by Amarie Avant
The warmth of his breath caressing my cheek and neck.
“You must consent. Once I open those thick, dark brown thighs of yours and taste that sweet scent of yours, and dammit, Siobhan, I can already taste you, you will become mine.”
A deep moan escapes my lips. I want him to kiss me so hard I break.
“Can I place you on a platter, eat you every night? I want you screaming until you lose your fucking voice entirely. Will you let me do that for you?”
What sort of man offers a woman the whole world? This is exactly what Lincoln is doing for me now. Offering to make me his black queen.
Lincoln once again offers to place me on a platter.
“Y-y-yes—”
His mouth plasters over my lips. Tongue hungry and pushing straight into my own moaning mouth. I've surpassed dumb-blonde for straight up stupid. Am I even kissing him right? The twirl of his tongue against mine is like a dance, he leads. I follow desperately. I will follow this man anywhere and allow him access to every inch of my body, he kisses just that good. It’s not like I have a heart anymore, might as well allow him to lead me up to heaven or to the deepest, darkest…
And then Lincoln leans back. “How was that?”
Voice leading before cognition, I utter something inaudible. Perhaps if Scooby Doo were watching, he could decipher my words. But the smile on my face is code enough.
My arms fly around his neck, and Lincoln is on top of me. Our mouths are curved in an awkward kiss as he laughs. I softly punch the stone of a bicep and he laughs before devouring my mouth once more.
My entire body is on fire with primitive desire. Liquid lust percolating, the walls of my pussy shiver in delight. The crown of Lincoln’s dick pierces against the inside of my thigh, the thin, stretchy material of my shorts blocking our mutual goal. Lincoln’s hands roam their way over my hips.
My fingers rub the stubble at his cheek as he kisses me hard. Then his mouth is against my jaw and every time his lips touch my skin, electricity zips straight down to my sex.
“Thank you, thank you.” I have to sound like a weak, sniveling fool as I continue to rub his cheek. His lips lick the salt from the skin over my bra. I whimper and moan until he continues to work his way down my chest. He plants a trail of love from his gratifying lips down my stomach and to the top of my skin-tight shorts. His hands slam down on the side of my thighs and he squeezes my hips and ass. A growl comes from his body.
He’s offering to paint my pussy with his tongue in one second. And then, before my brain can even register, Lincoln is standing. His feet are planted on either side of me, face dark, ominous.
“Get up. Get behind me!”
The high I'm on fizzles at the uncanny sharpness of his tone.
He holds out a hand. I barely begin to grasp it when Lincoln yanks me to a standing position.
A low, growling sound is issued behind me.
There's a look of pure hate in Lincoln’s eyes as he glowers just past me.
With my body pressed against Lincoln’s rock hard frame, in trepidation, I turn around.
A pit bull glowers at us from less than ten yards away. Black fur matted to its skin. The tortured soul has muscles hunkered over more muscle. The pit bull’s head is larger than a fully ripe pumpkin. His yellow teeth are all sharp with jagged edges that seem to extend far back in an unending mouth. Slime dribbles from his ferocious snarl as he dares us to make a fraction of a move. His paws are dug deep in the sand, but they're no doubt big, as all of him seems to be otherworldly enormous.
“Behind me, Siobhan,” Lincoln shouts.
His voice is as eerie and taunting as the pit bull’s snarl. But I know the instant I move, the beast will strike.
Chapter Ten
Siobhan
Why did you open up for Lincoln? And damn it I was so wide open for him, thanking him in ways I would have laughed at a female for, calling her all sorts of easy.
Why place yourself in the position to give a fuck about another man?
The hard roar of the engine seeps into my thoughts as I ride shotgun in a rented Jaguar. There were no other compact, more economical cars for Lincoln to rent at Monterey Beach. And the car rental place was located next door to the bike rental company.
He simply hasn’t said a word after I requested that this… whatever this shit is, would end between us.
The speedometer is pushing 120, and his jaw is tense. At least that's how I perceive it from my corner. I will not look his way. I will not look him in the eye. So here I am, body turned toward the passenger side window, seated on lush leather.
If I blink, I hear the uncanny sound of the devil charging at me. Agile as he is, Lincoln had moved around me because I had frozen like an idiot. The beast’s hind legs were arched, muscles bulging. Lincoln’s hands had wrapped around a throat so thick, his fingers weren't able to connect. But the veins in his large forearms were aflame as he swiftly twisted away from the pit bull’s body.
Lincoln broke the dog’s neck as soon as he lunged.
Crack.
No more demonic snarls. No taunting.
The deafening sound forces me to glance over. What sort of training has Lincoln endured in order to combat the evil animal?
Lincoln plays with the radio knob on the steering wheel, turning the station. He's pretending to listen to music, but I know for a fact we have had a very big misunderstanding.
He saw the shower of horror in my eyes when he placed the heap of a dog onto the sand. Even in death, that devil seemed strong.
Lincoln was a thousand times stronger.
After that, Lincoln told me not to look at the bloody beast. Then he had stepped away to make a call, animal control, he had said. I noticed something shiny on the dog. The devil had an owner? I had reached down, unattached his collar, read the contents and the fence around my heart was resurrected—
On the road to Willow Bluff, the Jaguar begins to purr as Lincoln switches gears to more of a coast. Time stops on the final descent.
Since we're not in my car, and the remote isn’t readily accessible, I give him the passcode to my gate.
“I had Bernard bring your car by while we were starting out of the San Diego port.”
“Thank you.” I hardly hear my own mumble of gratitude to his thoughtfulness. The airport in San Francisco is a drive I’ve been trepid about taking since getting into this Jaguar. That damn dog’s neck cracking is still pristine and clear in my ears.
The luxury car pulls to a stop in front of my own personal jail. I take a deep breath. I start to get out and mumble another thanks.
He says nothing.
Damn, of course, I’m the reason for the lack of communication. Should I stay, should I go? I shift in my shoes, ready to close the door of a relationship that hadn’t even begun to lift off. My problems are not Lincoln Zager’s, and they really don’t need to be.
Instead of closing the passenger door, and leaving him wondering what the fuck transpired between us, I kneel down, so that I’m level with the coupe.
I’ll tell him the truth, and we will go our separate ways. Prior to doing so, I cushion the blow on a high note. “Lincoln, before this afternoon I had the time of my life, and I appreciate you for that.”
He nods in thought.
“I know I said I didn't think we should hang out anymore.” I sound like a damn teeny bopper. “All right, it’s not the end of the world.” The end of my world passed away a year ago, okay? So I can’t give a damn about you.
“Not at all. You made your choice,” he replies, staring out the windshield. His voice is a thick, British dream, and tells me how wrong of a choice I made.
For a few seconds, I consider my options. Seeing him again isn’t a feasible option. Or is it? He had handled that demon dog with no issue. But regardless of how agile and powerful the dog was, my stalker has brains. And intelligence is a beast all in itself.
I hardly know Lincoln, but look how much he’s done for me in such a short timeframe. Gulping
in embarrassment, I reach into my purse. Grab the dog collar and hold it out for Lincoln.
His obsidian eyes are full of questions as he finally glances my way. He never seems full of questions. Lincoln had been a man fully sure of himself until I determined that we should go our separate ways.
“I called animal control, Siobhan. Bloody hell, I didn't think you'd take his collar. They’d want to tell his owner, I’m sure. Bollocks, this mangy animal had an owner.” Lincoln takes the collar from my hands.
“There's no owner info. Turn it over please.”
He does. The collar is brand new, red, no fading from wear. There are words scrawled with a permanent marker. He reads the threat aloud, “S.L.— If I can't have you…”
There wasn't much room for more, yet the old adage rings loud and clear. If I can’t have you, no one will. Point blank. Period.
“So do you understand where I’m coming from?” I ask.
He sighs, deep, heavy. “We’ll drive back to the Monterey PD. We have proof you’re being stalked.”
I bite my lip, toying with the small diamond cross around my neck. The tiny hairs along my forearms begin to prickle. “They’ll just communicate with the authorities in Willow Bluff. Why start a strained relationship in a new town? I'm the girl who cried wolf, remember?” Besides, nobody will believe the psycho followed me up to Willow Bluff. And if the authorities do, how can I handle it myself? I want him dead, by my own rules.
“I cannot say that I know what you’re going through, Siobhan, but as you’ve told me about that bloody wanker, I’ve become aware of your frustrations with the LAPD,” he begins.
“You've been out-of-this-world nice to me, Lincoln,” I cut in. He is polite, and I can tell, he believes in doing things by the book. It’s an admirable trait that I used to believe in. “Like I said a few minutes ago, I appreciate every single thing you’ve done for me. And like I said back in Monterey when you started to drive us home, I will not put you in harm’s way. This is my problem.”
Lincoln rubs the back of his neck. “I thought you trusted me, Siobhan.”
“I do, but the police in Monterey won’t help, Lincoln, and I’ll only irritate the cops here.”
“Cops aside, I assumed you understood me. Though we've only known each other for a short time in the grander scheme of things, my character has not changed at all. I’ve left no room for assumptions on your part. Whatever needs to be done, will be done. But you gotta speak to me.”
His voice toils on darkness. There’s no misinterpreting Lincoln Zager. The swift manner in which he killed that dog further sets the foundation.
He’s saying he will help me regardless of turning to local authorities or not. This thought washes over me with ice-cold dread. It should be a relief that I don’t have to be alone, but further segues into why I am alone. The stalker took Hosea. He has the means to remove anyone who cares about me from my life. Thus, the reason for my not returning to San Antonio.
I scoff, then appeal to his reasoning. “Look, I only showed you the collar so you’d see the extent of the stalker’s craziness. You’re a man, and it’s in your nature to help, or want to keep me safe but…”
“There are no buts. Will you allow me to help you?”
The horror of waking up all alone after Hosea stops me from apologizing to Lincoln. Steering clear of him is for his own good. My slightly unthawed heart freezes back over.
Throat restrained, I shake my head and close the door.
***
On Sunday evening, my pathetic routine is in full force. A glass of wine and the Atlanta Housewives on television as I wait for Regina to FaceTime my MacBook.
The atrocious snippets of the previous episodes begin and I pout. Usually we have already connected by now, engaging in deep discussions about superfluous things. Most of these damn “housewives” don’t even have a ring on. Yet eating up their drama is our favorite pastime, and a reprieve from my own issues.
I pick up my cell phone and dial her number.
Without a single ring, the call goes straight to voicemail.
“Reggie!” I halfheartedly snap into the phone. She is going to pop me a new one for using that nickname. Oh well. “I know you know what time it is. Call me ASAP!”
***
On Monday morning, my brain is at attention at dawn, ready for the routine of running. No enthusiasm whatsoever, I head to my exercise room and sift through the various elliptical training programs.
With a map as leveled out as the Great Plaines, I start to run. In through the nose, out through the mouth, while sprinting at top speed.
Lincoln Zager is my sole focus. How could he not understand what a big-ass burden I am? After the story I told him about Hosea, accepting any sort of assistance Lincoln had in mind would be careless on my part.
The balls of my feet barely slam against the ground as I determine not to place Lincoln in the same predicament as Hosea.
Those hard kisses we shared in Monterey attempt to cloud my judgment, and I pick up speed. Sweat dribbles down my body, every muscle in my being exerted to the fullest extent.
I continue pounding the pavement, recalling just how Lincoln’s hard, demanding kisses had been. And then I see myself arguing with Detective Ortiz until I'm exhausted and ready to give up the ghost.
Chest heaving, I catch my breath. Four miles in a little over twenty minutes, yes! Now to keep busy for the rest of the day.
***
Tuesday follows the same routine. I enter the gym room on the second level of my home. Drake blares through the speakers as I set the treadmill for a difficult track, to include inclines.
Once more, I find my mind wandering to my current fixation and how to break the burgeoning addiction. Yet, the pros start to outweigh the cons.
Any woman would be stupid to decline help. Nevertheless, this isn’t some idiotic ex-boyfriend who I’m fully aware of when or why or how stupid he will lash out. The nameless man is smart. All the brawns go to the front of the battle, but it’s intelligence that guides every move. Intelligence fuels the art of war. I will not make this call. Lincoln handled the dog but my stalker is a different world entirely. How tall? How strong?
So there'll be no running along the neighborhood, with or without my running partner. No sniffing around Lincoln’s place. No Lincoln Zager.
***
Wednesday, I dawdle in bed. Making the mistake of surfing through emails all the while mentally promising myself that I can do another five miles on solo mode.
With the laptop powered on, I turn on the television, bolted cater-corner from the double doors to the master suite. The TV powers on as a broadcaster on FOX news speaks. “Kill Joy, the newest video game to be released by Rockstar…”
Grabbing the remote wedged underneath my thigh, I turn up the TV. The screen has switched to overnight recordings of customers standing in line at various GameStop locations across the nation.
An Asian woman with blond hair stands before the GameStop located in West Los Angeles. “GameStop franchises around the nation opened their doors at midnight, preparing for a big turnout to one of the most highly anticipated video games of the decade. As you can see, behind me, some of these customers who’ve stood in line with tents for this highly controversial new video game have been turned away due to such high demand. There’s promise of another shipment of the highly violent game later today.”
Cool air fills my lungs as I sink back into the feather pillows.
A video game cover with “Kill Joy” comes onto the screen. On the other half of the screen, a reporter congratulates a customer for being one of the last to obtain a copy before it sold out. The reporter then asks the customer if he purchased the dangerous game for his child. He smirks, and replies that he bought the video game for himself.
FOX news then switches gears, bringing up one of the latest homicide-suicide cases since Kill Joy’s previews. I click the television off.
Kill Joy would’ve made On Demand a household company.
Forget the notion that it was at the tip of my fingertips. I had grasped it. The very day Hosea picked my parents up from the airport, I had succeeded at obtaining what was to be the most lucrative marketing campaign for my company. Sammy died that day, and a domino effect of bad luck set in. Hosea disappeared two months after, and I let Rockstar Productions’ new hit video game, Kill Joy, go. The two game creators understood my plight, and I walked away from the best deal of my life.
I turn my head back to my email inbox and sift through sender name information, deleting unfamiliar emails and opening others.
“Boss Lady” and a bunch of emoticons is the subject title of an email from my assistant, Tamara Grey. With a pursed-lip smile on my face, I click on the link, opening a video message.
“I’d send your favorite chocolates, but you always complain about the calories, then I remembered you like bubbles…”
Translucent bubbles grow, seem to leap off the screen, bursting before my gaze. I shake my head, fully aware this is her attempt to mend my broken spirit. The launch of Kill Joy was bound to occur sometime sooner or later, and my ace was here to lift my spirits.
After responding with gratitude, my mind trails off into “what ifs” and how Lincoln Zager pertains to those morsels of optimism.
I start an email to Lincoln.
Dear Lincoln…
Dear L…
L…
Too contrived. We haven’t communicated with each other since I showed him the dog collar with proof that he should stay away. Taking a deep breath, I start over.
“Lincoln, we have a connection, and that scares me. I enjoy your company and I'd like to think you enjoyed mine, prior to me placing my foot in my mouth.”
I pause, chin up, then nod. This is raw, true and me.
I … deleting that, I type: “You have come into my life and have made me feel alive for almost three weeks and I'll forever adore you for that. But there are things about me that you don't know.”
My fingers hover over the keys. This is closer than I ever got with Dr. Beck when it comes to divulging the motive for moving to Willow Bluff.