Diary of a Submissive (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 4)

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “Yes, that is it,” I say, shaking my head and smirking as I rub my eyes. “Exactly.” I look around. “Where is Iris?”

  He tilts his head. “Pool.” His phone rings, and I see Dom’s name.

  I squeeze his fingers. “He may be your Daddy, but he isn’t your Dad.”

  “I gotta get this.”

  Grabbing a box of the egg rolls and some sauce, I walk to the door. “I’m going to feed a mermaid in the moonlight.”

  He laughs. “You do that!”

  “Oh, I’m gonna.”

  Steam from the pool rises as I stare for a minute at Iris swimming naked. Her glistening skin arches and dips as I smirk. Her curves slope with the suggestion of sex. She stops at the wall, spots me, and smiles.

  Dear God, if he hurts you again…

  I forgave him once.

  He won’t get two.

  We had already been having issues with Sal’s drug problem. It may have started as a way to help the voices in his head, but the CAE (Atticus’ group of immoral lab rats) were out to control his thinking. With his genetic predisposition—thanks, Vinny—it didn’t take long before I had a lover who was a cokehead and lying about it.

  Add in the act of betrayal—knowing about my son, Merritt—and never telling me. I found out by accident on his phone. I was pissed. And despite Ma telling Sal to leave me alone, there were a few hate-filled texts. He was angry about the whole situation. I was just angry with him. He was a complete dick to me.

  He was better than that.

  During our war, he unilaterally, in almost a dictator-like style, decided to send Iris to Guam. I fundamentally disagreed. We couldn’t watch over her. I didn’t know the guys—Mock and Naby—he was trusting our priceless, irreplaceable flower with, and that made him a fool.

  So, he was a liar, dickhead, and fool.

  Three enormous strikes took months for me to forgive.

  If he hurts Iris one more time, I may kill him.

  “What are you doing, Deacon?”

  “Looking at the most beautiful girl in the world,” I admire, handing her a towel as she steps out of the water. “I have yummies.” She bites her lip with excitement, and I wrap the heavy cotton robe around her shoulders.

  “Where is Sal?”

  “On the phone with Dom,” I answer. We take a seat at the table. The temperature is brisk but humid as hell. It’s wonderful. “Did you hear about Dale?”

  “I did! It’s great news!” she booms as I open the box of egg rolls. “Those look incredible!”

  “They are,” I reply, feeding her. “Kim is an incredible cook.”

  “Oh, my God…” she says with her mouth full. “Does she make egg drop soup?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure she can.”

  “I haven’t had any homemade since my Nanny.”

  I dip another one and hand it to her. I’m sort of curious to see how much Chinese food the geisha doll can consume. I fear it might rival Sal and pasta. These are the little details I don’t know and desperately want to. “Do you know how to do it?”

  Plunging her egg roll in the sauce, she chirps, “I do!”

  “Iris?”

  “Yes?”

  “You double-dipped,” I teasingly point out. “Dirty girl!”

  “You think I care?” Her eyes dance and flirt. “I double-dip you and Sal all the time. And yes, I am very nasty.”

  God, how I would love to know how far you could go.

  Leaning back in the chair, I cackle and push the box and sauce to her side before discreetly adjusting myself. I’m getting a massive boner watching her feast. “You’re going to eat all of those.”

  “Pro—ba—bly,” she says as Sal surfaces from the lands of Daddy Dom, or would that be Dom Daddy, either or. On one hand, he’s got a box of lo mien he’s eating out of and beneath that, a container of spring rolls. It’s a precarious balancing act.

  “Are you actually eating noodles with chopsticks?” I ask as he shoves them in his mouth.

  Iris smiles. “He’s refined when he’s not slopping himself.”

  “Dear fuck, you have to try these,” Sal urges, setting the food on the table. He dips a spring roll into the sauce, takes a bite, dips it again, and says, “Bite this.”

  Gah, these ‘refined’ kids eating with chopsticks, yet they double-dip.

  “That’s better than the egg rolls!” I mumble as Iris eagerly looks on.

  He dips it again and boasts, “Eat this, now!”

  With a straight face, Iris asks, “Have you seen how much egg roll I can fit in my mouth?”

  “I know how much dick you can fit in your mouth,” Sal charms with a grin.

  “Exactly,” Iris says, stealing a spring roll. “Then you should know, I like more than just the tip, Nero.”

  Owned.

  And I die laughing with my lovers and a hard-on kept secret from both.

  Now, who is really fucked up, Sally boy?

  33

  splat

  His Butterfly

  At a gas station right outside of Beaumont, I smile at the boys getting gas—Deacon in the bike and Sal in the Raptor. We’ve been tailing our biker boy back to Texas.

  I haven’t told anyone, but I’m not ready to leave New Orleans. We had our christening session, fell more in love with one another, and a week later, we’re headed to Texas.

  Anna wanted Sal back at Juliet for Roses & Thorns on Valentines. They were having a private reception on the fourteenth and the big celebration on the weekend.

  Deacon and Sal whined about missing Mardi Gras, and I didn’t want to add in my I-don’t-want-to-go-yet sentiments. Or it would have just been—We’re not going. Sorry!

  Our plans to usurp Cristos were working splendidly, but we needed to expand the agenda—and that meant going home to Texas. Sal required an urgent meeting with Mass before the weekend. He was flying into Houston this afternoon, and Deacon and Sal would be having dinner with him, which left me on my own.

  Welcome to Texas! Dump you off! See you later! Gotta Go!

  It wasn’t that bad, but suffice it to say—the pace was changing. And I wasn’t sure I liked it. New Orleans was busy if you went out, but relaxed at The Dollhouse. There was a Netflix and chill vibe…maybe that was all the ganja and Stranger Things we binged. But it was good.

  We were whole; better than okay.

  State line. Nosedive.

  For the last couple of hours, I’ve been shopping in hopes of finding something to wear for the weekend event. I’d have to rush the shipping, but at least I’d have an outfit. There was nothing I liked, and poor Sal had spent two-plus hours with me whining.

  Opening my door, Sal says, “Come on.”

  “I don’t need to twinkle.”

  He smirked. “I didn’t say a word about you twinkling. You’re riding with Cruz.”

  “Because you are tired of my asking—do you like this?”

  “No, because it would do you good,” he assures, walking my ass up to the bike. “All week long we’ve been together. Spend some time with Cruz.”

  He wasn’t wrong. We bonded over anal sex and champagne, but we hadn’t spent any real time without each other. No doubt Sal needed to talk to himself, call Dom, and jerk off twice while staring at my ass on the bike.

  He’s developed a slight masturbation problem. Deacon mentioned it in passing. “Oh, by the way, Sal is smacking his meat half a dozen times a day because shit is spinning since The Spider went down the drain.”

  I blamed myself, but I also knew it was just another outlet for his addictive personality. He wasn’t a drug addict, a sex addict, or an alcoholic.

  He was just an addict.

  If he had the time to be running ten miles a day, he would have been doing that. Or if he had the time to build furniture, he’d be in a shed, sun up to sundown. It was just how he worked—one addiction to the next.

  I want to be his addiction.

  But he is afraid and so am I.

  Deacon and I accept it because we k
now him.

  “You still following, Raniero?”

  “Yep,” he says, planting a kiss on my lips. “I love you. Have fun. Be careful.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain!”

  Deacon takes one look at my sad expression, tilts his head, and says, “What’s wrong, princess?”

  “I have nothing to wear for either thang at Juliet.”

  “Let’s get to Houston,” he suggests, smiling. “And I will get you some thangs to wear.”

  I grin, and he shoves the helmet on my head. He’s only got one, so I get the glory of getting whipped—please not like that, pretty pervs—by his blonde hair. He strips off his cut and stashes it in the saddlebag. “You ready?”

  In shock, I glance at him. “… Not risking it?”

  “Not with this precious cargo on my ass.”

  Straddling onto the bike, I whisper, “You really would have left the club.”

  “That’s not even a question.”

  You’re right. It wasn’t.

  I’m alone in a hot bubble bath in Sal’s loft. Sal asked if I wanted to meet Mass. I said no. Houston is too busy. Shopping is great. The food is excellent. Traffic is not.

  I’m reading or trying to read, but I keep getting distracted because Deacon is sending play-by-play texts.

  We’re feeling a little squishy after having my crotch pressed to his ass for three hours. Traffic. He’s soft-hearted, kind of like the puppy you pet once, and he follows you home, never to leave.

  I set down my phone to pour another glass of champagne. I stare at the tiles knowing his wife went downhill and puked blood all over this room. It’s been redone twice since then. Still, these walls know.

  Already feeling a little creeped out, I jump when the phone rings with an Unknown Caller. I ignore it. The front door is locked. There are thirteen sliding locks we left undone because I planned on bathing and going to sleep, and the boys would need to be able to get in.

  Don’t ask me why there are thirteen sliding locks.

  Kali, Ho, and Swain are all waiting for us in Sugargrove. I just need to get home.

  Where is home?

  New Orleans feels like home.

  And I miss Japan a lot.

  It feels like home.

  Will Sugargrove feel like home?

  I don’t know.

  The phone rings again. “Shit…” Thinking maybe it’s Sal, I pick it up. “Hello?”

  “Iris?”

  “… Amber?”

  “Is Sal around? He’s not picking up his phone, and I am leaving,” she urgently says. “I cannot stay here. They’re onto me.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Some things have happened with the plans I had.”

  “Plans with who?” I ask, completely lost. “What are you talking about?”

  “I really can’t talk. We’re about to get in a van for the airport,” she informs. “I’m getting on a plane in Lima. I’m stopping in Copenhagen and Paris. I’ll call when I land.”

  “Amber!” I furiously shout. “Where are you going?”

  “Sierra Leone.”

  “Where is Navarro?”

  “If I had my way, he’d be dead,” she angrily answers. “Fucker stole my money as soon as we got to South America. I haven’t seen him, and if I do, he is a dead mofo.”

  “Who are your plans with?”

  “I got to go.”

  Chills run over my arms, and waves of nausea run through my gut because I know who her plans are with. She clicks the end, and I set down the phone.

  “Shit!” I sit up and puke in the toilet. I’m heaving, holding onto the toilet seat while standing in the tub. I’m a fucking mess as tears stream down my cheeks and slobber pours from my mouth. I reach up to touch my lips, just wishing one of the boys was here. I stand up and scowl at the mess. “Goddammit, those were good bubbles!”

  I drain the tub and take a lukewarm shower. I puke again mid-washing my hair and let the water pour over me for a long while because the worst thing is to be clean and puke again.

  Turning off the water, I grab a towel and dry off. I toss the towel up around my hair and brush my teeth as I spotted the last text from Deacon forty-five minutes ago.

  “I got you a dress! ;)”

  I smile and decide I will respond once I am horizontal in bed. I click off the light and walk out of the bathroom completely naked because I am the only one here.

  Snap—snap—snap.

  Walking out to the great room, I see a girl on the giant cross and Dom with a crop in his hand. He sees me. “What are you doing here?”

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, cautiously approaching as I eye the girl. Note to self: she’s freaking gorgeous. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Megan Folly,” she slightly stutters. “Ma’am.”

  “Did Sal not tell you we were en route?”

  “No,” he says, which I find weird because Sal has been on the phone with Dom non-stop. I hear the locks turn over and Sal, Deacon, and some guy, I assume, Mass walk in. Sal’s lips pucker at the sight of my nudity as concern flares on his face.

  “Why the fuck are you naked?”

  “This is all too much,” I say, turning away. “I’m going to check into a hotel.”

  “Wait,” Sal replies, grabbing my arm as Deacon throws his Reckless Rebellion hoodie over me. It’s massive on my tiny frame. “Wait…why in the hell is Megan Folly on my rack?”

  That’s what I was trying to figure out.

  “Someone needs to explain some things.”

  “Come on,” Deacon says, taking my hand. “I’ll show you the dress.”

  “Oh, God…” I run off to the bathroom with Deacon and Sal hot on my tail. I barely make it to the toilet before I erupt again. All over me, all over his jacket. Tears cascade over my cheeks as I hysterically cry, “I’m so sorry, Deacon.”

  “Oh, shit! Don’t worry about it! It’s had all kinds of bodily fluids on it. It washes well, and I have about ten of them,” he consoles, grabbing towels for the floor as I look to Sal and see the trail of blood running through the house.

  Dom rushes in. “Who is bleeding?”

  “Me!” I yell, haggard, and worn out. Deacon turns the shower on as Sal holds onto me with one hand and has his phone in the other.

  His frantic look scares the shit out of me. “Georgia, do we, by chance, have a doctor in Houston tonight?”

  His Ride

  Chain-smoking, I pace the floor by the custom garage door with window inserts while Dr. Lani Johnson examines Iris. Sal looks terrible, sitting on the window sill.

  “You need to keep an eye on him,” Dom mutters, nudging me. “Tonight’s events were trigger happy from the number of people, the blood, the mess, the doctor. This is going to hit way too close to home.”

  “I know,” I somberly say. I cannot take my eyes off him. He’s in ripped jeans, white t-shirt, barefoot, sexhat, and his watch—classic, young Sal. Bad boy. Thug. Just a guy.

  He doesn’t look like the future of the mafia.

  But they don’t know him.

  “If he gets out of control…”

  “He won’t,” I interrupt, stubbing out one smoke only to light another. I watch as Megan brings him tea and returns to the kitchen to pull her brownies out of the oven. The whole damn place smells like chocolate. “She’s…really nice.” It’s not what I want to say. I want to say—she’s fucking hot as sin—but considering our current situation, it seems a little inappropriate. Nice will have to do.

  “If he does, please Deacon, don’t hesitate to call me,” Dom urges as I glance over at Mass. He’s good looking in the daego kind of way. But he pushes my limit on one too many of them in a room. Though, he’s beyond silent as we sit in our prayer vigil waiting for Dr. Lani.

  The bedroom door opens, and we all glance over, but not one of us moves. She’s cute too. Older. Nice rack. Great freaking smile.

  She drapes her stethoscope around her neck, grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, and wa
lks into the room.

  “Are you having a wake?”

  Sal snickers and miserably mumbles, “Not yet. Waiting on you for that.”

  “She isn’t dying, Sal,” she mutters, sitting on the edge of an end table closest to him. “Do you want to talk in here or elsewhere?”

  He waves, just wanting answers, as I say, “In here is fine.”

  “She’s exhausted. And I don’t mean she needs a good night’s rest. She probably needs four to six weeks of a stress-free environment. I’ve got fluids running and gave her something for the vomiting, which should help her sleep.”

  “Fuck.” He leans his head back against the wall. “When can we go home?”

  “Back to New Orleans or Sugargrove?”

  “Does the answer vary?”

  “Considerably, if you talk to her,” Dr. Lani says.

  Sal questioningly blinks to me. “Don’t ask me,” I rebuke, not knowing diddlysquat. “She didn’t say anything about wanting to stay in New Orleans to me.”

  “Give me the rundown.”

  “I’d like to run her panel, but I have to wait until we get back to Sugargrove. If I’m guessing, she’s a little anemic from all the mess with her cycle. It’s not uncommon after coming off birth control for years for her body to be doing what it is.”

  Giving Sal a look I can only describe as fucking pissed, Dom harshly scolds, “She’s off her birth control? Since when?”

  “Stop!” I respectfully say, protecting their personal choices. “Not now.”

  “I can confirm she is not pregnant,” she offers.

  “Thank God,” Dom mumbles under his breath. “Small favors.”

  “Not fucking now,” I repeat.

  “After talking with her and knowing everything she’s been through—the shooting, funeral, travel—I believe we’re only dealing with one very stressed out young woman. She needs peace, calm, rest. Look at me, Salvatore,” she says, leaning forward. “Think of it this way. She went from being pampered and left alone for three years to being dropped in the middle of your chaos. It isn’t going to be easy on her.”

  Without moving his head, he glances over to her. “Why is she throwing up?”