I’ve created a monster.
“Cecelia,” I grit out in warning as she rakes her nails down my thigh.
“Come,” she commands, gripping my base hard and suctioning around the head.
“Fuck,” I exhale as she swallows my release like it’s the air she needs. Chest heaving, I stare down at her as she flattens her tongue along each side of my shaft. She carefully avoids my sensitive tip before releasing me and moving to hover above me, eyes glittering with satisfaction. “Happy Birthday, motherfucker, and good morning.”
Releasing my smile, I run a thumb along her swollen lips. “You’re doing a good job of convincing me it could be both.”
“Take a shower and meet me downstairs,” she whispers before placing a few worshipful kisses on my lips.
“Join me,” I whisper back, matching her tone.
“I’ve already showered, so I’ll see you down there,” she bounces off of me onto the edge of the bed.
I grip her arm, pulling her upper half to me, brow raised. “Cecelia?”
“Yes?”
“What’s waiting downstairs?”
“Coffee,” she says, feigning innocence.
“I told you I don’t want—”
“Shut the hell up, King,” she eases from my grip and stands, pulling her shorts up before tossing my next order over her shoulder. “Make it quick.”
When she closes my door behind her, my gaze trails up to the ceiling. Another year older. Another year to create the future I want. Another year to change it if I decide the life I’m living isn’t enough for me—another year of opportunity not to proceed along the path I paved for myself and my brothers. The choice has been a no-brainer year after year. It’s my frustrations in the last few months—and the lack of progress—that have me questioning the decision for the first time since I got inked. Standing in the bathroom, I study my tattoo.
What difference can one man really make?
A hundred years from now, will a single thing we do collectively truly matter?
Will every victory we claim be wiped away by a thousand steps back?
Running my palm over the heavily imprinted ink, I resign to try, as I have since the day the needles penetrated my skin.
My mind is mostly quiet due to the wake-up tongue belonging to a blue-eyed devil in disguise, or angel, depending on the minute. I’m in the midst of shampooing my hair when the shrill sound of the smoke alarm rings out. Managing to get some of the suds rinsed, I leap out and slip a little on the tiles as I snatch my towel. Gripping it around me, I race down the stairs and am stopped at the landing by the sight that greets me.
A hand-painted ‘Happy Birthday Motherfucker’ banner hangs above our kitchen island. To the side of it, Brandy sits, tail wagging, a cone birthday hat strapped beneath her furry chin. It’s Cecelia’s shrieks and Sean’s hysterical laughter that grabs the rest of my attention. Cecelia scolds Sean a decibel higher than the alarm as she opens the smoking oven. Mitts covering both hands, she retrieves a cake as the smell of burned bacon wafts into my nose.
“Give it up, Pup,” Sean chuckles, circling her waist and lifting her where she holds the cake before swinging her toward the sink where she releases it mid-bitch, “。 . . told you not to distract me, to give me just five minutes!’”
She pushes against Sean’s captive hold as he nuzzles her, chuckling deeply. Releasing her, Sean moves the burning bacon from a lit burner onto another as Cecelia catches sight of me, shampoo sliding down my chest. Brandy takes notice of me, too, barking just as the right side of the banner falls from where it hangs, sweeping a party plate full of runny eggs with it to the floor. It’s a fucking circus and everything I never thought I wanted but glimpse in those chaotic seconds.
Sean begins to wave a broom at the fire alarm as Cecelia’s expression falls, shoulders slumping in disappointment as she darts her eyes from the smoking cake to the burnt bacon, to Brandy, and back to me, lip quivering.
So, this is adoration.
It is such a mysterious place, the land of tears.—Le Petit Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
A melodic “cha-ching” sounds from my monitor speaker, and I make a few clicks, settling in to watch my latest egg hatch. Money hasn’t been an obstacle since my brother’s gamble years ago at a French horse track. A gamble that made me a teenage millionaire and funded the startup of Exodus. Managing our funds since has become one of my favorite hobbies, which includes terrorizing corrupt fucks into feeding more into our machine.
Another day, another suit who played the game, won and lost it all because he missed a moral step or twenty along the way. They’re a dime a dozen due to the economic order most abide by. It’s those that don’t—like us—that make targeting a breeze. Following fast accumulated fortune by dirty deeds led me to Timothy.
Clicking on the corner view of the floor of his high-rise office, I’m amped to discover I can make out his expression as he scans my carefully constructed love letter.
Timothy, a man of relatively new wealth and power, will go down one of two ways—one of them most likely grave.
Just as he finishes my intricately tailored manifesto for his new life direction, he tosses his breakfast into his trashcan. Searching deep, I find absolutely no fucking empathy if he chooses door number two.
If anything, I’ll rest easier knowing his fourteen-year-old stepdaughter is now safe from another late-night attack. The paycheck we’re about to receive—if he opts for door number one—will only be a bonus.
A year ago, I would have thought this a much bigger victory.
But now?
Compared to what I’m up against—along with the visions I’m minute by minute trying to tamp down from playing in a loop—Timothy’s demise feels insignificant. Eyeing the clock, I decide to work a little on the Buick. Rolling back from my desk, I pull out my earbuds and tense, swearing that I faintly heard Cecelia call my name.
“Dom!” Cecelia bellows from below as the front door slams downstairs. I didn’t imagine it or the shake in her voice. Pulse elevating, I rush out of my bedroom as she calls for me again, the urgency in her summons unmistakable. I’m halfway down the stairs at the landing when she spots me and flies into my arms. I barely manage to catch her, my back hitting the wall behind me as she buries her face in my chest.
“What’s wrong?” She’s full-on shaking in my arms as I flit through a list of scenarios while my heart continues to pound, the hammering beat in my ears.
“Cecelia, what happened?” Gently prying her away from me, I examine her from head to foot and see no sign of injury. The thought occurs to me that maybe she’s discovered the truth about us—about me and her father. But she can’t know, or she wouldn’t be clinging to me this way . . . unless it’s pity. It’s when she looks up at me that I see nothing but appreciation. Beautiful features twisted, mascara streaks lining her face; I palm it between my hands.
“What?” I ask again, furiously wiping her tears with my thumbs. “What happened?” I prompt as her face falls again, and a sob bursts out of her, the sound of it cracking my insides.
“Jesus, tell me,” I demand, my tone stern. I’ve seen her cry silently while watching movies or after finishing a good book, but this is completely different.