Glass Houses: A Modern Steamy Alice In Wonderland Fairy Tale (Fairly Twisted Tales Book 3)

by Lux Miller

  I grunt, “Fine. Dim sum or I walk.” I snap the phone closed before Joe has a chance to get a word in edgewise and I glance over at the clock. Fuck. It’s actually well past ten and I’m barely functioning. I stand up and growl, yanking my shorts off and storming into the bathroom. I turn the water on as hot as it will go and slip in, letting the water pelt my body until it starts to turn cold. I quickly scrub some shampoo through my hair and over my body, then rinse and step out onto the bath mat. I grunt at my reflection as I turn my face to the side and see that I have a lovely welt blooming from my cheek up into my hairline. Fucker kicked me hard, shit.

  I lean over the sink and examine the discoloration that’s an angry purple that’s fairly noticeable against my complexion. I might look sun-kissed year-round, but I don’t have my dad’s rich coffee tone, not unless you dilute it with a good bit of milk. Ha, a good bit of milk. That’s about all my mother gave me besides an inferiority complex about a woman never being able to love me. I mean, damn, my own mother didn’t love me enough to stay, so why should any other woman?

  Slamming my hand down on the sink, I wince when something sharp pokes my palm. I snatch my hand back and find a small clip resting there, glaring up at me like evidence of my evil deeds. I pick it up and examine it and even though I know it belongs to Poppy, a woman I can never have… again, anyway… I can’t help but admire the intricate details of the delicately carved wooden horse that adorns the otherwise mundane clip.

  I close my hand around it and muddle through the rest of my routine, dropping the clip into the pair of jeans I begrudgingly put on. I’m a low-key kind of guy, but when I visit the doctor, I have to give them the impression that I at least somewhat care about what they have to say. Not that it will stop me. They and I both know this, but it’s a formality to appease Joe. I pat the tiny bulge in my pocket as I transfer my wallet from my joggers to my jeans and sigh. There’s no time like the present to have your world shattered by bad news.

  When I pull into the parking lot of the modern, two-story building, a feeling of dread clenches my gut. I know that they’re not going to scan my head and pretend to find something there that really isn’t, but sometimes not knowing is a lot less stressful. If I’m going to stroke-out tomorrow from an aneurysm in my brain, I don’t want to know about it today. That will just ruin today, too and since tomorrow’d be shit too, it’d be a pretty fucked up way to go.

  Doctor’s offices make me nervous. They have since I was kid, long before I became a street fighter even, though that gig landed me in the emergency room more than once. I’ve got quite a few scars that make for excellent parlor room conversation and I’ve had more stitches and concussions than I care to count. The latter is why Joe’s so concerned. He’s says there’s only so many times you can slam a brain around inside your skull before it starts to become mush.

  I know he’s genuinely worried about me and that he truly has my best interest in mind. I wouldn’t trust him like I do if I thought he was quacky. He’s never led me wrong so far, but I have a feeling the two of us are going to butts heads on this. Because he’s going to want me to walk away from fighting and I’m probably going to tell him that I will quit fighting the day he sucks my dick.

  Because I’m an asshole by nature and that’s what assholes do. They do what they want to do, consequences be damned. Yeah, Cat knows me better than I fucking know myself. Making me feel guilty and all that jazz when it comes to my lousy decision-making skills. I never said I was good at making critical life-choices. I actually suck at it and that’s why I’ve hired the two bumbling idiots sitting in the waiting room chairs in three-piece suits looking at me like a I’m a dead man walking.

  “Joe, Pete, yo… sun’s shining, so be happy…”

  Peter glances at Joe and sighs, then nods in my direction. Joe holds up a greasy paper bag and my eyes light up. “Shit, you found some! I hope it tastes as good as I’ve been imagining all the way here, because I’m starving…”

  I pull out the nondescript carton and flick open the flaps, groaning as the sweet and savory scent of the steamed buns assaults my sense. “Yes sir… just what the doctor ordered.” I smirk and grab the chopsticks that Joe holds out to me and load two of the buns into my mouth, chewing greedily. When I’ve got them about halfway chewed, I point at Joe with the chopsticks. “K, man… you made good on your end of the bargain, so I will make good on mine. Radiate me or whatever they’re gonna do to my head.”

  Peter’s the one who speaks and I gnash my teeth into the sticky dough of one of the buns, my eyes rolling back in my head as the filling squirts out onto my tongue. I chew like I haven’t eaten in days, greedily swallowing down the meal that will cost me at least a C note. “Storm, we had your medical records sent over. This doctor is really concerned.”

  I nod as I wave the chopsticks around, “Yeah, I know… CTE and something about my brain exploding.”

  Peter shakes his head and looks at Joe. “You said you explained this to him.”

  Joe grunts and clear his throat. “I did. More than once, as did the paramedics last night when they checked him over. He knows that if he takes one more concussing hit to the head that it might cause dire injuries that he may not recover from. He just doesn’t care, Peter.”

  I clear my own throat and lean forward in the chair where I’ve plopped my ass. “I care, Joe. But what you’re asking me to do is to walk away from who I am.” I pop another bun into my mouth and chew, then talk around it as I wave the chopsticks around in the air for effects. “I’m not a quitter. Never have been, never will be. I will get what I want, one way or another and nobody is going to stop me, including myself. I will fight in that ring until they have to drag me off on a stretcher…”

  I glare at Peter as he raises one finger and point the chopsticks directly at him, “...and even then, I will be back out there on fight night, ready to go.”

  Joe sighs as the nurse walks out, looking at me pigging out like I’m something a wayward dog dragged in off the street. “Storm, can we just get through this damn test before you start spouting off your wills and won’ts? Let’s get a look at the damage you’ve already done and then we will discuss the steps to keep a career-ending injury from happening.”

  Peter whirls around to look at Joe with his mouth open, “That’s not what we agreed to, Joe. We agreed this was it… we all know what that damn test is going to show. It’s not going to show a little bruising here, and a bit of swelling there. We already discussed the probable outcome of this test and what we would recommend to Storm. Now you’re backtracking?”

  Joe shakes his head with a sigh as the nurse’s eyes widen, focusing on me like she’s pitying me. I have a suspicion that I’m not going to like the answer I get, but I ask anyway, “And what were you going to recommend?”

  Peter sighs heavily and looks at me, “Look son, I know you love to fight. I know it’s programmed into your DNA, but you have to understand your condition.”

  Joe mumbles, but everyone still hears it, “Probable condition.”

  Peter growls at Joe, giving him a look that clearly says, ‘Shut up.’ He turns back to me and rests a hand on my knee. “You know I’m always looking out for your best interest, kid. Hell, I booked this round of fights for you, but if this CT scan shows what we’re expecting it to show, you’re gonna have to cancel them.”

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat as I pop the final dumpling on my mouth. “Whish wuns?” I mutter around the food that suddenly isn’t tasting as good as it did five minutes ago.

  Peter sighs, “All of them, Storm. All of them. If this CT comes back showing that you’re already well into the later stages of CTE, then we can’t risk another fight. I know you don’t want to hear this, but this would be a dire outcome. The worst of the worst, but it’s necessary. We suspect you’re at least at stage two of the disease. There’s no doubt that you have it, but the severity is what’s going to matter. If you’re beyond stage two, that’s it for the fighting.”

 
I grunt and cross my eyes, “I’ll be damned if you’re the one making that decision, Peter. It’s my brain and my life.”

  Joe sighs heavily and I know something is weighing on his mind, so I point at him, “Just say it, man. Don’t beat around the bush. What the hell is so bad that y’all are so damn worried? So I’ll have some memory loss and I’ll be a totally forgetful asshole when I’m an old man.”

  Joe shakes his head slowly, “Storm, if you’re beyond stage two… and you take another hit like you did last night, the decisions Peter will be making won’t have anything to do with your career or your future… he’ll be making decisions about your funeral…”

  ELEVEN

  Poppy

  Everything in me protested this morning when I slipped out of Storm’s bed and snuck out of his hotel room without waking him. But it was better that way because if I had to say goodbye to him, things would have been messy. My life is complicated enough. Despite the mind-shattering sex we had last night, I cannot allow myself to get attached to anyone. Brad would never accept me even being friends with a guy, especially not one that I have chemistry with and there’s no denying the chemistry between Storm and I. No, this was the only way to do it… crawl out of bed like a cheap whore and do the walk of shame, hail a cab, and slip in the house before Brad wakes up.

  I sigh as I rest my forehead against the cool shower wall. The hot water’s been gone for several minutes now, but I just can’t bring myself to get out of the shower. I’ve scrubbed my body damn near raw to remove Storm’s scent from me, but he’s still the only thing I can smell. It’s like his essence has permeated every part of me and I can’t shake him. Which is completely ridiculous, I know. This is just my guilty conscience eating me alive from the inside. Let it devour me, but there’s no way in hell I’m telling Brad what I did. He probably wouldn’t even care.

  Reaching for my shampoo, I finally manage to wash my hair in the chilly water, tracking my hands down out of my locks and over my body where Storm touched me last night. If I close my eyes tight enough, I can almost feel his hands still on me as I skate my own over my breasts, my nipples perking up under my intimate touch. I shudder and continue my trek across my body, slipping one hand between my legs. Following the path of Storm’s caresses last night, I find my body instantly responding.

  I whimper softly as I twist in the shower to let the now-ice cold water pelt me, hoping it will quell this burning desire deep inside me. I haven’t craved being touched like this in years, since Brad and I were horny teenagers sneaking out in his daddy’s car to the cliffs where we’d make out for hours. Eventually, our makeout spot became our lovemaking spot too, until we were married. That’s when the love died and I became a possession.

  But right now, I’m owned by nobody but me as I plunge my middle finger inside of myself, biting down on my bottom lip as I imagine my hand belonging to Storm. It’s completely wrong for me to be imagining a man that isn’t my husband like this, but it’s no worse than the way I let that same man touch me last night. I pump my finger in and out of myself, stroking my fingertip along the sensitive skin inside of my channel as I circle my clit with my thumb, squirming against my own hand as I tune out everything else around me, including the pounding on the bathroom door that’s no doubt Brad.

  My back is pressed up against the wall as I continue to pleasure myself, soft moans of approval cascading down my body with the crystal clear water. My breathing becomes staggered as I feel myself nearing the edge. A few more pumps of my finger and I’m toppling over, the muscles of my pussy clenching around my finger. It takes me several moments to compose myself after the pulsing inside of me stops. I rinse off my hand and finally cut off the water, relieved that the angry voice on the other side of the bathroom door has gone silent.

  I’ve been in here forever, so he probably had to go to work, which is fine by me I have nothing to say to Brad right now, despite being concerned with getting home before he woke up and being worried about what he would think about me actually not coming home last night. I’ve got a female coworker covering for me if for some reason he asks where I was. We’re not super close, but we get along well enough that I’m confident she’ll lie for me and tell him I was with her. It’s not like she has any reason to be in his good graces anyway. She doesn’t care for him at all.

  When I step out of the shower and wrap my towel around my body, I bring my gaze to my reflection in the mirror. I look like hell chewed me up and spat me back out, despite how well I slept beside Storm last night. Nothing a little makeup won’t fix. I shudder when I think about the completely inappropriate uniform I’m going to have to slip back into for work tonight. There isn’t a single redeeming quality about it. It’s atrociously ugly with its mixed patterns and clashing colors. The seventies called and they want their clothing back, because there’s no way in hell any modern woman should be wearing that thing.

  Still grumbling, I stumble over to the bed and flop down on its made surface, wet towel and all. I close my eyes, intended to to rest them for just a few minutes, but when I open them again, my phone is screeching at me, my alarm blaring off the walls of the master bedroom. I groan and slide off the bed, leaving the wet towel spread out over its pristine white surface. Ugh, I’ve always hated the white everything in this house. Every room looks like pictures out of a magazine - and that’s a problem for me. A house is for show, a home should look lived-in.

  I yank on my clean work uniform and shake my head at my reflection in the mirror. My dusty brown hair hangs limply around my face because I didn’t curl it or tease it up to add volume. My face has a pallor the color of curdled milk and the hideous brown color of the majority of my potato-sack-disguised-as-too-fucking-short-dress doesn’t help matters. I sigh and walk into the bathroom, throwing on a light coat of mascara, a quick dusting of powder, a bit of rouge to liven up my cheeks, and a soft pink lip gloss. I may not look fancy, but at least I look human.

  Realizing Brad didn’t bother to wait for me, I call a cab. It’s probably a good thing that I didn’t ride with him. He’d have me in close quarters and I’ve no doubt he’d be lobbing a thousand and one questions at me if he could get me in an enclosed space where I couldn’t escape. And he doesn’t want to hear what I have to say about what happened last night. Even before the whole debacle happened with Storm, Brad scared me last night. Besides the one time early in our marriage, he’s never laid a hand on me and last night, he was definitely going to. If Storm hadn’t stepped in, Brad’s hand would’ve skipped straight across my face.

  An emptiness fills me as I climb into the cab and murmur the address of the casino where I want to go. The cabbie glances at me through the rearview mirror and there’s a sadness in his eyes that I recognize. It’s the same look people give you when they know something you don’t and even though you deserve to know, it isn’t their secret to tell. I flop back in the seat and quietly go over the carefully practiced story I’ll feed Brad if he asks where I went last night. I don’t even have to lie about most of it, I’ll just leave Storm out. Brad doesn’t need a reason to get even more possessive of me.

  As we pull up to the casino, I lean over the seat and try to hand a twenty that I swiped from my hidden stash of money at the house, but the cabbie refuses to take it. “Ride’s on me, miss…”

  I frown slightly, but tuck the rumpled cash back into my apron and open the door, glancing back over at my shoulder at him as he taps his fingers on the steering wheel. He meets my eyes through the rearview mirror again and says, “Curious… how that man brings home one beautiful woman, and then a different beautiful woman leaves without him. Curiouser and curiouser…”

  I freeze with my hand on the door as I step out of the vehicle, turning to glance back inside. “What did you say?”

  The cabbie shrugs. “If one spends their nights drinking from a bottle labeled ‘Poison’, one shouldn’t be surprised that eventually, it’s going to disagree with them. You’re young and pretty. Don’t let one mistake poison th
e rest of your life.”

  I jump back away from the cab and slam the door, startled by the cabbie’s statement. What mistake is he talking about? Does he know about Storm? Or is he trying to tell me something about Brad? He did seem to imply that Brad brought home someone last night. A sick feeling settles in my belly. Brad came home without me, but he didn’t come home alone.

  Panic sweeps over me as I feel arms wrap around my waist. My blood runs cold as Brad’s tinny voice sweeps through my consciousness, “Margot tells me you went out with her last night, but we both know that’s a lie. I don’t know where you went or who you went with, but I’m going to find out, Poppy. You are mine and you better make sure you don’t ever forget that.”

  He stands up straight and tugs me back against him, tightening his arms around me so that’s it’s uncomfortable and almost hard to breathe. “But aside from that, dear wife, it’s so lovely to see you this morning. Why don’t we sneak off somewhere and…” He leans his face around and licks my cheek slowly, his tongue brushing over every curve of my face. Then he presses his face into my hair and inhales deeply, chuckling, “...work out our frustration? We can call it our own little brand of therapy… couples therapy if you will, where I fuck the living daylights out of you and we move on from our distrust like it never... even... happened…”