Forbidden Sensations: A Dark Romance

by Savannah Rose

  “Maddox?”

  “Hi. Dad.”

  He closed the gate behind him, stepped up to the truck, and took a tentative glance at the steaming engine. Then at me.

  “Where's the Audi?”

  I shrugged, feeling like I was nine years old again. “Traded it in.”

  “Mmm,” he nodded, curling his finger beneath his chin. He shared a quick look with my mom. Neither one of them knew what to make of this. Of me. Some things never change, I guess.

  “He said he's here to apologize, John,” my mom said.

  “Uh-huh. About what? Never calling? Being a degenerate? Banging the funeral director at your brother's memorial? Leaving the business without so much as an email? A god damn lousy text for Christ's sake? If Martin hadn't called, I would've had to find out about it in the Journal, or Bloomberg. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  My teeth clenched. Being at the receiving end of another disparage from my father was not the reason I was here.

  “Sounds like you're more pissed off about me abandoning the corporate ship than what I did at the funeral.”

  “I'm pissed off about what you've been doing your whole life, Maddox,” he glared at me from head to toe. “And now, what? Look at you. What the fuck is this? Have you really lost it this time?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Maddox?” my mother asked, turning her head to the side, the way she always did when she was going to pose a question she was afraid of asking. “Are you on drugs?”

  “No! No, I'm not on any god damn drugs! Jesus effing–” I stopped myself. A couple of elderly ladies out for their afternoon constitutional stood just up the sidewalk, watching. A gentleman walking his matching pair of long haired dachshunds paused across the street, stooped over to retrieve their offerings, staring at us all the while. An iPhone slid in between the shutters of a nearby Cape Cod.

  “Look, Dad. Mom, I...” What was I going to say to them? That there was this girl who wanted to kill me because my heartless business practices inadvertently killed her sister, and her niece, but then we got shipwrecked, and after a few days of serious cock-teasing I saw the error of my ways and now all I wanted to do was make things right with everyone before she had me arrested? Oh, and this just in, I was in love with her?

  “I'll take those back,” my mom said, reaching out for her tulips.

  My father put his arm around her shoulders, protecting her from the big bad me, as I returned the bulbs.

  “I'm...” I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what I should say. It was like my mind was blanking out, running out of words and unable to form what was left into sentences. Ideas. Perhaps an after effect of my time on the island. And perhaps, I should simply take the lead of my favorite Latina. Admit the obvious. “I'm a shit head.”

  My mom's eye twitched, almost imperceptibly.

  “I'm a shit head, a dick, a total disappointment to you and everyone else, and even though me saying 'I'm sorry' is the lamest, most pathetic, emptiest thing I can do... it's all I can do. I've got nothing else. I am an asshole, a schmuck, and I'm sorry. For everything. I don't know what went wrong with me, honestly, and there's nothing I can do to change anything. I really wish I could. I really wish I wasn't a fuck. And, going back to empty and pathetic, I'm really, really sorry.”

  Mom's brow furrowed. There was a look that passed between her and my dad – a thousand words without making a sound. She adjusted her flat of bulbs.

  I kicked at a little stone on the street, and jammed my hands in my pockets. The elderly couple had left by this point. Dachshund guy dumped two blue bags of dog shit into a the receptacle specifically designed and thoughtfully placed for such deposits, and shuffled back down the sidewalk.

  There was no more phone in the window of the Cape Cod. Nothing more to see here. Nothing more to say.

  “So, um,” I said, running my hand through my hair, looking around for another stone to kick. “I'll call a tow. Or, if you guys want to call it? That way you don't have to give me the access code, that'd be cool, too.”

  My mom straightened her tulips, though they didn't need it, and looked to my dad.

  “I'm going to put some coffee on,” she said, then turned her eyes to me. “The Auto Club can take forever.”

  She made her way up to the house, letting herself in the side gate.

  Leaving me and my dad.

  To say we were experiencing the awkward moment of the century would be the grandest of understatements. He didn't say anything for a while, just looked at the truck. He sighed, then pointed at it.

  “Chevy, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  He caught my eye, then. My nine year old self figured he was just going to follow Mom through the gate. He didn't need my shit, and I would never blame him for that.

  He sighed, stepped up to the front of the pickup, and slammed the hood down.

  “You push,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Can't leave this hunk of junk in the middle of the street,” he said as he climbed into the cab. “Can't believe you bought a god damn Chevy. You don't buy anything from a corporation that needed a government bailout for chrissakes,” he said, then reached over to the passenger seat, and picked up the picture. He stared at it for a moment, then returned his gaze to me. “Maddox, your…” He cleared his throat. “Your mother's making linguine tonight. She always makes too damn much of it, so, if you want,” he shut the door, and stuck his thumb toward the back of the pick up, thereby indicating my pushing responsibilities were to commence. “God damn Chevrolet of all fucking things. Thought I taught you better than that.”

  It wasn't easy, shoving a half ton pickup with a missing tailgate into the driveway, then, as per my father's not so subtle insistence, up into the garage. Because no way was Jonathan Petersen going to allow an of-all-fucking-things Chevrolet to muck up his cobblestone.

  We never called the Auto Club.

  Over too much linguine and a half bottle of Merlot, Dad said he'd like to keep the piece of shit Chevy and see if he could get in running again.

  He told me later that he needed something else to keep him and his well-earned retirement company – besides tilling the soil for Mom's tulips. Something with more of a manly, greasy edge to it. Government bailout or not, the Chevrolet would suit that purpose quite nicely. I gladly handed over the key.

  I'd also come to find out Mom was a level-expert gardener. She took me on an after dinner tour of her rows of perennials, annuals, and a few hundred other blooms that were pretty, but the names of which I wouldn't remember. Except for the Angelonia – a small, glossy green shrub with flowers that blossomed into hearty stalks of lavender blue. She said this was the same type of bush she'd planted at Josh's headstone.

  I felt the need to apologize again.

  She frowned, and shook her head solemnly. Said she didn't want any more of my apologies. I told her I owed her a lifetime's worth, but she countered with, “Let’s just think of the moment, Maddy. I don't think I can accept your apologies, anyway.” She raised her eyes to the twilight sky, looked at the half-moon just beginning to shine. “But, looking to my future self? And looking at you right now? Maybe.”

  There was a horrific clattering then. Metal objects falling to a cement floor. Dad started yelling from the garage, something about his god damn wrench not being where he left it. Mom didn't bat an eyelash.

  “So, what's her name?”

  If I'd been drinking the Merlot, it'd be spraying out of my face. “Who's name?”

  “Maddox, please,” she took her eyes off of the moon. “You've been addicted to women, not to mention sex, all your life.”

  “Mother!”

  “After how many years of never hearing from you, you show up like this? In that?” she pointed to the garage where Dad was futzing under the hood. It looked like the truck was trying to eat him. “I don't think you're the climb-the-mountain and talk to the yogi type. I'm assuming it was a girl, and speculating t
hat she must be something else. Am I wrong?”

  My mom couldn't be farther from wrong if she tried. Through all the years, the miles, and weighty disappointments between us, her mother's intuition was still one hundred percent operational.

  “Ramona. Ramona Sanchez,” I said, and her name felt good rolling off my tongue.

  “Well, when you see Ramona again, tell her I said 'thank you'.”

  “If I see her again.”

  “If you see her?”

  I nodded, slightly, and rubbed my wrists. They were almost healed by this time, but nevertheless, I found myself doing this a lot lately. “It's complicated.”

  “You could be nothing else,” she said with a faint smile.

  She patted my hand, glanced back up at the moon, then headed up to the garage. Presumably to make sure my dad wouldn't meet his untimely demise by being eaten alive by my piece of shit pickup truck.

  I watched them for a while. They were good people, my mom and dad. They certainly didn't deserve the crap they'd been through – losing Josh not withstanding – and retaining me, instead.

  They had two addicts on their hands when Josh was around. While my addiction was a result of obsessive compulsion and bad wiring, Josh's was thrust onto him in the form of bottomless, prescription painkillers.

  The thought made me sick. Literally nauseous. And as I was standing there, hoping to hell Ramona wouldn't become another overly medicated statistic like my brother – the idea struck me like a sledgehammer. The ultimate eureka moment.

  I knew exactly what I was supposed to do.

  And why.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  RAMONA

  It was a day like any other had become – morning coffee followed by excruciating physical torments of the leg press, thigh machine, and treadmill – then sitting alone in my apartment staring at my phone.

  I'd spent weeks trolling websites of various attorneys, taught myself everything and more about civil lawsuits on Wikipedia, and had the number of my local police department stored in Important Contacts. Armed with the knowledge my internet sleuthing had bestowed, and with the help of the 1-800 LawyerBarn online calculator, (their FAQ page had a What's Your Suit Worth? section in the drop down menu) I concluded my pain, suffering, and emotional distress was worth several million dollars.

  As for criminal charges, they went well beyond kidnapping. There were over a dozen options including but not limited to aggravated assault, sexual assault, emotional and physical duress, and if I was super clever about it; abduction with the intent of human trafficking. Yes, these were wonderful times in which we lived.

  And so far, I hadn't called anybody.

  I'm not sure if this made me mad, or just incredibly disappointed in myself.

  I could go through a laundry list of reasons why I was hesitating in having Maddox arrested. It would be a waste of time, however, as that list always ended with the same, strange conclusions.

  One of those conclusions was simple. He had shit he could use in a court of law on me, too. Breaking and entering with purport to kill. That's where it gets dicey, as I never actually shot him. Clearly, it was my intention to do so, but all it would take was a cunning attorney to expunge those charges with one clever swoop of a temporary insanity plea. Case closed, and pass the caviar.

  Secondly, and with far less complexity, was Maddox himself. Weird beyond bizarre, yes, but still the fact remained. He cracked his own armor by letting bits of compassion peek through. That was made apparent on the very first night, when I'd faked a leg cramp and he freaked the fuck out about it. It was one of several times when he demonstrated humanity. And lest I forget when I wet-humped his leg in a lagoon. Jesus. Having him tied to that tree, exposed and helpless… all I'd wanted was to wrap my legs around his waist, and slide his big, stiff cock inside me.

  Which brought me to the most glaring item in conclusion section, although I didn't know what to call it. Maddox was out there, somewhere. Fearing my next move. Afraid of me and the time I'd bring the hammer down. Always awaiting the dropping shoe.

  I was that shoe. And I liked what that meant.

  It meant control. Something I never really had.

  All my life, it was Rebecca who was the assertive one. I spent years nodding politely in her shadow, just me and my lack of confidence and zero self-esteem. While I loved her beyond all else, missed her and Leslie with every fiber of my being, it was with god damn Maddox that I'd found the missing piece of me.

  The microwave dinged from the kitchen. The greatest culinary achievement known to man, the pepperoni Hot Pocket, was ready.

  I limped to the kitchen, leaving the cane leaning against the couch. I didn't want to have to use it anymore. Orizaga said I should, that it would help with the healing process, but fuck it. No pain, no gain. Isn't that what we were always told?

  He'd prescribed me several thousand medications, as well. Also to help with the 'healing process'. There were nine bottles of unpronounceable chemical blends on my counter top, each one assigned to alleviate pain, swelling, general discomfort, sleep disorders, and blood clots.

  I hadn't opened a single one of them. There were too many horror stories about America's number one addiction. Addiction can also be described as dependence, and I would die before allowing myself to become dependent on anything. Plus, I didn't want to be another statistic. And I didn't want to die like Josh.

  I opted for Tylenol and medical cannabis. Nightly masturbation also helped. And you don't need a prescription for the latter. I was self medicating, in a way. Ever since I returned from Nassau, I could bring myself to the most satisfying, death defying, lengthy orgasms of my post-pubescent life.

  All I had to do was imagine me back on the island, my legs spread wide as they straddled Maddox, his arms tied far above his head. I'd hover my hips just above his thick, throbbing dick, and smile as I licked my fingers. Rubbed them over my nipples, then his. Pinched them. Then mine.

  I pictured him moaning, gutturally, his head thrashing side to side, arching his back and pushing his pelvis as far as he could, begging for me to swallow him whole. I would hook my ankles on either side of my mattress as I envisioned this, pinching my nipples and squeezing my breasts. The heat inside my pussy rose to mercury-crushing temperatures, craving, hungry to the point of unbearable. My hand trailed down to my torso, my waist, then lingered against my pubic bone.

  Maddox's wide, green eyes locked onto mine. He craned his neck, his lips parting, pleading for me to kiss him. I would grant the desire, devour his mouth, and ease him deep, deep inside me as I flicked my tongue against his.

  My hand would caress me, teasing me just enough to keep me on the edge of climax. It was a beautiful, sexual insanity. Epic – as I've heard me called.

  I would begin with just a little touch against my clit, then more, and more, picturing Maddox's chiseled chest and shoulders strain until my entire palm was rubbing my sex harder, and harder.

  My toes would clench, my own back arched upwards, and I would come with the force of a tidal wave. I throbbed in pleasure, could almost hear him moaning, as I pulsed, and quivered. Until finally, it was over.

  I would lie on the mattress, breathing hard and heavy, clenching the sheets with my fists, and as the last of my climax vanished like an ebbing tide, sleep would wash over me. Every night before I drifted off, I smiled. I always thought the multiple-orgasm thing was a myth.

  When one gets right down to it, who needed meds when I had memories?

  Not this chica.

  This sexually awakened chica who was limping around her little one room apartment with a soggy Hot Pocket. Which, when one gets right down to it, had some pathetic elements.

  I eased myself into the chair, and looked at my food. Luckily, the gentle effects of my last edible encouraged my appetite. No one in their straight mind could stomach one of these nuclear puffs of tomato sauce and carbohydrates. But they were cheap and easy. And two minutes out of the microwave, still hot as fuck.

 
I burned the shit out of my mouth, and dropped the god damn thing on the floor. Its replicated cheese product oozed onto the linoleum, little bits of pepperoni coming along with it. The pocket steamed, deflated, and looked genuinely angry with me.

  “Well, fuck you, too,” I told it. And realized I was talking to microwaveable food.

  I blew a strand of hair away from my face. Sighed.

  “I miss the shit head, okay?” I said, even though the pocket had not asked. “I know. It's weird. Stupid. But he's fucking disappeared. Because he's a shit head.”

  I pushed myself up from the table and went to get a rag from the sink. I'd stuffed a rag into his mouth at one point, didn't I?

  I smirked, ran the water over the cloth, and it dawned on me that the trip from table to sink wasn't as painful as it used to be. I was improving.

  But I could be better.

  “A lot better,” I said, scooping the remains of the pepperoni concoction onto the plate.

  What I needed to do was talk to someone. A real someone. I had quite a lot of options, given my limited choices.

  I could call the Lawyer Barn. The cops. Hell, the networks if I wanted.

  I dumped my defunct microwaveable into the trash, and settled on the someone to whom I would speak.

  It was time to sort this shit out, once and for all.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  RAMONA

  I sat in the back of a handi-capable ride share – a late model sport utility vehicle that smelled of three different kinds of air fresheners and old French fries.

  I thought about how fucking ridiculous it was, all the shit we take for granted.

  I wasn't able to drive yet, having re-tweaked my stupid knee in all the wrong places, and I was in the process of maxing out the last of my credit cards on Ubers and Lyfts. If I ever did see Maddox again, I'd tell him thanks for picking up the hospital tabs, but I really could have used an account with a taxi service. Or a limo. He had fucking limos, right?