“Cheers,” she whispered, then took a sip. Con did the same, though he drank everything she’d poured for him. “And yes, I do. Daddy’s money helped you run away. Daddy’s money helps you forget.”
He choked on the fiery liquid for a second.
“Forget what!?” he snapped. She smiled and reached out her hand, wiping some scotch off his chin.
“The person you really are,” she called him out.
“Oh, and like you’re so good at remembering. Running around this place with your manager title, acting so prim and proper. Acting like you didn’t come from a fucking trailer. If I was trying to forget, then what the fuck have you been doing?” he threw back at her.
“Is that a joke? I had to drive past that train station every day on the way to school. I live within five miles of it. Sometimes, on a clear night, I can see the chimney from my rooftop. So no, Constantine, I haven’t forgotten. It’s not possible for me to forget. And you know what? I don’t want to,” she hissed at him.
He got out of his seat then and moved so he was standing in front of her. She didn’t move at all, just stared at him with hooded eyes, so he gripped her knees and forced her legs apart. She didn’t resist, like he knew she wouldn’t, and he moved into the V of her thighs.
“Were you scared?” he asked. She nodded and downed the rest of her drink.
“Yes.”
“Aw, poor little Dulcie. Still afraid of herself.”
“No,” she shook her head, then lobbed the glass over his shoulder. It hit a wall and he could hear it shatter.
“No?”
“I was scared because … because I began to think I’d be the only person who’d know,” her voice dropped into a whisper again. “That I’d be the only one who’d know what I was capable of. That it was the last time I’d ever get to feel like myself. That while I was staring it in the face every single day, you were running away from it. That you weren’t strong enough to handle it, and I was. That thought scared me.”
“I had to finish what I’d started, I had to … work shit out. I couldn’t come back until then. I told you, it’s only us, kid. Only us. I didn’t give it a time frame,” he reminded her. She rolled her eyes and shoved at his chest.
“Awfully convenient for you. So what’s the plan, Con? Gonna fuck me and then leave for another three years? How about five? I’m not going anywhere. Works out awfully well for you,” she pointed out, hopping off the bar and pushing past him.
“I hadn’t planned much beyond the sex,” he was honest.
“So confident! I admire that,” she laughed, then raked her fingers through her hair.
“So who’s the bartender? Boyfriend?” he asked.
She turned her head to the side and stared at him, and for just a moment, for the first time ever, Con felt a sliver of fear. He’d watched them the night before, seen how her coworker had been looking at her, how he’d found excuses to touch her. Con had wanted to bury his steak knife in the guy’s forehead.
He’d never once lied to her – he’d meant everything he’d said that night. They were special. She was special to him. She was his whole reason for doing the things he did, anymore. He’d stayed away because she brought out the darkness in him. He’d needed to learn some self-control. If he’d stayed home, or if he’d brought Dulcie with him, he would’ve spun out of control. Patience disappeared when she was around, and they couldn’t afford that, not with the kind of people they were. He’d just needed some time.
If she had a boyfriend, though, it would create a problem. As Con stared back at her, he wondered if that dead man had decomposed yet, and if there was enough room for another body in the hole.
“No. He’s nobody. He thinks I’m cute,” she finally answered.
“Ah. You are adorable,” he teased, and was rewarded with an eye roll. “And what do you think of him?”
“I don’t.”
“Any other prince charmings come along while I was gone?” he kept questioning.
“Jesus, Con, just ask what you want to ask. Have I dated anyone? No. Have I fucked anyone? Yes,” she snapped.
“You used to be so meek and quiet. What happened to that girl?”
“You.”
He’d been walking forward the whole time, and he stopped when he was looming over her. She didn’t back down at all, just glared up at him.
“So you’re saying you didn’t date them – just a lot of casual sex?” he wanted to make sure what was happening wasn’t one-sided. That he hadn’t wasted three years.
“I wouldn’t even call it that. After I fuck them, I steal their money and threaten to tell their wives,” she informed him. He was impressed.
“Clever girl. Do they -”
“Are we going to talk about my sex life all night? You want details? How many times, how many men? How many positions? How about the one time the guy asked me to wear a school girl uniform – which he’d brought with him. I still have the pictures, want to see? Or how about the other time, when the guy asked me to blow him while he was on the phone with his wife. He wanted to see if he could come before she hung up, so I -”
Enough.
Con snapped his arm out and grabbed her face, his fingers digging into her cheeks so hard, he could feel her molars through her skin. She let out a muffled shriek, obviously surprised, then she began hitting him. It was ineffectual; he was so much bigger than her. He could do anything he wanted to her, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.
“I didn’t ask for a blow-by-blow of your daily life,” he growled, shoving her backwards and forcing her against a table.
“Really? Could’ve fooled me!” she yelled, her voice muffled behind the palm of his hand.
“I don’t care how many people you’ve slept with, Dulcie,” he breathed out her name as he yanked her up onto her toes. “It’s still my property they’re fucking.”
“Oh, get fucked, Constantine. I don’t belong to you anymore than any of the other guys I’ve slept with,” she hissed.
Now that was simply going too far. He slammed her down onto the table top, sending dishes and cutlery and wedding decorations to the floor. She shrieked and raked her nails down the side of his face, so he pinned her wrist to the table above her head. With his other hand, he let go of her mouth and clamped his fingers around her throat.
“Is that so? Then why are you so worked up,” he whispered, rubbing his nose along the side of her jaw, breathing her in. She squirmed underneath him.
“Because you’re touching me,” she answered honestly.
“I’ve done more than just touch you, Dulcie.”
“Yeah, and then you left. I’m setting a timer for how fast you can run away this time.”
“So bitter. It’s heartwarming, really, to know you cared so much,” he teased her.
She’d pushed his buttons earlier, and apparently he’d just pushed one of hers. She went wild under him, hitting and shoving at his body. Struggling to push him off.
“Is that a fucking joke? Real fucking funny, Con,” she was yelling while she slapped at his arms and wrists and shoulders. He ducked his head and rode out the blows while he moved his hands over her body. “After everything we did, after everything we said, and you just did it again! Not a fucking word …” she was still shouting, still hitting him, but did nothing when he unbuttoned the front of her shorts and began yanking the material down her legs. “… god, I hope someone kills you. I hope someone kills you, and I hope I’m there. I’ll bury your fucking body under a cardboard box by the train station, and I won’t even fucking care.”
Last time we barely got to taste each other. This time, I’m going to swallow her whole.
He gripped the top of her thighs and yanked hard, dragging her across the table and into him. He grabbed a fistful of her shirt and jerked her forward, forcing her back to lift so her face was right in front of his own.
“As long as you promise it’s you who does it, I’m fine with that,” he growled.
&nb
sp; “Such a sick fuck, Con. You’re such a sick and twisted fuck,” she swore, smacking him upside the head. He gritted his teeth and managed to undo his own pants with one hand, shoving them down in a hurry.
“Only for you, babe.”
She finally kissed him. Jesus, took her long enough. He’d been dreaming about those lips, those sharp teeth, for so long. While she filled his mouth with her tongue, he ripped her underwear off her body.
“You were gone for so long,” she whispered, rubbing her hands down his chest. “Gone for so long. I began to think you’d never come back.”
“You should’ve trusted me,” he whispered back, then sucked air through his teeth when her hand wrapped around the base of his cock. Yeah, virginal Dulcie was long gone. This creature was not shy or timid at all. She bit down on his earlobe while the palm of her hand rolled over his sensitive head.
“I should’ve. I missed you. I missed you so much. I would pretend everyone was you,” she promised him, her hand picking up speed.
“Good.”
“I used to walk down on the tracks, and I’d think about you. Wished you were there with me,” she kept going.
“We’ll go together.”
Maybe it was because she was an artist, he wasn’t sure, but she was magically dexterous with her wrist. She could twist and curl her hand at impossible angles. If he didn’t stop her, he’d be coming all over her instead of inside her.
Not necessarily a bad thing … I’ll save that for later.
He abruptly shoved her and she fell back onto the table. It broke the hold she had on him and he was able to lay down on top of her.
Their kisses were brutal, full of teeth and biting. Their fingers were mean, scratching over soft flesh and leaving marks. He held her down, wanted to push her through the table. She kept talking, kept reminding him of how awful he was, and he put his hand over her mouth. Not because he didn’t want to hear it, but because it was turning him on. At this rate, the moment they’d start having sex, he’d probably explode.
“So bartender boy’s never been here?” Con double checked, then roughly shoved three fingers inside her. She cried out, a sharp sound of pain that sent a tremor through his body, then she groaned and writhed against his hand.
“No. Since you left, no one else’s fingers have,” she was panting for air.
“No one’s?”
“Just me. Just you,” she assured him.
He was holding both her wrists down with one hand, and with his other hand, he was making her just as desperate as he was; possibly more so, if her movements were anything to judge by. She was making a high pitched whining sound. Keening, and it reminded him of the sound an animal made when it was being hunted. When it was close to death.
Sounds good to me.
He dug his fingers into her thighs and wrenched her legs apart. He wanted it to be in slow motion – things had been crazy in his truck, and then hazy in his apartment. He hadn’t gotten to witness her in all her perfect glory. He wanted to watch as she took every inch he had to offer.
But he couldn’t do it. Something about Dulcie, she’d always brought out the wild animal in him. The one that lived just beneath his skin, hiding just behind his smile. He barely had his tip in and then he slammed forward, giving her no warning. No time to adjust. She screamed and there was a crunching sound. He lifted his head and realized she’d grabbed one of the fallen champagne glasses. She’d crushed it in her fist, and fat drops of scarlet blood were already falling onto the pristine tablecloth.
“Dulcie, Dulcie, Dulcie,” he sighed her name, slowly moving back and forth.
“God, yes,” she groaned, and her hips worked in a circle against him.
“You can’t possibly have any idea what this feels like,” he told her. She managed to shake her head.
“No, because it feels better to me,” she challenged him. He stopped moving his hips and laid down, crushing her with his weight. Impaling her on his length. She let out a lengthy moan.
“I want to fuck you until you have bruises in places you didn’t even know were possible,” he hissed against her ear.
“I have been dying for you to do that to me.”
It was as close as either of them were ever going to get to seeking and giving permission, and Con took it. He leaned back from her and while he wrapped one hand around her throat, he began pounding away between her legs. When she was almost gasping for air and yanking at his wrist, he let go, but moved his hand into her hair. He pulled hard, forcing her to look to the side, then he lowered his head so he could bite into the top of her shoulder.
I got blood from her last time. Seems only right I should draw it this time.
“Con … Constantine,” her gasps caused her to stumble over his name.
“Fuck. What!?” he yelled, hiking his leg up so his knee was on the table. It gave him more leverage to push harder, to go deeper. He wanted to pound her inside out.
“Please, please,” she begged, and he felt her arms around him, her hands working their way under his shirt. Felt her nails against his back. Against the scars he still bore, three years after she’d put them there.
“Please what, Dulcie?” he demanded, finally letting go of her hair. He was holding onto her thigh with one hand, but with his free hand, he pushed his way under her shirt. Shoved the fabric up her torso so it pooled at the top of her chest. She had small breasts. Petite. They fit perfectly in his cupped hand. Were made to feel his sharp teeth.
“Please make me come,” she finally whispered. He bit down on her nipple and she shrieked. “Please. Please, only you … only you can …”
She was begging. Actually begging him. Con almost felt bad for her, but served her right. Letting other men touch her. Of course they couldn’t give her orgasms; they all belonged to him.
“Poor little Dulcie, can’t get what she needs,” he chuckled as he slid his hand between their bodies. He briefly spread his fingers around either side of his dick, just for a second, then twined them through her slickness. Tap danced in her heat.
“No, never,” she agreed, her hands moving to squeeze her breasts.
“Let’s see if I can give it to her,” he whispered, then he pinched his fingers together.
Con could feel her orgasm from the inside out. Felt her tremors all along his dick, milking him. Forcing him to pump harder. She shrieked and her hands clawed at the table cloth, shredding it in places. Her entire body seized, coming in fits and starts, causing her spine to arch, her breasts to tremble. It was like she was pulsing in time to his thrusts, and he couldn’t stand it. He squeezed her breast as he came, causing her to cry out again, but this time in pain.
She was breathing heavily, he eventually realized. His forehead was pressed against her breast bone. She’d completely drained him, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d come so hard. He could feel his legs shaking, so he scooted her up and followed along, stretching them out fully onto the table so he could take his weight off his feet.
When he looked at her face, Con wasn’t entirely surprised to see she was crying. She was staring at the ceiling, struggling to catch her breath, and the tears were streaming down her face. He wondered if it was because he’d been so rough. Or because he’d been gone for so long. If she was happy or sad or regretful about what they’d just done.
Instead of asking, though, he just crawled over the length of her body and gave one long, slow lick up the side of her face, capturing as many tears as possible.
“One more question,” he was panting, as well.
“Anything,” she replied, still staring at the ceiling.
“Did you kill anybody else while I was gone?” he whispered. She shook her head.
“No, Constantine. I was waiting to do that with you.”
“Good girl, Dulcie.”
15
“You can’t even tell,” Con muttered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dulcie nod.
“I know. Amazing what time can do.”
They wer
e standing on the abandoned train tracks, staring at what was left of the cardboard shack. It was mostly crushed, half of it blown away. The ground all around it was lumpy and uneven, covered in weeds. There was no sign that three years ago, they’d brutally murdered a person and buried his body there.
How tragic.
After Con had gotten off her, Dulcie had assured him she was crying happy tears. She’d been hollow for three years. He’d filled her void. Then he helped her clean up the mess. They had to get a whole new tablecloth – the cut from the broken champagne glass had gone deep and she’d bled all over the place, not to mention all the claw marks that were now in the fabric. He made her sit down and she just instructed him on how everything had to be done.
“Why did you want to do this here? In the restaurant?”
“Because I hate it here, but next time I’m walking across this floor, all I’ll see is you fucking me on this table, and it won’t seem so bad anymore.”
“Well, then. You’re welcome.”
They drove back to her place and using an old first aid kit she had, he bandaged up her hand. Then they had sex again. Afterwards, they talked for a long time. He told her about school. She told him about her life. They took a shower together.
And then he asked her to show him.
By the time they got to the train station, the sun was just starting to rise. Dulcie led the way, her footsteps sure and quick. It was obvious she went there a lot. She was back in her cut off shorts again, but she’d pulled on a large black sweater that hung so far down, it covered the shorts completely. She almost looked like she was walking around without any bottoms on, and it took him half the walk to realize she was wearing his sweater. The one he’d given her on that fateful night.
She’s a romantic.
“What does all this mean?” she finally asked. Con turned to face her, but she kept looking at the makeshift grave.
“It means we can do whatever we want,” he said, and it was like letting out a breath he’d been holding for too long. Dulcie was wrong – he’d had it much worse. At least at home, in that town, she’d been able to keep to herself. In school, he was always acting a part. Always pretending to be somebody else. He didn’t have any drawings he could disappear into, no spare time to visit old ghosts.
The Bad Ones Page 11