Need Me (Truthful Lies Trilogy Book Three)

by Dunning, Rachel

  Or, well, an Alpha Wolf and its pack.

  I spend the night with Deck. And it’s when we’re alone that I see his need for booze even more strongly. I spend the night in his shivering arms.

  It’s mental, I realize. It’s a mental addiction with Declan. Because I saw him drinking before, and it was under control. But now, now he wants it, now his body is telling him it wants it! Or...his mind...

  Tatiana.

  The next morning, Saturday, Deck looks calmer. Color has returned to his cheeks. He’s playful, and we’re joking. The penthouse gets breakfast served to it every morning, so we’ve got a full, decadent spread laid out on the table. Everything from fruits to cereals and bacon and eggs.

  I catch Deck eyeing me mischievously every now and then. I take my chance, feel the waters. I slide my foot out of my slipper, find his leg under the table, tickle him, smile coyly.

  Before I know it my chair is on the ground with a crash! A dish is on the floor and Deck has me to the counter of the kitchen island and I’m gasping! His finger is no more inside me than the orgasm starts slashing me. And I’m orgasming—exploding!—even before I can tell that my screeching groans are echoing in the room.

  He kisses me.

  In the end, after I’ve climbed and burst and fallen back down to earth like confetti, I grin ear to ear. “Sorry, I got carried away,” he says.

  I can’t say anything, I’m too damn satisfied.

  Oh yeah, we’re back, baby...

  -3-

  Sunday.

  Deck’s with the team all day because they’re playing tonight. Home game. He’ll be off to Seattle the day after Christmas. Thursday. He reminded me as well that the coach has a knack of sending them off to a secret training location just before a playoff game, almost like an NFL Boot Camp to get their minds in shape. No phones, no internet, no girls, “No nuthin!” as Coach Warwick likes to say.

  So it means that I might not see him for almost two weeks after Thursday. And that I’ll be out of touch with him for the latter part of that, until after the first playoff on the fourth.

  I’m with my peep, Vikki, at The Swallow Café in Bushwick. A café with a huge swallow painted on the brick wall outside. Vikki knows everything about what’s going on, of course. I can’t keep a secret from my best friend. But I told her at home. I don’t want to discuss this out in the open where someone might catch wind of it and then go to the press with it.

  What I do talk to her about, is Skate.

  “Did you talk to him?”

  She looks down, twirls her cup, says nothing.

  “You have to talk to him, Vik. You—”

  She puts her hand up. “I know. I know...”

  “Vik, talk to me. What’s happening with you?”

  Fighting tears, she says, “I think it might be over, Blaze. I think... I don’t know. If he can’t commit... Five years is a long time. I might have shot myself in the foot with it already.”

  “Vik, Deck told me that Skate wouldn’t stop going on about you the other night, professing his love for you and all.”

  “Really?” Her eyes are rimmed red.

  “Really.”

  She brightens, and I can see how this relationship is engulfing her completely. How she just needs some final resolution, some quick and simple answer: That it will last, no matter what. That they will stay together.

  The feeling’s mutual.

  Maybe she’s waiting for that marriage proposal to give her that answer. But would it? Maybe we’re all waiting for that Magic Spell that says, OK, now it will last forever. Now you don’t have to work at it anymore. Now you’re officially In Love.

  “Vikki, you’re making too much of a big deal about this, I think. I mean, he loves you. He really does. So, fine, he’s a little slow on the uptake with the whole official commitment thing. It doesn’t mean he’s going to dump you and run, you know?”

  “I know. I know. Maybe I’m just...” Her chin starts trembling. “Maybe I’m just... I don’t know. Maybe I’m just getting fuckin old. They say your hormones go wild when you hit my age.”

  “Vikki, you’re thirty, hardly middle-aged.”

  “Almost thirty-one! And wait till you get to thirty, then come and talk to me!”

  We smile sadly at each other, and I hold her hand.

  I start thinking about Deck, about That Woman, about Christmas, about my plans. I can deal with these thoughts. Some are dark, others are not. They’re not overwhelming. They’re OK. I’m OK. Things are flying all about us, but I’m feeling strong about them, feeling good about them. I just need to hold on. Deck and I just need to hold on.

  We can make it through this. Sure.

  I hold Vikki’s hand tighter across the table. When I finally hold it so tight that her skin goes red, she extracts it from my grip, holds mine in return.

  She stands, sticks out a hand for me. I take it, stand as well. And then she hugs me. “It just looked like you needed that,” she says.

  She’s right.

  I don’t let go.

  SIXTEEN

  REDS AND YELLOWS

  -1-

  Her...

  She was losing her mind, she was sure. The meds weren’t working. The downers weren’t working. The Reds, as Tatiana called them, were not fucking working!

  She lay on her bed, sweating, drenched, suffering a hot flush for sure, and she tried to breathe. She’d been struggling to breathe lately. It would just spring up on her from out of nowhere. She’d be carrying some papers at the office, a stack for Frankie Lerrington, and then she’d have to stop, put her hand on a desk and just breathe. On Friday, she’d even fallen to her knees, weak. Lewis Johnson (Now isn’t that one fine looking piece of potential black cock?, she’d wondered) had noticed and stopped by the desk she’d fallen at. He’d put his hand on her shoulder (and oh my God that was fucking amazing and made me so horny) and had asked her, “Mizz Watkins, you OK?”

  She was right level with his cock. She could almost see it pulsing behind his gray slacks, felt her mouth watering for it, saw it throb—

  No, wait, I’m hallucinating...

  “Mizz Watkins, are you—”

  “Evans,” she’d huffed out, feeling like a ninety-year-old smoker. “The name is...Evans.” She stood, shaking. I need my Reds...

  “Uhm, OK, Mizz Evans, you OK?”

  She caught her breath, realized she’d been dreaming about that cock (she was pretty certain it would be freaking huge; all black cocks are massive, she’d heard), and straightened. She flashed a grin. Lewis Johnson straightened his spectacles. She straightened her shirt. He truly was a sexy, swarthy man. She’d love—

  He put a hand on her wrist and she grinned. He wants me, she thought. He wants me and it’s going to be OK.

  “Are. You. OK?” Johnson was talking slowly now, like she was some sort of invalid, or a retard! She felt insulted by that, straightened her blouse, poked her tits out just so he could see what he’d almost gotten before he’d acted so damned high-brow!, and stormed off into Frankie’s office, papers in hand.

  When she got in there, she was sure Frankie’s eyes looked bloodshot...

  ...like a vampire’s eyes. Because Frankie is really a vampire, right? And when he fucks me he’s really sucking my blood...

  She was feeling the sweat again, the transpiration, that nervousness like someone was just around the corner—and had she closed the door properly anyway?

  She checked. It was closed.

  I need my Yellows and Reds... But they always ruin...the sensation! But you need them, Tatty—

  “Baby, you lookin a little-a under the weather there, darlin!” Frankie grinned, and he suddenly looked so old and wrinkly and nothing like Declan Cox, that massive flesh of hardness that she’d once had and lost...

  ...Fuck damn, it’s hot in here! I’m so hot. What’s going on with me? Menopause at my age? Did I take my Blues today? I know I skipped the Reds, yes, but I had to. I just had to!

  A hand touched her
arm and she shrieked!

  “Jeezuss, Tatty! What-a the fuck is-a goin on wichya, honeybaby?”

  She turned to see the man she’d been letting do her the last six months. Why had she done him? He wasn’t satisfying at all. Not like Declan, no.

  ...Oh, Declan, I love you so much. I’d jump off a cliff for you. I’d...slit my wrists for you! It’s real love! Just like it had been with cousin Michael when I was sixteen and he’d been... Oh, cousin Michael, I miss you. I’m so sorry for what happened to you. Oh, my, the blood. That horrible blood in the park... Why am I with this old and wrinkly fuck...?

  And then the old and wrinkly fuck was hugging her and she smelled his yellow breath and she accepted it, stuck her tongue out to match it, and welcomed him. She widened her legs, lifted her skirt, slid down her panties, and got into character: “Oh, yeah, Frankie-baby. You’re the only one for me, you bad motherfucker. Fuck me hard, fuck me like you own me!”

  And Frankie fucked her like he owned her.

  Because he did, really.

  And she knows it, but that’s OK. That’s just fine. Just fine indeedy. All part of the plan. Yes, it is. All OK. It’s all part of the plan to get back at the woman who ruined my life! Yes, yes, that’s what it is. Oh, yes! Oh, yes! ... And Frankie’s been getting me what I need, putting the case together, the case I’ve been planning for all these months, the case I’ve been sticking this wrinkly cock in me for all these months for. My backup plan, my revenge, my coup d’état. And now is the time. Now is the time! Because if I can’t have Decky Baby then no one can! Not even her! But he’ll come back to me, yes, yes, he will. We’ll negotiate, he’ll see he was wrong, he’ll see we’re both conniving people and that we’re made for each other! Yes. I think. What was that?

  I’m sweating... Not thinking—

  Frankie finished up, zipped up.

  “Tatty” stood up, finally realizing it was over, looked him in the eyes, put her hands to his cheeks and kissed him like she loved him. The smell of his breath was stale, but he took care of her, so she could live with that.

  So long as I keep bending over for him, he’ll give me what I want. Give the old fuck what he wants and I’ll get what I want!

  But she’d lost track of what it was she wanted. Was it love? No, she’d given up on that since Michael. Oh Michael, Michael... You were so young. So foolish. Why did you insist on seeing me that night! It was your fault! The Yellows. I need the Yellows. Mikey only visits me in my mind when I don’t take the Yellows!

  This—with Lerrington—wasn’t love. Of course not. Was it jewelry? She had enough of it now. She had the apartment (Frankie gave it to her, a nice one), had the Superclass Beamer, had everything she needed. Except Declan Cox.

  She was feeling hot again, uneasy, jittery in the stomach. The room was wavy. Did I take one or two Reds?

  The room was losing focus. Was she pregnant of all things!?

  No, no—

  “Honey-a, take the rest-a the day off, willya? You look beat, kiddo.”

  She was. Yes. Beat. After Declan had abused her. Yes, he’d abused her! Yes, that was her story. She needed to stick to it, even though his eyes had told her something else every time she’d looked at him—

  No! I can’t think of that! He brought it on himself! Just like Michael! They all bring it on themselves! Men! It’s their fault!

  Now, on her bed in her apartment, Sunday, just outside the Upper East Side (practically in it), she was feeling nauseous, afraid. And she was sweating again, just like she’d been sweating all day at the office on Friday when she’d fallen and Lewis Big Cock had insulted her and Frankie Big Boss had then taken his fill of her.

  Why, Tatiana? Why tell such a lie? Why hurt someone who, at the end of the day, did nothing worse to you than what you did to him? Why hurt a person you know to be a good person? Why hurt Declan Cox?

  Why!

  The bedroom she was in now spun like a boat in a whirlpool. Sweat dripped down her brow in streams. She was running a temperature, surely. It must be the booze. Doc said I shouldn’t mix it with the pills.

  Her chest tightened. I can’t breathe, can’t think, need air.

  She moved her hand into her underwear, found herself. She was sweating there as well, moist and sticky. She thought of Declan, because that helped sometimes. Sweet, pulsing, Decky Baby. Good sex it had been. Why do I feel so claustrophobic?

  It wasn’t working. It wasn’t making her feel better. The ceiling was falling in. A voice in her head, the voice of reason: Maybe it’s the lies. Too many lies, Tatty. You need to come clean—

  And another voice: No! Don’t you dare come clean! You know why you’re doing this, Tatiana!

  A third voice (her own?): No, I don’t. I don’t. Tell me! Speak to me! Think. Think! Think carefully back, way back, the reason for all this...

  “Oh, God, I don’t know! It’s driving me crazy! I can’t fuck that man anymore just to avenge Declan—”

  Then it hit her.

  Like a smiling fist.

  And the calmness washed over her harder than any Red or Blue or Pink or Yellow tablet had ever done.

  She wasn’t avenging Declan, no. Of course not. What for? She respected him. What a coup he’d pulled on her. Genius!

  In a way...she hoped to...have him again.

  No no no no no. She smiled now. She was doing this for one single, shining reason.

  She felt the pressure ease off her chest, took a deep breath and felt the cool air of the room wash over her. Her pores dried up, the room stopped spinning. She felt happy, calm, serene.

  She touched herself...

  Smiled.

  Thinking of the Real Reason she was getting this entire case put together eased her mind completely, gave her focus. Made her...mmmm...a little fuckin horny.

  She was doing this because she hated Blaze Ryleigh. And Blaze Ryleigh would collapse if (A) Declan went down or (B) Declan fucked Tatiana again so he could make the case go away. It made perfect, logical sense (in Tatiana’s mind.)

  She thrust inside herself. Oh, yes, yes, yes, YES!

  And she burst.

  She hadn’t felt this good in months.

  SEVENTEEN

  GIN

  ~ DECEMBER 25 ~

  -1-

  Declan Cox

  Christmas is a magical time. The world could be coming to its unavoidable end outside and yet somehow people find a way to chill with each other, to forget their problems, to give thanks.

  We went by and saw Blaze’s Father-Figure friend earlier today, Mr. Bernstein. He’s getting on in age now but still looks hale and full of energy. She wished him a happy Hanukkah and then we chilled and looked out over the snow-covered land of his majestic Nassau home. It was peaceful, not a care in the world. But I think that speaks for the company as well as the location. We drank alcohol-free wine and ate deep fried halloumi cheese sprinkled with lemon.

  We were there a good three hours, sitting on the porch with him telling us stories of the Bronx and Queens and Bushwick “back when crime was rife and schmucks were up to no good in the area!” He’d once owned properties in all those neighborhoods before he retired out here into the luxurious quiet.

  “Although,” he said to me, “the times I look forward to the most are when Blaze is in town and comes and visits me. She promised me once that she would, and she kept that promise, despite my efforts to tell her to forget this old klutz and move on with her life!”

  Blaze said nothing, just looked down at her feet as we sat on the chilly porch. I know she owes him a lot. He kept her afloat when things weren’t going so well financially for her, never asked for anything in return except “to visit this old fool sometime.” It says a lot for someone who doesn’t forget those who helped her get up the ladder. It’s so easy to step on people when pushing up those rungs.

  That was earlier today. Right now we’re at Trev’s place, warm food-scent climbing in his mother’s Prospect Heights apartment. Trev actually had to convince Mrs. Perkins to
move out of East New York. “It’s my home!” she’d told him. But when Jacinta, his sister, fell pregnant a few months ago and needed to move back up to New York from Cali, his mom finally gave in, agreeing that the child needed a safer environment in which to grow up. Jacinta’s here, looking sexy as ever, even with her bun in the oven. Tramone, his brother, sadly is not. No one comments on it because, well, it’s Christmas, and thinking about bad things at Christmas is like committing a religious felony or something.

  Trev doesn’t talk about it.

  Blaze hangs around a lot in the kitchen with the girls and Trev and I chill on the couch and watch daytime TV, sitting back with our ankles crossed, sipping on alcohol-free beers.

  Trev and I haven’t had any real time to hang since Blaze got into town. But he’s also been elusive lately. He thinks I don’t know about a little someone special I think he’s hooking up with, and having late-night chats with. But I’ll bring it up today when I get the chance.

  “How’s Blaze taking this whole thing?” Trev asks.

  “This whole thing” is our euphemism for You-Know-Who accusing me of the unspeakable You-Know-What.

  I look up at the door to the kitchen. The girls are hidden from view but I can hear them all laughing. I even hear my name a few times, followed by more raucous laughter. I must be providing some serious comic relief for them, probably discussing my big ears when I was younger or that time Trev pulled my pants down at recess when we were in grammar school.

  “She’s taking it...incredibly well, homes. She’s...different now.”

  “How so?”

  “She’s tougher. I don’t mean she’s callous, just...more real. I...I’m more in love with her than ever, Trev. She’s...she’s incredible.”