"When do you ever think I'm being funny?” I press my hand against my waist to staunch the wound because I'm leaving a trail of blood behind me like bread crumbs. I hope this doesn’t end in us getting shoved into an oven. “I’m curious. I want to analyze my jokes so I can get more laughs per words in the future.” That sounded like something my sister would say, and I allow myself a small chuckle. Regan doesn’t realize it, but I’d have suffered a lot more wounds than a slice through my side to get that information.
My laugh pisses her off, and she snaps back. “It’s not like I have actual concern for your well-being for any reason other than you're my ticket out of here, so if you're injured I'm screwed.”
I make a tsking sound. “If I thought that were true, I’d have to lie down from the wound in my heart. Thankfully for both of us, I know you’re joking.” She hmphs which prompts a return wink. I can tell she’s developing a soft spot for me. It might not be a sexual one, but she likes me. The smirk on my face dies off when we get close to Pereya’s. Our bags are stacked outside, which means he’s had someone watch for us and is now telling us to get the hell out of here.
“What’s going on?” Regan asks as I grab both bags without stopping. The motion causes one of the bags to brush against my side, and the pain shoots outward causing me to stumble and groan. “See, you are hurt.” She tugs on my arm as if she thinks we can go back to Pereya’s safe room.
Stopping, I cup her cheek and that intimate movement stills her actions. “We’re not welcome there right now.” She makes a distressed sound. “I’m not hurt. Really. I promise if I were, I’d tell you.”
“Would you?” Her big, forest green eyes look up at me with trust and…is that longing there?
I give myself a mental head slap to dislodge a dozen unsuitable thoughts—such as her actually having feelings for me that arise out of something other than gratitude and wanting to kiss again. Hell if she needs more practice, I’m her man.
I content myself with rubbing my thumb along her dirt streaked cheek. “Nothing’s going to happen to you while I’m still breathing. Swear.”
We stare at each other for what seemed like an eternity or at least two cycles of the moon before she drops her gaze. “Okay,” she says softly.
Her soft acquiescence stirs a response in a place far above my belt line. If we weren’t running for our lives, if I didn’t have my sister to save, if everything were different, I’d sweep Regan into my arms and carry her off to the nearest horizontal surface to show her how sincere my words are. Not for the first time, I wish that I had met Regan when I was still in the army, full of cockiness and the belief nothing could ever harm those I truly loved. Those feelings are long gone, and the oppressive weight of guilt and fear that replaced them has become the new normal. My response to Regan staggers me, so to regain my equilibrium, I grab my junk and make a smart ass comment.
“There’s a part of me that is in real pain, baby doll, if you’re feeling like you need to do something.”
“Really, Daniel? Did you have to ruin it?”
Yeah, baby, I do because neither of us have time for this strange pull between us. Giving her a strained smile, I head off down the hill. Like a good soldier, she follows. For all the shit I’ve thrown her way, Regan has done what I’ve told her without question. No one stops us on our way down Monkey Hill. Maybe word has spread of our shootout or maybe we look dangerous. Dusty, dirty, and bloody, we look like two people who’ve walked out of a battle and aren’t afraid to mow down anyone who tries to stop us. At least that’s how I hope we look because the truth is that Regan and I are weak as kittens right now. We need food, shower, and sleep. In that order. At the base of the favela, I look around for some transportation because we need to put some distance between us and Monkey Hill. Ipanema, Luiz, and papers are about an hour away to the southeast. In between are more favelas, hills, and forests.
Glancing to my left I see an older model fiat and the flanelinha is nowhere to be seen. I tug on Regan’s arm. “Let’s go.”
“You’re not stealing this, are you?”
“No, I’m borrowing it.” I take my gun and smash the driver’s side window. Climbing in, I reach over and flick open the lock. “Get in.”
Shaking her head, she climbs inside. “Someone really needs this car, I bet.”
“Then they should’ve paid a flanelinha to watch it.”
“A what?”
“Car attendant. Pay someone to watch your car so that some shitty criminal doesn’t come along and steal it.”
“Nice.”
“Same thing happens in the certain parts of our great northern America. Some neighborhoods are entirely transactional.” I fiddle with a few wires, and the car coughs to life. “Plus, are you up for walking forty kilometers or would you rather eat in an hour?”
“Drive then.”
Flashing her a big grin, I floor it. Throwing her my phone, I say, “Find the shittest-rated hotel in Ipanema.”
Fifty minutes later, we are checking into Real Aorporto. Regan reads the reviews to me as I drive down the narrow, hilly streets. “Carpets are filthy. I was scared to even lie down on the sheets, so I slept in my clothes and when I woke up, I was covered in more sand than you could find on the beach.”
“Sounds perfect.”
“Not that I’m complaining because I’m not funding this, but why are we looking for something so awful?”
“Because we can’t go into Copacabana Palace Hotel looking like we fought a drug gang in Monkey Hill. This place is going to be happy to accept our cash and not ask questions.”
“I DIDN’T THINK PLACES THIS shitty existed,” Regan says as we unlock our hotel room door. The hallway stinks like fish guts were spilled and never cleaned up. This room smells of stale smoke and too little air. I place our bags on the rickety desk and check out the bathroom. There are two towels that look as thin as tissue hanging on a towel bar and two extras on the bed. Flies are everywhere. “Maybe I should’ve asked you to look up the second worst hotel down here.”
“Thanks, genius.”
I throw one of the towels onto the base of the shower floor. “Stand on those while you shower. I’ll get you another dress so you can dry yourself off with it. It’s cleaner than anything here.”
Inside Regan’s bag I find a swimsuit, toiletries, and a cover-up. The attendant at the shopping center had thought of everything.
Scooping it into my arms, I carry it into the bathroom and am rewarded with a yelp. “Jesus, Daniel,” Regan harps. “A little privacy.”
“Sorry,” I mutter. Placing the clothes and toiletries on top of the toilet, I try to make it out of there without peeking. But a little scream halts my progress. Gun in hand, I whip back the shower curtain and there’s Regan huddled away from the shower head. Heart pumping, I look for the danger. Whisper-thin legs stretching out from a fat black body cling to the metal head. Shit, I don’t like spiders either. Glancing over my shoulder, I can see that Regan would be happy to have me shoot the insect with my Ruger. I shove the gun into the back of my jeans, grab a bunch of toilet paper, and remove the damn thing.
“I can’t finish my shower,” she says miserably.
“Sure you can.”
“No, because I can’t close my eyes now. I have to keep watching for spiders.”
“You can shower with your eyes open.”
“No, I can’t. I haven’t washed my hair. Will you…?” She doesn’t finish her question, but I can see it plainly in her eyes. “Please, Daniel.”
And I find myself unable to turn her down even though I know this is going to be torture for me. I pull the gun out of my pants and rest it on the edge of the sink. With my other hand, I pull my shirt over my head, but I keep my pants on. I’m afraid if I don’t, I’ll not be able to keep my dick from attacking her.
“Scoot forward, baby doll.”
She does, shivering and shaking even under the hot water. “I know I’m being unreasonable, and I don’t even care.”
My fingers fork through her hair and press into her scalp. When she moans, I feel the vibration rip through my body and take hold of my cock. It springs to attention and tries to bust through my zipper to get to her. She doesn’t stop making those sounds, and it’s making me so horny I can barely stand still.
“You need to shut it, Regan,” I bark more harshly than I intend, but goddamn, a man can only take so much suffering.
“I’m sorry,” she says between moans, “but I can’t. It feels too good.”
I could ruin the moment, like I have so many before—with some stupid, sexist comment about how she could bend over and I’d give her a feel good that she’d never experienced before—but somehow I can’t. I let her lean even more heavily against me which causes my side to ache but it’s a sweet pain, one that I welcome because it means she’s touching me. “Your shampoo is done, sweetheart,” I tell her huskily. I turn her so that her pink-tipped breasts are thrust out in front of me, and it takes everything I’ve got to keep my hands in her hair and not drop them down the front of her body, following the path of the water droplets as the soap and water create erotic patterns on the surface of her skin.
She leans back, implicitly trusting that I’ll keep her upright, and I do. With one hand at the nape of her neck to keep her steady, I smooth the clean water over her hair, making sure none of it spills onto her face. Over and over, I let the water wash us—uncaring that my wet jeans feel like a thousand pounds hanging on my hard cock or that the last of the soap streaks were gone five minutes ago. Maybe we would have stayed like this for hours more had the hot water not turned cold.
“All right, baby, out with you,” I said gently. She swims to the surface of conscious thought, her eyes flicking open languorously. There is desire and need in them, and I want to pleasure her. Give me a sign, baby. But she stays silent, and finally I lift her out of the tub and wrap a towel around her and push her right out the door.
Closing the door, I strip out of my jeans and underwear and take hold of my throbbing cock. It really only wants Regan, I can tell, but my palm is the only relief it’s going to get right now. I step into the cold shower and with one hand leaning against the tile, I take my cock in the other.
It doesn’t take long. The cold water doesn’t wash away the image of her body in front of me, the look of pleasure written large across her face as she tipped it backward into the stream of water. In my fantasy she drops lower and unzips my jeans and parts the sodden fabric of the denim. Her delicate hands reach in and pull out my cock. She makes a sound of pleasure—like a hum of want—and then tells me, “You’re so big.” Her eyes are large saucers of green, and her pink plush lips open and cover me.
She never stops looking at me, never stops telegraphing how much she loves this. I can hear the sounds of her moans around my cock, muffled by the thick flesh in her mouth but still audible. My balls draw up and a familiar tension sits low on my spine. Not the first time, I think. I pull away abruptly and lift her into my arms. Pressing her against the tile, I shove into her wet heat, and she screams in my ear that she loves it so much. I imagine that her cunt is tight and wet and hot. Her walls grip me as I slide out, as if she can’t bear to lose even one inch.
Each thrust inside her body is like being hugged by a warm fist. It’s been so goddamn long, and I let out a low moan of relief. My head drops back, too heavy for my neck to support. All my energy is focused on the blood coursing through my cock as I imagine pounding into Regan over and over.
A porn reel wouldn’t sound hotter than Regan’s pants and cries. “You feel so good. You’re so big. I want you so much. Come all over me.” And so I do. I jet into her with long streams of ropey cum that seem to be endless. Only it’s my hand, and the cold water seeps into my nerves, and I finish cleaning off. As good as that felt, I know that it would be five thousand times better inside of her. But I also know that my hand is as close as I’m ever going to get to being inside Regan.
Regan
IT ISN’T FAIR.
I don’t mind that Daniel shoved me out of the bathroom. I kind of expected it, actually. I was selfish enough to ask him to help me shower, knowing it’d drive him crazy and not caring that it did. Maybe in the back of my mind, it was a test to see how far I could push him. How insane with lust I could make him before he broke his word and started grabbing me. Then, maybe, I’d understand him. My brain would go Yep, he’s like every other man, and I could tuck him away into the same mental category that all men fell into now: users.
But Daniel never breaks his word. He never touches me sexually, and by the time he boots me out of the shower, I’m confused and a little sad to leave him behind in there.
I liked being touched by him. I liked that he touched me and I didn’t have to worry. That no one was going to be forcing me to do anything, and that there was only caressing and tenderness. And god, I’ve missed tenderness so much.
I peel the towels off of my body, give my hair a quick rub to soak some of the water off, and then crawl back into bed and pull the sheets tight around my body. I should put clothes on, but I’m feeling weirdly vulnerable.
It’s like I don’t want to get dressed because part of me wants Daniel to come out of that shower and touch me. Show me what it’s like to actually have great sex. Show me everything he can do. Hell, touch me a bit more without strings attached. I’d like all of that. But I can’t ask. I’m the poster child for Stockholm syndrome, right? I should be loathing every man’s touch at the moment, instead of lusting after a man that treats me with tenderness.
I should be thinking of my boyfriend.
The thought occurs to me, and I flush with guilt, huddling a little lower under the sheets. I haven’t thought of Mike much at all, lately. Does he miss me? Mourn me like I’m dead? Shouldn’t I be dying to get back to him instead of having all these mixed-up feelings about Daniel? Mike’s a good-looking guy. We’ve been together since high school. Hell, I picked the college I went to because Mike wanted to go there.
But Mike never gives you orgasms, my traitorous brain whispers. He never kisses you like Daniel did.
Has to be Stockholm, I tell myself. I hear the water going in the other room and figure Daniel must be showering himself at this point. He won’t be out for a few minutes. I can call Mike and . . . let him know I’m alive. That’s what a good girlfriend would do.
I pick up Daniel’s phone and dial the number to Mike’s apartment. He won’t answer his cell unless he knows who the caller is, so I’ll try there first. After four rings, it goes to voicemail.
“Hi! You’ve reached Mike and Becca. Leave a message after the beep!”
I hang up, horrified but not entirely surprised. Mike and my best friend Becca? Mike and my oldest girlfriend? The one that was always telling me how lucky I am to have a guy as great as Mike?
How easy must it have been for them to get together if they’re both mourning me? All it’d take would be a bottle of wine, some mutual sad commiseration, and then naturally, of course, they fucking move in together.
I shouldn’t be hurt, but I am. Mike might have assumed I was dead . . . but it hasn’t even been two months. And he never let me move in with him, even though we’d been dating for years. I need space, babe, he’d tell me. And I went along with it because that’s what Regan Porter did. She was a nice girl that went along with things.
But Becca’s moved in with my commitment-phobe boyfriend after less than two months.
I toss the phone aside. Then I lay down, my head on the pillow, staring at the wall. I don’t know
what I’m feeling right now. Can I feel betrayed by people who think I’m dead? Did they even look for me?
A low groan touches my ears, and I sit up. That was Daniel. I get up from the bed, sheets wrapped around my body, and tiptoe to the door of the bathroom. The water’s still going, but I hear that low groan again.
He’s jerking off in the shower.
I’m fascinated by that, and a little jealous. Sex hasn’t been ruined for Daniel. He can still enjoy touching himself, I think enviously. I haven’t wanted to masturbate since I was taken. I used to be a champion masturbator, since sex was never really that great. I didn’t blame Mike for that, though. I sort of . . . went along with it. No orgasm? That’s okay, really. Regan Porter doesn’t mind. Regan doesn’t mind anything. She’ll finish herself off real quick while you take a nap.
Stupid Regan, I think to myself. Now it’s too late and you’re scared of everything. Scared of spiders, scared of men, scared of what happens if you let Daniel out of your sight.
I’m so tired of being scared. Of being unloved.
I suddenly feel heavy with unhappiness and return to the bed. I tuck a pillow under my head and lay down and close my eyes, curling up in the sheets. I wish the world would go away for a few days. I wish I didn’t care that Mike and Becca had paired up. I wish . . .
I wish I was back in that shower with Daniel.
I picture him behind my eyelids, his strong arms flexing as he lathers up his cock and jerks himself to fulfillment. I wish I could see it. I’m not sure if I should want that, but I’m tired of being the nice girl that does what she’s supposed to. It’s gotten me fuck all in life so far.
The water stops, and two minutes later, the door to the bathroom opens. “Regan?” Daniel asks, clearly surprised to see me tucked into bed. “Didn’t you want to go get breakfast?”
I shrug, wallowing in self-pity. I don’t open my eyes.
“You okay, baby doll?” He comes to the side of the bed, a towel wrapped at his waist. A washcloth is pressed to the wound at his side that he assures me isn’t bad. You wouldn’t even know it was there from the way he acts, except there’s pink seeping through the white of the towel.
Last Breath Page 14