Crown and Anchor Series: Book 1-4

by Kerri Ann

  Groaning, my body shudders. Dipping forward, sucking her greedy cunt, I feel the vibrations of her humming against my skin. Pulling at her already tortured bud, delving a finger within her ass and two within her sex, she pulls her mouth tighter against me. As her hands weave around to my ass, I feel her tug on the end of the rubber plug still situated. As she strokes it in time with her mouth, the tight motions almost unman me. Falling forward with a wicked abandon to feast on her body, I can’t let this evening end. In less time than it takes to order room service, I’ll be back with the race team in Daytona, while she’ll be flying out to a LeMans in Monaco. It’ll be weeks again before I see her. I need all the physical contact I can get to tide me over.

  As cum flows freely, she falls apart for me all over again. Lapping it up, I feel every slight nip as she scrapes her teeth when her cheeks pull in. Pushing the plug in a bit further, Circe grips my cock at the base. Pumping deep within her hot mouth, I’m not sure how she’s breathing. Feeling the air from her nose tickling against my ass, she presses her nails tightly to not only hold the plug in place, but to drag me even closer. Tighter than I thought I could handle, her one hand grips my shaft. Stroking it painfully, I cry out my release. All reason is gone as I feel the end of my jettisoned release flowing down her throat. Even though I’m spent, I want to go again before she leaves me in just a few hours.

  Lifting away from her mouth, I lay beside her on the bed. “Fuck, Siren. I’m done.” Removing the plug myself, I lay it on the bed, beside the beads. Running a finger along her thigh, she lets out a deep giggle. It’s not an “I’m funny,” giggle, it’s a “don’t touch my over-sensitized body” giggle.

  For sure, we’ll be doing this again, and soon. I need as much as I can get. And no matter how many times I say I’m done and spent, it’s a fucking lie. She’s addictive.

  Leaving that memory, reminding me it’s not happening now, my prone body doesn’t react. My mind is trying to save me by giving me great memories, allowing me to forget how fucked-up everything is. It’s disconnecting me from the danger of reality. Sure, my conscious mind registers that I’m no longer in that memory, loving the woman that consumes my soul, but it’s happier than the reality of being stuck here.

  The fucked-up part of it? I’m not alone. It’s a bit creepy that I’m thinking about sex with my girl while my baby sister sits vigil beside me.

  As if she knows I’m conscious and can hear her, China speaks softly. “Wyatt, when you wake up, Jamieson, you, and I will have a massive convo about that day. I want to know it all. No, that’s a fucking lie. I need to know what happened.” My sister’s voice pounds off the walls, the weight of it hitting me square in the chest. Her words hitch between heavy breaths. In a sick, twisted way, I’m glad I’m in my head. The sight of her crying would tear me apart. She has no idea what happened and what I went through that day. I’m not sure she could handle it all. The mixture of emotions are volatile—sadness, happiness, grief, despair, joy, despondency, anger, and peace. It’s hard to express, and I’m not sure I could explain it coherently right now. Maybe the time in my head will help arrange it all.

  What must she be thinking? China Crown is strong, daunting, and a banshee. Tears are not part of my sister’s repertoire. What it must feel like to deal with death, destruction, and mayhem, without anyone to lean on. No one to talk to. I guess we’re both alone right now. Yeah, Jamieson may be here, but Doll and I have always been close. We’ve been there for each other, and he’s never been a part of her life.

  “Wake up, please, Cas. Who’ll race me? Who’ll push me to be better? Dad...” Crying out the words in earnest, I feel her heart break. “I can’t do this alone. Don’t leave me.” Her tight words break me.

  With a light knock on the door, Doll sniffles, collecting herself before answering. “Come in,” she calls out.

  “CD? Can we come—” Peeking her head around the corner, standing in the light of the hallway, one of Doll’s friends looks shocked. “Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker.” Walking in, the shock is written on her face. Schooling her features, she steps in close. “Fucking hell, D.”

  “Yep. That about sums it up, Harlow.” Rising out of the chair, she hugs Harlow. I feel better knowing she has someone here for her. “You alone, harlot?”

  “Nope. The girls came too, but Hallette’s arguing about the paperwork, and Cathryne’s trying to get info from the nurse before she’ll sign. Old biddy won’t give up anything.” Wrapping her arms around Doll, it breaks my heart to see her in pieces.

  Standing there for a while, holding each other up, the other lunatics eventually join. Each are wide-eyed, their mouths gaping open as they take me in. If I didn’t know before that I looked like shit, that my body was in a bad way, I do now. These three girls are not known for holding anything back in their assessments.

  I think back on a day that myself and a few friends got into a toss-up with some kids at school. I’d come home with blood dripping out of my mouth, along with cuts, bruises, and torn clothes. We’d had our asses handed to us, and they didn’t sugarcoat it. Since then, I’ve appreciated that the girls would always be honest with whatever they had to say. I know I have to look like I’ve been through a meat grinder, as that’s how it feels.

  “China…” Harlow looks at my prone and broken body, halting her thoughts, thinking of what to say. “He looks awful. I’ve seen bait dogs look better after a round.”

  “Can’t disagree,” Cathryne chimes in. “And you, Doll. You look like a cat that got stuck in a tree, lover. We need to get you to a shower, a clothing store, and a hairdresser.”

  Figuring out who’s talking isn’t hard, but after a bit, listening to their banter, I grow tired. Drifting back to sleep, the last thing I hear is their silly conversation about girl shit.

  This will be good for Doll. She needed a break from being the Queen of the Damaged.

  CIRCE

  The doctor has ignored me time and again, doped me up over and over, then walked out, quickly stating an emergency with another patient. It could be a random patient, but I don’t believe it is. It doesn’t feel like it in my heart. More days have passed, and I can’t even say how many it’s been. I want to know something.

  No. I need to know. I’m grateful for my life, but I need to know about them.

  Is the emergency Wyatt?

  Is it Marca?

  Dr. Callie has forbidden the nurses and cleaning staff from handing me the remote or the paper. Softhearted pussies are fearful they’ll spill the beans so they avoid me.

  Speaking of the devil in scrubs, Dr. Callie has been here for a good twenty minutes, looking over my damages for the day. I have enough energy now to stay awake beyond twenty minutes, and to speak a whole sentence without taking short breaths between words.

  Reaching across, picking up a Styrofoam cup and the plastic jug from my side table, Dr. Callie pours me a cup of ice water. Handing it to me, with that same lamented look I’ve seen day after day, I smile.

  “Thank you,” I say, even though it’s halfhearted. Taking the cup with my opposite hand, which is mighty tricky, I lift it to my parched lips and sip happily. These stupid drugs make me awfully thirsty. It’s so bad, that I think I’ve drank my yearly ration of Californian clean water.

  Pushing my hair back, peeling away the dressing that covers the stitches, she does her inspection. “Everything seems to be mending well on your forehead. I think that will clear up nicely.”

  “Do you have any idea when I might be allowed out of here, doc?” Reaching over, I shakily place the cup on the table. A week ago, that was an insurmountable feat.

  “Until the rattle leaves your chest, you’re staying put.” Pressing the controls for the bed, Dr. Callie fluffs my pillow behind me, then raises the bed. “Is there anything you need today?”

  “Nope. Nothing.” I smile weakly, as it’s such a wicked lie. She knows that, though. Dr. Callie’s not a stupid woman, but evil for sure. I’ve tried on more than one occasion to trip
her up and taunt her into giving me something, anything.

  Looking over my paperwork once more, she leaves me alone to stew in my sadness. Once she’s gone, I try to reach the side table that’s just out of reach. I’ve tried this every day, and everyday I’ve given in and resigned myself to the fact that it takes more energy than I have. I’m animated today. I have an energy that I didn’t have before.

  Leaning out of the bed, and pulling the side table closer, it takes a great deal of effort. As my breathing hitches, I push past the pain. I’m not stopping until I’ve at least tried to learn the outcome of our crash. Having it in reach, flicking the portable receiver off the cradle, I bring the phone to the bed. Looking at it, trying to remember the combination of numbers, I get pissed. I can’t remember anyone’s phone number. Everything jumbles. One is something…4483? But I can’t remember the area or zone codes. Punching in random sets of nothing feels right. After a moment of straining my already tired head, I give in and place the phone down on the bed.

  Dialling the numbers I know so well on a cell is easy; pick the preset and go. Remembering a phone number isn’t as simple. No amount of concentration can garner the digits I need either. “Fuck.”

  Not knowing or hearing about Wyatt, and not seeing him in person with an ‘I’m okay’ is so hard.

  Fate and love, I’ve learned, are intertwined. It was fate that changed my life, and it was love that crushed me, and both brought me to him. If my life hadn’t changed all those years ago, I never would’ve been at that race. If fate hadn’t intervened, would I have been at his caravan that day for the interview? No. It’s been a short period of time, but I know my fate was tied to his. Would I even consider changing the past? Maybe, maybe not. It took me on a path that brought me to him. Even the heartache of what was taken in the past can’t compare to what I’ve gained by being cared about, and caring deeply for Wyatt.

  After a few exhausting minutes of despair, I decide to give up. I can’t remember something as simple as phone numbers. Curling up to rest once more, a quiet knock on the door catches my attention.

  “Hello?” I hear from the other side of the semi-closed door.

  “Who are you looking for?” I ask.

  “I’m looking for Circe? Circe Maco?” Without seeing the person’s face, I know. It’s the voice of someone I’d never forget in a million years.

  How did she find me?

  “I’m here.”

  Stepping around the curtain opening, I’m in awe of her consistent beauty. My mother was always a gorgeous woman. Her looks, her posture, her poise is all perfection. She’s always been stunning, and I doubt she’s aged a day. Gasping, she takes in my damaged body. I know what I look like. Wires, tubes, a lovely cast, and various nicks litter the surface of my skin with salve and bandages.

  “I’m sure I look like shit. I feel like it for sure.”

  “Oh, darling. You look terrible.” She pulls out the chair by the window, bringing herself closer to the side of the bed where my casted arm rests. “And I’m sorry, but you smell terrible.”

  “Since the accident, I haven’t had a shower. It’s been sponge baths. No privacy at all. All I want is a steaming, soaking-through-to-your-bones shower to remove the grime. And don’t even start on the hair. I haven’t seen a mirror. My doctor’s kept me from looking to keep me calm. Everything is to keep me calm.”

  “I’m so glad you’re okay, Circe.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “It’s all over the news.”

  Well that’s a blessing.

  “Are they saying what happened? No one will tell me anything.” Grimacing as a sharp pain lances through my side, I see the look on her face. It’s that same one of pain I’ve seen more than I’d like. Is it because she thinks I’m in pain? Or that what she knows could be painful for me to hear?

  “Circe. I was given strict instructions before entering—”

  “Hold up. I haven’t seen you in almost six years, and you won’t tell me anything beyond what they have? Why are you here then?”

  Her face falls as I cut her verbally. I’m sharp, sharper than she deserves. It’s true, I haven’t seen her, but that’s not her fault. Not at all. “I’m a grown-ass fucking woman that can take a bit of mental anguish.” Why I’m upset and crass is that everyone seems to think that they know what’s best for me.

  “Circe, I’m sorry for what’s happened, but instructions are instructions when given by lawyers with confidentiality contracts.” Sitting back against the chair, crossing her arms and lithe legs, she levels me with a look that states she’s pondering how to address me next, so I wait. “Your father doesn’t know I’m here. He knows you were in an accident, but he thought I shouldn’t come. I could not let this go any further.” The pain is visible in her sweet features. “I’ve missed you so.”

  Fuck. Now I feel like a little shit for the way I just acted. Do I feel bad about the way things went down all those years ago? Yes, but I can’t change the past. I can only look to the future.

  Unsure of how to answer her, I avoid the pain and the apology. “I’m tired.” I roll over, onto my side. “I’m going to sleep.”

  “Do you mind if I wait here?”

  Quietly, I say, “That would be fine. Thanks.”

  CIRCE - THE PAST

  “Lift. Lift. Lift!” Tamping her foot to the beat, smacking her hands together as she glares at me with a look of pure disgust, I lift higher. At least, as high as I possibly can.

  “That’s lazy, lazy, lazy. Do you want this or not, paresse?” Of course I do, I answer internally. Mentally, I’m critiquing my efforts, denying it’s that bad of an attempt. I’m not a sloth, as she said, and my effort was exceptional. At least I think so.

  “Pardon moi, Meme Léon.” Stopping my spin, I saunter over to her. With a towel in hand, awaiting my open palm, I stop at the edge of the boards. “I will do better. I promise.” Meme Léon is bundled up from top to bottom in a massive coat. Her hooked nose is the only thing showing outside her furry hood. Her record of attendance into the US Olympic program is one of the best.

  This is all I’ve wanted. I’ve worked toward this point since I was five. Training at five thirty each morning with numerous personal coaches, trainers, and instructors, I’m preparing for the US Olympic Team. It’s my dream. I’ve never slept-in a single day of my life. And even though I envy the kids that sleep until eight, eating a quick sugary breakfast of Fruit Loops or Cap’n Crunch, running out the door to classes with kids their own age, I doubt they have sports that eat up all their free time like I do. I doubt they’re working toward the podium either, so there’s that.

  “Try it again. This time, I want to see lift.” Turning away from me, as if I don’t exist, she bends down and grabs her steaming cup of hot cocoa. Knowing I was dismissed, I skate off, back toward the starting point. I stand and await the control room to restart my music.

  Scuffing the ice with my blades, shifting back and forth, I prepare. I love how the scraped surface leaves dusty clouds of white fluff in the air that sticks around the edges of my black skate boot. We’ve already been out here for three hours. Meme will keep me until my fingers are blue, and the air in my lungs is pure ice. I’ll be here until I complete my quad jump properly. Trying over and over, I fail each time, landing hard on my ass. Feeling the blue-tinged bruise as it grows exponentially across my ass cheeks, I know I’ll be so sore. For sure, I’m sleeping on my stomach.

  Venturing a gander at her before my cue, Meme looks pissed. Watching the steam rise off her cup, she sips it. Staring me down, glaring dark daggers of hatred for keeping her here late, I prepare to impress her.

  As the music starts its harsh melodic beat of drums, synthesizers and snares, my notes chime. Taking off like a shot, pounding my skates into the unforgiving ice, I glide back and forth across the surface. Gaining speed, I feel the same rush that comes to me each time I do this; I’m exhilarated and happy.

  Timing is everything if I want to hit th
e corners exactly as I’m supposed to. Today, I’ve done this so many times that you’d think I should have this down pat, but I just keep fucking up that one jump. My arch nemesis, my quad axle. The routine has one quad, three triples, two doubles, a combo double-double, and one gloriously fun set of footwork.

  Cutting deep into the ice, lifting the edge of the blade—and myself off the ground—I pound the end of my toe pick in launching myself forward and up. Swivelling and pushing myself to spin, I land with my outside raised leg straight. First jump down.

  Turning around, pushing harder and harder, I advance into the middle of the arena. Feeling the icy air blow by my head, cooling me, I relish the breeze. The speed of it all, the sound of nothing but you and your blades cutting the surface gives you a rush. It’s fucking heavenly.

  Pulling in my left leg and gliding backwards, I look forward. Lifting from my right to spin forward, I turn twice in the air. Landing with ease, then picking my skate in once more, I add a second set of loops before pounding onto the ice again. Double-axle, double-loop, done.

  When you know your efforts are what propelled you toward the next turn, the next set of footwork, or onto the next competition, it feels so good completing it. It’s a rush of exponential proportions when your body does as its requested to do. This time, I hope it agrees to do as I mentally want.

  The quad-axle has been the bane of my routine for over two weeks now—every morning, every afternoon, late into the night, and then restarting again. Every day I try, but fail at the quad. It evades me. It’s the next jump, and I swear I’ll land it, even if the landing is a bit dodgy.

  Pulling through the footwork, I smile gleefully as it’s my favorite part of any dance routine. You find yourself toe picking, gliding, skimming, turning back and forth, then doing it all over again in a seamless motion. Sure, the spins are great, and the jumps are okay, but I really love footwork. That’s where your true talent shines through.