by Ashley Harma
“Fuck him,” Jackson said definitively. “Kurt, go pull Lila’s car around,” he called to the valet, still standing awkwardly in the shadows by the door. Kurt grunted and disappeared.
Chapter Sixteen
After she dropped Jackson and Tiffany off, Lila went home, exhausted. She pulled into the driveway, turned off her car, and looked at the house. The kitchen light was on.
“Oh great,” Lila moaned, throwing her head back against the seat. The last thing she wanted was to talk to her dad right now. Maybe she’d get lucky—maybe he’d be passed out and she could just put him to bed. When she realized she thought that—maybe she’d be lucky and her dad would be passed out—she jolted forward. Everything was so fucked up in her life. Even this new thing—Club Malevolence, her new job, Jackson, Barrett—even that was fucked up, at its core. Her friendship with Jackson wasn’t. That, at least, she felt was a good thing. Her life before the Club was fucked up, her life now was fucked up—was there ever an end to it?
Anxious and depressed now, she got out of the car and trudged up the driveway. She steeled herself as she started up the back stairs, but when she got to the back door, she gasped. Sitting at the kitchen table was her father, yes, but at the other end, across from him, was the Sheriff, having what looked like a very serious conversation. Lila froze where she stood. She hadn’t seen the Sheriff’s car. Where had he parked? What had her father done now? She wanted to run back down the stairs, didn’t want the Sheriff, whom she held so dear, in her shithole house, talking to her deadbeat dad. She knew the responsible thing was for her to go inside, deal with it—but Lila felt like she couldn’t. She soundlessly headed back down the stairs, hoping they couldn’t hear her, and got back into her car. If she wanted to go—and she did—she had to go now. She could figure out where once she caught her breath. She started the car and backed out carefully. Maybe they had heard, had expected her up the back stairs any second. She didn’t really care.
She got on the road again, racking her brain. She couldn’t go back to the Morans’ right now. She could call one of the girls from the bar, but she felt like they weren’t close enough for her to do that yet. There was one place she wanted to go, one thing she wanted to do right now, but she wasn’t sure if he would go for it. It was worth a try anyway. She grabbed her phone and dialed. Please answer, she prayed silently.
“What’s up? Are you all right?” He had. He had answered. She breathed a sigh of relief.
“Don’t take this the wrong way: can I come over right now?” She jumped right in. There was no point in beating around the bush—either he’d let her come over or he wouldn’t.
“What way am I supposed to take that, you psycho?” She could hear him grinning over the phone.
“You’re supposed to take it this way: if I don’t have you right now, I’m going to pull my hair out.”
“You can definitely come over, then. 525 Buccaneer Road. See you soon.” He hung up on her.
She sped in that direction. Thankfully, it wasn’t far. She drummed the steering wheel with her fingers as she drove, full of nervous energy. Something was trying to pull itself together before her eyes, but she didn’t want to look at it. She couldn’t. It was too big, too confusing, and right now, all she wanted was Barrett, the sweat off his body, the taste of his saliva, the smell of his hair. She approached the address, and it came into view: a quaint little one-story house, small but nice, Barrett’s bike parked outside. She pulled into the driveway and parked. The front door opened, and Barrett stood, silhouetted from behind by warm, yellow light. She got out of her car.
“Long time, no see. Should I be worried? Are you stalking me now?”
“Yep. Don’t leave me alone with any bunnies,” she joked as she approached the front door.
“Bunnies? What?”
“Fatal Attraction? Ever see that movie? Whatever, it’s about a stalker.” She stood before him now, him leaned against the doorframe, looking so sexy in a t-shirt and gym shorts.
“I don’t have any bunnies, so we’re safe there.” She couldn’t take it any longer, she launched towards him and brought his mouth down to hers. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her inside, and shut the door behind her.
Making love to Barrett in a real bed was a totally different experience. Lila loved his weight on top of her, loved the feel of the muscles in his back working as he pushed himself in and out. The freedom of space gave them a lot more opportunities, too, and he’d taken her every way he could: him on top, her on top, from behind, sideways, any way she could imagine. He was an expert, pacing himself so that Lila got close to coming so many times but was always left unsatisfied, begging for him again, pleading for him not to stop. She’d never been worked over like this.
When, finally, after what seemed like hours, he let Lila come, she did so with a cry, close to a yelp, the pleasure was so intense, and just when she’d bottomed out, he withdrew from her and licked his way down her body, lapping up her juices and bringing her to orgasm again with his tongue. Lila saw stars like she’d been knocked out. When they cleared, Barrett came into focused, laying beside her, propped up on an elbow, stroking her stomach with his fingertips. He was still fully erect, his cock at a right angle to his body, reaching towards her. She rolled him over and slid herself down his body, taking him into her mouth. He groaned and put a hand on the back of her head.
“You don’t have to,” he managed to force out. She hummed around him and he gasped and bucked his hips up. She took her mouth off him and stroked him with her hand.
“Oh yeah? I don’t have to? You don’t want me to?” she teased.
He started to respond and she swallowed him again, and his words caught in his throat. She took him as far as she could, sucking hard, running a hand up his abs as they clenched and rocked.
“Lila, Lila, fuck,” he grunted. Unable to hold back any longer, he began thrusting into her, and after a few seconds, he moaned, shuddered, and came hard. Lila lapped him up, waiting until he’d relaxed completely, and then pulled away from him and came back up to rest on his chest. His hand cupped her face, fingers wiping the corners of her mouth before he drew her up to him for a long, slow kiss.
“I don’t care if you are a stalker, you’re a great lay,” he smirked.
“You’re not so bad yourself, for a psychopath.” They laid there for a few minutes in silence. Lila was sure Barrett didn’t want her sleeping there, she’d have to go home eventually, but she wasn’t quite ready to move yet.
“What’d you really come over here for?” Barrett asked. The question startled Lila. It was…so personal.
“You mean, besides the mind-blowing sex?” she deflected.
“Yes, I mean besides that. Or you really are crazy, and couldn’t go 8 hours without fucking me.” Lila gave a short laugh. She wasn’t sure how to respond to his question.
“Just didn’t feel like being at home,” she said simply.
“Live by yourself?” he asked.
“No, with my dad,” she responded.
“Yikes, that sucks.”
“Yeah.” She didn’t want, wasn’t ready to reveal what state her father was in. “Your parents live in Belle Chasse?” she asked, trying to change the subject.
“No.” Barrett said it coldly, and didn’t offer up anything else.
“Did you grow up here?” Lila probed. She knew she shouldn’t, but she didn’t want to think about herself or her own life right now.
“No,” he said again, same tone. Lila pulled away to look up at him. He didn’t look at her.
“Okay, sorry.” She laid her head back on his chest.
“You grew up here?” he asked, maybe trying to apologize.
“Yes.” She played the game.
“Your parents obviously still live here.”
“My dad does.”
“Mom somewhere else?” he asked.
Well, she couldn’t lie. “She’s dead.” She tried to say it as simply and as unemotionally as possible. An
awkward pause ensued. Lila didn’t move, and neither did Barrett. She was sure he’d freak out, clam up more. They sat in silence for a few seconds.
“I’m really sorry to hear that,” he said. Like Jackson, he’d done a good job of meaning it, of not letting his voice ooze sympathetic. Lila was surprised.
“It happened a long time ago,” she surprised herself even more by continuing.
“Doesn’t mean it’s not shitty,” he said quietly, holding her a little tighter. Lila shrugged in his embrace.
“I’ll live.” She sat up now. If Barrett wasn’t going to open up to her, she shouldn’t open up to him. That had disaster written all over it. Barrett shifted as she got up and collected her clothes, watching her.
“Where are you going?” he finally asked as she started slipping clothes back on.
“Home.” She hooked her bra. Her shirt was in the living room, and so were her shoes.
“Already?” He almost sounded like he wanted her to stay, at least a little longer, but Lila pushed the thought from her mind. If he did, it was probably because he thought they’d have sex again. That seemed like all he wanted.
“Yeah. Want to let you get your beauty rest,” she quipped, padding out of the bedroom. She heard Barrett rustle out of bed behind her, grab something, and follow her out. He’d slipped his underwear back on, and god, he looked good. Lila focused on finding her shoes, though. One was under the couch—where was the other one?
“You don’t have to go running out of here right now,” he said hesitantly. Something in Lila’s stomach cramped at the way he said it, like he might ask her to stay, and not for the sex. But she held her silence as she searched for and found her other shoe, and Barrett didn’t offer up any reason for her not to leave.
“No worries,” she said, tying her shoes and standing up. “I’ll see you again soon, I’m sure.” She headed for the door, turning to see Barrett when she’d reached the entrance. He looked sheepish and uncomfortable, standing by the couch, watching her. But still, he did nothing to make her stay.
“Probably,” he said, looking at her with something like sadness. “You work this weekend, I assume, right?” She put her hand on the doorknob.
“Yep. You fighting this weekend?”
“Yep.”
Things had been so hot in the bedroom, but out here, they were so cold. Lila didn’t know what to think about her and Barrett, what it was, what he felt. She didn’t want to ask, and honestly, she didn’t want to feel anything for him right now either. Maybe they were even.
“Okay…” he trailed off, waiting to see what she was going to do. “Well, I’ll probably see you at the Club, then…” His pauses hung in the air.
“Yep, see you at the Club.” Lila turned the handle, opened the door, and breezed out. When she’d made it into her car, tears sprang into her eyes. “Nope,” she said out loud to herself, “we’re not going to do that.” Still, they kept coming. “We’re not going to cry, not about anything, not about Dad, not about Barrett, not about anything right now. We’re not going to do that.” She wiped her eyes, started her car, and drove home.
When she arrived back in her driveway, the Sheriff was gone and the kitchen light was off. She breathed a sigh of relief and headed inside. No sign of her father in the kitchen, and his bedroom door was closed. Lila went to her bedroom, took off her pants, flopped into bed, and fell fast asleep.
Chapter Seventeen
At work the next night, that big thing that Lila’d felt was coming continued to dance in front of her eyes. Even worse, now, a stone had formed in the pit of her stomach, heavy and unsettling. The first fight of the night had gone badly, and one of the fighters had broken the other guy’s nose. Blood was all over the ring, and trailed its way out, onto the floor, and all the way to the bathrooms. A custodian was mopping it all up now, and the patrons were getting restless and, for the first time, rude. Lila was still making good money running drinks for Georgia, but people were taking an attitude with her tonight, and she was unaccustomed to that. Lyle and Cassandra sat, agitated, at the bar, and they, too, were responding to whatever mercurial retrograde floated through the air that night.
“Need to pick up the pace, girly,” Cassandra scolded Lila when she returned from a round of deliveries. “I can see people tappin’ their toes, waiting for ya to come over and get ‘em something.” Lila just nodded—she didn’t have time to deal with the bosses being right there and micromanaging tonight. Lyle just kept his arms crossed and tsked every once in awhile, but Cassandra was letting the comments rip tonight. She’d already told Georgia she needed to rethink her wardrobe, because she’d let her clothes slip the last few weeks.
The bell rang for the next start to fight. The janitor had finished cleaning up, thankfully, and out came Jackson and the big black guy Barrett had beaten the week before.
“All right,” Lyle cooed, rubbing his hands together. “Here we go.” He put a hand on Cassandra’s shoulder, and she gripped it with her own. The trainers took last minute precautions on their guys, and the match had to start—they were running behind schedule with all the cleaning from the last one.
Jackson and the man squared up, both in guards, and began to circle around each other slowly. They seemed well matched. But Lila couldn’t help it: she felt like something was going to go wrong here. Write it off as her bizarre connection to Jackson, but she had a bad feeling about this match. However, she had drinks to run, so she loaded a tray and started off. She dropped off two mojitos to an elderly couple sitting towards the back when she heard the first thwack of a punch. The crowd gasped and she caught a quick glance of the ring. The man had wacked Jackson good, right across the jaw. He reeled a bit, then staggered back into guard. Jackson’s usual supporters were booing, or shouting for him to get it back. Jackson had a strange look in his eyes.
Next Lila had to run three vodka rocks to a group of young friends who came once in awhile and always got wasted. As she handed off the third one, a horrible sound came from the ring and the guy she was handing it to nearly knocked it out of her hand.
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” he shouted, jumping to his feet. Lila turned, and Jackson was against the ropes, the black man advancing on him, looking ready to strike hard and many times over. He did just that, hitting Jackson ruthlessly a couple times across the face, then squatting low and pummeling Jackson’s ribs with his fists. Jackson supporters were on their feet now, screaming in anguish. Jackson didn’t usually get hit this much. Lila suddenly became very worried. She put the vodka rocks down and headed off to her last delivery, trying to keep an eye on the ring. The black man took a big step back, Lila’s guts seized, and he fan kicked Jackson across the face. Blood sprayed out of his mouth. Lila let out a gasp, stopping in the middle of the floor with her tray, not worried about the drinks anymore.
He wasn’t going to fight. Lila could see it in his eyes and it scared her, not because he’d get the shit beaten out of him—Jackson would be able to withstand that—but because of what his parents would do to him if he threw this fight. Come on, Jackson, she willed silently, fight. Jackson must have heard her, because at that moment, his eyes found hers in the crowd. The man’s other foot came up and cracked Jackson right on the chin, whipping his head back.
Lila let out a cry, but it got lost in the uproar of the shocked crowd. Still, Jackson didn’t fight. Lila could only hope that he either tapped out before things got too bad, or went down and didn’t get up. She didn’t want to see him get knocked out. Another hard punch to the gut and Jackson faltered, almost went down on one knee. She turned to find Lyle and Cassandra, afraid of what she might see. Both sat completely still, like they normally would have during one of Jackson’s fights, but the looks on their faces were terrifying. They weren’t even angry, it seemed—they were murderous. Another crack dragged Lila’s attention back to the ring, where Jackson had just taken a hard jab to the face, and his nose was now bleeding profusely. Before he could recover, the black man kneed him in the sto
mach, and Jackson doubled over and went down.
The crowd was booing loudly, ruthlessly, yelling horrible things at Jackson. Before the legal amount of time had passed, or before Jackson had tapped out, Lila saw the referee glance over towards the bar, then throw his hands up and blow the whistle. The black man was declared the winner, in a rather shady ending to the fight. The crowd responded with audible confusion. Lila followed to where the ref had looked, and saw Lyle a few steps forward now, and on the phone.
“Victory by willful default!” The ref shouted over the crowd. Willful default, meaning Jackson wouldn’t fight back. The crowd was up and agitated, some heading for the bar, some throwing trash at the ring, others yelling loudly for any of the numerous reasons. Jackson’s trainer helped him up and dabbed away the blood on his face, shoving cotton balls in his nostrils to stop them up. Jackson didn’t seem that hurt, just resigned—but Lila caught a glimpse of a glimmer in them, which she knew was curiosity about his parents’ reaction. If anyone was going to be brave enough to make his way to the bar after a thrown fight like that, it’d be Jackson, and sure enough, he shooed the trainer away and slid under the ropes, heading towards where Lyle and Cassandra coolly, dangerously, stood.
Lila rushed to get her last round to its patrons, partly because the bar was swamped and she needed to get back up there, and partly because she needed to be nearby when the confrontation happened. She finally made it back up there, through the thick deposits of crowd, into the quiet showdown that had already started.
“You pull a fuckin’ stunt like that again, and you’ll be sorry,” Lyle muttered to Jackson as he sipped a whiskey, not looking at his dad.
“Yeah? You gonna fight me, dad?” Jackson shot back.
“I’ll do more than fight you, son, I’ll beat your sorry ass.” He said it so calmly that Lila almost didn’t understand the words at first.
“You cost us a lot of money just now, Jackson, you know that? A lot, a whole lotta money, son. D’ya get that?” Cassandra tried to reason with him, but there was still an undercurrent of danger to her words.