Zaccaro

by Amarie Avant

  “God, your pussy is soaked,” Evan hisses through gritted teeth. I’m in sheer heaven as his muscle stretches my insides with each drive. Tilting my hips as much as I can, I welcome the depth of his long, thick cock. Then Evan stays there. His dick living within my wet walls. My breaths are ragged against the glass window. Perspiration fogging and evaporating. Lips chilled by the touch of the glass.

  As his arms wrap around me, chest against my back, I feel his wild heartbeat pound against me. Thank God my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth. I am unable to speak the words. I love you, Evan. Every single word is a lie, a lie I’ve never said, but they’re fitting words for this moment. They’re peppered with my thanks and awe.

  It has to be the sex. I bite my lip as Evan continues with the deep penetration. He’s incited nerve endings I had no idea even existed. Now his stomach is slapping against my ass, as he fucks me harder. The friction of his cock going in and out, ever so quickly, and the tunneling of the head of his cock back into my body makes me scream his name. “EVAN!”

  “Fuck,” he slams into me. Evan’s words are colorful, primitive, and not auditory as we convulse. I literally shatter, while we give into one last orgasm.

  Tonight Evan had carried my body to bed. I’d wanted the continual, crazy sex that we had on our supposed ‘one-night stand.’ I craved the hard fuck, the de-stresser he is such a guru at providing.

  Somehow, we just lie in bed, molded into each other. The sheets from a few days ago have been replaced by royal blue ones. The fresh linen scent entwines with the taste of our sex mingling together. Evan’s fingertips brush lightly over the side curve of my breast, down my waist, to my hip. My mind is on alert, not in a tensed type of way, it's just encouraging my heart to come alive, to recall what it feels like to fall in love. No, that can't be true, why would my heart turn traitor to reality? This man’s life is perfect, he saves people… So yeah, I’m the stupid one. So used to saving myself, my mother, and being strong. Now, I stupidly enjoy this untouchable man. Where I'm from, there's no such thing as a hero…

  I don’t know how long he’s been caressing my skin. The heaviness of my eyelids ceases as Evan’s words pull me back from the tranquil slumber.

  “You’re so soft, so sweet,” he murmurs against my ear.

  I turn around and snuggle up beside him. My eyes search his soft brown ones. “You always say I’m so sweet.”

  “Are you taking offense to it?” Evan kisses my forehead.

  My mouth opens. Just the mention of Milo Gianni Benincassa’s name would rectify any confusion of me being ‘sweet.’ And I don’t want that, I want what we have, this is perfect. Whatever this is, no-strings attached.

  Evan’s lips sweep over my forehead. “You smell like sugar, or vanilla, or chocolate, or some other form of sweets, Reese. Every single moment in your presence, I just want to devour your entire body.”

  His growl makes me tingle in delight.

  “Well in that case, I better run. You sound like The Big Bad Wolf.” I chuckle as Evan nips at me. “What big teeth you have…” I say, quoting The Little Red Riding Hood.

  “The better to eat you, my dear–no wait, that sounds too fucking corny. You’re turning me into one of those lame-types.” He chuckles pulling me onto him.

  Evan is this mixture of bad, good. His strength tells the story of a man who’s had to pull the trigger, but not like my father, not in vain, not on a power trip.

  He simply is the hero I’ve never known I needed.

  God, does he understand how much I need a dorky-dufus date?

  10

  Evan

  High pitched, tiny voices clash against each other and travel toward my bed. And the subsequent laughter, Reese’s silky, uninhibited laughter, has my dick saluting her. I turn over onto my side, and glance across my vast studio apartment. Reese is leaning against the kitchen counter, head back, with a hearty laugh. She’s watching the flat-screen that’s bolted cater-cornered near the wall stove.

  I think hard, I've had to interview children on occasion. Though it's something I detest, children and questioning, I know this cartoon. PJ Masks is all the rave these days. When I made Detective 1, Dora the Explorer was hot shit, so I had to quickly cram a few episodes of that in. SpongeBob SquarePants had me pausing from taking notes to laugh. Now, it’s all about the PJ Masks. Don't even know when and how, but those little child heroes dressed in pajamas can spark an entire conversation, with innocent little children.

  I lick my lips, wondering if I'd prefer to wake up to sex or cinnamon. She's making some sort of cinnamon pastry. On cue, my stomach growls. Guess one beast is overshadowing the other when it comes to fundamental needs.

  I get up from bed, eyes trained on her creamy thighs, half her ass is creeping from my old, faded Cal State LA shirt. Usually my worn clothes get the boot. But I couldn't part ways with my alma mater shirt, it held so many memories. And after that, it's just held a spot in the back of my walk-in closet. Glad to see the old pal has reinvented itself as the curve of Reese’s ass continues to play peek-a-boo while she enjoys the show.

  Then her butt cheeks are hidden once more. She pops up into a standing position.

  “You're awake!” There's an airy happiness to her tone that I imagined would accompany the bakery she owns, but hadn't personally observed during my one trip to Flour.

  Reese flits over to the cappuccino maker, grabs a royal-blue cup and hands it to me. “Right on time. If it's not hot enough, feel free to punish me.”

  I chuckle. Then take a sip. “Perfect.”

  She fakes a pout.

  After eating cinnamon buns topped with fruit, Reese begins a tour of my walk-in closet. The entire room is custom built, with suits in an array of colors from black to coal to blue at one side. My shoes are in individual display cases and Reese begins to press the button which makes the trolley of ties twirl around.

  “Cut it out, Reese.”

  “I would, if I could find a single pair of jeans.” She grins, then finally lets the button go.

  “Well, you won’t find one pair of jeans because I don’t own any.”

  “OCD, much?” She cocks an eyebrow.

  “No, I’m a grown ass man. Suits are for men.”

  “Yeah right, you’ve still got that New Yorker mentality. I bet you were once a three-foot-tall miniature man.” She jokes of my childhood.

  I rub a thumb across the stubble at my jawline while smiling. “That I was. You could take the boy outta Manhattan, but I stay classic. Always have, always will.”

  “Sure, Evan. Can you ride a horse in a suit?” Reese says, stepping toward a tweed suit to which I snatch from her hands and place it back. “Oh, the cop is afraid of horses?”

  Horseback riding has never popped into my brain when considering a bucket list of things to try. But with Reese, I wouldn’t be able to live it down if I declined. After taking her home for another pair of jeans and a shirt, we start for the Horseback Riding Ranch within the Santa Monica Mountain Range.

  While heading onto the freeway I ask, “So, your dad. What happened with him and Lolita?”

  From her position looking out the window, Reese turns around. Her brows are pensively drawn together, “I don’t know what went wrong with their marriage…”

  “Oh,” I nod, allowing Reese a moment as I’ve noted a slight fluctuation in her tone. The pitch is almost akin to fear.

  Instincts warned that this is a touchy subject. Therefore, bringing it up while I drive gives Reese the security blanket she needs. She’s a lot flightier when we have a simple conversation head on. From the corner of my eye, I notice her dragging her teeth over her bottom lip.

  “Hey, Evan, I've been meaning to say, there are lots of cops coming into Flour. The other night we had a huge order for a stakeout. Did you have something to do with that?” She asks, worry momentarily vanished.

  “I might have made mention of the good food,” I reply, with a quick grin, though she has changed the subject.

&n
bsp; Reese rakes a hand through her hair, “Oh sheesh, I bet you can read right through me. It’s hard to talk about him, and you’ve been no less than candid with about your mother. Mi—my father actually died when I was very young. Sometimes I believe my memories of M… my father are dreams and dreams are memories.” She shrugs, “Can’t differentiate, I really was pretty young when he died.”

  My heart reaches out for Reese. I blink and I’m the twelve-year-old boy again, asking God why my mother had to be the one to go. It took ages for me to proceed through the stages of grief. Whether Reese’s brain is processing memories and dreams, I realize, her demeanor is tensed with fear. She’s held some form of fear of her father. Was he overly strict? Did he punish her too much?

  Taking her hand in mine, I decide to call my father later and ask him more about Reese’s father. Surely Tony should know. My thumb rubs softly at the satin patch of skin on her wrist. Then I lift her hand and kiss the vulnerability of Reese’s heartbeat. As my mouth then caresses the inside of Reese’s palm, a smile bright like the sun on her face.

  Indeed, I need to talk to dad. Then once I know exactly what kind of monster Reese’s father is, I can proceed with the process of talking to her about him.

  The ranch is a massive log cabin, hidden within a thick foliage of woods. Once the tiny road leading into the hills opens up, I mention the sight before us.

  “You haven’t seen nothing yet,” Reese says, back to her spunky self as we get out of the car.

  “Why do I have the feeling your goal is seeing me fold,” I mumble, closing her door behind her.

  “It’s not that I want to see you fold, Evan. You just have this astronomical confidence, city boy. You’re like Batman nix the cape. Let’s see how well you fair on top of a horse.”

  Our guide, a young woman in a cowboy hat and boots, gives us the grand tour since it is my first time. Reese jokes about lunch at their restaurant once I successfully ride a horse. When we get outside, I notice that the guide has continued to glance at me up and down, with a smirk on her face.

  “Hmmm, you’re a classic man.” She says pointedly.

  “That I am,” I nod as the three of us walk toward the stables. Reese silently sniggers since I said those very words this morning. Looping my arm into hers, I whisper, “Keep on and I’ll tell her all the nasty things you do with your stepbrother.”

  The guide glances back as Reese shoots me daggers of anger. “How long have you two been together? Five years? Lucky number seven, am I right? You two quarrel like an old married couple, who albeit are unable to stop touching each other. I love it! I’ve always preferred the couples who’ve learned to trust each other. The new ones, end up bickering when one doesn’t connect well with our horses.”

  “Little less than a month,” Reese beams.

  “Oh,” she pauses, “Well, you seem to have this extreme connection.”

  The instructor helps Reese get situated on her horse. As a behavioral analyst, I’m highly unaware of this animal’s social cues. I reach out to touch his slick, coppery hair, but second-guess it. My arms fold, and I take a gander into the dark-brown eyes of a black stallion.

  I reach out to pat my horse, but he trots away.

  Reese chuckles. “Don’t be afraid, babe. You’ll love it.”

  “Yes, I will,” my smile is tensed.

  “Actually, you’re onto something there, Evan. Flash likes to be petted.”

  My eyebrow arches, Flash? I’d prefer a more stable horse, named… Rusty or Gus. Yet, mentioning as much is like stripping myself of a piece of my manhood. “See, Reese, I’m getting to know our friend Flash.”

  “Okay, horse whisperer,” Reese’s horse trots along with her as if to co-sign her dig.

  My cell phone begins to buzz within the inside pocket of my blazer. I snatch it out, praying it’s work.

  “Looky here, I’ve been called in.”

  11

  Reese

  Three weeks later…

  The top of Hidden Hills, located in the west San Fernando Valley, is where many stars call home. And so does my mother’s current situation, Tony Zaccaro. As my Honda hatchback pulled up, I almost scoffed; the place was like a quaint cottage on steroids. From stone walls, to vaulted ceilings, my gaze took it all in as my mother gave a grand tour to include every en-suite bedroom to the stellar theatre and exercise room.

  “Get outta here,” Jamie says. He is a roasted-almond skin tone, and his hair is always kept in a neat fade. Gloss shines over full-chocolate colored lips. His fury geared toward my mother takes a backseat as I pull into the lengthy driveway. That sparkle in his dark-brown eyes displays that he has become accustom to the finer things in life.

  “Are you going to drool on the marble floor when we get inside—I’m sure there’s marble flooring—or will you help me get through to Lolita?”

  He places up a manicured index finger. “First of all, I will always put you first. Second, I am so over your mom it’s a damn sin. So yes, she’ll be seeing the error of her ways before all is said and done. And I just might become her worst nightmare and take her man…”

  I gulp. Since Chu has been in California, Jamie has gone from pulling the ‘sick’ line to receiving my blessing to take a two-week vacay. I had no issues with doing so, seeing that paying all my employees has become a feat. Needless to say, everyone working at the Flour Shoppe knows each other’s business. Jamie was never told about the dynamic of myself shagging the stepbrother, who is also the cop and the main reason my mom shouldn’t be married to Tony Zaccaro anyway.

  Hopefully, this minut detail is glided over during brunch.

  In a pale-pink dress, I get out of the car. Though I’m wearing wedges, Jamie is already five-foot-eleven and with six-inch snake-skin stilettos that pair perfectly with cropped pants, he towers over me as we descend the sloped passageway to the front door.

  A woman in a gray maid-uniform opens the front door and greets me by name. “Miss Reese Dunham, your mother has been expecting you. Do come in.”

  I smile.

  As we walk through Tony Zaccaro’s home, is it bad for me to size up his assets? Meeting him was off putting. Tony's resonance took me back almost fifteen years ago. And his shiny suits, so unlike Evan. I just can't trust him, no matter how open Tony is when he talks incessantly. Yet, he won't be the first husband of my mother’s that I am unable to trust. Then I recall Evan’s story about his mother…

  Mrs. Zaccaro was a very refined woman. Evan’s childhood was enriched with the Metropolitan Opera, visits to his father’s hometown of Cosenza, Italy, and traveling with his mother to pursue important historic artifacts. She’d seemed independent enough. Would the fifteen to twenty years younger Mrs. Zaccaro marry a disgusting old geezer? In her defense, the big guy was rather handsome back in the day. Evan seems to have been gifted with a few of his father’s handsome—albeit thinner days— genes.

  Tony is far from the archetype for Lolita’s usual fleeting form of entertainment. He has a heart.

  We’re escorted to a sunroom, where my mother has her back to us. Her tone is hushed, harsh even as she talks on her cell phone.

  Jamie clears his throat.

  “Oh, Reese, you’re here. I’m cooking…” Her voice falters as she turns around to see Jamie. But even still, she’s breathtakingly beautiful standing before us in a Vera Wang chiffon dress. For all intents and purposes, she’s flawless, yet rude as she says, “Oh, you brought her.”

  “Hmmm. I’m pretty darn sure we’ve had this discussion before,” Jamie says tapping an index finger to his lips. “Please don’t call me a ‘her,’ honey. I am all male, and everything that your—”

  “Okay,” I chime in. One of my mother’s ex’s had attempted to flirt with Jamie once. Though my friend put an end to his intentions swiftly, Lolita was too conceited to believe in such deceit even though she’d been cheated on before. Heck, the asshole did it right in front of my face, so I do believe my eyes weren’t being deceptive either.

 
“So where’s your sugar da… ahem your old man?” I ask.

  Lolita’s head tips just slightly.

  “What, you’ve never taken offense to any of the walking Amex cards,” I say, trying to disconnect the feelings I have for Evan at the moment. I need to observe the slightest bit of hesitation in my mother’s flawless façade. There has to be one single seed of doubt in her demeanor. Lolita and Tony can’t last. I am falling, dreadfully fast, for his son. In less than a month, we’ve gotten together for much of it. I can’t foolishly simplify our activities into a form of exercise, no.

  “Tony’s out,” Is all my mother will say, as we step onto the patio. Truly no portion of this home was left unadorned. There are sprawling lawns and an infinity pool gleams as the afternoon sun sets it ablaze with turquoise sparkles.

  The conversation veers toward agreeable grounds as the three of us set the table. I feel the echo of the vaulted ceilings as we return to the state-of-the-art kitchen.

  My eyes close, chest rising as I breath in Mediterranean flavors. It's what my mom does. She turns a house into a home. And that's just it. The added touches are all new, all her. The orchids in the crystal vase in the foyer. Throw rugs and touches of color. Like Evan’s home with his pristine white–and I found out added color due to him hording his mother’s antiques. Tony is just the same. This humongous place had become a beige exhibit, until my mom added pops of color here and there. None rings Tony Zaccaro the widower or even the old man who blabbers when nervous.

  “You okay, Reese?” Jamie murmurs, quickly as my mother takes a pitcher of cucumber and lemon water from the fridge. We’d previously set a game plan to bring up the touchy subject after eating.

  I nod.

  “I’ll toss the salad,” Jamie says, never one to steer away from being crude. My mom laughs at that and I do too. He steps toward the island and picks up the wood spoon.