by Sunniva Dee
GIOELE
I’m at a diner against my wish. It’s of the old-fashioned type, with a steel counter and steel-barred chairs with red vinyl seats. Grease hangs in mouthwatering clouds over the burly Mexican swinging bacon behind the counter. That range is sizzling.
As much as I want that bacon, I can’t stomach counter seating right now. I scan the narrow locale. There aren’t all that many people in here. An old man with a dog—yes, a dog—under his table. A mother with a baby. Maybe that’s the grandmother on the other side. Four more tables, one of which is in the window.
“Where you wanna sit?” Bully asks, eyes moving between the tables.
“I don’t care. Wherever you want.” All I want is for Isaias to text me Damiana Santa Colombini’s address. “Map-scamming” my ass. I bet my brother made that up for his little master plan of keeping me hogtied.
Although a window seat would work in the off chance that John strolled by with Silvina. That chance’s so off, I snort to myself.
“Let’s do the window,” I say anyway.
The guys take the chairs against the wall, which leaves me with my back to the door. It’s whatever. I’m waiting for the waitress to stop tickling that baby and pay attention to us. My patience is so thin right now, I’m not sure I can do this after all.
The door jangles with another guest. Some guy. I return my focus to the waitress’ ass, willing her to turn. If I hike up the glare factor, she might feel it. That’s a Silvina thing; she comes up with shit like that nonstop. We even tried it out at a concert a few years ago. To this day, she claims it worked. All it was, was a guy seeing a hot chick—my chick. Dudes smell that stuff. No need for women to stare us down for us to find them.
Although at the moment, I’m sort of feeling like someone’s staring at me. I send Fritz a quizzical look. His focus is behind me, on the door. So is Bully’s. And their mouths are ajar. I frown and twist around.
They’re staring at the newcomer, who’s definitely staring at me. I narrow my eyes, having some sort of déjà vu.
“Hey,” I say tentatively.
He’s not a Santa Colombini. Not mafia at all, actually, and he doesn’t look like a student. Guy’s wearing an expensive white t-shirt of that weird distressed type, paired off with matching black designer jeans. “Designer” is what Silvina would’ve called it anyway. Anything with almost-holes in it is designer, I’ve learned.
Dude’s checking out my chair. It makes me a tad apprehensive to be honest, so I test it, rocking on my seat.
“Hey, man,” he replies, voice rockstar-hoarse. Hmm.
I tilt my head to the side. Studiously messy dark hair and scruffy facial hair, also of the studious type. I know him from somewhere.
“Do you mind if I…?” He double-taps the air, pointing at my chair.
“You want my chair?”
He purses his lips at the same time as his eyebrows shoot up. Clearly, I’m not far off, and he knows it’s an odd request.
“I’m sort of using it. How about that chair?” I hike my thumb over my shoulder toward the next empty table.
“Gioele!” Bully hisses at me, and it’s so out of character I whip around to study him. Before I can speak up, he continues, “You want our table, Luke? Because that’s totally fine! Hell yeah, we’d be honored, and—sure thing—whatever you need. I fucking love your music. ‘Greetings from the Inside’ was epic! You’re a fucking god.”
Hot damn.
We’re all standing, now, a blur of handshakes and arm slaps with Luke fucking Craven of Night Shifts Black. What in the world? The door jangles again, and the drummer enters too, with that girl he’s with in a lot of photos. Girlfriend, I think.
“Please,” I say, while Fritz collects signed napkins from them like some fangirl. He even wants the girlfriend’s autograph. Pretty little thing that one. I gesture toward our chairs. “Your table’s waiting.”
Luke smirks and shakes his head. “Nah. Thanks, man, but we’re fine over there. I just wanted to make sure I caught Callie and Casey on the way by. They haven’t been here before.”
We get our food long after the Night Shifts Black guys, which is fine; if it weren’t for them, who knows when the waitress would have snapped out of baby mode?
I’m relieved when Casey drops a few bills on the table and they all stand; Bully’s been sending Luke Craven enamored looks since they sat down. Dude doesn’t have an off-switch.
Our check arrives as Casey greets us with a playful salute. The three of us wave in unison, star-struck-like. Damn, it’s ridiculous. He tugs Callie closer, making sure she leaves with him. I’d do that too if Silvina was here. I’ll never leave her alone again.
“Gioele. Did I say your name right?”
I straighten at Luke’s low voice. He’s at my side, eyes on me and waiting for an answer.
“Yeah, man.” I grin; Luke fucking Craven just pronounced my name right! Maybe he’ll use it in a song or something. Wow, imagine playing that to Silvina.
“You guys live in S.F.?” he asks.
“Sort of, yeah. Why?”
“We’re playing the arena on Sunday. Here.” He drops me a business card. “That’s our tour manager. Shoot him an email and let him know I want you on the guest list. Add your plus ones if you want, all right?” He lifts a finger in warning. “He’ll need your full names and don’t forget to bring your IDs to ticketing. They can get testy.”
Before I can thank him, he gives me a thumbs-up and strides off. I swallow; I’d pay any price to kiss my plus one at their concert.
25. RELEASE
SILVINA
“Strip.”
I hate that word.
“Now.” His voice is a whip. He’s not happy anymore, and I’ve done nothing to deserve his mood change. He’s belying the green calm of the wallpaper. He should have picked a wild red instead, something to reflect his erratic behavior.
John’s leeches are in the bedroom too. Leech number one is chewing on a pepperoni stick. He has a bag of them, and he’s been stinking up the room for the last half hour. The air is full of stale pepperoni, pine needles, and pending violence.
I have to be fast. Only, I can’t get out of these clothes on my own. I’ve been wearing his Halloween queen getup for the last nine hours, ever since we went to breakfast at his mother’s. I’d like to wiggle it around to get a hold of the ropes on my back, but I’m laced up too tightly. I still try, wring my healthy arm behind me in an effort to reach it.
John waits. Arms crossed, he waits with steel eyes narrowed into slits. He doesn’t say anything, just watches until my lip trembles and I have to bite down on my panic.
“For the love of God,” he barks. “Mazzi. Go to her. What’s wrong with you? Why don’t you just ask for help?” He throws his hands up. “I have to do everything, don’t I, even guess your thoughts?”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
For one moment, I hear myself from the outside, a long-ago me who can’t fathom what I’ve become. How did this happen so fast? Three nights I’ve been here, only three, and I’m a cowering mess.
Mazzi’s pepperoni fingers slide down the knobs of my spine until they find the lacing. He gets to work on it. The pressure lightens over my ribs, giving my lungs a freedom they haven’t had since this morning. He can’t deal with the clasps at the bottom and rips them open with a grunt. The dry little snap makes me shudder.
Rough hands move up, grabbing the fabric from my shoulders. Instinctively, I want to push them away, but think better of it and let him drop the heavy heap of brocade to the ground.
So here I am again, shivering in front of John Ulrich Himmel. The hungry stares of his leeches mean nothing anymore, not when he’s destruction incarnate. Regal and omniscient, he waves me forward. I walk toward him on bare feet and with my breath hitching.
When I halt in front of him, I don’t
cover my breasts because that could kill this truce. But I entwine my hands in front of me in a partial veiling of my core.
“Hot damn,” leech number two mutters from the door.
It wakes John from his icy examination. “Guys: leave. Wait outside.”
Zetticci suppresses his groan in time, but Mazzi does not. His disappointment is audible and causes John to whirl around. “What was that?”
“Nothing, sir. We’ll be in the kitchen.”
“That’s right. You will.”
Then, we’re alone.
“Come here, pretty Silvina,” John almost purrs. “We’re going to shower.”
I wish he couldn’t fit us in his shower.
Unabashed, he’s naked with me. Smooth and unharmed by fists and sharp-heeled shoes, he cranks the stream, letting it rush hard. He fills this cubicle with ice.
He’s calm as he regulates the temperature until it’s how he wants it; he doesn’t want it cold. He doesn’t want me to step underneath it until the temperature is how it’s supposed to be.
The width of his shoulders makes skin glide against skin when he turns for the shampoo. He pours a generous amount into his hands before he lathers it over my breasts and works his way downward. I don’t interrupt, don’t tell him he should’ve used the shower gel. His focus is good. It’s good.
He exhales small complaints as he cleanses my bruises. I flinch when he reaches wounds that are open. He zooms to my face, then, stares in alarm, while I hold my breath. I avoid his gaze.
“Turn around.”
I do.
“Lean your arms on the wall and spread your legs.” I’m in jail and he’s some warden. “Widen your stance. Up on your toes.” His voice is serene. I don’t tell him shampoo should never go inside of a woman. He rinses me well. Just, now he’s been everywhere, and I just lost another piece of me.
When he turns me toward him, I tip my face against the water so he can’t see my tears. He tilts me back, wanting me to face him. Of course, I obey.
He makes me open my eyes.
Body well kempt, he’s unmarred by the violence he doles out to others. Light hair gleams on his chest, darker and thicker in a path down to his cock.
Finally, I do it. I risk a glance at the reason for his latest violence, and I can barely hold back my gasp. I’m not an expert on the male anatomy, but I’ve never seen someone with an appendix like John’s.
What I’m looking at is a shriveled pocket of skin. It looks utterly harmless, and so unfinished I can’t even imagine it erect. Shapeless, it rests above a pair of testicles that look paradoxically heavy. Surrounded by a shock of black hair, the pink color is what makes his member stand out.
I shut my eyes, letting the water rush over my face again while he focuses on my boobs. He kneads them slowly but not cautiously enough. Bolts of pain shoot up as he massages. I end up letting out a whimper, which he interprets as pleasure.
“I’ll sleep with you tonight, my pet. This morning was a fluke. I was just tired.” He finds my mouth, rubbing his lips over mine under the warm water. “And don’t worry. As soon as I do, you’re finally mine. No one will dispute our relationship after that.” He adds a puff of amusement to his kiss. “Not even your cousin.”
While he leads me to bed, my brain races with thwarted concerns: I’m worried he won’t get hard; I’m worried he can’t sleep with me the way he has planned.
“I’ll make you come too,” he promises, and it’s another thing to worry about. I’ll have to fake it. “Then, we’ll meet up with your cousin again tomorrow.”
Elation flares up and dies in my chest. Why? Does he want to break Gioele too?
He lays me out on the bed, limbs spread wide. I tell myself a truth; the leeches aren’t here—it’s good—it’s good. Only one man I despise is staring at me. Only one man is touching me. Their fingers would have smelled of sweaty pepperoni. Sweaty pepperoni is worse than too-sharp cologne.
His hand goes to my sex, and I stop myself from flinching. He rubs me there, back and forth, a mechanical move while he scans my face for a reaction. The urge to slink away becomes unbearable when he eases a finger inside of me.
I will murder you.
I peek out from under my lashes, finding his penis in the same state it was in the shower. Shriveled and unenthused, it’s just a little dick meant for urinating. It should’ve been a relief. But for my life, I don’t want to experience his reaction if he can’t manage this for a second time in a row.
“It’s my turn,” I say while he’s still touching me. “Let me make you feel good.”
His hands freeze while he considers. “But I want you to come.”
“Afterward?” I whisper.
He lets a hand fall, the slap against his thigh making me jump.
“Okay. Suck me, then.”
“I have something better for you.”
“Like what?” His eyes narrow with suspicion.
“Let me show you.” My tone is little-girl light. It’s a pleading whine that doesn’t sound like me. Even less am I me, when my voice adds, “You trust your girlfriend, right?”
He sets his shoulders in answer.
“We need to trust each other. It goes both ways. That’s how… love is.” Slowly, so as not to set him off, I sit up and fold my legs to the side. “I’ll grab the baby oil from the bathroom. Just lay back and relax in the meantime.”
He’s still on his knees when I come back, so I nod toward the pillow with a lip-stretch I hope resembles a smile. My lungs feel raw, like I’ve been running in the cold. What if I pull it off? What if I don’t…
He lowers himself on an elbow and turns on the bed, gaze disturbingly shrewd. Stretching out, he leaves his arms along his sides. It’s as if he’s on lit de parade, and God, I wish that he was.
It’s clear that he doesn’t feel comfortable. I run my stare over him, over a beautiful body lost to the ugliest of souls. My heart bubbles out a growing rhythm at the perversity of the situation; I’m choking intense, natural aversion so I can make his pores contract in pleasure.
His hand suddenly rests over his penis. It’s a shift meant to appear accidental, but I understand what he’s doing. In this moment, John is vulnerable. He’s afraid of my judgment. But it takes him mere seconds to retrieve his air of cruel invincibility, and when he does, he drops his cover, leaving himself fully exposed. With glacial eyes, he dares me to address what I see.
I drip oil on his stomach. In small circles, I rub it in. He breathes under me, and I can’t take it. Even his breathing makes me taste bile.
This isn’t my captor. He’s not my tormentor or every misery of every minute. He’s just a person, just warm skin, a man, someone wanting to feel good. It’s what I tell myself. I do it over and over, until I realize that I’m okay.
I’m the one hovering over him now. I have him beneath me. I trigger his nerves and control each ending. I tap around his nipples, rubbing there too, moving down along the sides of his ribs until I reach his waist. There, I create wings with my hands, and I use them to feather inward until his navel disappears beneath my fingers. He sucks in his stomach, an involuntary ripple.
“Is it nice?” I make myself whisper, and it’s not hard to do at all.
John doesn’t answer, but his eyes have fallen shut. His member reacts when I pour more oil into my hands and shift downward. Slickness meets the coarseness of hair where his hips become thighs. Firm, his balls seem to have drawn up in enjoyment.
He doesn’t mean to groan, and that’s my victory. The longer he lets me touch him, the longer I’m on top. My smile feels more genuine. In a few words, I praise him, only a few, so his focus can’t move elsewhere.
John spreads his legs, cooperating while I grip the muscle of his inner thigh. I rub it, glide over it, watching his head dip back into the pillow.
I shift to the other, my fing
ernails scraping over hair and skin, causing him to shudder. I suppress my relief at how he doesn’t instruct my moves.
He opens his eyes, arms going behind his head. He’s the classic man being pleased by a woman and wanting to watch her in the act. I move upward until I’m stroking along his partly swollen member.
I take the oil again and drip a thin stripe along its center. It’s cold, a small satisfaction when he draws a sharp breath.
“Shh,” I say. “I’ll make you feel good.”
I don’t grip it at first. Instinct tells me to let it grow naturally, so I stroke, applying smooth friction from its base, past the crown, and around its bulb.
Just a man. I force myself to meet his eyes. There’s desire in his. That little smile still plays on my mouth. It’s not hard when you think of love.
“God, I love you. You’re everything. Do you know how everything you are to me?” Gioele would have cupped my face and pulled me down to him. He’d have play-groaned of how he couldn’t take more of my teasing. Slowly, deeply, he’d enter me, mouth to my mouth, lips and teeth meeting through puffs of warm air. We’d breathe each other until his desire was mine and mine was his. Soldered, our embrace would be tight, trembling with energy and lust and love. And if only for those moments, we’d be eternal. “I want to live in you.”
I’ve awakened John. Eyes murky, the desire in his gaze is thicker. Intently, he studies me. This love isn’t for him, but I’m brimming with it, and I don’t stop it from spilling over my features.
He’s hard under my fingers. When I form my fist around it, he lets out an appreciative grunt. I lean on his thigh, shifting closer to him. Blowing on its head, I pump up and down, my grip around him growing faster.
John’s butt bends off the mattress. He has a command on his lips, and my heart speeds up. Fear. Uncertainty. I know what he’s about to say, and I don’t want to hear it.
“Silvina…” He exhales in erratic shoves. Fisting the sheets, muscles taut with concentration. “Get. On. Me.”