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I’m talking about Deirdre. She’s back in her bedroom after visiting mine. But all she’s done is drink water since Rosa left, and I frown at the image of the untouched food displayed on my laptop.
Rosa answers me in Italian. “Do you want me to bring her something else? She could barely drink the coffee. She wanted tea.”
“Tea?” I ask, raising my brows.
Rosa all but shudders. “I know.”
I lean back in my chair, eyes still lingering on my laptop. “Add it to the shopping list. Buy it today. Whichever brands are best – buy a few different ones. No, buy them all.”
Tea already tastes like hot garbage, and I have to imagine that buying cheaper or less quality brands only makes it worse.
But the beverage question doesn’t answer the why is Deirdre not eating? question. I pull out my phone, open a search engine, and use voice-to-text to ask in English, “What do Irish girls eat for breakfast?”
The results are varied. Eggs. Beans. Something called blood pudding.
“You know how to make blood pudding?” I ask Rosa.
“Sanguinaccio dolce?” she asks. “The sweet one?”
“No, the Irish one.” I flip my phone screen around to her. “It looks like a sausage.”
She glances at the image on my screen then nods. “It looks like sanguinaccio. I can make it.”
“Follow an Irish recipe,” I tell her. “And stick a birthday candle in it when you bring it to her.” I grimace, the scar tissue at the side of my jaw pulling. “Just make sure it gets blown out.”
I wonder what my Songbird would wish for.
Probably to be free of me.
Rosa looks at me like I’ve lost my goddamn mind. And maybe I have. She knows the rules as well as anybody in this house – no candles. Ever. She’s probably also not keen on the idea of straying from her Italian roots in the kitchen, and the irritation is reflected in her affronted gaze. I almost want to smirk at her boldness. Men half her age and twice her weight wouldn’t dare look at me like that.
I don’t know what it is about old Italian ladies. They aren’t afraid of anything. You could have horns and the name SATAN stamped on your forehead and all they’d do is glare, flick salsa di pomodoro at you like it’s holy water, and tell you to get the fuck out of their kitchen.
“Make it happen, Rosa,” I say, giving her a clear dismissal. But she doesn’t leave. Instead, she reaches into the basket attached to her cart and pulls something out. My jacket. The one Deirdre was wearing last night. The one I instructed Rosa not to throw away or clean.
“Put it on the desk,” I say, jerking my chin to a clear spot on the shining dark wood. Rosa does so, carefully flattening the garment so it doesn’t wrinkle, despite the fact there’s a fucking bullet hole in the back of it. As she turns to go, I spot blood-stained white satin in the basket and rise from my chair. I’m around the desk in an instant, grabbing hold of the basket so she can’t roll it away. I ignore Rosa’s questioning look as I fish out Deirdre’s dress, crushing the delicate fabric in my fist.
I stroll back around to my chair and sit down. Rosa takes the cue to leave and rolls her cart out of the office, closing the door behind her. I finger the fabric of Deirdre’s dress, remembering what it looked like on her.
And what it looked like when I ripped it off.
Something falls to the floor, and I lean down to see what it is, ignoring the pain in my shoulder as I do so. It’s yet more smooth white fabric. I lay the dress over my lap and pick it up.
Deirdre’s panties.
I spread the white panties in my hands, making them take shape in the air before me, and picture Deirdre in them, her legs spread on my desk. Plump pussy lips nudging the silky lining. I wonder if she’s shaved or waxed, or if there’s dark red hair there, curling and damp, soaked –
Fuck me. It’s like my cock’s taken on a life of its own since I got Deirdre. No control. I’m popping boners like a teenager who’s never gotten his dick wet.
I ignore the absurd urge to shove Deirdre’s panties into my mouth.
Instead, I press my nose to the crotch of the tiny garment and sniff.
Madre di Dio.
A couple of flicks over the keys on my laptop and I’ve cut off the security feed to this room and unzipped my pants. With the amount of blood I lost last night, there’s no way I should be this hard. But the way that girl smells is like fucking magic.
Or maybe like a curse.
