by Lucy Smoke
"Hurt her how?" His tone grows serious.
I trust Troy. I trust the man with my life, with Abel’s and Brax's lives,
and with my secrets. When it comes to Avalon, though … no amount of trust
is good enough.
"Just know that they'll get what's coming to them," I say in lieu of a true
answer. "None of them are redeemable."
"Understood," is his only answer and I know he gets it. And without any
further talk about my girl or what the fuck is up with my head, he launches
into his report. "The addict is in a trash motel outside of Spearwood. I tracked
her there from the last known location you gave me."
"The rehab facility," I state.
"Yeah," he replies. "Looks like she left there, hitched a ride out of town,
but only made it a few hours away before she ran out of money."
"Do you know where she got the money?" I ask. Rylie had mentioned
something that had seemed odd to me. Despite where and how Avalon had
grown up, Patricia Manning had money. Someone had been slowly funneling
money to her for years now. I turn and flip open the laptop there, clicking
away at the keys until I find the files she sent me.
The money trail ends about a month before Avalon had been accepted
into Eastpoint. Why?
"No clue," Troy answers. "But I do know she's not paying for the motel
she's in. Looks like your addict has graduated from druggie to prostitute.
She's got a slew of men in and out—customers, I assume."
"Assume nothing," I bark. "I want every single person she takes into that
room photographed and sent to my analyst." Rylie would at least be able to
get a work up on those people. Background checks were easy enough to
procure as long as the money was flowing.
"Consider it done," Troy replies.
"Keep me updated,” I say.
"Will do." With that, I hit the end button and set the cell phone on the
desk before blowing out a breath. A creak in the doorway alerts me to
company. I flip around, reaching back for the antique letter opener one of my
father's business associates had given me at my high school graduation.
Unlike Avalon, I'd never gotten the opportunity to say no to attending my
graduation. Nicholas Carter had used it as an excuse to invite over anyone
and everyone who had money, ties, and no fucking sense. After all, who gave
a letter opener to an eighteen-year-old boy? Regardless, I'm almost thankful
for it now. Though dull, with enough force behind it, the end of it will cause a
considerable amount of damage.
I freeze and relax when I see who's there. Avalon pushes the door open
wider and steps into the room. "Sneaking around behind my back?" she asks
as she shuts the door and leans against it. My fingers relax and I release the
letter opener, letting it clatter back to the desktop. Her eyes flash to it before a
smirk rises to her lips. "What were you planning to do with something like
that? Kill me?"
"Of course not..." I reply, but my words trail off as she moves across the
room and my eyes drop to what she’s wearing.
Avalon isn’t a normal seductress. She doesn’t plan. She doesn’t scheme.
She just is. She’s simple. So, I know that how she appears before me now
isn’t done in an effort to get something from me, but there’s something so
goddamn enticing about seeing her in one of my t-shirts.
“What were you doing?” she asks, moving closer.
“I got a phone call.” I talk but I can hardly hear my own words. The
whole of my world has narrowed down to the way my white t-shirt hangs off
one shoulder and bares her collarbone to my view. “Didn’t want to wake
you.”
“Well, I’m awake now,” she says.
I lift my hand and hold it out to her. “Come here.”
Her body stills and I know it's because of the bite of demand in my tone.
Avalon doesn't take well to commands. I keep my hand out, palm up, waiting
nonetheless, and finally, with excruciating slowness, as if to tell me she'll
come to me when she damn well pleases and not a moment sooner, she
moves towards me. It would be amusing if I didn’t need her so damn badly.
Her hand slips into mine and I close my fingers around it. I use my hold
on her to tug her forward and straight into my body. Spinning, I pin her back
against the desk and dip my head.
"You smell so fucking good, baby," I tell her, nuzzling into her throat.
"How are you feeling?" I can't go too fast. She's still hurt. She needs to heal,
but it's been over a week and my cock is pounding. I want her. There's
nothing else in this world that I could ever desire the way I desire her.
"I'm fine," she stresses. My hands clamp down on her hips and I know my
fingers dig in much harder than necessary. I hope she's right. I hope she's
healed enough because I don't know if I can stop myself from taking her now.
My fingers slip under the hem of the shirt and skate across naked flesh. A
groan works its way up my throat. She's not wearing any underwear. She's
open and ripe for the taking. My teeth itch to dig into her the same way my
hands are. I part my lips and set them on the tender side of her neck and bite
down.
Her head tips back and a soft cry of surprise echoes out of her throat. Her
lower half undulates against my hips. "Dean..." My name is a breathy sound
on her tongue and nothing any other woman has ever uttered to me has
sounded so goddamn hot.
I grip the t-shirt and drag it upwards and over her head until she stands
naked before me. Her lips quirk as she pushes the basketball shorts I’d pulled
on earlier down. As I step out of the fabric, kicking it to the side, she shoves
the laptop back and jumps up on the desk, spreading her legs.
My baby. My sweet, vile little demon. She's hell and heaven. I go to my
knees before her because I know as well as any man there's only one way to
worship a queen. The second my mouth descends on her pussy, I push my
tongue inside and relish in her taste. She cries out again, spreading her thighs
even wider as she lifts her legs and sets first one foot on the edge of the desk
and then the next.
"Dean—fuck!" I lean up and suck her clit between my lips, laving it with
attention. Her body shudders. I want her to come all over my face. I want to
taste her juices in the back of my throat for days to come. I want to fall asleep
buried inside of her and wake up with my arms wrapped around her.
I just want … her. In a thousand years—in a million—all I’ll ever want
for the rest of my life is this psycho woman in my arms. Some people are
born whole. I didn't realize that I wasn't one of them until I met her. Avalon is
the other side of my fucked-up coin. The darker side to my already pitch-
black moon.
I can’t hold back anymore. Though I want to taste her on my tongue for
the rest of my life, I can’t not be inside of her. I rip my mouth away from her
pussy and rise up, lifting her legs off the edge of the desk and hooking them
at the knees over my arms as I push forward into her. Her hands come up and
lock onto my shoulders, nails digging in, scoring my skin—scarring me the
way only s
he can.
Every thrust. Every withdrawal. It’s a drug—this intimacy between us—
and I’m hooked. Hooked on the pain she gives me when she cries out and I
feel a fresh wetness on my upper back as her sharp little dagger-like nails
drag down the flesh there.
I tip my head towards her as I pump into her with short, rapid thrusts. Our
foreheads touch and I can feel her breath against my lips. “Harder,” she
pleads. “Dean, fuck me harder.”
“Hurt me,” I tell her. I want her to mark me. I want the pain to last.
Because I’m afraid … for the first time in my life, I’m scared. I’m afraid that
the second I stop feeling her so deeply, she’ll disappear. Perhaps it’s
egotistical of me, self-centered for sure. Her existence doesn’t revolve around
mine, but mine does revolve around hers. And I’m afraid that the moment she
disappears, I will too.
Her eyes lift and mine fall, they clash—the two of us reading each other
with nothing but panting breaths and slow, inexorably delicious thrusts
between us. An understanding lights her expression and she tilts her face up,
her mouth slamming into mine. Our teeth clang together, sharp bites of
discomfort ricocheting through my head, but it’s not enough. It’s not nearly
enough. Her nails cut a path down my back, lighting up the nerve endings in
my skin and I groan loud and long as I fuck into her. I drive myself in as deep
as possible. Fucking her until our lips part and she throws her head back and
screams her orgasm.
I follow behind her only moments later.
8
AVALON
I STARE DOWN AT THE GRAINY BLACK AND WHITE PHOTOGRAPH OF THE
woman, a woman I've known all my life, but for some reason, I don't
recognize her anymore. The last time I saw my mom, she was asleep. Or
rather, she was in an induced coma because she'd overdosed on only God
knew what.
This, I realize, is what Dean was doing last night. He had someone track
Patricia down and they'd called him. I look up from the photo and glare at
him. "Why the fuck didn't you just tell me?"
Abel's eyes widen at my tone and he very slowly goes back to sipping his
coffee. Dean, on the other hand, just stares right back at me. "I'm telling you
now."
I grit my teeth. He's right. It's not like he kept it from me. He'd only
waited a few hours to tell me, and half of that time had been taken up by
fucking me on his desk, and next to it, and under it and against the wall and
—okay, we fucked a lot last night. Maybe that was the reason he hadn't told
me until we'd woken up again this morning and came down for breakfast.
Braxton stands at the stove, shirtless. He flips a series of pancakes onto a
plate and slides it onto the table. My eyes track him automatically. It's not
purposeful, but a reflex. His back is a mass of ink—violent scenes and great
big creatures all jumbled together—where the rest of his body is clean. Save
for his knuckles anyway. On either hand, he has the words "Sick" and
"Boys"—it's funny because I know they hate that name, but apparently Abel
had gotten Braxton drunk on his eighteenth birthday and dared him to do it.
It's hard, sometimes, to remember that under all of the damage and
cruelty, they really are just guys. Guys who love to fuck around with each
other. Guys who live together. Fight together. Breathe together. They may
not be brothers by blood, but brothers by circumstance and certainly brothers
by choice.
I shake my head and return my attention to Dean as he asks, "What do
you want to do about her?"
What do I want to do? I crumple the image in my hand and then walk
across the room to stand in front of the trashcan. I step on the pedal to pop the
top open and dump it inside.
"She's not our priority right now," I say. "She can wait until after we find
Corina."
"Food's done," Brax announces, turning off the stovetop and turning
around with a plate in each hand—one laden down with scrambled eggs and
the other with bacon.
My stomach growls and before he can even set them down, I snag a
couple of pieces of crispy fresh bacon and shove the salty fatty goodness in
my mouth before taking a seat.
"Speaking of," Abel says as Brax disappears out of the kitchen and Dean
takes a seat next to me, "I figure we can probably invite Luc to your party."
I scowl. As if I needed the reminder of their stupidity this early in the
morning. "Why are you throwing a party when we have more important
things to worry about?" I bite out, grabbing another few pieces of bacon.
Dean eyes me before scooping a spoonful of eggs onto a plate along with
a few pancakes and sliding it my way. He eyes me meaningfully. I snort, but
pick up the fork anyway and dig in when my stomach growls again.
Abel sets his coffee cup down and looks at me from across the wooden
surface of the table. "There are a lot of reasons," he says. "One, you need to
celebrate the big things in life." He holds up a finger.
"Not big, but whatever floats your boat, Frontman," I reply, shoveling a
forkful of pancake in my mouth. I hate the idea of a party, but honestly, I'm
too tired to argue with them over something so insignificant.
"It is," Abel argues before holding up a second finger. "Two, to keep up
appearances. No one else knows what happened and we need to keep it that
way. Whether you realize this or not, whoever is doing this is likely watching
us. If you think about it, they have to be expecting something. From you and
from all of us."
I frown, chewing my food, as Braxton comes back in the kitchen with a
shirt covering his massive chest. He takes a seat and loads his plate. I
swallow and turn to Abel. "Okay, but that still doesn't explain the reason for a
party. Just to keep up appearances?"
Abel sighs. "How does the outside world view us, Ava?" he asks.
That's easy. "A bunch of rude assholes with rich parents," I state.
Braxton snorts but doesn't say anything.
"Exactly," Abel says with a nod. "We're putting on an act, Ava. Everyone
expects us to fuck bitches, get money, blow cash."
I deadass stare at him. Did he really just ... Before I can say anything,
Braxton reaches up and slaps the back of his head.
"Hey! What the fuck was that for, asshole?" Abel rounds on him.
"Don't be an idiot," Brax states plainly before shoving a bite of eggs into
his mouth.
Abel rubs the back of his head, and still cutting a dark look Brax's way,
he starts talking again. "Okay, maybe that wasn't the best way to put it," he
admits, "but it's the truth. Fact is, we're throwing a party and we can use it as
cover. Invite Kincaid, bring him in, get him to help us."
"He'll help us," Dean says.
I look at him. There's no uncertainty in his tone. It's a statement of fact.
Luc Kincaid will help us find Corina or he'll be a very sorry man indeed. I go
back to eating my breakfast, but as I do, I start to wonder if maybe Dean isn't
already recognizing something in Luc that he was blind to before.
I AGREE TO THE PARTY—THOUGH IN ACTUALITY, IT WASN'T LIKE I
HAD MUCH
choice—on the condition that Rylie come as well. I watch Abel in particular
when I make this demand, but he doesn't appear fazed by it, which makes me
think that the problem between them is on Rylie's part, and not his.
Whatever the case, I get my way, and by the following weekend, we're in
the Mustang, heading for the Frazier House.
When we get there, the whole place is lit up like a Christmas tree. Lights
are on in every window, a golden hue spilling out over the lawn as cars are
lined up on the grass. Benzes and Ferraris and BMWs. I shake my head as we
get out and head around the back, not even bothering to cut through the actual
house.
"Platform," Dean says.
I don't know what the hell that means, but the others obviously do. Both
Brax and Abel nod and then Abel links his arm with mine, dragging me after
him as Brax follows a little further behind.
"Where's he going?" I demand as Dean disappears into the back door.
"Drinks," Abel replies. "Appearances. Remember. Don't drink anything
one of us doesn't give you."
I roll my eyes. "As if I would."
When we reach the small, stage-like level to the side of the pool, I realize
what Dean meant by 'platform;' he'd been telling them to bring me here. I
shake off Abel's hold and climb the stairs myself before turning and taking a
seat in the back—the perfect watch point.
Just a few short months ago, I'd been forced to come to one of their
parties. I'd been the outsider looking in, not really wanting to be here, but
curious nonetheless. Now, here I sit, atop my throne.
The backdoor opens once more and Dean comes out, carrying a bucket
and a few water bottles under his arm. He makes his way to the platform and
then drops the bucket in the center of the table before taking his position at
my side.
"Is Luc here yet?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "I've got guys looking for him, but so far no word. He
hasn't arrived yet."
"He will," I tell him.
A half hour goes by and the party really kicks up. Abel and Braxton
disappear at odd intervals, sometimes pulled away by a smiling girl in a
bikini and others just on their own. The entire time, however, Dean remains
at my side. A thought pops into my head.
"What happens when this is all over?" I ask after a while.