Love and War: Part One – Chapter 25

I take off running in a sprint, trying to catch up. The soreness between my legs doesn’t go unnoticed, which was the reason for the bath. With every rub of my thighs I feel a zing of pain, and with every ache I’m reminded of the hottest night of my life. There likely isn’t a spot in the studio that wasn’t christened. I didn’t even mind having to stay longer to re-sanitize everything when he finally grabbed his clothes and took off for his office after round two, shutting down.

Disappointed in the sudden coldness after something so heated, I stared at his retreating form after he demanded I clean up and disappeared. Thirty minutes went by, lots of thoughts, replaying everything that happened, and I finally went down and knocked on the door.

“Kross,” I call out, knocking on the door. Shuffling sounds occur and the door opens.

He looks angry. I’m not sure why. “You done?”

“Yes. Everything is clean and germ free.”

He pushes past me, heading for the stairs. I rush after him, grabbing the back of his shirt. “Wait. What’s wrong? Did I do something?”

He turns around, his hands going to each side of the doorframe. His jaw is working back and forth, his eyes piercing something deep within me, making me nervous. “Do you service all men this well?”

My mouth falls, not expecting the harsh words, hating the sudden hatred spewing with his tone. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe that any girl who can ride me like a damn whore, make me come more than once in a two-hour period, and suck my cock like I’ve never experienced usually is one. Who trained you, Delta? What else was going on at that strip club? Because that shit up there was porn. The average girl doesn’t fuck like that.”

I draw back as if he slapped me. I narrow my eyes. “You’re an asshole. You started it! For fuck’s sake, I’ve never heard of a guy complaining about being ‘fucked too good’.” The anger takes control of my mouth. There is no stopping me at this point. “Or have all of yours just laid there like a corpse and spread their legs for you?”

“I prefer one I can control like a puppet on a string. Makes it easier to never look back once it’s over.”

Don’t ask me why, but something clicks in the short amount of time his eyes stare into mine. Thank God for peripheral vision. Or maybe I’m just finally really starting to understand him and how he works.

I smother the smirk trying to form and take a step toward him. Before he can open his mouth, I grab his dick through his jeans—his hard dick. “Or are you just pissed that I do this to you and you can no longer control every situation?”

He grabs my neck, hauling me backward until my back is pressed against the cool glass. His neck snakes toward me, his lips skimming over mine so softly they barely touch. He’s teasing me. Wetness pools in my already damp panties, but I keep my palms against the glass. “If I’ve got to be in this Hell, so are you. Prepare to be sore, because you’re going to drain me, bitch.”

A shiver runs down my spine as I make my way through the house, remembering that promise. What a promise it was. I file in behind him, pulling the black Metallica tee shirt I grabbed from his drawer over my head, a pair of his boxers already in place. I still haven’t moved my things into his room. I sleep there, but the rest is exactly how I came into it. Call me crazy, but I wanted to make sure he was serious and not pressured before making it so . . . final.

I can live with separate spaces for a little while longer. And he hasn’t asked why my stuff is absent, seeming content just that I’m there, so I figured that was even more reason to wait. The longer I’m around him, the more I realize that sudden anything is bad for Kross. He needs an adjustment period. Me—the part I need I’m getting. Where my stuff is stored doesn’t matter to me.

He stops at a door tucked away at the back of the house and shoves a key in the lock. It’s a door I’ve noticed familiarizing myself with the house, but the second I realized it stayed locked up I left it alone. I haven’t even asked him about it at the risk of being an intruder in a house that isn’t mine. Plundering never was my thing. Everyone needs privacy of their own.

When the door swings open a dark staircase comes into view. Dark, as in, I can only see the first two steps dark. I halt at his back, a nervous tick occurring low in my belly. “This isn’t the part where I become the main character in a horror movie is it? I don’t want to walk down there and find tools to become lawn fertilizer.”

He glances at me. “Your imagination is too colorful.”

I raise one brow. “Is that really dramatic, though . . . considering everything? Serial killers and sociopaths are never the obvious.”

He remains facing the stairs, his head turned toward me, but tilts his head slightly, his jaw upturning toward me. “Not all serial killers enjoy killing women,” he says, and then he makes his way down the stairs without another word, leaving me speechless, mouth gaping with sudden chill bumps as my blood runs cold.

Utterly fucked.

And the scary part—I don’t give a damn.

He turns on a light at the bottom as I make my way down, hands to each side of me on the wall so that I don’t trip. It’s a basement from what I can tell.

I come into the room and halt, my eyes scanning everywhere, overwhelmed. It’s a large, finished basement all right, but every wall is ornamented with weapons of different size and make: assault rifles, shotguns, handguns, knives, swords, and everything in between. Each has an exact place, as if it was a precise thought or measurement on where it was hung or stored.

Instead of furniture, it has metal safes, cabinets, counters, and workbenches, built-in shelving for storage. It’s like an assassin’s lair. And at the moment, I feel like Angelina Jolie in Mr. & Mrs. Smith. “What is this place?”

I chance a glance at Kross. He’s studying every piece from where he stands, a reverent look on his face. “My personal collection,” he replies, still not looking at me.

“Personal collection?” I scoff. “It’s a fucking arsenal. Why do you need this much?”

He glances at me, no crack of a smile. “We live on a planet filled with violence, people hungry for war, and every being fighting for power and territory. If it’s ever brought to my door, I won’t be caught with my pants down. This life is ugly, Delta. You don’t dance in the shadows without being a master of the art.”

I look at him, really study him. I can’t help it. Everything he says or does I’m drawn to like a bug to light. On the exterior he’s hard, a little terrifying, and sexy as hell. Just beneath the surface he’s angry, awkward, controlling, and just a tad bit, or a-lot-a-bit psycho. But at his core, and I mean deep down in a place that isn’t reachable with ease, I think he’s a broken little boy that never experienced love, and a shattered man that’s scared of becoming that same little boy again if he were to get it now.

Maybe Lux was right. Do I love him? Or is it wishful hoping over something I have always wanted in return. Then it slams into me. The knowledge that if I could change his childhood for him, I would in a heartbeat, even if it altered his life so much that I didn’t have him now. And I probably don’t even know half of what he’s been through.

I think, buried six feet under his surface is a beautiful soul. Every once in a while, when he doesn’t even realize it, I get a glimpse of him unarmed, and it makes me want more. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? I’m willing to become a criminal for him. I’m willing to risk jail to stay. And death is a very real possibility if I don’t leave.

But even so, I want him. I want all of him. Regardless of how long I have to dig. I grab the nape of his neck and kiss him, nothing else on my mind but his lips. Our tongues tangle, falling into a familiar dance. One hand combs through my hair, locking into a fist at my crown, the other slipping around my waist.

My arms circle behind his head, no sound except our heavy breathing. He lifts enough for me to take the hint, my legs circling around his waist.

I don’t know how long we’ve stayed like this—kissing, groping, breathing—when we finally break. His eyes are clear, when so often they’re haunted. “I didn’t mean what I said last night. I was a dick to say that shit to you. You just make me fucking crazy. I don’t deal with things like normal people.”

I smile, remembering it again. I’m one of those girls that doesn’t let words bother me. Well, from everyone except one person. I know I’m not a whore. I was with one man until I left him. I had some wild phases after, did some experimenting, and played the casual sex game. But a true whore doesn’t go for any lengthy amount of time without fucking someone or multiple people. And before that night with Chuck, I had been on a pretty long stretch of celibacy for someone that’s been sexually active for years.

“You did mean to say it,” I tell him. “You’re not a man that says things without premeditation. You’re an arrogant, controlling, psychotic bastard most days. But I’m choosing to take it as a compliment. It’s about fucking time that you broke from this ridiculous game of controlling when we have sex and how often. Most men want their dicks in something almost constantly. Regularly. It’s okay. I’d rather stay sore than think I don’t turn you on enough to want it to the point of madness.” I kiss between his eyes, softening my agitated tone. “But you’re also my arrogant, controlling, psychotic bastard. I don’t want you any other way.”

For dramatic effect, I rub my center up and down his hard length, my voice thick with lust. “Besides, I like servicing your dick on the regular. It’s the best one yet.” He grunts. My eyes drop to his lips and back up again. “What’s the point in having sex with someone who doesn’t bring out the porn star in you?”

I swallow, my eyes falling to her hard nipples showing through my shirt. I lower her to her feet, trying to put some distance between us. As much as I want her right now—in spite of what my brain says is logical—I have to find balance again. With her, I constantly switch between Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and it makes me fucking crazy.

I pinch the front of the shirt. “This looks better on you than me. Keep it.”

She smiles. The girl has a beautiful smile. It’s one of those that makes you hone in on her the second she uses it. She has multiple I’ve noticed, depending on what she’s smiling for. Witty sarcasm has one, playful banter another, but this one is my favorite. It’s the one she radiates when I notice something about her aloud or tell her something about myself without her prying. Most often, when she’s caught by surprise in general. It’s not only the act of the mouth being upturned, but her cheeks change in hue from skin tone to pink and her eyes alter in shape slightly and give off a glassy shine. “Are you giving out compliments today?”

“Just stating the facts.”

“Oh,” she says, her voice sounding different than usual. She steps toward me, her palms going to my stomach. My abs clench at first touch, catching me off guard, but then I relax as she rubs up my front. Her fingers touch the balls of my nipple piercing. “Does it hurt?”

“No more than anything else.”

She slides the barbell side to side. “I would have never let anyone else do it, you know.”

“Then what was that shit in the studio with Remington?”

She sighs, her shoulders drooping some. “It’s always to feel you out, Kross, to get your attention. To see if it gets a rise out of you at all. Sometimes I feel like when it comes to me you’re just indifferent. Maybe because I’ve had a thing for you since the beginning. Then that girl you were tattooing was moaning and trying to move her shorts so low you could almost see everything. You didn’t stop her, tell her to cool it, or mention you were seeing someone so her efforts were wasted. You just . . . sat there.” She takes a deep breath. “Never mind.”

“You’ve had my attention since you dropped off your design with Cassie.”

Her head snaps up to mine, our eyes meeting. “You saw me? Before the night of my tattoo?”

My finger slips under the section of hair lying over her breast. “Yes. I was on my way in for my first appointment. I saw you walking across the parking lot. I sat in my truck and watched you the entire time. When you left, I asked Cassie about it. Six weeks and five days you sat on a waiting list for two spots with me to open. It would have been longer if not for Kaston. He’s one of the few that I work in on short notice. When I knew the slots were added I had Cassie call you. I knew who you were when you walked in with Lux that night.”

Her face flushes. “Why haven’t you mentioned it?”

“When was it ever relevant? In case you haven’t picked up on it, I’m more of an internal person. That likely won’t ever change. When I tattoo, everything else fades away except you; has since the day I laid eyes on you. I’ve never been able to tune you out. I can feel your presence. I can be lost in a design, the gun going, and still I know your every move. When it’s necessary for someone to know I’m seeing someone, they will. There is no damn reason to have that conversation with a client I’m not even paying attention to when you’re in the room. I’ve never fucked a client in the past and I don’t intend to start.”

“I’m glad we had this conversation.”

I grab her hand and pull her toward the closed door in the back. “Good. Now get your ass over here. We don’t have all day. I’m booked solid ‘til close.”

He opens the door, revealing a small tattoo setup I didn’t know existed in this house. It’s fully stocked with everything, only a private version of each station at the studio, enclosed in a single room instead of out in the open. I look at him, a grin on my face. “You have your own personal tattoo studio? You would . . .”

He migrates to the walk-in closet and disappears inside. Moments later he returns, extending a big box toward me. I stare at the words on the front. Tattooist: Tattoo Kit. My heart starts pounding. “What’s this for?”

“It’s a Verge Duet Kit. It has everything you need to get started. I have plenty of ink and supplies here. I set it up just like the shop. All you have to do is familiarize yourself with where everything is. Use it. There is a huge difference in your comfort level with your own gun versus someone else’s. I moved mine to the cabinet. You can customize and pick your own foot switches, clip cords, and machines once that station has your name over it. I’ll even buy it.”

I’m trying to listen through the shock.

“This space is yours to practice. I’ll still teach you things at the shop, but the best way to learn is hands-on practice. We can work here when we’re home. As a business owner, I can’t let you practice freely on clients until I know you have a basic understanding and have seen you do it enough. It’s a liability. What you need are practice hours. It’s no different than a pilot needing so many flight hours before he can get a job in commercial. Vinny was a long-time client that I knew wouldn’t mind because he knew I wouldn’t let him walk out with a shit piece. I have a few clients like that I’ll let you do things on from time to time. For now, there is enough practice skin in the drawer that you shouldn’t run out for a while even if you used one to two a day.”

My nails go to my mouth as I stare at the box. My eyes gloss over, blurring my vision. I’ve gone from never crying to crying all the time, but this, he’ll never know what this means to me.

I’ve been looking at tattoo equipment for years, dreaming of the day when I had my own. The truth is, you can get a basic kit for as little as fifty bucks, the average around a hundred, but I know that particular kit is not one the average amateur can afford. “That’s about a four-hundred-dollar kit. I can’t take that. You’ve done enough already.”

He pulls me by the shirt and forces me to sit in the tattoo chair, placing the box in my lap. He bends forward, our eyes the same height. “You’re not a damn charity case, Delta. I took you on as an apprentice. I wasn’t thinking with my dick when I made that decision. I’ll absorb the training costs just like any other company would. I don’t have a spotless reputation for nothing. My artists fuck up they get fucked, because I only employ the best.

“The shit you do around the shop—the bullshit maid work—you have to start from the bottom, doing the stuff no one wants to do. With tattoos becoming popular, too many people up and decide on a whim they want to be an artist. I needed to know you were serious before I vested time in you. I’ll give you lessons, homework, and tests, which will be timed according to design and size. You don’t have to ask me to come down here. I’ll give you a key, but it has to stay locked up.”

Before I can stop them, the tears cross over the threshold and push over the edge, then continue rolling down my cheeks. I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug, hoping he didn’t notice. No one has ever done something like this for me, and I never in a million years thought when it happened that it’d be Kross. “Thank you. You’ll never understand how much this means to me.”

He pulls back, looking at me before I can attempt to wipe my eyes. He has a curious expression on his face. The backs of his fingers then trail down my cheek, ridding them of the tears. I can barely breathe the way he’s touching me: so soft, so caring, the total opposite of anything that is Kross. But he doesn’t say anything about it. “I have a few calls to make before we go to the shop. Why don’t you set up and get a feel for it and then we’ll work on it when we get home tonight.”

“Okay,” I whisper, fighting to keep my emotions under control. His lips press against mine, his hand on the side of my face, pushing my hair out of the way. Then, he releases me, and walks out of the room, shutting the door behind him. “I love you, Kross,” I say, the words tumbling out of my mouth, as if they needed to be said to make me believe something I’ve been denying all along.

“I love you, Kross.”

I sit at my desk with my burner phone clenched in my hand, dazed and confused as I stare at the video feed from all of my shops on the computer, yet to make any calls.

I heard it. I shouldn’t have heard it. For once, it pisses me off that I have such good hearing, because now I have no idea what to do with that knowledge. I don’t want it or need it lingering around in my head. I have enough unwanted shit up there. Like the memories with no attachment. The past that haunts me. A man like me is incapable of such feelings.

Love.

I don’t understand the concept nor do I feel a fucking thing.

I’m numb.

I’ve always been numb.

But my pulse is pounding.

My heart is racing.

Thoughts are spinning so fast I feel dizzy.

Memories are attacking me so hard it’s difficult to catch my breath.

The door slings open, the knob hitting the wall. I clench the comforter tighter, my eyes squeezing hard in hopes she’ll go away. “Where were you today, boy?”

I try to remain calm, praying she’ll think I’m asleep for once. My stomach rumbles, making me silently plea inside that somehow, I can fly away from here, from her. Maybe they’ll come get me and take me to another new house. I’m used to it by now. Anything has to be better than this place; the place I’ve been the longest.

She pulls the cover off my body, the leather belt slamming against my back. “Get up!” she roars. “I’m not going to be disrespected by a bastard kid.”

I glance at her—her eyes black, the color absent. I don’t speak. I’ve learned it’s easier when I keep quiet. She slings the belt again, the buckle digging into my skin. “Where were you?”

I’ll never tell her where I’ve been. I don’t care what she does to me. Sneaking out and learning my place in this God-forsaken world away from her is my only form of sanity. I’m just waiting for the right moment for my revenge.

Another strike. My teeth clench. Everything inside of me wants to scream, to fight back, to run away. But I’m not old enough in the eyes of the state. If I did, it’s only a matter of time before a cop brings me back. “Were you out looking for a little tramp to make you feel good?”

She takes my silence for agreement. “You know, my Winston used to do that. When he said he was working late while I was home playing the perfect little housewife, he was really in some rundown motel with the first whore that would remind him he wasn’t too old. Time after time, they got younger and younger. Maybe it’s time I teach you sorry little bastards a lesson. Turn over, boy.”

I do as she says, preparing for whatever is coming this time. Her eyes scan my fifteen-year-old body, giving me chills. My blood runs ice cold when she says, “You know, to some people, forty-nine isn’t old at all. Maybe I should have married someone my age all that long ago instead of someone twenty years older always looking for a younger model. I was a good wife, always teaching my Christian values. I still paid for his sins. I guess you’d have to find out for yourself, though, to understand. Strip.”

My breathing accelerates, not moving. She rears back and strikes me again in the pelvis. “I said strip!”

I push down my boxers, baring myself. She removes her silk nightgown, no clothes underneath. A wave of nausea hits me as she climbs on the bed. She gropes me, my dick hardening against my will. I try to push up the bed. “Get the fuck off me,” I scream, but the second my mouth opens, the leather of the belt pushes into the opening. She presses down, causing me to bite down on the leather.

In a different life, she was probably a pretty lady, but her bitterness, the smoking, and the loneliness has made her seem way older than the age she gives.

I grip her wrists, preparing to push her off. “Do it and I’ll make your life worse than it already is. I know you sneak off in the middle of the night. Fight me and I’ll make it physically impossible for you to leave this room.”

My hands loosen. Leaving here, even if for only a few hours at a time is the only way I mentally survive. I need it like I need air, more than I need food or water. I’ll do anything, withstand anything, and be anything to keep doing it.

She grinds herself against me, leaving wetness on my skin. “Hold it up,” she says, lifting off me just a little.

I do as she says, grabbing the base of my dick the way I do sometimes when thoughts fill my head and I can’t get rid of them except to stroke myself. When I feel her touch down on me, I clench my eyes shut, trying to picture the girls in the magazines that I keep between the mattresses.

Then, moments later, my teeth bite into the leather and I scream out at the feeling of being inside her warm and wet body. I scream because I hate it and because I like the way it feels. And then, everything inside of me that ever felt anything goes completely numb as she starts to ride my body and writhe against me.

“This is all you’ll ever be good for. No one will ever love you,” was the last thing ever said to me before everything that existed inside of me died, along with my virginity.

Three words and the Hell I live in is back full force. This is me. She may need me, but there is no way a girl like her can love me. Criminals are unlovable. This is the man I am. It’s best for those three words to be forgotten, as if they never existed. All the more reason to confirm a job meeting.

Unknown number: Three days. Midnight. Salsa club on Canary Street. Wait for my text.

I stand, making my way out of my office, locking it up behind me. I need distractions and I need them now.