Vote Then Read: Volume II

by Lauren Blakely

  - Long live Coach.

  Godspeed.

  This one is for you, hussy.

  "Shakespear show'd the best of his skill in his Mercutio, and he said himself, that he was forc'd to kill him in the third Act, to prevent being killed by him."

  – Poet John Dryden on Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet

  For ten years, she has carried me;

  I pray I’ve done her justice.

  Let’s take this bitch home.

  Rest in peace, Hope.

  1

  The End of The Boy

  I like pretty things.

  Beautiful things. I can remember like the man I love, draping his well-sculpted frame in an Italian flag and passing out long-stemmed red roses. Erotic things. I manipulate with my fingers and bend to my will. I still gush at the raspy growl, emerging in the back of his throat before he comes. The smell of cigarettes and mint on his breath hitches my own, and the woodsy cologne blended with the aroma of spunk on his happy trail begs my toes to curl. I love the flavor of him. These pretty things spark my heart to pitter-patter double time, and send my mind soaring with the possibility of a future—a thing of make-believe that I do not have.

  But my most defining quality is—my love of pretty things.

  In my quest for these, I stumbled upon his file. His name was Lucas Salvatore Raniero, and I've been telling his story for years because he was the golden boy. And I needed to recount the tale, the time, the moments to know how it all ended—

  Did my creation come to life? Would he use the abilities and gifts I gave? Or would he ignore them and seek his own path?

  By now, you may know my tale. I'm the lost love of Salvatore Raniero’s life, the one to break him and show him love like no one ever had. We were beautiful and blissful in our chaotic love. With the days passing far too quickly, I watch over him now, his guardian angel of manipulation.

  If it sounds terrible, it’s because it is.

  Regardless of anything, no one knows the whole story—my story. And while I told Sal many secrets on my death bed, there was one I could never share…

  Slow down; we’ll get there. This is about the journey, not the end. The end is an ugly place.

  If asked the two moments in my life that my knees buckled—that I was decimated—the first diagnosis and meeting Sal for the first time.

  As much as I broke Sal, that bastard shattered me.

  I hated Sal. He was perfect in ways I could never be. Aside from the healthy, glowing future, Sal could charm an entire room with one of his priceless grins. While I had to fight for every ounce and drop of attention, I could garner. I never had his following. He could lead them down to the river, ask them to get naked to baptize their flesh in some holy fetish rite, and they would.

  Because he was Sal.

  Fucker.

  Asshole is also my husband now, and I couldn’t be happier because with one legal document I solidified the fact of my estate going to him instead of my drug-addicted sister, Cas. She would hate me; he would stumble for a bit and love me all the more. Or, so I hope.

  But I’m out of that—Hope—aren't I?

  Fuck the Hope. Fuck the collateral damage. Fuck the cancer.

  I’m departing this place my way—pink hair, piercings, and stilettos boots, suggesting a lick.

  Careful planning and diligent plays led to the cards being laid out so pristinely in front of him, but I cannot say what he’ll do with them. He could toss them out and draw a fresh hand. His calculated moves could render some of those Queens and Kings and jokers pointless, but I assembled all of them in a particular order for his security – for his safekeeping – because I’m a caregiver above all else. He is my Dark Prince, crafted by my own hands.

  I used his need for a fetish to fight my war.

  Do you think I care? Do you think I harbor any guilt? I gave him a chance - a minuscule sliver of hope - to recover from his unlucky genetic pool. I was the answer and the eternity, the salvation and the protector of his gates. I gave him a way out, but I didn't just drop the map before his feet—no, no. I lassoed my leash around his stocky, muscled frame and declared he would move. He would go. He wouldn't be their cattle, waiting to go to slaughter. He would not be the sheep, waiting alone in the dark for the coyotes to maul his soul and rip his flesh from the bone.

  No.

  I gave him the power to be the darkness.

  He has all the cards, the dice, and the power.

  What happens next is…his choice.

  Or so he believes.

  2

  And the Beginning of The Man

  “I wanted to believe I was a fighter. The kind of girl to never put up with shit. I thought I was tough and invincible. Sadly, the white coats determined I had a different fate laid before me.

  I screamed – fuck you – so many times my throat hurt. I was angry, depressed, broken, and alone.

  After the first diagnosis, my favorite hated phrase earned an additional word—fuck you, crab—which meant swollen veins around the cankers, resembling crabs. If I was going to die by this, by God, I wanted enough history on the crabs to write a compendium.

  The Greeks did me a favor, giving the disease a great name. They weren't alone in their incredible gifts as the Italians sent one hell of a lover.

  I wasn’t going to call the crab by its actual name. I wasn’t going to give it any more power.

  It had taken enough.

  I had given all that I could to my failing body and one boy.

  I was lucky enough to watch you grow into a man, so take care of the package I built.

  Good luck.

  Goodbye.

  I love you.

  Don’t stumble on the past when you are searching for the future. And more important than anything else—don’t forget who you are. Stay in your present. Look around and soak that shit up. Because when you least expect it, the present extinguishes and where you think you were going, you never actually were.

  Fate is a cruel bitch. Be kind to that slut.

  And one more thing, Pretty Boy, be a motherfucking bastard to anyone who tries to sideswipe your present. Don’t let my work waste away.”

  “Kaci…” I say, scolding. Surrounding the large pedestal tub, the candles shimmer against her skin. With my hair dripping on my shoulders, I fork my fingers through the mess of curls, slicking them back as I spread my legs. “Shut up and get your ass in here.”

  “Raniero, this is my honeymoon.”

  I laugh and lift a brow. “Extended. You realize we were supposed to leave seven days ago? We are going to miss Halloween.”

  “I know,” she says, taking my hand and stepping into the water.

  Her emaciated body shows the truth. It is proof before my eyes. I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to know what I do. I need to believe the lie and that we have a future, but we both know better. We will not make it a year. Maybe not even six months. We will never finish our house. We will never have children.

  We will never…

  Hurts too much.

  Since my return from training, her dramatic weight loss seems to be increasing week by week. Kaci has never been more than a size four, but I can see – and feel – the bones. The facts aside, she is in remarkably good spirits, which is why we are still here in Barbados. We didn’t do more than walk the gardens and take the occasional horse driven cart around the town. But at least, it was something.

  And something was better than nothing.

  Particularly when your bride is marked for death.

  We called it – her expiration date – in jest, but the term no longer amuses me. If it were me, I might find it hysterical, but as it stands all I can imagine is soured milk. Of course, that leads me to question—how long do I have to wait after she does expire to put her picture on the side of a milk carton?

  Have you seen this girl?

  If so, return her ass to me.

  I love Kaci. More than I want to admit. I’ve been a callous bastard and said I did i
t because she was dying, but that was merely me trying to save some face. I didn’t want anyone ever knowing how bad this hurt. They could use it against me, hold it over my head, and make her obituary a torture tactic. My thinking about it this way was incidentally, her fault.

  She insisted that I be taken hostage and recruited for a clandestine organization, Sibyl. I had some insight into the sex industry with my work at Juliet. I had been a whipping boy in training. I never had true submission in me, but I dug the pain, and those sadistic bastards loved doling it out.

  I took on the identity of Lucien Tolan, secret assassin and operative. I enjoyed the work, but I knew I had accepted a fate not much different from what my mafia family offered. They called me Phoenix as if I was rising above it all, but there were days it certainly didn’t feel that way.

  In essence, I had been studying to become a Dominant for over half a year when I met Kacilyn Mae Hope. I call her Kaci. Or Kace. Or Pixie girl. And if we are sparring, we take it to a last name only basis – Hope and Raniero.

  She had been scouting my ass for years. Damn spies. She knew my family was mafia and that I didn’t want to be. I would have done anything to get away from it. I was the only boy in five Raniero offspring, and my destination was written the moment I was tugged out of my mama. I had a dick—a brilliant tool. Lucky me. I had a life of luxury, bloodshed, and crime waiting at my feet.

  But whether I wanted to admit it or not—bad was in my gene pool.

  At my high school graduation party, I witnessed a heinous crime against a child and killed the bastard. What an excellent way to deny or embrace my future. Hell, I was proud of myself. And it wasn’t murdering the guy that I felt guilty about, but the fact that I enjoyed it as much as I did. Taking his life was like a rebirth, I finally seated into being me and that was worth rejoicing over—and when I realized that, I knew I had an issue.

  Killing could quickly become an addiction.

  I shunned all the possibilities of joining the family business and ran away with my father’s blessing. He swept up the mess but expected I would come back. I never did, and I’ve been running ever since. Little did I know the whole time, Kaci Hope was stalking me. When she saw a crack, she took it.

  Fierce little bitch.

  First, she sent my ass to Juliet knowing I would bite. I had been picked up by the police several times for sneaking into a fetish club in Boston, so it was a given that I didn’t have it in me to turn down an opportunity at one of the four preeminent BDSM schools. I trained under some excellent Masters, cut my teeth on rich bitches wanting a ride on my hot Italian sausage, and lined my pockets with a smile.

  I never planned on Kaci falling for me, or having me stolen the night I proposed. I endured months of rigorous training all because she wanted that for me. Somewhere in my mind and heart, I didn’t mind it either because I now had an excuse to kill the bad guys, but we don’t talk about that. We don’t talk about how much I like the last breath.

  Unfortunately, Kaci’s is coming far too soon.

  “You think we could find my father?” she asks, laying her head on my chest and playing with my fingers. “I’d like to see him before I expire.”

  “Jesus fuck, Kace…”

  “What?” She says, blinking with a look of desperation. “I deserve to know who my parents are. Doesn’t everyone?”

  I sigh and lean my head back. We are stable right now. Not healthy, but happy—and that counts. I have some ideas about where her father is and why, but shit, I don’t want to spend however long we have until…on a fucking goose chase. I understand this makes me selfish, and I also know despite how I want to be a real fucker on this one—I can’t be.

  This is the finale.

  My last session with the Pixie Mistress.

  When I least expect it, I hear Anna Ford, Head Matriarch of Juliet, in my head, reminding me of how to handle this.

  “Salvatore, you don’t need to hold back your own growth in hopes that you can change her outcome. She isn’t depending on what you do to save her life. She was cursed long ago, and she has fought long and hard. She is tired of fighting for every minute. Give her this moment of joy. Relish in it. Cherish it. Dance and enjoy every single moment. Run naked in the rain. Play with her. Do everything she wants. Don’t fight her. Be your comical, entertaining self. Stop being so pissy. That isn’t what she signed on for—she wanted your laughter to carry her to the end.”

  Whatever the Pixie’s heart desires, right?

  “I’ll call and make arrangements, on one condition…”

  A moment passes between us when I fully recognize one thing—she doesn’t have it in her to do the research. I have to do it for her and as thoroughly as she would. This is my ultimate test. And the worst part of it is—I’m being timed.

  Can I find her estranged father before she passes?

  Her golden green eyes glisten up to meet mine as she giddily chimes, “… What? Do you need a round with Mistress Pixie? A nice sounding? Pegging? Tell me what you need to make this happen. I will do anything.”

  “All of that sounds particularly intriguing,” I reply with a wicked smirk. “But no. I want you to agree to some stateside travel first.”

  “… We aren’t stateside now?”

  I roll my eyes. “We both know the kind of exhausting trip this could be to find your father. And being in Anna’s bungalow here in Barbados is not bringing the kind of stress on you that extensive globetrotting will,” I point out, calmly. I must play a strategic head game with Kaci; I cannot flub this or she will steamroller my ass fast.

  While I may have assumed the lead position since my return from Sibyl, it doesn’t mean she is powerless. In fact, she has decidedly more control over me now than she ever did with me on the bottom. After stating my case, I implore her to make a decision, “Agree, or I can just flunk.”

  “Seriously, Raniero?”

  I nod, letting my fingers trickle over her back. “I’m not messing around with this, babe. You agree to my terms or I will not find David “Marshall” Hope for you.”

  “That’s not fair,” she says, pouting. “You know I need you.”

  “I’m very well aware you need me, but what I want is you standing as long as possible,” I reply, tilting my head and petting hers. “I’m sorry, babe. Those are my rules.”

  She sighs and moves away from the cradling of my body to the other side of the bathtub. I guess I hit a nerve. Her long blonde hair is falling out of the messy bun, and she looks like a scrawny sex kitten. I hate it when she plays this card because she knows I can’t say no.

  But I can flip the table on her.

  I scan my olive skin and drift my hand over the rippled abs I worked so hard for. My eyes catch hers as my left hand shimmies down and strokes my flaccid cock.

  Her eyes widen, and she hisses, “Don’t you dare!”

  I smirk mischievously but don’t stop. Twitching my lips and refusing to break the stare between us, I seduce my wife coaxing my palm on my dick. It is a scrumptiously delicious moment—one in which says so much about where we have come from and where we are going.

  “Agree to my terms,” I prod, rising my beast to a full-throttle erection as she sits with her arms crossed and her expression fuming. “And then come ride me, baby.”

  There are a few things about Kaci Hope that I readily know. Despite her hidden agendas and secret games, she is never easy, and this won’t end with a simple, Yes, Sir.

  “Where all are we going?”

  “Sorry, but you only get one of your favorites,” I banter, bringing up her anger to a fiery blaze. “New Orleans, Brownsville, Chicago, and Boston.”

  She huffs, “No Vegas?” I swear if smoke could come out her nostrils, it would have. Or worse yet, if she could blow fire out of her lungs, I would be charred to crispy bits. “Why? Each one. Details. Go.”

  “New Orleans to hit up intel from Dom Gennaro,” I reply, simplifying the overly complicated answer. Dom runs the lucrative Dollhouse, under the guise
of being nothing more than a kinky pimp. In truth, he’s an agent just like me. But with his age and expertise, he could prove integral in achieving our goal of finding Marshall.

  “Why Brownsville?”

  “Because you need to visit with your mom and dad at their new home,” I respond honestly as her stress levels mount to a fist-clenching level. Her adoptive family sculpted her into the woman she is today. Without them, she wouldn’t be as hotheaded or know how to make a killer guacamole. “You need to have the time with them now before it is too late.”

  “Fine,” she assuages, lifting her toes to rub against my shaft. “Do I even need to ask why we are going to Chicago?”

  “Stopover,” I say with a hint of a smirk. “A night at Fierce.”

  She feigns a cough as she sits up. “You mean a night in Iris.”

  “I do not mean Iris,” I quickly reprimand, despite the nervous energy, rising in my belly. “You have friends there. Fink for one.”

  “Jonathan Finkle will come and see me at home,” she rebukes as her toes continue to massage me. “Unless you need a night with Fink and his paddles…”

  “Kacilyn,” I sound off with a warning tone. “No.”

  Her smile may be innocent, but her eyes beam with carnal lust. “Why not give me a nice present of Fink and you together?”

  “Kaci, I’m not tangoing with Fink.”

  Her lashes rapidly blink in my direction. “But…but…”

  “There will be no butts.”

  “Fuck,” she scoffs, slumping back against the wall of the tub. “You need a night with Iris…”

  Releasing my dick, I try and get up, but her hands press around my ankles. And while I could easily overcome her weakened state, I’m bound by an oath of servitude to love, honor, and obey this woman. “I understand she is the one you have picked for me after your departure.”

  “… Departure sounds like I’m flying away.”