Black and Blue (Chubby Chasers, Inc. Series Book 3)

by Angie M. Brashears

  I lean in. No, this isn’t right. I use a finger to scoop the dollop of cream off of his lip.

  “Missed a spot.” I hold out my finger. I don’t need to tell him.

  He leans his head as far as the restraints allow and he just kisses the tip.

  “Try harder,” I say, mesmerized by him. Watching him push, flail, try to get to my finger. “This will go on till all the cream is gone.”

  He falls back on the bed. “You’re not even gonna try?” Now it’s my turn to laugh. “I’m having a great union, Javi. Thanks so much.”

  Somewhere, something bangs, and I hear my name, someone’s yelling. I look down at my husband, from my perch on his chest, and smirk. Raising my eyebrows, I confide in him. “You can yell. They’ll help you. They think you’re mental. You want to know what I think? That we were a match made in heaven.”

  In barely a yell, I say, “Do Not Disturb sign on the door. Leave us alone. We’re newlyweds.”

  I giggle and hold a finger over my lips.

  Javi winks.

  I’m jumpy with anticipation, everything I’d imagined, dreamed of, is happening now. I made it. “I made it. I’m not on the bed, you are.”

  I hear a quiet whisper. “Are you sure?”

  I smack my hand over his mouth, looking around. “Shhhh.” He scans the room with me, recognizing my particular brand of crazy.

  I sit back up and remove my hand. “Did you hear that?” I look around one more time and lower my voice. “If my bitch of a mother shows up, just ignore her. I do.”

  I’m rewarded for my honesty with real fear peering back at me.

  “Finally, mama’s boy. It’s time to start.” With regret I say. “I’m sorry, no funnel. I wish people would just leave my shit alone.”

  I lean over like we’re sharing a secret. And we are. I reach down next to the bed and grab the this-will-have-to-do, and hold it up for him to see.

  “You can keep it open or we can use this. Personally, I vote for the bit. It might break you, but it raises the stakes. Right, Javi?”

  He’s scared, maybe freaked the fuck out.

  But we’re not leaving this bed until he’s pissing his pants, petrified.

  He tries to shake me off. But the restraints do their job. As I bend the end of a hot aluminum tray into a funnel, he starts to talk. And it’s sounds like suave murmurs in the background as I twist the tray end to a point. Full of Bonita’s. I have to tilt my head and give him an aw. It’s just so romantic.

  I slide my ass up his chest and squeeze his ears with my knees.

  I lift my ass and push forward, and pin his chin with my cunt.

  I make engine noises low in my throat as I fly the tray, the sharp end, the pouring spout, and come in for a landing, shoving the tip between his clenched lips.

  “Dead hit!” I congratulate myself while I hold it in place with my boobs. I use my free hand, the one that has healing cuts so deep, I’ll wear a bracelet of pain for the rest of my life. I’ll never be able to look at it again without thinking of barbed wire and blue-eyed terror.

  The scarred wrist hand reaches over and scoops the hunk of meatloaf towards his mouth and it feels like it belongs to someone else. Like I’m watching it act on its own.

  He whoops in great gasps of breath, spittle flying, trying to fight, but I’ve got the strength of the reborn. I hold my homemade funnel in place, shoving down with my boob power, and drop handfuls of mashed potatoes in. Handfuls. Butter oozes down the side, spilling onto my thighs. I stop to watch it well in the crack made between his ear and my thigh. I move just a little and watch the puddle disappear between us.

  “Real butter, Javi. Only the best for my man.”

  With grim determination, I feed him. On a mission, goalpost in sight, I lose track of everything else.

  I know I cry at points, tasting the tang of mascara on my lips. It isn’t all dark, sometimes I laugh.

  But I’m not screaming. Don’t need to. Torture is cathartic. I come back around to the sounds of his gagging.

  I pull the bent aluminum out of his lying mouth, noting the angry red slashes at the corners of his lips. Watch the crimson wells up on his lips. Bleeding.

  He chokes. I lean back and give him some air and free advice. I can’t help it. “I know, it sucks. I find it best if you can picture a magical place. Try to relax and take little sips of air.”

  “Sorry.” I look down as his mouth moves, but it’s his eyes I’m interested in. Who’s apologizing to me? I peer into madness and it looks back at me. There was something there, I saw it. I grab his chin, turning his head one way, then the other. “Preacher, are you in there?”

  And there it is. He trembles beneath me. We’ve made it to… Abject terror. “Now you know what I felt.”

  He nods and tries to pull out of my iron grip. My nails dig into the soft flesh, under his chin, but reluctantly, I release him. Reluctantly, I move off him, slow now, heavy with every ache and pain from my ordeal weighing me down. All the fight gone, adrenalin has left the building. I just want a shower and sleep.

  “When is it going to be your turn?” It’s the voice, wrapped in velvet, full of promises and hope. That’s him. The cold-hearted bastard that lives in a co-op behind those guileless eyes.

  The very same that stood in a Vegas chapel and said “I do” to my face, pledged that he’d love and honor me to the end.

  It will happen again. When my mom talks in that kind voice, reasonable, I’ll always answer her.

  “No, it won’t. I won’t let it.”

  “I want a turn,” he says, and I turn to look at him. Dick on full display. Leering at me, angry, hurt, psychotic, lust staring back at me. I wonder how in the world I was ever attracted to him. “I’ve missed you, Javi.”

  I pull the bedspread off. No blue crushed velvet in here. This one’s black as Satan’s poop chute. “Your room?”

  He shakes his head, looking at me with useless pity. I flip him off and then wrap myself in the blanket, hating the sticky feeling after a good workout.

  I open the door and don’t even look at Frankie and his bewildered-as-fuck looks as he looms outside the door. I want none of it. No sympathy, nothing. I’m as satisfied as a girl can get.

  Sasha stands with a hand over her mouth when she sees me.

  I’m overwhelmed. I want to tell her that something’s wrong, but she already looking away, at Riley. I can’t take another second of their concerned exchange and turn back to the feeding room. Javi’s the only one that will understand, I’m slipping.

  Every step feels like I’m being sucked under into quicksand which strikes me as funny., “Ha-ha, get it. Because I’m full of it, my lungs are drowning in quicksand.” Riley comes out of the lair when he hears me jabbering to myself in the hallway. The crushing weight of four days tied to a bed, the humiliation, hurt, shame of the memories. Abused, molested.

  “No,” I moan and try to lean on something as the room reels, flashing snapshots of the preacher’s perverted face looming over my tiny forbidden form. It’s hard to make out as the images as they whir past me. I’m dizzy but I see it.

  The shadow at my childhood bedroom door, mother playing hall monitor. Watching, inspecting, making sure he doesn’t go too far and give her a grandbaby. I can’t get the clinical expression, the way she watches him hurt me, out of my mind.

  I can’t see the preacher’s dark eyes anymore. Just good old Mom, always on the job, Chief Inspector.

  I reach for Riley who’s impossibly far away. “Save me.” He catches me.

  ……

  After Sasha threatens malpractice, slashed tires, and how she better be prepared to hire bodyguards if she doesn’t get her ass up here pronto, Dr. Timlan is kind enough to make the trip up to see me. I feel better, more solid after talking to her. We spoke for an hour. Towards the end I started looking towards the hall.

  Frankie and Pint—I guess he’s the cleanup guy—will signal when they’re done. Frankie asked for an hour, and I can’t say no. I fee
l so bad about the mess I left for them to clean up in there.

  My therapist doesn’t even know the half of it, that would take days, but she’s confident when she diagnoses me. “Post-traumatic stress disorder.”

  I take the pill she offers and a healthy swig from my water bottle. I put it back between my legs, needing to feel it close to me. Within reach. She hands me another pill and pats my hand. “For later, a little Ativan. Take it before you go to bed.”

  It’s only then I realize the reel of painful memories have stopped. The inspection is over for tonight.

  I sigh with relief. “Much better, thank you.”

  She nods as she closes her bag. “It’s only a temporary fix. You’ve gotta talk about your feelings, get them out. Even if feelings get hurt, you have to let that anger out.”

  I hide the smile behind my hand. Already taken care of, Doc. You’re right, feelings did get hurt, but I got all the nasty anger out!

  “Sara? You went off somewhere. What were you just thinking?” Her eyes look like she might like to have me carted off too.

  I wave my hand and give her an exhausted look. I don’t even have to fake it. “That I’m just really tired is all.”

  She nods as she looks over my face. “I’ll expect you in my office tomorrow afternoon.”

  She waits till I agree and adds. “And get out of this place.” She shivers. “Gives me the creeps.”

  A shadow falls across the entrance, my cue.

  “Speaking of creeps.” I slide the photos Gretchen printed for me, across the formal dining table to her. “My husband did that. Had his way with me.”

  I can’t look down at the girl that’s haunted, screaming from the depths of her soul. I know Gretchen couldn’t make it out. I was yelling too loud. Over and over I screamed. If, If, If, If!

  I take a deep breath. “He did this to me, on our honeymoon. Left me shackled to our newlywed bed for four entire days. Without water, no food. I need him admitted immediately. He almost killed me.”

  The violent shaking that overtakes me is real. “I’m absolutely terrified.” Of what, I don’t know.

  I stand and promise I’ll be at my next appointment. She hugs me, tight.

  I walk her out. Frankie’s behind the wheel of an old Chevy. His? I don’t know, but I’d like to find out. Jabba sits proudly next to him. Both turn to look at me as the front door opens. We’re the last of them. Just us. I wave as the doctor pulls out.

  I peer in, smiling. “You got room for one more?”

  Frankie pats the seat next to Jabba. “Always.”

  And I do. I get in the truck. Where my future waits. And it’s a bright one.

  Frankie

  While Blue’s speaking with her therapist, I’m stuck with the root of all of problems.

  “Bonita, come back,” he moans at the closed door, which makes my spine stiffen. The last puzzle piece snaps into place as he whispers, trying to control yet another situation. Not happening.

  I know Javi now. The fucking game he’s running. “Now you remember her, huh?”

  “Stop chatting with him and get him to shut the fuck up. I’m trying to concentrate over here.” Pint is frustrated as hell, I get it.

  I’ve got him on a time crunch—one hour, that’s it. Whether we’re finished with Javi or not. He doesn’t want to listen to this shit. I get it, the crazy talk is driving me up the fucking wall right next to Pint. I reach over to the hospital bedside table and try to find something that’s intact in this path of destruction.

  Then I see it. Perfect. I reach over and palm it. I lean down so he fucking knows that I’m real. “The next whispered Bonita and I shove a fucking hard roll in. Test me flan boy.”

  Pint leans back and his back pops. He moves the shadeless lamp in for a better view.

  “Done, you can untie him.”

  He stands and starts collecting needles.

  I’ve gotta see it. I pull the bulb closer and examine it. “Brilliant.”

  I pull my T-shirt off and let him see mine. Bluebelle. “I’ve got one, too. But they’re not matching.”

  I smack the raw skin, enjoying his wince. “A cautionary warning over a black fucking heart.” I grind my palm down, pressing my weight into the inflamed flesh. Liquid squelches under my hand, but he doesn’t take his eyes from my chest.

  “You’ve been branded, you little bitch.”

  I describe the tattoo to him in full detail. “Across the top, arched like a rainbow, it says, Doesn’t play well with others. “Right in the middle, nice and dark—that’s what hurt so much—it reads, Call 911. Wrapped around the bottom, like a smile.” I stop and grin at him. He’s waiting. “It says, From Victim #13.” I give him a minute, loving the frown as he realizes it’s for keeps.

  I laugh. “It’s good, right? It’s the best I could come up with. Short and sweet.”

  I walk to the sink. “Hey, check that, Pint. Make sure it’s fucking readable from ten feet away.”

  Pint shakes his head and pulls a needle from the antiseptic. “Yeah, if you stop with the fucking requests and no more touching.”

  Pint waits for the guys in the white coats. He’ll use the time to really make that tattoo visible. He’s a good guy, a biker like me, but no beast. We were raised better.

  I pull the truck around.

  And still she doesn’t come. The noise of the truck didn’t bring her running. I slam the old truck in park and walk the entire cabin, making noise. I’m being ignored, I think as I stick my head in the hall.

  But she doesn’t even look at me, won’t even give me the time of day. “Jabba, come.”

  Nope, the twitch of her ear is a big fuck you. She hears; she’s just not listening.

  I don’t matter anymore, I guess.

  She’s only got soft eyes for our badass Alpha bitch in there, finishing up with the doc.

  Once I start the truck, she runs down the stairs and jumps in the trunk. “Oh, now you come!” I say and give her neck a massage. “Good girl.”

  The End

  Javilogue

  Gretchen’s been coming by every week, bringing the things I need to keep me sane. Paper, which is always in short supply around here. Pencils, pink erasers by the pack, colored markers, some crayons, but I don’t use those. Not legible enough for official lists.

  I need to be ready for when I get out. We’ll hit the first grocery store we come across when I’m sprung.

  I’ve got to be ready. It’s almost time. I’m so full of joy I smile at every fruit loop I pass.

  She slipped it to me in my bag last week.

  I got the signal loud and fucking clear. Thanks, Gretchen.

  When I opened my care package, I didn’t see at first. But the bag was heavy. I pulled it out, thinking it was a Playboy, maybe, but my surprise was way better than that.

  A paper doll cutout book. I’m hard just thinking about it.

  I can’t wait to talk to her, set my plan in motion. I’ve got a few ideas that I want to run by her.

  I practice my lines as I head down to the visitor area. I pick a seat in the corner, where we’ll have privacy. Anyone here could steal my thoughts. Take my Ladies. Hurt them. I look around, watching, waiting to see who looks suspicious.

  A paper bag rustles. I look up, happy to see her. “Yes, Gretch, I’m ready to start….”

  The words die on my lips. This isn’t Gretchen! It’s… I turn my head and examine her. “The jelly donut nabber. Hollister, right?”

  She gives me a shy smile, a nod of her chin, all while avoiding my eyes.

  Excellent. Gretchen’s taught her the rules.

  She stands before me, eyes front, staring at a spot over my head. In a fitted white T-shirt and tiny matching shorts.

  A blank canvas. I reach under the table and adjust my monkey.

  My patented sweet Javi smile in place, I grab the new sketchbook from this week’s bag, noting the color. It’s yellow, a good color, a strong color. Enduring like the sun. My monkey bangs its cage.


  I start with the barest sketch. I’m no artist, by any stretch, but I’m the conductor now. Yes, I am. Gretchen’s gift says so.

  I write in bold letters over the sketch, SPORTY SPICE.

  And begin to draw. Tennis rackets, badminton birdy headbands. I smirk as I draw the kneepads.

  She’s still standing there, waiting for me to turn her on. So I do.

  In a voice dripping with sin and suggestion, I look up and wait until she meets my eyes. “Won’t you look at me?”

  My Muñeca, then it hits me. “What do you think of the name…Monica?” I smile to myself as she shivers.

  Enough, Javi! We get it, You’re SUPER dark.

  So let’s shine a spotlight on one of his many dolls.

  This is the big thank you to those who have stayed with the whole series. This is for you. Just a taste. I don’t want you to overeat and get a stomach ache. That won’t do.

  Here’s a preview of Sasha’s story, coming soon.

  Not quite sure of the title yet. It’s up in the air. Either Red Hot, Roses are Red, or How Do You Like Them Apples? Ha-ha.

  After you leave a stellar review—I know, I know, I tried to tone the number of smirks I write in, but I’m snarky, sassy and cheeky like that—come see me and give me some of your Red Thoughts.

  A list of places to find me. Javi would be so proud.

  On Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AngieMBrashears

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/AngimB12

  Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14770343.Angie_M_Brashears

  My Amazon Author page: https://www.amazon.com/Angie-M.-Brashears/e/B01A9A2MYM

  On my porch late at night, writing, with a drink and a dog on each side of me. I never turn down a good stalk.

  Blue…After

  It dawns on me then. What this really means. “No more Chubby Chasers?” I ask, feeling a pang in my chest. “What are you gonna do now? Without the house of chub?”

  Sasha flips her hair and cracks her gum. “No more living at Chubby Chasers, crazy. Riley drew the line at my butt being in any other bed but his.” She raises her kitty paw and I present my butt. “Training.” I giggle as she whacks one out of the park. “Ow.” I rub my bum.