Famous Last Words (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 2)

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  Standing outside of the bar where Emily works, I check my watch— Sunday, November 1, 2015. It’s 4:40 and the Cowboys/Seahawks game is on. I give in, cause football, beer, wings and bleu cheese, baby.

  The bar is full but not overly packed. I find a quiet table with a good view of the flat screen. My waitress is Tammy. She is a waif-thin, rather bland type, unlike the girl in the blue and white jersey behind the bar with stunning ice blonde hair. It’s not platinum anymore, but almost white, with a delicate hint of gold that makes her huge blue eyes pop.

  Do I have a thing for Emily Lee Granger?

  Yes and no.

  She’s nothing like me, but in a strange way, her small-town Georgia girl is very appealing. She’s a Dr. Pepper and Goo Goo Clusters kind of girl. Football games on a Friday night, beer and burgers in the back of the truck bed, and making love under the stars kind of girl. She can drive a three-on-tree, shoot a buck, and fish like a professional angler kind of girl. The girl is tough in a way I don’t quite understand.

  The worst part is her fucking smile.

  And when she laughs, it’s even worse.

  We’re fresh in the second quarter when my wings arrive with no bleu cheese. This is a travesty which must be corrected promptly, or all hell will break loose. Poor, poor Tammy is running tables like a madwoman, so I get up off my newfound lazy soon-to-be Dad ass and step up to the bar.

  Without noticing it’s me, Emily happily chimes, “What can I get ya?”

  … Forever?

  “Bleu cheese and another couple of beers?”

  She doesn’t say anything but gives the nod. I snicker when she brings, not a small, dainty little cup full of bleu cheese, but an ice-cream sized bowl. We’re standing by the kitchen when she places the said bowl in my hands. I stay where I am as she takes four steps forward to the fridge, bends over in these blasphemous short-shorts, and grabs two bottles of beer. “Here.” My reaction must have been priceless because she finally breaks the I’m-not-talking-to-you-you’re-a-douche-canoe stance and laughs her ass off. “Go on. I got you.”

  My hands are not huge, but I can carry a bowl and two beers. She’s fucking stalking me. “You want a wing?” I ask, pulling out a chair. She checks her watch. “I’ve got half an hour.”

  Without even thinking, I bust out, “We could do other things in half an hour if you want.”

  My mouth is a nefarious beast.

  And she’s either going to slap me or take me up on it.

  Her expression is completely blank. Her eyes zip back and forth like she’s trying to decide if my dick is worth the potential anguish. “We can go to my car, but I’m taking a wing and stealing a beer.”

  She dips her wing—and I’m mean she slathers that son-of-a-bitch—and swipes a beer between two fingers. Striding towards the door, she pulls her sunglasses off her mess of blonde and onto her face. “I’ll be right back, John.”

  She’s eating her chicken wing, sipping on the beer, untying her apron, and pulling her keys from her belt loop—all at the same time. The girl thrives in chaos, and I realize I could easily survive the rest of my life being entertained by her antics. She hits the key fob and says, “Get in.”

  Her car is parallel parked by a hedgerow on one side, but it’s broad daylight, and I’m not sure if we’re talking or fucking. Regardless, I get in and notice the backpack and stack of textbooks.

  “Are you back in school?”

  “I’m just taking some art classes at the community college,” she says, turning on the car. Her stereo blasts rap music but using her one clean pinky finger she turns it down before rolling down the window and tossing the bone. “Sorry about that.”

  I shrug smiling. She’s licking her fingers when I’m compelled to take her by the wrist and help…with my tongue. She’s savoring the flavor and wiggling her lips as I clean her up good. When there is nothing left to lick, I give her hand back.

  “If you hurt me again…”

  I can’t say anything, but as it turns out, I don’t have to because before I have time to respond, she’s got her lips tangled with mine in a spicy-sweet kiss. Her hands run over my cheeks and down to my chest. My dick is keenly aware all of this is happening and when she skims her hand over me—it’s all over.

  “I’ve got twenty minutes. Can you come?”

  “I can do it in two with you,” I challenge.

  “I’ll have to try that sometime.”

  She’s rubbing my package bound by the denim, and I reply, “How about dinner next Saturday?”

  “Okay, I’ll take the night off,” she says, eyeing my cock. “You gonna let me have that?”

  What am I going to say?

  No, I’m sorry you cannot give me a blow job—it’s broad daylight, you just ate a chicken wing, or I’m madly in love with a girl I can never have again?

  Pick an excuse because none of them sound right.

  I do the next logical thing and unfasten the belt, the button, and the fly. “God, I forgot how big you are.” She dives—quite literally—onto my cock like a ferocious little kitten sucking with teeth and claws. This isn’t some lightweight blowjob, but a girl determined to make me spit my fucking load. My fingers fumble to let the seat back as I buck into her mouth and moan.

  Her crazy good blonde hair splays over my jeans as I imagine gripping it tight in my fingers and pulling. Her tits bounce against my forearm. I want to feel her up and twist her nipples.

  But I don’t do any of that.

  I just come.

  She swallows with my cock still in her mouth. There is something so perfect about that move, the final finishing touch. I don’t enjoy the suck, let go, and gulp nearly as much. Drinking my with my dick in her mouth is critical and a helluva attention-getter; it shows she cares. It says she loves.

  Emily’s not my girl.

  But she’s damn sure worth it.

  And suddenly, this becomes an okay thing.

  62

  Revolution in Hell

  “Where are you taking her dressed in a suit?” Cat asks a week later, sitting on the bathroom cabinet.

  “Tie or no?”

  “Where are you going?” she demands. “Tell me, and I’ll tell you.”

  “We have reservations at the club Dad is a member at.”

  “La Chapelle?” I nod, trying to decide if the tie is necessary. “You’re taking her for your first date to La Chapelle?”

  “Yes!” I announce.

  Her stunned expression gives way to her asking, “Are you proposing?”

  “No,” I hastily remark.

  She pauses for a second. “… Planning on anal?”

  I stop and glare at her. “I want to take her some place nice. I bought her a dress and some things. We’re going to have a nice time.”

  She blinks so rapidly I think she’s got something in her eye. “Wait!” She lifts her well-manicured French nails. “You bought her a dress and things.” She squints with a shock. “What kind of…things?”

  “A pair of Louboutin’s and some fancy lingerie.”

  “You’re having sex with this girl,” she proclaims.

  Tossing the tie down – though I briefly consider strangling my sister with it – I say, “I don’t know. It wasn’t in my plans.”

  “You do not buy a girl those things and not think about it,” she argues, sliding from the counter. “Do I need to leave the house so you can whip her ass?”

  “I’ve left that world behind.”

  “What are you on…never mind,” she brushes off at the sight of all the pill bottles. “Where are you? Where is your head right now? Who the hell are you?”

  “I think my head is on just fine. I’m a young, wealthy businessman searching for a proper companion to share my life with.”

  She sticks her flat hand in my face. “You’ve lost it.”

  Hot on my tail, she takes one look at the car in the driveway and gasps. “What is that?”

  “That is a Porsche.”

  “I know that!�
�� she yells, glaring out the window. “Where the hell did it come from?”

  “I bought it,” I say with a smile, grabbing my jacket, wallet, and keys before kissing her on the cheek. “Don’t wait up.”

  “He’s fucking lost it,” I hear her mutter as I walk to the door. “My baby brother is gone.”

  Knocking on the door at Emily’s craftsman house, I understand why my sister believes I’ve lost it, but what she doesn’t know is I have years of training, and I can shut my emotions off—some days.

  But today may not be one of those when I take one look at Emily.

  In the sexy black tight-fitting dress, she smiles. Her long hair sweeps over her shoulders with a few curls. “You look amazing!”

  She grins. “Come in.”

  “Do you own it?”

  Her lips move like she’s talking, but nothing comes out. “Your parents helped me get it. Though it has a lot of problems.”

  “Like what?”

  “The sink in the bathroom won’t drain,” she complains as we walk through the house. “And the backyard gate won’t stay closed. I’ve got issues. I’ll get it fixed soon enough.” Pulling off my jacket and starched white dress shirt, I put them in her hands. “Sal, what are you doing?”

  In my tank top, I kiss her sweet mouth and squat down to look in the cabinet. “Taking care of you.”

  “What about dinner?”

  “We’re going. Ugh, this is a fucking mess. And we’re stopping by a home improvement store. You have tools?”

  “Some.” Her big blue moons blink at my arms as she gasps, “You got some ink.”

  “I was in prison.”

  Ya, good one, Nero.

  The strange part about that is it’s either a huge warning sign to get away or a chic magnet, like being in prison validated my ass as a man. I’m scrubbing my arms in her kitchen sink as her eyes stick like glue to me.

  Ya, magnet.

  “I feel like such a poon with this house stuff.”

  “Why?” I ask, drying up.

  “Because I change my tires. Hell, I can change my oil. But this…is like out of my league.”

  “No,” I shake my head, knowing this girl. “This is not out of your league, baby. You need a teacher.” I get dressed and say, “Are you ready?”

  “Yeah,” she answers, stepping closer. I fall into her kiss so easily. “Can I drive your car?”

  “You can drive anything of mine you want.”

  With stained glass and dangling Edison bulbs strewn from the rafters, La Chapelle is an incredible French restaurant set in an old chapel. The ambiance is dark, mysterious, and quaint as candles flicker everywhere. I understand why Cat wanted to know if I was proposing as the place brims with romance, seduction, and allure.

  We have a lovely, playful time at our secluded table, but there is a nervousness in her I can’t pinpoint. She eats well, not a lot, but enough. I realize I’m running her profile as we’re chatting, but I can’t turn it off. I can’t make it stop no matter how hard I try.

  I’m broken by my father.

  She’s broken by my father.

  Her demure girly moves are a huge turn on. She’s light and whimsical, bright and funny. I’m confident she would make an excellent wife for someone.

  I’m just not sure he is me.

  The last thing I want is a rebound. It’s been over a month since I left Texas and the girl I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with. I’m busted, but she won’t speak to me. So, I’m left with nothing to do but moving forward.

  I’m trying.

  “How long are you staying in Boston?”

  “I’m not sure,” I honestly say, brushing my fingers over the back of her hand. “I’ve been looking at property in Maine along the coast.”

  “Really?”

  “Ya,” I admit, knowing the real estate listings are still open on my pad. “I need more of a country setting than this. I like space, so I’m looking to buy a house with some land. Get a couple of horses. Maybe some chickens. Have a quiet life.”

  With her head propped on her slender fingers, she dreamily whispers, “I would love to get out of Boston.”

  “We should go up for a weekend,” I offer as her eyes widen. “We could just get away.”

  Her eyes light up. “I would love to!”

  “Do you want dessert?” I ask as she bites her lip. “You want it to go?”

  She excitedly nods.

  “Mousse or crème brûlée?”

  “Both.”

  I pay for our dinner, and the waiter brings our dessert. Standing up, I pull out her chair and help her up as she gushes, “You’re such a gentleman.”

  “You want to drive?”

  “Nah,” she says, smiling. “I want you to show me how it’s done.”

  Then you might not call me a gentleman, sweetheart.

  With her hand in mine, we march through the home improvement warehouse. While she’s glowing over the fact I know how to fix her sink, I can’t help but note people are staring. I’m the son of a notorious mob boss, and an appearance by his son is grounds for a snapshot being taken and spread over the news. I can see the headline now:

  Sal Raniero Dating Sexy Blonde!

  Could she be the one?

  Find out who she is on page four!

  Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating or just being paranoid. Either way, the publicity factor is a new threat in my ever-growing list of concerns. This is far different from Sal Raniero raises 50G for Anna’s Charities.

  Not to be dismissive, but Juliet exists in a bubble to serve the fetish community, and the things we do are on a local level. We don’t reach an internationally broad audience unless we’re collaborating with one of the other fetish schools.

  My father is a mob boss who just snagged a deal with Delarte Cristos, the shipping magnate. They’re watching me. All of me. All the time. My life is now under a microscope.

  That said—Emily Lee Granger is a great looking girl to have on my arm. She’s got a softness to her that screams puppy breath and blankets by a blazing fire. From a purely social media standpoint, Emily is a great choice. Priscilla Grace is the kind of woman who will do great philanthropy but with just as much attention as I have. Emily is subdued and quiet.

  In the car, her hand rests on my thigh the whole time, and I love it. She’s attentive to only me, and I’m a selfish, protective bastard. We speed back to her house, and I start to think maybe I was wrong. I shouldn’t have gone to Taos when Serene told me to; I should’ve gone to Colorado, picked up Emily, and ran off to Nebraska.

  Dropped my riding crop in Sugargrove.

  And left Texas in a trail of dust.

  This sounds good because any other option—Iris Kettles—is a no go, busted under the stress of Gods & Kings, lies and betrayal, and so much hurt. Nothing can pull it back together, so I’m doing the best I can.

  Emily’s hand never moves from my thigh.

  And let us not forget—she swallows with my dick in her throat.

  “Let’s go in two weeks, before Thanksgiving,” I say, realizing I’m making long-term plans with her. “I’ll let you drive my car.”

  “What if I want to drive your truck?”

  “I told you, you can drive anything you want of mine,” I say, being sincere. But Emily decides to grab my fucking dick while we’re going about eighty-five on the highway. I lift my hips slightly. She manages to get my zipper down and pull my cock out.

  She whispers in my ear, “Don’t crash.”

  “Never—at least not because you’re doing that.” Her red lips smile as her head goes to my lap. Enjoying the strange, new relationship, I mumble, “I think you like challenging me.”

  A few moans and minutes later, she sits up, wipes her mouth, and says, “Okay, that’s all you get.”

  “Am I in trouble?”

  “Not yet,” she says as her hand wraps around me. “But you’re really cute when you’re walking around with a semi-hard dick.”

  With a big grin o
n my face, I laugh. “Thanks. I always love it when cute and dick are mentioned in the same sentence.”

  “You’re welcome,” she says.

  “You know you are incredible, right?”

  Her head tilts with a humble shrug. “I don’t know how to be anyone but me.”

  Ya, I’m sunk.

  On my back under her sink, I’m changing drain pipes with her straddling over me. It’s distracting as fuck. I ask her for a bigger wrench; I spot her garter belt. I ask for a towel; she nudges my ass with her heels.

  “Okay, turn on the water,” I say.

  She steps forward; I get a view of the barren kitten.

  By the time I pull myself out from under the sink, I’m hard with filthy thoughts of a garter belt and no panties. It’s like a billboard flashing in my head as I wash my hands in the kitchen. She comes up behind me and skids her fingers over my shoulder blades. I lost my tank top to the flood of water when I asked for the towel.

  “You broke up?”

  “Ya,” I admit. “She won’t talk to me.”

  Easing around to my side, I gasp at the sight of her red lace bra, garter belt, and those sexy ass shoes as she asks, “If she did would you still be here?”

  I turn to face her. “It’s not a question I can answer, Em. She hasn’t talked to me since I left Texas.”

  “That’s fair,” she whispers, pulling the straps from her shoulders and exposing her breasts to me.

  “And you’re not playing fair.”

  “I’m done playing fair, Sally.” I hoist her up onto the counter. Kissing her so slowly, I torture myself with lust. “Are we doing this?”

  “Do you want to do this?”

  “I think I do,” she says, latching her arms around my chest. I carry her to the sofa. Her shoes fall off, and her hands fumble to undo my belt. I slide inside of her gently, barely moving, as we make love and find one another in the chaos. She was the first girl I ever loved. I killed a man with my bare hands when she was twelve, and I’d sure as fuck do it again now.