“Not right now I can't,” he replied. “You, um, want me to call someone? Like, a doctor? Psychologist?”
My pliers lost their grip on the ring, and gouged an inch-deep scratch into the very expensive woodwork.
“A carpenter?”
“Nope,” I said, sticking the needle nose through the ring and cranking it counter clockwise. Righty tighty, lefty loosey, dumbass.
“Maddox? Seriously, man. You should tell me–”
Crrrack. The ring came loose, splintering the headboard in the process.
I pulled it off the pliers, and tossed it into the neighboring trashcan. Three points.
“It'll all come out eventually,” I said, scooting off the bed, taking the trashcan, and heading for my office. “Trust me. The less you know the better.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ. You killed somebody, didn't you? God fucking damn it, Maddox. Didn't I always tell you this fucking fuck addiction you have was going to get you in trouble? Didn't I? What'd you do? How old was she? Tell me she was at least at the age of consent.”
Age of consent? Was he fucking serious? I was fucked up, yes, but I didn’t mess with minors.
I rolled my eyes.“Not sure what that age is in the Bahamas,” I said.
I stood before my bookcase, hands on my hips. God, I still smelled like salt, sweat, and bootlegged rum.
Rogero's barge had a liquor cabinet that could rival the wine case at the Hunstman. I admired the fuck out of that.
I picked up the award from Forbes, let the light reflect off it for a minute, then tossed it in the trashcan. The one from the Wall Street Journal would go next.
“Was it… messy?”
“Was what messy?” I said, not looking at him, never liking the crystal cube Bloomberg was kind enough to bestow on me. It made a satisfying blam noise when it fell on top of the other accolades.
“The um… you know...” he cleared his throat. “Murder.”
“I didn't kill anybody, Martin. Re-fucking-lax, okay?”
“Then what the fuck, he asks again,” Martin growled, referring to himself in the third person. He always did that when things confused him. Weird. “You and I have been partners for years, Maddox. You can't just walk in here after your asshole disappearing act, looking like a Lord of the Flies reject and smelling like...” he sniffed. Grimaced. “Like… what the fuck is that?”
“The smell of the sea, my friend. I've been hanging out with lobster pirates for the last few days.”
Martin's eyes went big. He nodded to himself, and pulled out his phone. “Okay. That's it. You've officially gone bat shit crazy, and–”
He didn't get a chance to finish his statement. I snatched his phone and chucked it on top of the Bloomberg trophy. It made a nice blam sound, too, when the screen cracked.
“Hey!”
“Hey what? You can get another one. And don't make any god damn calls to any god damn body. I'm fine. I'm just quitting, is all. I can do that.”
“But why? You don't have to tell me the whats and hows, but I think I at least deserve a why.”
I stopped purging my bookcase when I came across the picture of my family. The one from Hawaii, when we were all together. Smiling. The day before housekeeping called.
“Martin, if I told you I had an epiphany, would you believe me?”
“No.”
“Then, tell Phyllis goodbye for me,” I said, tucked the picture under my arm, and started heading for the door.
“Alright, yes yes yes for the love of shit,” Martin said, putting himself between me and the exit. “You look, and smell, like someone who's had an epiphany. So, tell me.”
“I fell in love.”
Martin's shoulders slumped to the floor.
“Oh, for chrissakes. Really, Maddox? Really? What, were you watching too many Spanish soap operas and smoking peyote before you hooked up with the pirate lobsters?”
“No on both counts, it was lobster pirates – big difference – and what's so ridiculous about me being in love?”
“Because dick head assholes like you don't fall in love.”
I put my finger to my nose, and winked.
“Exactly,” I said. “Make sure Phyllis gets my well wishes, Martin. I'm a dick head asshole, so she'll understand why I'm not doing it myself.”
I shoved the trashcan into Martin's arms, and left my penthouse suite with the corner office, high end furnishings, and top of the line everything else. Fuck it. At least I had my picture.
Fast forward almost a month. I'd spent most of it holed up in my house. Or should I say, outside my house. I'd taken up residence in the pergola.
The funny thing was – one of many, many funny things, lately – was that I'd never, ever been a nature boy. Since my return from the island, I didn't want to be anyplace else.
I watched the stars at night, and listened to the recycled waterfall splash down on the marble rocks of my swimming pool. The sound was soothing, an aquatic lullaby, and I thought it was a shame that I never actually listened to it before. I'd owned this particular mansion for almost five years, and I think I'd used the pool maybe once. Now you couldn't pry me away with a crowbar.
Every night the stars saw me sprawled out on the sand beside the fire pit. The folks I purchased this place from had a brood of kids, all grown at the time of sale, and as of yet I'd only gotten around to having the playground equipment removed. My idea was to repurpose the area into a volleyball court. Host women's only, topless competitions. Sit on the sidelines like an incarnate Hugh Hefner (God rest his soul) sip strawberry daiquiris and watch the tits bounce.
Tits.
Ramona's tits. Her breasts, her nipples… pressed up against my bare, vulnerable flesh. Her teeth lightly biting me all the way down, and me, helpless to prevent her from doing anything she wanted to do.
I'd bring up her memory every night, and remember the way she'd used her sexuality as the ultimate weapon. The things she had done to me. The things she had not done. And just as she did, I'd rub myself to near release – my breath coming in labored draws, panting in desperate need to finalize my pleasure – and stop. Teeth clenched, an animalistic groan resonating deep within my chest, I would see her face looking down at me. I imagined her breasts just above my lips, those beautiful, pink nipples almost reaching my mouth. Craning my neck to suckle them, to feel them against my tongue, yearning to be buried in her soft, brown skin…
She wouldn't allow it.
She'd never allow it, and knowing that drove me to the brink of an uncharted kind of insanity.
Over thirty years on this planet, and never once had I needed anybody. I realized, for the very first time in my life, that all the money in the world couldn't buy me what I had to have. Which was completely shitty.
But then again, so was I. It made a certain, cosmic sense.
I released my grip on my manhood, and stared at the night sky.
Chapter Thirty
MADDOX
The hospital called early the next morning. I was eating papayas with my feet in the water, and watching the waterfall when Doctor Orizaga's cell number popped up on my screen. His was the only number I'd accept.
He'd told me in his smooth, nearly Jamaican accent that there continued to be no ill effects from her surgery, that her rehabilitation was progressing faster than anyone predicted, and she was expected to be released in a matter of days, not weeks.
I told him that didn't surprise me, and asked when she might be headed back to the States.
I opened up another Anonymous account at the Daytona Orthopedic and Sports Physical Therapy Center. Even though I knew Ramona was absolutely aware who was funding her recovery, I figured it best to keep it on the sly. I didn't want to attract any more attention to myself than necessary. The media hell hounds were going to be on my tail any minute now, and for God knew how long, and I didn't want to leave any breadcrumbs for them to stick their noses in.
Besides, all the things that happened between Ramona and I were going to be pub
lic knowledge soon enough. Once she touched back down on American soil, I was sure the first thing she'd do would be to go to the authorities, report my ass, and have me thrown in jail.
It was strange she hadn't done so already. Maybe it was the medication, or the whole recovery process. Those things can haze your head, big time. I should know.
In any event, everything from this point out was up to her. And, somehow, that was oddly comforting. Whatever she would decide, however many charges she would press, there were two things I needed to take care of before she dropped the ax.
Exactly why I was heading north on the I-95 in a beat to hell pickup truck I'd bought from the first used car lot I'd come across.
The salesguy's name was Dominic, a short, chubby guy upon who life and gravity had taken their toll. The elbows of his suit jacket were worn thin, and the fake leather loafers he wore hadn't been popular since Miami Vice went off the air.
He went into a sort of mild cardiac event when I traded him the Audi Spyder Quatro for a shit brown Chevy with a missing tailgate. No questions asked.
The reason behind my madness' method was simple. No one would recognize me in this shit-kicker mobile. Especially now, with a mane of red hair sprouting over my ears. I'd been shaving it for so long, it appeared to be growing back with revenge on its mind.
I'd gone so far as to pick up a few flannels from the local Goodwill, too. A perfect disguise to hide me in plain sight. No one would give me a second glance, or thought. Not the paparazzi, not the TMZ pariahs, and definitely not my parents.
If I'd pull up in front of their estate in my usual choice of transportation (mostly German imports with a price tag large enough to cover a percentage of the national debt) chances were, they'd draw the curtains and pretend they weren't home.
My phone dinged from the duct taped mount on the dashboard. My good ol' boy truck was built sometime last century – the technological dark ages, before on-board navigation became standard. I'd set only one Alert.
Ramona's plane had landed.
I let out a huge breath. Glanced in the rear view, then the side mirror which I just now noticed was secured with a fraying piece of bailing twine. Nice touch. I was expecting the red and blue lights of Florida's finest to reflect back at me. Or, now that I was crossing state lines, the feds.
Too soon, too soon, I thought. Surely she'll need time to settle in and gather herself together before traipsing down to her local precinct to give her statement. Fill out all the paperwork, give all the testimony, then there's warrants to be issued by judges I could no longer bribe.
Then again, no.
This was Ramona Sanchez I was talking about. She wouldn't wait. Nor would she give a fuck that I could counter with her breaking and entering or attempting to murder me.
Not that I would.
In fact, I'd made damn sure the footage of the once upon a time Maria the Maid slipping her gorgeous ass into my office was long gone. Phyllis, God bless her, had packed and loaded all of Jericho Armored's surveillance video as per my pre-trip instructions. The tapes smelled like toxic waste when I burned it in my fire pit.
I wondered how many poisonous fumes I was inhaling as I watched them burn. Hypnotized from the flames, sitting there, naked, like a native watching some sort of sacrificial ritual.
That box was the only thing I ended up bringing from my former office building. Well, that and my picture. It was sitting beside me on the thread-bare seat cover.
The nice lady who lived in my phone told me my turn off was in a quarter mile and that I should turn right.
I put on the blinker, hoping to hell it worked. The last thing I needed was to be pulled over for a stupid fix it ticket. The cops would run the plates, my ID, and the next thing I'd hear would be, “Sir, I need you to step out of the vehicle for me.”
I wiped my hand on my lap. My palms were sweating.
The truck and I had been idling behind a late model BMW for what seemed like a few hundred years.
I watched the driver's gnarled, arthritic finger push in yet another three digit key code, and heard the mechanical voice say it was sorry, but the numeric sequence was incorrect. Please try again.
I sighed, leaned back in the seat, and stared at the dashboard. The temperature gauge was on a steady climb and if the blue haired gentleman in the car ahead of me wasn't able to remember the magic, open-sesame numbers soon, my new-to-me truck would boil over and die in a puddle of radiator fluids. That'd be a great way to make an entrance.
He pushed again, a series of four digits this time. The mechanical voice said thank you, and the wrought iron barricades swung open.
I shoved the transmission into drive and followed him in. I didn't remember my parent's pass code. It had been that long.
A slight tendril of steam began snaking out from under the hood as I maneuvered down perfectly manicured, oak canopied streets. Moss hung from their branches in postcard worthy images, curtaining the frontage of plantation-esque estates. Reminding me of the mosses that had draped over my branch on an uncharted, tropical island.
I wanted to be back on that island, and have Ramona finish what she started. Wrap her legs around me, ease me inside of her, and bring me to climax as her wet, silky skin rubbed against mine.
I knew what her lips tasted like, and I imagined them trailing across my flesh, working their way down my torso. My waist. Her tongue tracing the tip of my –
I gripped the wheel, my knuckles whiter than Alpine peaks. My hard on was one pissed off, excruciating motherfucker. Literally screaming for me to stuff my hand down my pants and rub one out. And wouldn't that be dandy. A transient lumberjack in a shit brown Chevy, jerking off in a seven figure retirement community.
Ramona wouldn't have to call the cops. I could have my own self arrested, thank you very much.
I laser focused on the upcoming intersection, partially obscured by the aforementioned tendril of steam that had graduated, by this time, to a full-fledged pillar.
According to my electronic navigator, in five hundred feet, my destination would be on my right. Thank God. The Chevy was lurching, now. Bucking like an old rodeo bull ready to stomp one last cowboy into the dirt.
One hundred feet.
I wondered what they would think when the least favorite remaining son pulled up in his piece of shit truckasaurus, leaking oil and anti-freeze all over their pristine, cobblestone driveway. Maybe I shouldn't park this thing in their driveway. That would be rude. As it turned out, my inner debate regarding automotive civility would not be a concern. One final clunk, and the truck gave up the ghost in the middle of the street.
Alright. Well, maybe this excursion to my folk's house wasn't the best idea ever to cross my mind.
I popped the hood, though I had as much mechanical sense as the empty bags of Fritos on the floorboard – those came standard with every purchase from Dominic's – and had no balls ass idea of what to do now.
What was I looking for? A big On-Off switch?
The warning on the radiator cap was kind enough to tell me not to touch it when hot. Good advice, and really, what good would that do?
I glanced up at the house, half expecting my parents to be peering through the curtains – curious as to what this big, lumbering oaf was doing in their highbrow neighborhood, looking not unlike their first born, staring at the busted engine of his redneck mobile.
I suppose I could call the Auto Club. But they'd need the pass code to access the gates. I didn't have the pass code. Swell. I could now add trespassing to my growing list of criminal infractions.
“Maddox?”
My heart lurched. I took a quick second, and turned toward the voice. She stood just beside the truck, her sunhat a bit askew on her head, wearing a pair of soiled gardening gloves, and holding a half flat of tulip bulbs. She smelled like Miracle-Gro.
“Oh. Hi, Mom.”
“What are you doing here?”
Notice she didn't say oh, honey! It's been so long! I'm so glad to see you!
<
br /> “I, um… I was in the neighborhood, and I just thought I'd swing by and say 'hey',” I forced a stupid smile. “So, hey.”
“Hey,” she replied. Studying me with her brows knitted in absolute bewilderment, she turned her bewilderment to the dead Chevy, then back to me again. “Why?”
“I wanted to see you guys. That's alright, isn't it?”
“Of course,” she said, adjusting the bulb flat on her hip. “What's the real reason?”
I opened my mouth to say something, then closed it, and reached out for the flat bulb. It was probably getting heavy. She handed it over, but never took her eyes off me. As if she were looking at me for the first time.
“What's with the beard?”
A strange little lump of prickly heat blossomed in my throat. My grip on the tulip flat increased. There were twelve bulbs in here, the plastic insert proclaiming they'd grow into a rainbow of colors. Plant in an area with indirect sun.
“Mom… I fucked up,” I said. More to the tulips than her.
“That's nothing new.”
“And I want to apologize.”
She shrugged. As if I'd told her something equally outstanding, like I preferred blueberry muffins to bran.
“Okay,” she said, and stood there. Just stood there, arms crossed, waiting for my apology.
The trouble was, there was so much to apologize for, it would take more time than I felt comfortable with, here on the street. Next to a leaking truck. With my arms full of tulip bulbs.
Just then, the gate on the side of the house opened. My dad, wearing a pair of garden-friendly Bermuda shorts and a Sandfly Country Club sun visor stepped through. I wondered if he finally had taken up golfing.
“Anna? Are we out of fertilizer?”
He stopped as if he'd hit a cinder brick wall. He didn't recognize me, at first, and I was pretty sure his initial thought was to storm down the driveway and tell the redneck stranger to get away from his wife.
Once he got close enough to identify who I was, he'd tell me to get the fuck away from his wife, the hell off his property, and out of the god damn state before he called the police.
Forbidden Sensations: A Dark Romance Page 25