Mind F*ck

by Dawn, Kimber S.

  I briefly wonder if it’s exhaustion settling into our bones that makes us feel old, or if it’s just being old. Then I scratch the entire idea as it’s redundant.

  But fuck, I do feel old.

  “Your wife? That casually, huh? Does she even know you’re here?” I didn’t realize how irritating her southern accent was until just now. She almost sounds ignorant. And fuck, I had ignorance. After counting to three while glaring at my blood-shot eyes in the mirror’s reflection, I lean over the party favor leftovers from last night, snorting up a line and a half. Then I growl over my shoulder, “Does it matter? No. She doesn’t even know where here is, so how could she know I’m here.”

  I see her blonde head peek around the double whitewashed doors. “But her things are here. And I’m supposed to return them in the manner of which I used them. So, why…that doesn’t make sense.” She sashays, still naked, into the bathroom before linking her arms around my waist and pressing the front of her body to the back of mine. I feel her warm lips press the skin between my shoulder blades, and the sensation of her mouth on my skin and the coke in my veins makes my cock stir back to life.

  “Baby girl, if you’re looking for sense and sensibility, I suggest you search Jane Austen, and if you’re planning on making a living being an escort, you should learn to shut the fuck up. Now, you just lost your privilege of taking a shower, the next privilege you lose will be leaving with your whore costumes. How about you use that feeble little mind of yours and figure out what it is you should do next. I’ll even give you a clue: It doesn’t involve speaking. Or staying.” I smile at her sad face in the mirror. But only for less than a second, because the second after that, she is gone. And ten after that, I hear the front door slam shut.

  I, however, have yet to move. Still, I stand, feeling now, thankfully, blessedly, nothing. Staring at a man in the mirror.

  A man I don’t know.

  A man no one should spend much time getting to know.

  My appointment with Lexy and her OBGYN is in two hours. Summer comes sauntering into my office in the tightest, reddest, shortest dress I’ve ever seen. But it’s the six-inch black heels and her tanned curvy legs that had my eyes doing a double take.

  “Where were you at last night? I know you haven’t been home a single day this week, Liam. I know you’ve been sleeping here in Manhattan, now I want to know with who. Because it’s not been with me.”

  Her eyes pin to mine, and she does the cutest thing. Her hands, plop onto her hips and she begins tapping her toe. I chuckle around a cough, trying and possibly failing at hiding my amusement. “Baby girl, when I finish in the evenings, if it’s late and I’ve had too much, yes, I do forgo the hour and a half drive home to my wife. Yes, I accept the convenience of sleeping here in Manhattan.” After I’ve stood and made my way around my desk and I’m standing toe to toe with her, my hands cup her face and bring it up to mine. “How many times do I have to tell you, you’re all I need? I drove by your penthouse last night after we left McClearn’s. I circled the block four fucking times, Summer. Do you know how fucking hard my cock was? Do you know how much I fucking needed you?” My hands fist her hair and yank with more force than I initially planned on using. But the memory of me driving by last night. Looking up like a fucking idiot snaps something inside me.

  Something mean. And dark.

  “I needed you, you fucking little slut, and where were you at? Huh?” I growl, but not before biting into the flesh of her neck so hard I taste blood. I lick the barely broken skin, laving and suckling the sting away. I feel her body responding and pressing against me. My palms grasp at her breasts covered in the silk blousy material of her dress. I squeeze and pull until I feel the fabric snap and hear the buttons scattering across the hardwood floor of my office. Her hands pull at my slacks, fumbling with my belt buckle. After I have her offensive red dress rid of it’s buttons, I rip the sash from her waist and push her hands away from my zipper. Less than one second later my cock is free and my hands are circling her wrists and spinning her around, before shoving her face first over my desk.

  I stand back, with one hand stroking my cock and the other still holding her prone against the desk by her hands pinned at the small of her back. I move the hand stroking my cock and place it on her ass, then I revel in the feel of her smooth flesh there, under my callous palm. “Dirty fucking slut. That’s all you are. MY little cum-slut. My little fuck-doll. Say it, Summer. Tell me what you like me to call you. Tell me your favorite.”

  I move to stand behind her, and I don’t need to test her, I don’t need to touch her pussy to know how wet it is. I don’t need to rub her clit with my thumb as I test her opening with my index and middle fingers. I don’t need to because I already know how wet she is. I already know because I can hear it, every damn time she rubs her legs together. I align myself at her entrance and smirk when her wet thighs touch me. “Dirty fucking little girl. Tell me your favorite. Or I walk the fuck away. Right now.” I growl as I bit her bare shoulder and press the head of my cock in less than an inch, before pulling it completely out and simply sliding it back and forth. “Baby girl, you have until three.” I pull my entire front away from her back, only leaving us joined where my cock is between the her thighs from behind. I move back and forth, so, so slowly. “One.”

  “Cum-slut, Liam, tell me I’m your cum-slut. Please, baby.”

  Fuck. Why won’t she stop calling me that.

  Tension wracks it’s way though every muscle and tendon in my frame, suspending me tight. After I’ve pulled completely and utterly away from her naked prone body, and I’m standing less than a foot away with my cock still out and still drenched in her wetness, where I’m at, what I’m doing, and whom I’m with don’t all click into place at once.

  No, no. That happens when my office, my unlocked office door opens and Travis walks in. Then it all clicks. What the hell I was thinking though, never does.

  I’m uncertain why I thought if I were to ever get caught with the princess of Jackson’s Agency, even by the prince, that there wouldn’t be hell to pay. I just assumed that since Travis and I were so close, and hell, he’d offered me his wife. Why would his sister not be fair game?

  Apparently, from Summer’s reaction and Travis’, I’d assumed incorrectly. After Summer, somewhat adjusted her silk red dress back together with the sash around the waist, and I’d tucked myself away, Travis had come the rest of the way into my office and was currently shoving his pointer finger against my chest and his nose in my face, sputtering, “What in the hell do you think you’re fucking doing, buddy? That’s my goddamn baby sister! And you’re fucking married! She’s not fucking Lindy the escort, you don’t fuck her like she’s trash and then treat her that way after. She is educated. She is a lady.” Spittle flies from his mouth and lands, thankfully on my shirt. “You don’t fuck with ladies. At least not anymore.”

  I can’t. The spittle and the rage, he’s too close for this conversation. I shove him back, but not with half the force I wanted to.

  “Travis. Get the fuck back, dude. It’s over.” I pin my eyes to Summer’s and only feel a twinge of regret when her navy eyes fill with tears. “It’s over,” I repeat myself. Keeping my eyes on hers for a few seconds longer, then looking back at Travis.

  I straighten my suit and comb my fingers through my hair then I button my suit jacket and smile. I glance at both of them but settle my eyes on him before speaking, “I have an appointment in less than an hour. It seems my wife and I are expecting our first child. Today we’ll learn it’s due date. However, I will be taking the rest of the day off. Travis, you have my number, if you need me.” I nod, then make my way to my office door.

  Before closing the door behind me, I lock eyes with Summer. “Take as long as you two need. Good luck with your ad campaign this holiday season, Ms. Jackson. It’s brilliant, it truly is.”

  Then I make my way to the elevator, and I don’t think I breathe again until I’ve pressed the button for the ground floor a
nd the doors are closing.

  I don’t know if I meant it when I told Summer and Travis, it was over. I don’t want it to be over with her. I just want her to wake up. If she wants this, then want it. Always. Not just on Tuesday’s and fucking Friday’s.

  I can’t be half way in and half way out.

  I just wish she’d tell me what she’s waiting for.

  She doesn’t want me to leave my wife, but she doesn’t want me with any one else? That’s absurd. It’s preposterous.

  No, when I said, ‘It’s over,’ what I meant was, this ridiculousness and absurdity, these games of hers. They are over.

  And I’ll tell her that.

  I’m in my town car and my driver, Drake is pulling out of the parking garage when my cell rings, “Dean.” I answer Travis’s call.

  “What. The. Fuck. Do you think you’re doing? Who. WHO do you think you’re fucking with, Liam?” he shouts.

  “Travis. Calm down. First of all, you offered me your wife. What’s the difference between that and your sister? You’re not with your sister, nor will you ever be. So, pardon my confusion. Is it because of Lexy?” I demand to know his reasoning. Because as of right now, I see none.

  “No. It’s because, she’s my sister. MY flesh and blood. You don’t do shit like that here. Jesus.” He sighs on the other end.

  “Okay, okay.” I concede. And why not? She’s a riddle I won’t rhyme. I, I have chased after Summer for how long? Months. Circling her building’s block? This is a wake up call—and I’ll take it as such. “Accept my apology. It won’t happen again. Travis, I’m sorry.”

  “No, you’re right, it won’t. And the fact that it has, will cost you, brother. Nothing too much, though. It isn’t like I’ll tattle to my father and spoil your entire career. No. At least, not yet. It will cost you something simple…harmless, even.” He’s quiet for few beats and then his dark voice comes back over the line, “A sampling your wife.” The silence after his statement is deafening. And ever-fucking-lasting.

  It very well could have been one minute of silence, or thirty, I have no recollection of time or sequence.

  I only know it takes forever for me to form the words and speak them. “Excuse me?” Sweat beads across my brow and my hackles rise. “Ex-fucking-cuse me, motherfucker?” I unbutton the buttons at my neck and begin loosening my tie.

  “After the birth of your child, of course. If, and that is an extremely loud if, if your wife’s body is even half as decadent as it appears to be now, or the last time I saw her. I will have her after the delivery of your child. And if you’ve kept up your end of the deal, which is keeping your dick out of my sister, I won’t tell my pops at your one year evaluation that you’ve been fucking his princess. I won’t have a single bad word to speak against you as he names you the third in his legacy, directly behind first me, then my loving, endearing little sister. Capisce?”

  I don’t believe I’ve ever been so stuck. I was cornered. Pissed. Stubborn. And cornered.

  “I’ll talk to you about this later,” I growled, preparing to hang up.

  But his words stopped me. “You can’t talk shit like that to an escort and expect her not to talk. You can’t just shit on absolutely everyone, Liam, and expect to continue to get away with not smelling like shit. Someone, somewhere along the line who is bigger than you— and badder than you— will come along and take what you hold so dear. And they’ll fuck it up and make it ugly. Just so you won’t have it anymore. The sooner you realize that, Liam, the better. Have a great afternoon off with your wife. I do hope she tastes as good as I’m sure she’ll look. I think more often of her than I’ll further admit. Good day, brother.”

  And the line goes dead. As if what I say doesn’t matter. As if I’m being excused.

  Rage, potent and untapped, flares inside me.

  Fuck it.

  I pull the silver vial from my breast pocket and inhale it’s contents. After, I finger the button, sliding the visor between me and the driver down. “Drake, has my wife called?” I ask while pouring a glass of scotch and tucking the bottle back in the bin. I don’t like drinking this early, but due to my current circumstances, I’ll set my moral squabbles aside.

  “Yes, sir. Twice while you were on the phone with Mr. Travis. Would you like me to reconnect you?”

  I notice we’re not on our way to the house and confusion and irritation mix with the coke in my veins and the whiskey in my gut. “Where the hell are we at? Drake, Lexy’s appointment is in forty-five minutes. We still have to go by the house—“

  “No, sir.” His booming voice interrupts my ranting. “She’s heading to the hospital. Mary found her bleeding in the bathtub an hour ago. She called 9-1-1. But Charles, Mary’s husband, said the ambulance couldn’t find a pulse.” I hear OnStar connect and ring, “Like I said, the ambulance dispatcher called twice while you were on the phone with Mr. Travis, would you like me to reconnect you to them?”

  Drake is in his mid-thirties. His dad was my dad’s right hand, and his grandfather was my grandfather’s before that. And now Drake is following in their footsteps.

  The phone rings and I hear Drake repeating, “Sir?” But I can’t respond. My brain won’t make the connection with my muscles to move, to speak, to react.

  “Ambulance 301, do you copy? This is 301.”

  Drake speaks for me, “Yes, I have Mr. Dean in route. Where are you, 301?” After some static, I hear loud counting in the background and beeping. Then static, “Pulling in. Condition unknown.”

  Their words circle, getting so loud the second time I can’t hear Drake’s reply, and then silence ricochets its way through the town car again.

  “Pulling in. Condition unknown.”

  “What’s that mean? What the hell does that mean?” I sputter, thumbing through my contacts on my phone. “Head to whatever hospital they’re at, Drake. What time is my father’s plane supposed to land?” I ask.

  “It landed a little more than an hour ago, Mr. Dean.”

  I glance up at him in the rearview mirror and hit my father’s number, dialing him, “Thanks,” I tell him.

  Why was my wife bleeding in the bathtub an hour ago? Why wasn’t I immediately notified? Charles or fucking Mary couldn’t take a break from chaos and call? An hour ago.

  An hour ago?

  “Dean,” my father answer’s.

  “Father, hope you’re settling in. How was your flight?” I hurry through the casualties, mentally making the connection. Had I been notified, none—none of the last hour would’ve occurred. None of it.

  “I am. It was quite fine. Are you working late tonight?”

  “No, I’m actually off for the remainder of the day, however, Lexy has had an accident.” I clear my throat, preparing to tell my father he’s…he was going to be a grandfather. “Hopefully her and our child are alright. I’m heading to the hospital now. But I’ll keep you posted. As for dinner tonight, I’m afraid Lexy will probably be unable to make it. I should be there, though. Don’t fret.” I know my father. Too well. And if he’s in town, he’ll expect to be greeted. If not by both Lexy and I, then by one of us. And it’s not because of his health issues, it’s his pride that demands these expectations of me.

  “Ah. Very well. Keep me updated. I’m uncertain whether or not to congratulate just yet, so I’ll wait. I hope all is well, son. See you at eight.”

  And that’s all that’s said between father and son. That’s the conversation.

  But the only thing running through my mind is…I don’t know what the hell just happened to my entire damned world in the last seven minutes, but it was the fastest any man has ever fallen, I’m fucking certain of it. And had Mary done what the hell I paid her to do, not a single minute of the seven would’ve happened.

  Our mind is fucked.

  If what I experienced was the end, and that’s the place we all go to when we die, then our minds are all fucked and so are we.

  After my time in Hell, there was a moment of fractured purgatory where I f
elt suspended. Then…I don’t know, I guess I woke up.

  I was cold, so much fucking colder than I’d ever felt before. I was so cold, I shivered under layers of clothes and even more blankets and comforters. I stay cold. Hell, I stayed cold. I shivered over a month after losing my baby girl.

  Familiar pangs beat against my chest.

  The pain is almost like a blanket to me now.

  The first few weeks were hard. The last few days though, have seemed better.

  I did walk today. Outside.

  The March chill still has its hold on New York, as well as my bones. I huddle tighter into a ball as I hear Mary come into my room. “Upsie daisy. None of this pouting. I’ve let you rest. Now up you go. Shower time, I’ll launder your sheets this afternoon.” She’s already started plucking the ends of the fitted sheets off the mattress corners and started pulling pillows out of their cases by the time I drag myself from my bed.

  “Dammit, Mary,” I whine on my way to the bathroom. “And leave the damn sheets, I’ll put them in the washing machine. Just let me shower.”

  I know I’m as weak as her, but she has a reason, I don’t. She’s pregnant, and I’m not.

  And until I have reason, I won’t allow Liam to see how tired I am. How exhausted I am. And how much worse he’s making it.

  He’s never home. If it was bad before I lost my daughter, it’s a hundred times worse, now. I don’t know why I folded so quick and said yes when he asked for the Manhattan apartment. It seemed logical. Necessary. At least, at the time it did.

  All it’s done is widen the gap between us.

  All it’s done is taken our fractured marriage and completely, wholly, decimated it.