“Net?”
She’s confused by my request. I can understand her bewilderment. She has my throbbing cock in her hand, and her tongue is at the ready to lap up the pool of precum beading on the crest, but I’m stopping her.
I must be insane.
“No.”
When I push her away from me, she lands on the floor with the same thud the blonde made when Zariah’s anger got the best of her. I thought I was dreaming when I saw her standing before me with a heaving chest and cheeks as flushed as they were when she came. It’s not the first time I’ve faced illusions that included her when high. My crew distributes the best quality drugs. If it doesn’t get you shit-faced enough you can forget your fucked-up existence, you’re already dead. Plain and fucking simple.
While standing to my feet, I yank up the boxer shorts . . .Martha?removed within a second of Zariah fleeing my room before spinning around to face the two high-priced whores. “Tell Diak to add your services to my tab.”
Two pairs of wide eyes stare at me in shock. Once again, I understand their surprise. Except for having their tits thrust into my face, and them slobbering on my chest and neck while their hands worked on getting my cock on board with the program, I didn’t get any of the “services” I paid for, so I have no reason to hand over my hard-earned money. But it’s not just my head fucked-up right now, my entire game plan has gone down the toilet. My cock wasn’t interested in anything the whores were offering until Zariah stepped into the frame. Then I was so fucking hard, I nearly came in the brunette’s hand mid-stroke.
That’s fucked, and it pisses me off more than it pleases me, which means I take my anger out on the wrong people. “Or don’t tell him. I don’t fucking care what you do; I just want you out of my room.”
I add to my request by gripping the whores’ arms and tossing them into the hallway. They’re barely clothed, but I don’t give a fuck. The less clothing they wear while walking the halls of my compound, the more money they’ll make me. My men like to see the goods before sampling them, nearly as much as I like sampling the goods before distributing them. I’m not solely referring to whores, either.
With the early hour, I don’t expect an audience, so you can imagine my shock when my hazy eyes lock in on a figure halfway down the nearly black corridor. Even with Zariah’s back flattened into an alcove, she’s bumped by the whores when they scurry to their feet and race down the hall.
The manic tick my jaw has held since our first exchange returns stronger than ever when my vision clears enough I can decipher what Zariah is wearing. She has a towel wrapped around her body—a teeny tiny towel that scarcely covers the curves I was imagining when picking my entertainment for the night.
When I couldn’t find a perfect match, I went for two. Marsha? Mischa? Whatever the fuck her name is had the right eye and hair color, but she was too thin. That’s where the blonde came in. She had tits and ass, and didn’t speak a word of Russian. She would have been the perfect pick if her eyes were the color of the dark storm brewing in my gut.
“What were my rules?” My angry roar echoes down the hallway. If it doesn’t wake every dweller on my floor, my stomps sure will.
The knot holding Zariah’s towel close to her body nearly comes undone when her chest mimics the clomps of my boots. She knows she’s in trouble, but she has no clue how severe her punishment will be. I also don’t think she knows whether to be excited or scared. She’s giving off both vibes at the moment.
She goes for frustration when she scolds, “I didn’t realize the shower curtain didn’t reach the bottom of the stall until it was too late. My clothes were too wet to put on. That’s the only reason I’m wearing a towel.”
When I reach her side, she slips past me with skills too nimble for my drug-woozy head to keep up with. She did the same thing when we were kids and I was “it,” but I don’t find it amusing today. She’s not giggling like I remember, and I’m too fucking high to realize that error lies on my shoulders.
My boots lose their grip on the puddle of water her drenched clothes left on the floor when I attempt to take off after her. I skid down the hall like a newborn foal, my language nowhere near as innocent.
Zariah uses my imbalance to her advantage. She charges into my room, slams the door shut, then secures the lock into place with the key I left dangling in the latch. I stop in front of my door, my anger boiling my blood.
“Open the door!” I bang the wood so hard it wobbles. “Zariah! You have two fucking seconds to open this door before I kick it down!”
Ignoring Lenin’s snicker from behind my shoulder, I rear back my leg and kick at my door. I could ask Lenin to open it for me since he has a spare key, but I’ve got too much testosterone thickening my blood to hold back, and I refuse to be subjected to hisI told you solook for the second time in under twelve hours. He knew I wouldn’t kill Zariah, just like he knew bunking her in the room next to mine was a bad idea. But what can I say? I’m a stubborn fuck who doesn’t conform—ever!
It takes my boot slamming into my lock three times before my door finally buckles. I had my door reinforced to stop this exact thing from happening, yet here I am, kicking it down at 4 AM in the fucking morning.
Just as I am about to enter my room with my chest heaving and imaginary guns blazing, Zariah slips out of it. She’s wearing a lot more clothing than she was seconds ago. The wonky neckline of her shirt and the fact she’s wearing her sweatpants inside-out proves she got dressed in a hurry.
“It’s nearly time to serve breakfast; I better hurry.”
The long braid hanging halfway down her back swings in beat to her feet when she races down the corridor. She’s too fast for me to catch, and I’m too tired to chase her. I did it for years when we were younger, and look where it got me?
Zariah has barely entered the hallway at the end of mine when Lenin’s laugh barrels into my chest. “I like her. Your mother picked well. She’s got spunk.”
I give him a stern finger point. “Shut up.”
There are a million more words in my head, but I went for the two my hazy brain could deliver without too much effort.
The removal of two little words creates room for many more. These are more complicated than any I’ve asked the past six months. Taking a step back, I line up my eyesight with Lenin’s. “My mother arranged. . .this?”
Fuck—I need to cut back on the drugs. They’re fucking with my smarts. I give it a second shot, trying not to sound like a moron. “Is my mother the reason Zariah is here?”
Lenin considers my question for a few seconds before notching up his shoulder. “It’s not my place to say.”
