perez. No Countess. No Lionel. He’s right, North Side is a fucking disaster. But the viper scratch is half the reason I’m here. Half the reason we’re all here.
I tap the pencil eraser on the paper in a fast drumbeat, and I don’t really understand why, but I’m struck by the impulse to dig up something nice to say. “Sutton was always a, uh, fierce contender at Screw Year’s Eve wrestling match. She gave it her all.”
“Hell yeah she did,” the Kappa says, nodding a little. “She almost took the Lady down.”
The LDZ snorts. “Almost. Story’s ruthless. Anyone that can hold their own against her deserves credit.”
Go figure—we can all agree on one thing: hot girls Jell-O wrestling in bikinis is a good time, no matter where they fall on the compass. I’m struck by the image of Vinny this New Year’s Eve, slicked up and rolling around in a barely there bikini. My dick twitches. Jesus. After watching her take down Haley, I have no doubt our girl will win the crown.
That seems to break the gloom, and everyone tosses out their favorite badass Sutton moment. It’s trite, but what the fuck can we do? Wallow in the bleakness of it all? Everyone here is tired of pain and depression. Sutton was a bitch who probably did a lot of fucked up shit, but haven’t we all?
None of us want to be remembered for our worst moments.
The tower is quiet when I get back, Sy’s door hanging open. I don’t think twice about barging in, pencil still fidgeting between my fingers. I pause at the scene that greets me, though. Him and Vinny are already in bed, her in a tank top and pink lace panties, him shirtless, laptop propped open on his thighs. She’s sound asleep, curled into his side. Between their feet, Archie is tucked into the nook their ankles have made. He opens one eye at my entrance, checks me out, then lazily lets it fall shut.
The room smells like sex.
Sy looks up, noticing me at the door. “Hey, man,” he says quietly. “You just get back?”
I stretch my arms over my head, grabbing the top of the door frame. “Yeah.”
“How was the meeting?” He’s not supposed to ask, but I know he can’t help it.
“Fine. Solid six.” It’s a lower number than he’s been used to hearing lately, and it makes him frown.
“Just fine?”
“Another day, you know.” I shrug, but then add, “They talked about the Countess.”
“Oh.” His eyes flick behind me, across the tower to Nick’s door. We both know Sutton was a junkie long before Nick killed Perez. And that Perez was living the kind of life that gets you killed. But still… “I hope you didn’t get much blowback.”
I shake my head. “Not really.” I want to say some other things. About how the Counts are legitimately falling apart, or how Lex Ashby showed up looking like a hot mess. But I don’t want those assholes talking about me outside of the group, and I keep my word to extend the same respect. “Is this a post-fuck cuddle?” I ask instead, nodding at Vinny.
Sy looks down at his laptop, and I grin, watching the tips of his ears go pink. “We didn’t… do that.” Quieter, he adds, “Not without you or Nicky.”
Him and Vinny are still gun-shy about full-out fucking, I see. “And where is our brave leader?” I wonder, twisting to stare at his closed door.
“Out,” Sy says, not looking happy about it. “Things are still pretty tense.” He dips his eyes to Vinny in an obvious gesture, but it’s not necessary. We both heard Nick yelling last night, his door slamming. She slept up in her loft, the message loud and clear that she wanted to be alone.
A ball of tension in the back of my neck unwinds seeing her in Sy’s bed again. Whatever happened between her and Nick, it doesn’t extend to us.
“Remy,” Sy says, giving me a long look. It isn’t until he jerks his chin toward my hand that I realize I’m tapping my pencil against his doorframe.
I curl my hand into a fist. “Oops.”
“What is it?” he asks, moving to shut his laptop. “You’re agitated at a six head-check.”
“Nothing,” I say, and there used to be a time Sy would pry it out of me until my teeth ached from gnashing them. These days, he just shrugs and diverts his attention, reopening his laptop. Groaning, I relent, “Jesus, man, I need something to fucking do.”
His forehead creases. “Don’t you have a piece due for art history?”
I pull a face, amending, “I need something interesting to do. Nothing is holding my attention.” I gnaw at my lip, ignoring the worry that crosses Sy’s face. This has always been the beginning of a cycle for me, kicking around for something to get lost in and always finding the worst goddamn thing. I raise my chin. “Let me tattoo you.”
All the soft concern on Sy’s face slams into a scowl. “No.”
“Please?”
“You know I don’t do that random ink shit,” he insists, resting a palm on Vinny’s head. “I get a tattoo when I win a fight. That’s it.”
I arch an eyebrow. “I can put Vinny’s initials on you, like Nicky did.”
“Fuck that,” he says, even though I see a flare of intrigue in his eyes at the thought. “Go tattoo Nick.”
“He’s gone,” I whine.
“Then tattoo Lav.”
I look at her, all smooth and serpentine, her legs soft and begging to have that snake tattoo filled in. “No,” I sigh, deflating. “Vinny’s art, bro. I can’t just put something on her all slapdash and shit. I need time to plan a worthy piece.”
Sy’s eyes narrow in outrage. “But you’d put something on me all slapdash? Fuck you.”
Shrugging, I don’t deny it. “Hey, I don’t look at your skin when I’m getting off.” But then I pause. “Although, the way we’ve been sharing Vinny lately, you and Nick are getting kind of unavoidable.”
I see the sock he chucks at me coming a mile away, and I easily bat it to the side, chuckling.
When the playfulness fades away, a seriousness fills Sy’s eyes. “Remy, are you going to–”
“No,” I say, unequivocally. “I’m done with the drugs.”
His eyes grow tight. “If it gets that bad, I’d let you tattoo me. You know that, right?”
I grip the door jamb, nodding. “Yeah, Sy. I know.” After an awkward beat, I say, “I’ll leave you alone so you can get that finished.”
He searches my eyes, which is something that used to piss me off, always feeling analyzed. Now, I just meet his gaze back, challenging him to find something.
Finally he rubs his eyes. “Yeah, this fucking paper is driving me crazy.” He looks back at the screen. “Careful with the cat when you come to bed. He gets so fucking territorial.”
Feeling a bit lighter, I toss him a salute. “I’ll be in later. Something I’ve gotta do first.”
I think about stripping down and climbing in with them now. The invitation was a deliberate message. Stay close. My cock twitches at the idea of waking Vinny up and using her to help get the empty feeling out of my gut, but she looks peaceful. They look peaceful, so I keep walking.
I grab the pack of cigarettes off my bedside table–smoking, the lamest of vices–before heading upstairs, passing the loft, and climbing the staircase to the clock room. Vinny’s clock pieces are spread out across the floor like a complicated puzzle. I step over them, knowing if I fuck up her organizational system, she’ll get pissed.
Although… there’s something about her when she’s riled up—cheeks pink, eyes shining bright. It’s why Nicky fucks with her so much. He likes it when she fights back. Scratch that—he loves it. The first time she kicked him… well, that was the day he locked in on her for life, imprinting like an animal to its mate.
But even Nicky wouldn’t touch her clock pieces. He’s a possessive, horny fucker, not a dumbass.
I climb the ladder in the corner easily, lifting the hatch and pushing myself up onto the stone of the belfry. For a long second, I just tip my head back, letting the cool gust of night air embrace me.
Finally, sky.
It’s dark up here, but the city provides enough light to navigate around the pillars to an archway overlooking the campus. I hop up on the ledge and fish a cigarette out of the pack, feeling fifteen again, and then light the tip, inhaling.
Clouds cover the night sky, obscuring the stars and moon, but I feel the vibration of our town: the horns honking in the distance, the neon lights over on the Avenue. Sometimes it’s weird to think about Lionel Lucia’s failsafe lurking beneath those streets. Beneath this very tower. A viper hidden in the brush. A glow of red-orange-yellow illuminating the landscape. Forsyth becoming the hot ember on the end of the universe’s cigarette, burning lower and lower with every pull of its lungs.
I’m not sure how long I’m mulling over it, rolling it around like a filter between my fingertips, when the creak of the hatch shatters the stillness. Vinny’s pale hair appears first. Her body rises next, Sy’s hoodie hanging over her shoulders, the hem almost grazing her thighs. My heart skitters at the sight of her, thinking about those pink panties, about her.
“You’re awake.” I hop down, reaching my hand out, helping her off the ladder.
“Thanks.” Her eyes dart down to the cigarette–my second one. “Everything okay?”
There’s no mistaking the worry in her voice. It’s fair. I don’t fully remember the day she found me up here, carving up my skin. The memory exists, but it’s shadowy, like it’s lost in fog. More feeling than imagery. I know I scared the shit out of her, though. I also know she saved my ass.
“I’m fine. Just getting some sky. Those meetings happen in the ground, you know?” But even as I assure her, my fingers are pushing up the hem of the shirt, my thumb seeking the star. This time though, her hand does the same, dragging down the waist of my jeans to find her matching moon. Goosebumps rise on her skin and I edge closer, scenting her hair. “You cold? We can head back down.”
She shakes her head. “Between Archie and Sy, sometimes it feels like I’m sleeping next to a furnace.” There’s a long pause where she watches me, searching my eyes a lot like Sy did earlier. When her lips part, there’s a tremor in her voice. “Why did you come up here, Remy?”
It’s impossible not to see the fear lining her eyes.
“You heard us talking in his room,” I realize.
She rushes to say, “I wasn’t eavesdropping. I was just in that place.” Deflating, she adds, “You know the one.” That just happens to Vinny sometimes, getting trapped somewhere in the purgatory between sleep and wakefulness. Whatever this thing is with Nick, it must be serious. She hasn’t had an episode in a while.
“It’s been nice having Sy back,” I say, tipping my head back to look into the clouds. “When I got out of Saint Mary’s, he started treating me like his patient. Suddenly, it wasn’t cool to fuck around with him anymore. Everything I did had some kind of deeper meaning to him, like I was some kind of puzzle he had to figure out.” When I glance down, she’s frozen, her knuckles warm against my belly. “It’s not that I didn’t understand why he was doing it, because I did. Sy loves me. I never once resented that, but I just… really fucking needed a friend. Instead, I became his burden.” Reaching up, I cup her cheeks in my palms, impressing the words into the wind between us. “I don’t want to be that for you. You don’t need to save me all the time, Vinny.”
Her lips twist into a small, rueful smile. “I don’t think that’s something I get a choice in now.”
It’s the first time I’ve seen it in weeks.
Blue.
It surges through me like liquid warmth, driving my mouth to hers in a slow, reverent kiss. Her fingers tangle in my shirt, tugging me closer.
“Then maybe let me save you back sometimes,” I say, thumbing at the worry line in her forehead. “What’s going on with you lately?”
Her eyes flutter open, still dazed from the kiss, so it takes her a moment to answer. When she does, it’s with a pensive frown. “Would you… let me leave?”
“Let you?” I snort. “Woman, if you wanted out of here, I’m pretty sure there’s no power in this tower that could stop you.”
She tilts her head. At first I think she’s being coy, but then I realize she’s baring her neck–her ear. “Nick could,” she argues, and then it hits me.
The tracker.
“Ah.”
Her mouth twists unhappily. “He’s mad at me for asking.”
I press my fingers to the spot, eyeing the scar left from the first tracker. I stand by my earlier statement. Maybe there was a time when Vinny was a prisoner here, but if she wanted out, she’d already be gone. “This is Nick we’re talking about. Rail him tenderly and he’ll fall over himself to forgive anything.”
She sighs. “Weirdly, I think that’d just make everything worse.”
I think carefully about my words, knowing that she’s still waiting. “I’d let you leave. I know what it’s like to belong to you, Vinny.” I press our hips together, knowing the moon and the star are aligning. “Going back to how it used to be would be the same as losing you, anyway.” Tipping her chin up, I force her to meet my gaze. “Do you want to leave?”
“No.” The answer is instant, punctuated with a strained, pleading expression. “But I don’t want me and Nick to end up like Perez and Sutton.”
Scoffing, I reply, “That’ll never happen. For one, Nicky’s not feeding you drugs on the reg. For two, Perez never loved that girl. But most importantly,” I squeeze her hips, “Perez and Sutton didn’t have me and Sy.”
She gives me a skeptical look. “So you’re saying if Nick ever tried something crazy, you and Sy would stop him?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” I list off on my fingers, “Nick and I will keep Sy from going too far, Sy and Nicky will keep my head straight, and me and Sy will keep Nick from caging up his Little Bird.” Shrugging, I conclude, “We’re a bonafide system of checks and balances, babe. It’s why you can’t have just one of us.”
Her brow creases with a thoughtful frown, her big eyes searching my face. “Oh.” Just like that, her expression clears, a brightness filling her eyes. “Thank you.”
“For promising to kick Nicky’s ass?”
This time when she smiles, it’s a soft beam of blue. “For saving me.”
“Yeah, I’m really carrying you three lately.”
I herd her over to the window and stand behind her, bodies close. I hold the cigarette up to her lips, but she shakes her head. “No thanks. The nicotine will give me a buzz, and I’ll never get back to sleep.”
She’s got a point, so I take one last drag before stubbing it out on the granite wall.
“At night like this,” she says, leaning into me, her hair smelling sweet and flowery, “it’s hard to remember how fucked up Forsyth is. That there are monsters lurking in every corner.”
“You see that?” I say, pointing to a streetlight three blocks over. “I flipped my skateboard on the curb and had to get six stitches in my knee.” I shift my gaze, turning it toward the line that separates West and North. “That’s where I bought my first dime bag, from a guy named Pee-wee.”
“Aw,” she says. “I knew him. He was nice, actually.”
I grunt, eye scanning the city, pausing on a three-story brick office building. “That’s my old orthodontist office.”
“Hey!” she twists her neck to look at me. “That’s my orthodontist office too.”
The idea of crossing paths with a younger Lavinia, fresh-faced with a mouth full of metal, makes my heart kick with a thud.
“I guess good dental care crosses lines in Forsyth.” I bend down and kiss her, palming her ass under the shirt. Her panties are cotton, soft, and I pull them aside and slide my finger into the warmth of her cheeks. “I’ve been a good boy, right? Going to meetings. Taking my meds. Eating your pussy on the regular.”
Her lips twitch, but she nods, solemnly. “A very good boy.”
My other hand travels up her shirt, tweaking her nipple. “I think I should get a reward for all that good behavior.”
Her eyebrow arches. “What kind of reward are we talking about?”
I meet her eyes. “The thing I’ve been wanting since that first day we watched Nick destroy Perez in the ring together.” My dick goes hard just talking about it. I’ve been obsessed for months. Dreamt about it. Drawn it. Jerked to it. “I want to bend you over–be the first one in there.” I press a wet kiss along her throat, keeping my voice quiet and silky in that way I know makes her shiver. “Nicky had your pussy, and you and Sy… you guys had all kinds of firsts. I just want to be the first one to fuck that tight, pretty ass.” I tug on her earlobe with my teeth. “Please, Vinny? I’ll make it so damn good for you. I promise.”
I accentuate the request by stretching her cheeks and running my knuckle over the sensitive opening. She shivers but doesn’t pull away, instead pushing back against the pressure.
Doesn’t seem like a no.
“Yeah?” I ask, licking her lips apart. “You want it?”
Her eyes are heavy, shining with want. “I think–yeah.”
Fuck.
Yes.
Running a hand up her back I turn her towards the arched opening, the yellow lights of Forsyth twinkling below us. Hooking my fingers in her panties, I hastily pull them down her thighs, bending as she steps out of them. I think about tossing them over the edge, some poor recruit coming across them in the gutter next weekend, but find I can’t do it.
I cram them into my pocket instead, blood buzzing with anticipation. It’s the exact feeling I’ve been frantically searching for all day. The swoop of thrill in my gut. The burst of colors around here, purple and blue and white. The rush in my veins. The tingle of pin-prick stimulation as I cup her round asscheek in my palm, squeezing.
“Here?” she asks, the question carried on a soft gust of wind.
“Here,” I confirm, unzipping my jeans. Nudging my nose into the scar below her ear, I whisper, “What good are wings if you can’t see the sky?”
There’s a stretch of silence, and I worry at first she won’t allow it. But then she turns, just far enough for me to make out the curve of a smirk. “Maybe I’m a bat.”
“No, you’re not,” I say, reaching between us to pull out my dick. “You’re a raptor. No–a dragon.” When the cold air bites at my overheated skin, I mutter a relieved, “Jesus. My dick was about to drill a hole out of there.” I move quick, slotting it in the heat between her thighs, but I find she’s already slick, sticky in a very particular way I’ve become familiar with over the past few weeks. My eyes narrow. “Sy said you didn’t fuck.”
Her puff of laughter is amused but strained, thighs widening for me. “It doesn’t matter how he finishes. He always finds a way to get it in there.”
“Yeah?” I ask, balls tightening as I whisper into her ear. “He finger his cum into you, Vinny?”
She shudders, nodding. “He–we like that.”
I groan, giving my dick a slow thrust through her folds. “You’ve got the best pussy out there, baby. Always so fucking wet and warm.”
I slide my fingers between her legs, gathering her wetness–and whatever Sy’s left for me–then bring it up to her hole, getting her ready. Her back arches, putting that pretty, perfect ass on display. “That’s it, baby. Open up for me.”
My fingers are slick, and I push one in, loosening her up. God help me if I tear into her. Nicky will lose his shit, and Sy? I have no interest in taking a beat down. After everything she’s been through, I’m willing to get her good and warmed up before staking my claim.
“How’s that feel?” I ask, wincing at the throb in my balls. Vinny’s gotten good at knowing what she can take. She has to, being Sy Perilini’s girl.
“Good,” she breathes, glancing over her shoulder. I wrap my hand around her throat and pull her back, kissing her hard as I push in a second finger, stretching her out. She keens against my tongue, rocking back. “God, yes. That’s good.”
I should probably draw it out longer, make her nice and loose for me, but it’s only a couple minutes before I ask, “You ready for me?”
She nods, and my dick lurches forward, desperate to feel her around me. The sound she makes when I fuck my dick abruptly into her pussy is full of shocked awe. “Remy…”
My own jaw clamps down on the wave of pleasure, feeling her so tight and wet around me. “Just getting my dick wet for you, baby. Better than spit.” In my eagerness, I pull out too fast, soothing her mournful groan with a kiss. If I stayed in her pussy, I’d probably come in two pumps, but I’ve been waiting on this for too long. I’m gonna make this last. Slowly, I pull out my fingers and replace them with the tip of my cock, nudging at her entrance. “You tell me if it’s too much,” I say, voice rough as gravel. “I’m not Sy. I can stop.”
I think.
“Remy,” she says, hands gripping the granite ledge, “no offense, but after taking Sy’s cock, I feel like I can handle anything.”
That’s all the permission I need, and I hold on to her hip as I push through the resistance, feeling the tight ring of muscle relent as my head pops through. “Goddamn.” I pant hard into the nape of her neck, feeling her tense around me. It takes every ounce of control not to punch in. “Take a breath, Vin. You’ve gotta let me in, baby.” Her inhale is followed by a shallow exhale, so I curl my arm around her, dipping between her legs to brush my fingers over her clit. The distraction works and her muscles loosen, the next careful rock of my hips sliding another thick inch of my cock into her. I shuffle my feet, nudging closer. “That’s my girl.”
The sensation is unreal; warm, wet, tight. It takes every bit of focus not to shoot into her with the first pump, but I drag back out, gathering a shallow, careful rhythm. With each thrust, she takes a little more of me, these sweet little aborted cries writhing their way from her throat.
“Touch me,” she pleads, grabbing my hand and shoving it back between her legs.
It’s hard to focus on anything that isn’t the tightness of her ass around me, but one glance at her slack face, brows pinched in rapture, drags me back to the moment. I rub her clit in a circuit that matches my hips, lips dragging over her ear. “You know the only thing that would make this better?” She doesn’t answer so much as she moans, fingernails digging into my wrist as I rub her. “Sy or Nick… right here.” I punctuate this by trailing my fingers through her folds, nudging at her entrance.
“Oh, fuck,” she gasps, clenching around me. Vinny’s body is small, but she’s more sturdy than she was when we brought her here. She takes me punch for punch, meeting the gradually more pointed collision of my hips against her ass.
The cool night air is no longer an issue, both of us hot, skin growing damp and sticky. I curl over her back, needing to be closer, wanting to smell her, feel her, hear her little pants as I continue to play with her clit, working her body into a heated frenzy. It’s torture to stave off the creeping promise of my orgasm, but I do it. I gnash my teeth, press my forehead into the back of her neck, and fuck her with rapidly dwindling restraint.
Her cries grow louder, carried away by a gust of wind that scatters her mewls like ashes around the burning city below. I hear her climb in the sound, feel its grip around my own cock, see it in the tremble of her white-knuckled fingers, scrabbling against the stone.
“Give it to me,” I grunt, snapping my hips faster, harder, fingers rub-rub-rubbing.
I know when we’re at the peak–that deliciously dangerous second before the plunge to ecstasy–because she gulps in a loud gasp of air and clenches around me, body seizing.
I can feel her flying as she comes around me.
Slamming into her, I whisper the words that always seem to break free just before I fall. “I love you, Vinny.” The orgasm bursts through me with a strangled grunt. I bury it into her sweaty neck, cock filling her ass with wild, desperate surges of come.
She leans back, lifting her eyes to meet mine. “I love you too.”
I don’t pull out, not right away, wanting to stay in the warmth of her for as long as possible. I came up here tonight feeling restless and anxious. That’s gone, replaced with satiety that only comes from being in alignment with my girl.
