“Besides, I’m good at adapting to new situations,” Deacon remarked, getting up and striding over. “We are balanced like this.”
“Then don’t do anything to rock the boat,” Iris added as Deacon stroked her cheek. “Put your cock in my mouth, Cruz.”
“May I?” Deacon asked me.
I nodded. “Then get over here and kiss me.”
Everything fades to blackness as I see stars and my load shoots from my cock. Cum splatters on the floor. I fall to my knees and cry.
“Goddammit, I hate you both so much.”
I cover my face with my gooey hand, but I don’t care. I succumb to the will of the fates and the choices we have made.
Daddy’s only son likes it kinky.
And he loves it hard.
The tears rush over my cheeks like razor blades cutting through the web of manipulation and pain of the past. I have to give up fighting to heal.
I have to get to a place of forgiving my wife for her sins.
“You need to stop worrying about pieces and parts and just love, Sal,” she said, high as a kite. “Stop thinking of it with labels. Just love. And love frequently. Don’t be stingy. Girls. Boys. Missionary. On a rack. Just love.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“You seem to be missing the point that you don’t have a choice. I’ve seen how you look at Dom. I’ve seen how you look at other pretty boys. Don’t be afraid to embrace who you are.”
“You realize,” I argued, taking the pipe from her fingers. “I was raped.”
“I know damn well what happened in the alley, but you have to remember who you fell in love with at the mission…”
“La Chiesa?” I asked with an exhale. “I fell in love with a girl.”
“A girl with a cock, Sal.”
“Still a girl,” I rebuked, ready to fight. “Bertie was special.”
“No more special than you, Sal. You are special, too,” Kaci argued, holding my hand. “It was just brought to your attention by Bertie. Being different is hard, but loving someone different or struggling is pure magic.”
“You do realize I also married a dying girl?”
“Flaming rainbow unicorn, you are.”
“I don’t think I’m flaming anything,” I pointed out. “I think I’m a mess.”
“Your kind of mess should be a national fucking treasure.”
Gripping my hair, I rock. It all hurts so bad. I’m a twenty-five-year-old fucked up kid. I’m a felon by choice. I’ve got a Masters in psych. I’ve worked and consulted on two-hundred and eighty-two cases. I’ve saved some and lost a lot. I’ve got a girl who loves me and a man who worships me, so why do I feel like I’ve fucked everything up beyond repair?
This sentence is the worst one I’ve ever written in our history books.
Prison isn’t an easy solution. It’s a safehouse for a monster like me. To protect the people on the outside. But we never considered what this would do to me on the inside. Who protects me? Who has my head?
Sliding onto the floor, I long to numb the pain with something substantial. I don’t want the bloodshed, but I accept it’s part of the game. Just like defending what is mine.
Iris is mine.
Deacon is mine.
Amber and Jaid fall into a separate category of saving. I love them, but they don’t always understand me. They don’t always accept my crazy. I don’t always get their motivations.
Arkansas—what the fuck is that about?
Leaving my team—what the fuck is that about?
There is no surrendering a white SOS flag that I can raise and pray that someone will come. I am a soloist. I have practiced and fought to achieve the best positions for us, but the fact is these choices and decisions I made are mine. Jaid is right; I’m too narrowly focused.
It’s just my dead wife and me here in the cage—how poignant.
Her voice is my armor, her memory is my reason, and her plan of attack is my war board. She gave me her army and the tools, but I have to use them correctly, or I may end up crucifying myself in the process. Burn me at the stake and call me done. I have to lead these souls to a macabre ending or a glorious victory. I hate losing.
And if I fail—I lose. I suck.
This is all on me now.
I flatten against the cement and curl into a ball. I see the funerals of those I love because of my mistakes. My fuck-ups. They’ll etch into my soul and work on destroying me, just like Kace.
God, help me.
God, keep them safe.
For the first time in twenty-five years, I’ve never been so alone.
And I’m fucking scared as hell.
13
Crack in the Ceiling
I spend the next day in my holding cell. On the floor. Rocking slow. I’m fracturing under the pressure as the imminent crash threatens to capsize my sanity and bury me within the earth. I’ll be here in the rubble. I’m still alive. I survived the blast. With the twitch of my finger, I search the cockpit in my mind and hear the familiar voice yelling, “Pull up. Pull up.”
Curious thing about mental illness, specifically depressive episodes, is I never know when they’ll kick my ass. I’ve dealt with it—by ignoring them—for years. The crazy, pent up need to find an equilibrium and balance manifests itself in the most deceptively saccharine of ways. I’m the one not afraid of self-flagellation or self-harm. I welcome the warmth, the rush, and the seconds of control.
I know these are the falsehoods I believe in.
Let me keep believing.
But in a cage—without an outlet for the rage—I meltdown as the high-pitched sirens whirl through the air and the flashing red lights of catastrophic destruction come into play.
Evacuate. Flee. Get the fuck out now.
Strange enough, I found comfort in the couch of Dr. Jack Kerris. He isn’t a therapist. That’s his soon to be wife, Dr. Mierne Risen. Don’t ask how I feel about that match. It’s not good. It’s not bad. But it feels contrived with other ideas.
Someone isn’t telling the truth about their motivations. I don’t think its love, but a fondness for fucking each other and using sex to elevate to a higher plateau. Where that plateau is—I don’t have a fucking clue.
He recommended a visit to some guru up North. Wyoming or Colorado or some shit. Said he was the best he knew in the business. Of course, “the business” being code for saying psychologically fucked up spy. I made an appointment for July 15, my day of saving grace. That is why I was hoping for an arrest in late July, not that one session would get me much.
Just make it until then.
Fucked that one up good.
Dr. Harry Looper—I wish I was kidding—was working my brain over and giving me drugs. Or, at least that was what his secretary, wife, and nurse, Connie Looper, maintained. I wasn’t his first head case from Sibyl. He had treated Tim Abbott, aka, The Canary.
He is gone.
Killed on a mission in Mexico.
My odds aren’t looking favorable for long-term survival, but I don’t have it in me to commit suicide. I’d drink myself into an oblivion or fuck every bitch until my dick fell off, but gun to the head—nah, that isn’t me. I might self-destruct, but not self-destroy.
There is a difference.
I’ll fight back from beneath the carnage, mutilate the bodies holding me down, and struggle for the next gasp of air. And then, I’ll turn into an incinerator, burning down everything in my path.
I stay still in the cell, naked and aware of every molecule of my being. I’m pensive in my delirium, but I don’t want to leave this space. I don’t want to see anyone. Or make deals with the chomos just to get intel.
They’re my best friends.
Love thine enemies.
I hate that fact.
The gangs all know things. Not the kind of things to give me insight into the bigger global picture. They’ll want to poach me to score into my bigger picture. I’m nothing but the gatekeeper, the step stool, the boost to more money, mor
e power. And they’d just as soon off me as keep me around the second I let them in.
Nonna didn’t raise a fool.
I think about calling my mother. Her birthday is July 1. But what do I say—“Hi, Ma! Guess what? I’m in prison, getting my pretty face smacked up while my ass gets handed to me six times a day?”
Those glorious words scar a mother, especially with only one son, a Mama’s Boy at that. Those are the kind of words that earn the phone call of she’s had a heart attack and died en route to the hospital. And to rip the infected scar off, she’ll send someone, likely one of the four witches, with her last message—“Tell Lucas, I loved him.”
None of that has happened yet, but I haven’t left holding. I drift back to my original goal of getting sent to solitary as fast as fucking possible.
Ya, I’m going to make trouble—intentionally with purpose.
I’m bad, remember. Winks.
“Raniero?” Ronnie pops her head in my door. “The judge denied bail. You’ll be sent to general pop tomorrow.” Oh, goody. She spots my over-reflective state on the floor and eases inside, closing the door behind her. She hands the lunch sack to me, and I set it on the floor. “What’s wrong?”
“I need to see someone,” I say, picking the scabs of my knuckles. The pile of stitches sits on the floor. “Like soon.”
“We have a therapist who comes for a week every month.”
I won’t have any flesh left on my hands if I wait that long. “If I give you the name of my shrink, can you call him after work? Tell him I’ll pay whatever he needs for an extended stint.”
“I can do that,” she says, concerned. Her fingers lap over my forearm. “… Are you at risk?”
“You mean do I need the psych ward?” I ramble off. “Yes, but no. I don’t need continuous care. I’m not going to do anything stupid.”
“You pulled your stitches out.”
“I’m bored,” I admit, staring at my oozing red knuckles. “Too much thinking.”
She offers a sympathetic smile. “I’m getting you out of here tomorrow. Hang on until then. You’ll be assigned a job, and things will improve. You’ll have access to the library, a workout area, and the larger yard. Just promise me you won’t do anything stupid, and I won’t report your…” She dusts the sutures into her palm. “Infractions.”
“Thank you,” I mutter, humbly.
“Is there anything I can do for you besides calling your therapist?”
I shake my head as she squeezes my arm. “No.” Her disheartening expression sends an ache through my chest, forcing me to speak. “How did you recover?”
With the support of my hand, Ronnie falls back onto her butt. “From the loss of my husband?”
“Ya.”
She tries to smile, but it doesn’t come. A frown is all she can muster. “Whenever I catch myself getting down, I think about my children and the joy they bring. They need at least one whole parent.”
Bravely, I question, “What if you didn’t have the kids?”
“I’d probably be doing more than ripping stitches out.”
The rest of the day I think about Kaci and the world she delicately constructed like a house of cards but with sharp, dangerous edges. Her engineering capabilities were worth marveling. The massive framework of her magnificent architectural piece had taken almost a decade to craft.
Her brilliance started young.
And as much as I hate my deceased wife for the things she did, I respect her schematics. At the same time, I long to burn them and cast forth my own lines. My new grid will be far less erratic, more dynamic, and linear. I’m an analytical bastard, and all her haphazard crisscrosses do is confuse the fuck out of me and render me speechless.
“You need to eat, Raniero,” Ronnie militantly backs from the door. I’m still sitting in the exact spot I was four hours ago. “I’ve brought dinner, and I see you haven’t touched lunch.”
“I should just start calling you Sarge.” I peer up from my handiwork to give her an eye—the one that says don’t mess with me right now, I bite, and I’m poisonous.
“I’ve got bad news. I managed to reach Dr. Looper. He is out of the office until after the holiday. Something about traveling around the country in his RV with his wife.”
I close my eyes, knowing the holiday will sign the wanted poster for my head with my father. Without another option, I break. “Call Dr. Mierne Risen.”
Her nose twitches. “Didn’t she visit?”
“Yeah, that was business,” I say, snarling at the dinner tray. It looks like mush loaf, carrots, green salad, a banana, and milk. I roll my eyes. “This is personal.”
“I’ll do it if you eat,” she bargains like a pro. She scuttles on her feet, getting all revved up like she’s about to go to war with me. “I’ll do you one better than that. I’ll call her right now. I’ll tell her it’s an emergency if you will fucking eat.”
“Can she bring me a burger?”
“No,” she says, propping her hands on her hips. “But I can bring you something in the visiting room if you will eat something.”
“How much something?” I ask, being a difficult cuss.
“Half.” She points to the tray. “Now.”
Unwrapping the spoon from the napkin, I scoop a bite of the carrots up. They’re a soggy excuse for rabbit food. I shovel them into my mouth and reluctantly chew. Swallowing, I blink up to Ronnie and open my mouth.
Ya, I’m an ass.
“More!” She spins on her heel and heads for the door. “I’m calling Dr. Risen. Don’t you dare let me down.”
Hoping for something better, I open the lunch sack only to find the famed mystery meat. Rubbery carrots it is. I eat them and the salad before guzzling back the milk. Ugh. I’m going to puke. I’m going to be the guy that fails on the mission because of malnutrition.
“I’m telling you,” Vega said as we were practicing at the gun range after the attack. My chest had healed, and the doctor gave me clearance to resume my normal activities, which, in my case, meant leveling two dozen dummies that I imagined all had the face of my father. “You will fall apart during the first fourteen days.”
I didn’t believe him. Popping my earmuffs on, I took my shot on the dummies, hitting the targets in a quick sequence.
He snickered as I dropped the muffs to my neck and holstered the gun. “You guys are all the same.”
Feeling dissed, I asked, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s easy to tell who has been through the rigors of training is all. The killers are fucking crackshots. You don’t miss—ever.”
“You should see me with a long-range rifle and scope.”
“Can you shoot an arrow?”
“Yep,” I said, sitting on the nearby bench. “And toss shivs from my hands like they’re the persuader.”
“Because they are,” he replied, sitting next to me. He opened the cooler and handed me a water. “You don’t need ever to feel like you are without the tools of your trade. You need to remember the greatest weapons you will ever have are between your ears, under your ribcage, and the physical—surgeon hands, wide torso, fast feet. Don’t forget, Sal—you are the weapon. You don’t need a gun, a bow, or a knife to be deadly.”
I considered what he was saying, which I knew. The training was in me, not within the bag of tricks, but there was something about the way he said it that hit home. The strike to my soul was suddenly causing a fire within. I was a killer.
Me.
My father always kept Vinny Veramonte on the payroll as his hitman and personal bodyguard. He was my uncle. He was kind of my idol when I was a kid. I remember when Old Poppa would take all the boys out on fishing and hunting trips. He would boast about what a natural I was. This made Dad ecstatic because not only would his only son run the business but have the skills to stay standing.
“You just need to wade through the shit and don’t quit eating when we drop you in,” Vega encouraged. “You’re going to go through what I refer to a
s freedom detox. You’re going to rebel. You’re going to hurt and ache and spew like you’ve been on a bender with a brick. Don’t fall prey to the demons, Sal.”
Chopping up the disgusting meatloaf, I eat it—every fucking bite. With my silver knots shining in the sun, I decide to unwrap the mystery meat sandwich and consume it, too. I stand up and stretch before ripping off my shirt and doing a round of burpees. I level it to the floor and am sweating in the middle of push-ups when Ronnie walks in.
“What the fuck happened to you?”
“I’m treading in the hurricane,” I huff, leaping to my feet. Her lips part as she stares, ogling. She steps closer, and I sense she wants to touch me. “Go on, do it.”
“This is so unprofessional,” she says, shutting the door and laying her hands on my guns. Her eyes dampen as she closes them. “Oh, my God! That is so…”
Her fingers run through the droplets of sweat on my pecs and abs. Weirdly, Ronnie and I are healing one another. She is setting the path for me to walk away from my past, and I’m giving her the hope I’m leaving behind. “If you need to go lower…”
“Honey, if I do anymore, I might pass out on the floor.”
With a grin, I encourage, “I’ll catch ya.” I wink.
Tears stream over her cheeks. “I haven’t touched a man like you in six years, Salvatore.”
“So, let me give you this,” I whisper, easing her chubby little hand into my pants. I’m not hard, but it doesn’t matter.
The look of ecstasy on her face is priceless. I know this moment is like a magic ointment, stopping the bleed and alleviating the need for more bandages. I’m cauterizing her agony. The scar will remain, but she’s closer to whole.
This is what I do—every damn day—I save girls and bring them back from the brink. Not exactly in this way, but the mental topography is much the same. Her fingers slowly inspect me, but she doesn’t grope. This isn’t turning into an affair with Deputy Ronnie Rousseau.
“Oh, dear God, your dick!” she mutters like this will provide the imagery for many a good night’s sleep. She needs it. “Oh…my…” She bites her lip and catches my devilish grin as my arousal with being touched begins to take shape. “Oh, shit…hell!”
Famous Last Words (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 2) Page 12