“Don’t worry about it,” Cash said as he stood up. “It’s being dealt with.”
“By Belladonna?” Con asked.
“Sure,” Cash said. “Why not?”
Chapter Four
THE PILLOWSin the Roanoke Last Stop motel smelled like mice and KFC. Cash recoiled from it as he woke up, the back of his throat greasy, as if he’d swallowed the ghost of fried chicken past.
Maybe, he thought sourly as he knuckled the sleep out of his eyes, he should have cashed in his invitation to the estate last night after all. Even if the mattresses were the same ones he’d crashed on a decade ago, he’d bet they were still more comfortable than the fucked-into-exhaustion springs he’d spent the night on.
Cash stretched out the kinks in his back and rolled off the bed. He shed his briefs as he headed into the shower for a quick wash in the peeling avocado-green tub.
He stood naked behind the crime-scene-red shower curtain with his face turned up into the tepid stutter of the water. Without opening his eyes, Cash scrubbed with a handful of watered-down lemon shower gel.
His fingers curled around his cock, slippery with suds, and to his credit, he didtryto imagine someone else. Con and his thick-skinned, heavy fighter’s hands, or nice human Pete and his careful touch. Hell, that guy with the cheekbones from the Hunter historical drama on the CW, set back in the glory years of fucking monsters and then killing them.
He had a whole bank of wank fantasies that weren’t going to meananything.
It didn’t matter. Cash could taste smoke and honey in the back on his throat… like he’d just been kissed. The memory of elegant, too-warm fingers skimmed roughly along the tender skin of his cock, and sharp teeth scraped over his neck in a tease of a bite until Cash’s body was just one long wire strung trembling between two aching points.
Cash could have tried harder to edit in an acceptable fantasy instead, but at that precise moment, he didn’t want to. He folded his lower lip between his teeth as he stroked down his cock and tightened his grip at the base. It wasn’t quite tight enough to hurt, just enough to make him squirm. Until heached.
The water spluttered a couple of degrees hotter as someone, somewhere in the motel turned the cold water on. Cash tipped his head forward so it stung the nape of his neck and ran down his spine. He could almost feel Arkady’s body pressed against his, cock hard and hot in the small of his back and stubble rough on Cash’s skin as he worried bruises down his throat and over his shoulders.
Cash chewed harder on his own mouth as he jerked himself off in close-enough mimicry of his memory of Arkady. Was it the first time they’d fucked, he wondered hazily, or the last? He couldn’t place it outside of the impatient tug of hisneedright here and now. It felt like honey spiced with whiskey, sticky as it puddled low in his stomach but with a burn to it. Like a bad idea, but he didn’t care.
Pleasure built like pressure, and Cash lost the slow, almost cruel pace of Arkady’s fingers. His hand jerked along his cock in quick, hurried strokes, and Arkady grumbled in his ear at his impatience.
“I would have got you there,” he said as he wrapped his free hand around Cash’s throat and squeezed. “Eventually. Once you begged.”
The thought of that—that scratchy need in his throat as he finally, always, broke and said what Arkady wanted—pitched Cash over the edge like he’d been shoved out a window. He spilled come between his fingers, stringy and sticky as it mixed with the thin lather of soap, and he felt the ghost of a memory bite an approving kiss against his jaw.
Then the last of the hot water ran out all at once and the shower went from sauna to ice bath. Cash shuddered at the shock against his hot skin, spluttered out a “fuck,” and rinsed off as hastily as he could manage with the plastic shower curtain trying to stick to him.
He turned the water off—the pipes behind the wall knocked in noisy protest—and dragged yesterday’s jeans on over wet skin. The denim scraped the sensitive skin of his cock and made him shudder with a jolt of pleasure that pulled from his balls to the base of his spine.
“Ten years forgetting him,” Cash muttered to himself as he dragged his hand down his face and flicked the still-soapy water off his fingers, “and one kiss has him front and center again?”
Or maybe he hadn’t done such a great job of forgetting… anything at all, now he thought about it.
Cash snorted to himself, because that was helpful. He squeezed the water out of his hair and pulled his shirt on. The thin cotton wrinkled and stuck to his damp skin. His phone buzzed on the nightstand, and he lunged for it, a sudden burst of paranoia thick in his throat as he expected the worst.
Instead it was a text from Camp Midnight. The kids weren’t allowed phones—and unless coverage had improved up that mountain, it wouldn’t do any good if they were—but every day the counselors sent proof of life to parents. Cash had forgotten about that, pushed into line with the other orphans and foundlings for a group snap.
Ellie warranted a picture all on her own. She had a black eye—already—and had a dirt-crusted shovel swung up over her head. It looked like she was having fun. The text said, “A little homesick, but settling in well. Has already made enemies.”
“That’s my girl,” Cash said.
He stared at her face for a second. This was for her, because it didn’t matter that she had Cash’s name. She was an Abascal, and everyone knew it. Better people fear her for it than make her the scapegoat for her family’s sins.
Whatever Cash felt—used tofeel—for Arkady didn’t matter. Not that it ever had to anyone else, but now it was a distraction.
He forwarded the message to Donna. Well, to Shanko, but he’d pass it on. The old monster was nothing if not loyal to her.
Cash had packed up his stuff and sat down to pull his boots on when someone knocked on the door—two sharp knocks, a long pause, three staccato raps, and then silence.
Finally. He’d thought he was going to have to leave a message with reception.
