“Nah, I don’t want the pretty version. Give it to me dirty, bad girl. Look me in the eye. Say my name. Ask me to put this dick inside of you. Cuss.”
Rational thoughts thrashed about inside Lena’s mind, pleading with her to hold the boundary and stop this petty game now. But below her waist, the dumb animal beneath her hands throbbed and clenched, pleading with her to do just the opposite.
“C’mon, bad girl, you can do it,” Keane crooned, as if sensing her inner conflict. “One last thing. All you gotta do is beg me to put my dick inside of you and fuck you good. Look at me and beg. That’s all you got to do.”
It wasn’t fair, she thought, whining like she’d never been allowed to do while growing up in Boston with a strict father. But now her mind howled with outrage. It wasn’t fair that a guy who looked like Keane, sexed like Keane, bullied like Keane could make her want him this much.
But in the end her throbbing pussy won out. She wrenched her eyes forward to meet his. “Please… please, Keane…” She struggled to remember all his instructions.
“Beg me to put my dick inside of you…” he supplied, his eyes hooded with hard lust.
“Please, put your dick inside of me,” she repeated.
He took his cock in one hand and teased the slit she was holding open for him, cruelly pressing the tip of himself into her engorged clit. She gasped when a bolt of electric pleasure zapped through her core.
“Beg me to fuck you…”
“Please, fuck me,” she said. Fingers trembling with the effort to stay where they were.
“Beg me to fuck you hard…” He invaded her with his tip, slow feeding her his cock as they both watched.
It felt so wrong…and crazy…and good. Repeating “Please, fuck me hard,” felt like a simple truth. She wanted him. Wanted this. So bad.
“Better than your ex ever could.”
His sharp gaze burned into her as he fed her that line. And she noted it wasn’t in the original instruction. Yet, it was by far the easiest to say. “Better than my ex ever could.”
He fell on top of her and held her even tighter than usual as he fucked her just as good as he’d promised.
It didn’t take long for her to come undone. Screaming into #24 with a wildness she didn’t know she had inside of her. Still.
And he kept on going, pounding into her afterlight, until the buzzy relief of #24 faded and gave way to #25. She screamed out again, just as he went rigid and spilled inside her.
They breathed together. Ragged and uneven as they both came down from the explosive sex. Usually he rolled off right after. But that night he braced himself on one arm and lifted up, just enough to take off the pressure of his weight.
“Was it true?” he asked, his breaths still coming out in rough pants. “What I made you say about your ex?”
“Yes,” she said, too caught up in the orgasm’s aftermath to consider answering with anything but the truth.
“Then why the fuck did you leave me for him?”
She stared at him. Was that what he thought? “I didn’t—”
“Never mind.” He abruptly rolled off of her. “Don’t answer that. I don’t care. This shit is already too complicated.”
Yes, yes it was, she silently agreed, as she reached over to turn the light off. But she lay awake for a long time in the dark, wondering just how complicated things would become between them before the summer was done.
Chapter Eighteen
Keane rarely regretted business deals. He brought his number one truth, asshole or get assholed to co-pilot every negotiation. And though he kept all his dealings on the right side of the law, anyone in Boston could tell you he wasn’t above using dirty tactics to makes sure he came out of all his contract signings feeling like he’d won.
But by the time the third Monday of his new arrangement rolled around, he was cursing himself for the temporary custody agreement he’d signed with Lena. Specifically, that mildly worded “100 tries” bullet point.
100 fucks wouldn’t be enough. As it turned out, he, like Lena, had underestimated just how combustible they were in bed. She’d been right about neither of them being kids anymore. In fact, most of the skaters, who had started out with him on the Boston Hawks had already retired or were thinking about it. But damn if Lena didn’t make him feel like a twenty-three-year old.
Especially once Max started going out of town every weekend for tournament games. Sunday through Thursday night, Keane could keep it down to a reasonable, “hey, both of us have got to get up early” two times a night. But when it was just him and Lena in the house together, he couldn’t get enough.
Weekends had become about training her who was the boss. Making her beg. Then making her come over and over again until she begged him to stop. And now, after this last weekend, they were nearly halfway done, with eight weeks to go until the stated date for Lena’s return to California.
Not that her return trip would be happening. The seeds were already in place to ensure that Max nor the baby he was determined to make with Lena this summer would not be going any fucking where. But still, the 100 fucks would definitely not be enough to get them through August. Not if they kept blazing up the sheets like this. 200 might not even be enough.
“Hey, what are you thinking about, Mr. Keane?”
Max’s voice brought him out of his very, very lewd thoughts. He was sitting in the passenger seat as they waited for the red light to let them turn left into the hockey center’s side road.
“Business,” he answered, his voice terse. “What are you thinking about?”
“This weekend’s tournament out at Merriweather. Their team keeps practicing all through the summer, and we’re scheduled to face them Saturday night.”
“Good team,” Keane noted, happy for the opportunity to stop obsessing over the mother of the kid who still didn’t know, Keane and not that ass tool back in California was his real father.
“Yeah, they are,” Max agreed, his shoulders slumping. “They’ve got a Defenseman who they call The Destroyer.”
“You can’t let shi—stuff like that get inside your head,” Keane told him. “Remember, the only thing that matters on the ice are the opposing team’s weaknesses. Here’s what we’re going to do, after we’re done skating tonight. We’ll look up a few of those Merriweather games on YouTube. Bet we can figure out how to make this kid wish his team had nicknamed him Grandma, so he never got in your target sights?”
“Really?” Max asked, his face lighting up.
Max’s surprised smile…it reminded Keane so much of Summer Lena, it made his chest ache. Even as he groused, “Yeah, really. I don’t joke around about hockey.”
“Thanks, Mr. Keane. I really appreciate it,” Max said, throwing him a grateful look.
Mr. Keane…Yeah, he’d been the one to demand Max call him that when he didn’t know who the kid really was to him. But that polite Mr. Keane grated on his nerves more and more every day.
Another contract regret. He should have put telling the kid into the contract. And given Lena a deadline.
But Keane knowing the truth would have to be enough. For now, he decided as he parked the car and walked the kid into the center.
No hugs after he dropped him off at the bleachers this morning. The other AAA skaters had teased him out of that California hugging good-bye shit within a couple of days into practice. And technically, Keane didn’t have to bother with walking him in. His name was on the academy, so it wasn’t like they were making him deal with sign in sheets like the other day camper’s parents.
But he liked to look over the daily practice schedule himself and if he saw something that might trip the kid up, give him a few tips before he left. Max along with the other players soaked up every word, and Keane knew having him as a friend and protector probably kept him safe from a lot of the hazing that would have happened to any other nine-year-old who dared to make their elite summer team.
“Hey, bro, you got a minute to talk to me in my office?” Con
asked, coming up to stand beside him while he looked over the day’s drill list.
“Sure thing, bro,” Keane answered, greeting him with a clasped handshake and half hug. “I thought this was supposed to be your day off.”
“Yeah, but Merriweather,” Con answered.
That was all the explanation Keane needed. They’d both played under one of New England’s best coaches at Boston Glenn. Putting in what basically amounted to a ten-day workweek in order to plan for their most formidable competitors at this weekend’s tournament, was nothing less than what their old coach would have done. But Con’s presence there let Keane know he’d made the right choice five years ago when he’d tapped his old friend to run his minors Boston Hawks hockey program, even though his roommate hadn’t made it into a college Division I program.
However, Con looked wicked tired as he sat behind his desk. And Keane had barely gotten his ass in the seat before he said, “We got a problem with Max.”
Keane sighed. “If this is about Indian Tuesdays, sorry man, there’s nothing I can do about it.”
Bullshit. If he wanted to, Keane could quash that shit easily. He had three numbers on his gray area phone, he could call to pay his kid’s fake uncle a visit that would make sure he never stepped foot inside the hockey center again. But best friend be damned, the containers of homemade food Vihaan brought around every Tuesday were delicious, and at least not spiced like the devil was coming to dinner. Da hell if he was going to give that up.
“No, it’s not about that,” Con answered. Although the sour look that passed over his face told Keane exactly how his friend felt about having Band Nerd come around every Tuesday dressed in a seeming never ending rotation of flashy, on trend outfits.
“So this letter Lena sent me before our first tournament, asking for special accommodations for Max on account of his psychological issues about seeing other boys nude or being seen nude …”
“What the hell?” Keane asked, sitting up in his seat. “Why am I just now hearing about this.”
“I figured you knew,” Con answered with a shake of his head. “Plus, me not telling anybody about his issues was part of the letter.”
No, he hadn’t known, and his mind raced to figure out why the hell a nine-year-old would be too scared to see other kids nude.
“…I wouldn’t be telling you about it now, if we hadn’t run into a problem with the Merriweather dorms. Their facilities are old as shit, so the dorms they opened up for the tournament participants and the rink only has the old-style showers—which they keep locked during non-shower hours. I asked about letting him shower alone at a special designated time, but they cited liability unless I go in there with him, which I’m thinking is against what the letter is saying. Here, you look.”
Keane read over the letter and he could see why Con had been so confused. The parameters were clear along with the words “potentially traumatizing” but the actual problem and why Max had it was loaded down in a bunch of therapyese.
“I’ll talk with her about it…” he said to Con, feeling like his voice was coming from far away.
Why the fuck had Lena not told him about this? Did she still think he didn’t deserve to know shit about his own child?
This is why, he thought darkly. This was why he had to say yes to planting those seeds. No, he wasn’t letting this unexpected family of his go. Not for any price.
“Thanks for dealing with that,” Con said, drawing Keane out of his pissed off thoughts.
But just as he was about to get up, Con asked, “So you and Lena…? I was just wondering. How did that happen? I mean you basically got the whole school to start calling her a psycho. How did you go from hating her to knocking her up? Was it a one-time thing? Like, were you drunk or something? I’ve had a couple of crazy hook-ups like that.”
Keane bristled. This was the one problem with staying friends with somebody who’d never made it past his Wisconsin dairy farm mentality wise. Con was a great coach, but Keane could see he was still having trouble wrapping his mind around his best friend getting with a black girl who looked nothing like the almost uniformly blonde girlfriends, the Sticks used to date. Right now, he couldn’t help but recall how Cheslav Rustanov and the rest of his Boston Hawks teammates had clapped and hooted when Keane claimed her with a kiss at that long ago Better Boys charity event.
“No, that psycho thing was a lie. Actually, I used to like her. A lot. Like to the point if I had known she and Vihaan weren’t real, she would have been my first hook up when I hit Boston Glenn.”
And probably his last. But he didn’t admit that out loud to Con. “Anyway, we were together for the whole summer before my first season with the Hawks. I was even going to propose.”
Con’s eyes widened like Keane had just told him up was officially down. “Seriously? Why didn’t you? Were you afraid about what other people would say?”
“Nanh, not by then. I was so gone over her, I stopped giving a fuck what other people thought.”
“Stopped giving a fuck…” Con looked down as if Keane had introduced him to a new medical term he never knew existed. “And how about now? You still like her like that?”
Keane squinted. “Why the fuck you asking all these questions.”
Con shrugged. “The boys keep on asking Max about it and he says, you and his mom are just friends. But you know how kids are…”
Keane wouldn’t have bought that friends story himself when he was Max’s age. But he still told Con, “You’ve been in Boston too long, not to have learned the proper art of telling kids to go fuck themselves, bro.”
Con just laughed. “Bono would kill me.”
“Yeah, he would.” And Keane got hit with another pang. He still had been able to come up with a credible excuse to introduce Max to his real uncle.
He hated Lena. Yeah, he still did. But sometimes, he looked at Max and her at the dining room table together and his heart just ached. Wanting shit from her. More than vicinity. Like, the original dream of love and family, even though he was no longer that idiotic Southie boy who’d let himself fall to hard and too fast.
“I’ll talk to Lena about the showers issue,” he said again, before rising from his seat, and bringing the conversation with Con to an end.
“Do you know how to pick a lock?” Lena asked before he could even say hello.
As it turned out, Lena called to talk to him first, right before his lunch hour. But it wasn’t about Max.
He chuckled. “You think just because I’m from Southie, I know how to pick a lock?”
“I don’t have time for this. Do you know how to pick a lock or not? If not just say so and I’ll call somebody else.” Her words were harsh, but her voice sounded terrified.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, sitting up straighter in his chair.
“My dad…he’s been deteriorating lately. He refused to give up his apartment behind the store until demolition day—which is tomorrow. But when I came over here to help him clear the place out, I found out he changed the locks. And I tried calling a locksmith, but they say they can’t let me into a property I don’t own. I don’t know what to do!”
“Take a picture of the lock and send it to me.” Keane grabbed his coat without a second thought for the Dorchester Grove Phase Three meeting he was supposed to be preparing for over lunch. “I’m coming right now.”
Chapter Nineteen
Keane arrived in less time than Lena would have guessed, coming all the way from the Financial District.
“Did you fly here?” she asked when he suddenly came around the side of her father’s store, walking so fast, she could actually see the limp in his gait from wearing a prosthetic. He also carried something that looked like a sleek black leather manicure case.
“Parked around back,” he answered, laser focusing on the lock.
“Lucky your dad cheaped out on this shitty lock. If it’d been anything with electronics, I would have had to call in one of my tech boys. But I can handle this.”
> Yes, he could…
Lena watched him unzip a manicure case with an arsenal of small tools. He pulled out a two long thin silver ones with different heads, then quickly got to work, deftly manipulating the lock. This was so illegal, and she had to wonder why he’d committed this skill set to muscle memory in the first place. But she couldn’t help but feel impressed when the door opened, with less than a minute of work on his part.
“Thank you!” she said, meaning it. “I really appreciate it. I’ll take it from here.”
But instead of going, Keane followed her into the store, like she’d invited him.
She knew it would be bad as soon as she stepped in. The store had been a bit of a mess when she last saw it. Filled with various detritus and dust bunnies that had hidden for years under and behind heavy shelves.
But even though there was no longer any merchandise or fixtures in the store, the shop gleamed. All the dust was gone and the smell of cleaning products hung heavy the air.
“Wow, your dad cleaned up for a demolition? Never seen that before.”
Neither had she. She rushed toward the backroom.
“Seriously, you should go,” she threw over her shoulder at Keane. “He’s a very proud man and he’s not going to want anyone to see him this way.”
Thankfully, she didn’t hear the sound of Keane’s footsteps behind her as she pushed through the backroom’s door. But the scene in here was even more horrific.
Her father, her neat freak father, who she’d never seen outside his daily uniform of a short sleeved shirt and wrinkle proof slacks, sat watching TV on his 90s era console dressed in nothing but a dirty wife beater and boxing shorts. The bed was unmade. And there were pizza boxes scattered all around him along with several empty bottles of beer.
Despite his poor dietary choices, Lena could now see he was little more than skin and bones with a caved chest and arms that resembled sticks. Had he always been this thin? Or was this sadness about losing his store? Guilt washed over her for rushing off to live in Keane’s multi-million-dollar Back Bay Victorian double brownstone, while her father suffered in the back room of his soon to be demolished store.
Keane: Her Ruthless Ex: 50 Loving States, Massachusetts Page 14