Up in Smoke, Page 31

  I have needs. I’m a man. That’s all this shit is.

  I slip out of bed and make sure the cuff tethering her to the bed is tight. I leave the house, get on my bike, and head over to a local dive bar. Within minutes, I find a busty and willing redhead who I take back to the house.

  I bring the redhead into the living room, but I leave the door to the bedroom open. I tell myself it’s because I want to make sure I can keep an eye on Frankie as she sleeps, but as the redhead unzips my fly, I realize it’s because I want to keep my eyes on her. As my cock enters the stranger’s mouth, it feels all wrong. I try to close my eyes, but all I see is Frankie.

  I open them again, and all I see now is bright red lips and dark blue eyeshadow bobbing up and down on my dick. I feel myself softening. I look at the ceiling and thread my fingers through the redhead’s hair, impaling her on my cock. She makes a choking sound followed by a moan, and I lift my hips to fuck her mouth, but I can’t reach the release that’s so close. I just need…

  A clinking sound grabs my attention away from the ceiling. My eyes land on Frankie who’s shifted on the bed. She’s awake. The clinking was her cuff against the bedpost. Her eyes are open and staring straight at me. Wild and offended and something else. Jealous? Turned on?

  The truth is I’m keeping my eyes locked on her because it’s the only thing bringing me to the fucking edge. It’s Frankie’s mouth I’m imagining as I grow thicker. Harder. It’s the taste of Frankie’s pussy on my tongue that’s driving me to fuck the back of her throat. I want it to be Frankie who swallows every drop of what I give her.

  The redhead pops up and rolls a condom over my length. She raises up and takes a hold of me in her hand but before she has a chance to impale herself I spin her around by the hips so she’s facing away from me.

  I push on her shoulders so that she’s slightly bent and not blocking my view of Frankie who’s still watching, but the redhead doesn’t notice her.

  After a few exaggerated moans, she’s either come or faked it, but I couldn’t care less. I grab her hips and take control even though she’s the one on top. I thrust up into her roughly as I lock eyes with Frankie with every intention of annoying her or smirking at her or pissing her off. Punishment for what she’s already done to me, even if she knows it or not. But I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m too lost in her eyes. When I come, I don’t tear them from hers as I come harder than I ever have, so hard I’m seeing stars. I’m so lost that it’s a while before I come to, but when I do, the redhead is gone, my pants remain open, and Frankie’s eyes are closed once again.

  I take a quick shower, feeling worse than I had before I went in search of relief that never came.

  I should feel better. More powerful. I showed her who was in control, and in return, I’ve never felt so out of control. Because one inhale of her scent on the pillow, one little tease of her essence, and any satisfaction I might have felt is gone, and I am rock hard again.

  My stomach a hollow pit. My soul a shade blacker than it was this morning.

  I slide into bed and reach for her, pulling her against my chest. She tries to wiggle from my grasp, but I hold her steady until she stops resisting.

  “Sssshhhh,” I tell her. “Go back to sleep.”

  “I hate you,” she says. I hear the tears in her words, and they fucking sting. For the first time in my life, I can feel the pain of words strike like a shiv to the ribs.

  You and me both.

  Despite the unwanted and unwelcome new pain, I feel something else. Something that feels a lot like pride. She’s still defiant. She hasn’t given up. I haven’t broken her.

  I kiss the top of her head and sigh into her hair.

  “Good. You should.”

  Chapter Thirty

  I mechanically throwthe ball for the fifteenth time, and The Warden brings it back within seconds, sitting at my feet and waiting eagerly for yet another toss. It’s all I can do to keep the anger from exploding inside of me, making me do something I know I’ll regret.

  Like tell Smoke the truth.

  “Alright, boy. Time for a challenge.” This time, I throw it as far as I can. I think it’s going to stop at the fence, but the ball hits the ground and goes bouncing over it instead.

  “Shit,” I curse as The Warden leaps over the fence like a miniature horse jumping barrels. He lands with a yelp, and I leap to my feet and run toward him.

  I’m not sure of where the property line is that will end in my demise if I cross over it, but Smoke assured me of a warning beep so I make my way slowly to the other side of the fence, careful not to make too much noise so I can hear the beep in case the warning isn’t a loud one.

  I jump down on the other side and look around. I don’t see the ball or The Warden. “Where did you go, boy?” I call out.

  The Warden whips past me, a big furry yellow blur, almost knocking me over. I watch him cross the field and dart into the open door of a small run down shed with rusted metal roof. I trudge through the long grass still listening for the beep when I hear a noise that sounds like a woodpecker hammering his beak into the trunk of a tree, but it can’t be a woodpecker. It’s much slower, and then it stops completely.

  As I approach the shack the scent of pine hits me, reminding me of the tall trees covering the vacant lot around the townhouse. It’s only been a few days since I’ve seen it but it feels like a lifetime ago.

  “There better not be spiders in there,” I grumble, carefully pushing open the door, peering into the darkness of the shack. The walls of the tiny room are covered with shelves and those shelves are full to the edges with wooden statues of all kinds and sizes, similar to the ones I saw in Zelda’s home.

  There are several dog statues that look like The Warden along with many torsos. Women’s torsos. Some with large breasts, some with small. One with a large rounded pregnant belly on a center spot above the dirty window.

  All are extremely beautiful. I stand there for a moment in awe with my mouth agape, taking it all in. The noise starts again, startling me. I look down from the shelves to the other side of the shack where I see movement in the shadows.

  I approach slowly until I can make out the source of the noise which isn’t a bird at all, it’s the sound of a soft hammer banging against the end of a chisel, and that chisel is in the hands of none other than Smoke.

  I’m surprised.

  He’s shirtless. His trap muscles flex, tightening and rotating as he rotates a block of wood upon a lazy-susan type of rotating wheel. One of his bare feet is propped up against the table leg, the other is flat on the floor.

  Smoke created all this?

  The Warden approaches me with the tennis ball in his mouth. He drops it at my feet, and that’s when Smoke looks up. “What are you doing in here?” he asks.

  “The Warden jumped the fence looking for his ball.”

  “Get out!” Smoke orders.

  I barely register him speaking because my eyes are glued to the piece he’s working on. The woman’s figure isn’t like the others. It’s larger in scale, and it isn’t smooth and perfect like the others. The wood is knotted and cracked as if representing bruises and scrapes. There’s even a ding right below the left collarbone that looks just like…

  “Get the fuck out,” Smoke warns. His stool falls to the floor as he stands with his fists clenched at his sides.

  I spin around and run back with The Warden hot on my heels, the ball still in his mouth, as if we’re playing a game and he’s chasing me.

  I jump back over the fence and run to the porch. I don’t stop until I’m inside the house with the door shut behind me. The Warden drops the ball at my feet, but I step over it on my way to the bathroom.

  I rip off my shirt and look in the mirror at my now faded bruises and scrapes. I remember the piece Smoke was working on.

  My eyes go wide as I trace my fingers over the small mole right below my left collarbone.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I can’t sleep.

 
It’s late when Smoke climbs into bed. I smell the whiskey surrounding him along with cigar smoke. I pretend to be asleep while he takes off his clothes and gets into bed. He wraps his big arms around me as he usually does and pulls me against his hard chest.

  I hate that I find myself relaxing into him instead of fighting him. I hate that I want his touch instead of being repulsed by it.

  I hate that, despite everything, I don’t hate him.

  “I promise I’ll try and find another way,” Smoke whispers. I turn around to ask him what he meant by that, but he’s already fast asleep.

  His eyelashes are long and dark on his cheeks. His full lips are slightly parted. I don’t know what comes over me, but I can’t help myself. I crane my neck and lightly press my lips to his. I pull away only to find his eyes are now open, and he’s looking at me with a mix of confusion and lust.

  “I’m…I just…” I begin, but I don’t get to finish because I’m rolled over on my back with Smoke on top of me and his lips on mine.

  He rolls his hips against me, his long, hard erection pressing up against my sensitive nub igniting a carnal lust inside me like a flint to fire. His lips are against my neck, and I’m arching into him. His lips part and his tongue connects with my skin. I break out into delicious gooseflesh.

  Then, he’s gone.

  The bathroom door slams, and the sound of water hitting the porcelain can be heard under the door as the shower turns on.

  I creep out of the bed and watch him through a crack in the door. He’s naked, leaning against his forearms on the wall of the shower. Water drips down his sculpted body as he lets his forehead rest on his arm. His other hand snakes down his chiseled abs where he grabs hold of his massive erection and begins to stroke himself.

  I should look away. I should look anywhere but at him, but I can’t help myself. I want to hate him for bringing that girl here. I want to not feel this pain and fear and anxiety every time I look at him. I want this desire for him to disappear as quickly as it came, but none of that happens. I can only stare at Smoke with wonderment and awe and fucking slicing pain.

  I’m silently sobbing as his pace quickens, his breaths short. He shuts his eyes tightly. He’s rough and almost violent with himself. His eyes open and find mine through the crack.

  I stay still. Frozen in place. A tear rolls down my cheek.

  He keeps his gaze fixed on mine as he strokes himself once more, coming with a deep groan on his lips; long streams of white coat the tile and his fist.

  I’m panting along with him except now my sobs aren’t so silent.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  In search of my sneakers,I move Smoke’s cut off one of the chairs hoping to find them underneath. Nope. Not there. I place his cut back where I found it when something falls to the floor. I think it’s a picture until I realize it’s an ultrasound. Morgan Faith Clark is the name on the top left corner. The date is from last year.

  “What the hell is this?” I ask myself out loud. And why does Smoke have it?

  When I hear Smoke’s heavy stomp, I tuck the photo back into his cut just as he opens the front door.

  “Come out here,” he says.

  “I can’t find my sneakers.”

  “You don’t need them,” he assures me.

  The last thing I’m expecting is to be led out to the porch and presented with a large standing easel. But that’s what’s waiting for me on the far-left side. It has paint from past creations splattered on it all around the legs. It’s secondhand, which to me, makes it even better, having already lived another life.

  “What’s that for?” I finally ask.

  “It’s for painting,” Smoke says sarcastically, leaning against the door. “Thought you’d know that.”

  “I got that much, but why is it here?” My feet don’t wait for his response. In fact, I’m already across the deck inspecting the materials by the time the question leaves my mouth.

  Stretched canvas. Several bottles of Acrylic paint. Primary colors only with a larger bottle of white paint and wooden palate for mixing colors. There’s also a water dish already filled to the top on the side table and several rags in the holder connecting the two front legs. A dozen or so paint brushes of various sizes sit in a cylinder attached to the side of the easel.

  “Do you paint?” I ask because even after our conversation, I can’t possibly believe this is all here for me.

  “No,” Smoke answers with a small laugh. “But, you’re about as good at being bored as I am. Zelda told me you mentioned you’ve wanted to paint. Thought you might like to try.”

  I don’t know what his endgame is here. All I know is that I want to be mad. I want to rage on him and tell him that trying to occupy my time until my death isn’t going to work. I want to tell him to shove this entire easel up his murdering ass, but another part of me is itching to give it a shot. Tears prick at my eyes, but I keep my back to Smoke. I won’t give him my fear, and I sure as hell won’t give him my joy.

  I wonder if Dr. Ida ever wanted to both thank someone and stab them at the same time. “So, this is a bribe, so I’ll be less difficult? Because I don’t know if a few paints are going to do the trick.” When I’m sure the threat of tears is gone, I turn around and stop just in time to see the screen door flap shut.

  Smoke’s the one gone now.

  I turn back to the easel and run my hand over the blank canvas. I look out over the porch and close my eyes. I breathe in the fresh air. I observe the way the sunlight feels on my face. I open them again and I’m already popping the tops off the paints and mixing the colors until I get the results I want. I choose a brush, dip it in the water, and shake off the excess.

  Then, I’m gone. I’m in another world. One without fear. Or ankle bombs. Or fathers who abandon their children, or men who’d rather take lives than save them. In this world, only I and the canvas exist.

  For a very short time, I am free.

  Smoke

  I’ve been trying to get a hold of Griff with no fucking luck. I know he said he’d reach out to me but I need to know how much closer his people are to finding Frank. I close the phone and sigh.

  I need to know how much time is left.

  I go outside for a smoke. Frankie’s still at the easel, where she’s been for the last several hours. Her foot’s tapping to the beat of the song on the radio, and she’s singing along. Her voice isn’t that of an angel. It’s pretty fucking horrific, actually, but I find myself watching her anyway as she sways from side to side while painting away.

  I don’t know what I expected her to paint or why. I didn’t give it all that much thought when I bought the damn thing from the art store in town. I just wanted to keep her occupied so she’d stop asking questions, stop wanting to tell me stories. Stop making me like her. Want her.

  The problem is that she’s stopped making the effort, but I still find myself liking her.

  Wanting her.

  I light my smoke, and my foot brushes against a canvas drying in the sun on the top step. I crouch down and turn my head to get a better view of what it is. It’s a very large and very realistic looking eye. A blueish circle lines the bottom giving it the appearance of being tired.