Page 74 of Life Or Death

He grins, that shit-eating grin that makes me want to knock his teeth down his throat. “You dirty dog, you.”

“Get the fuck out.”

“Fine, but Tormentor needs to speak with you.” He keeps his voice low, which is the only considerate thing the bastard has ever done. “I think it’s about the guns in Mexico.”

Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

I toss the sheet off and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My body aches in a way it hasn’t in years—every muscle sore, my lower back tight, my cock still half-hard even after the night I put it through. I snag my jeans off the floor and step into them, not bothering to put on anything else.

My gaze drifts back to the bed, and I suck in a breath.

Jess is sprawled across my mattress, naked, twisted in the sheets like she’s been through a war. Her hair is a wild mess, her lips swollen, and there’s a dried streak of my cum on her collarbone that I missed last night.

I wore her the fuck out.

After the first time, she fell asleep for maybe an hour before she rolled over and pressed her ass against me, grinding until I was hard again. I took her from behind that time, her face buried in my pillow, her back arched, her hands gripping the headboard. She came so hard she cried, and I came inside her, which is something I’ve never done. The sick thing is, I didn’t even care. I got off on it, and when I saw my cum leak out of her pussy, I became unhinged. Fucked it right back inside her pussy.

Consequences be damned.

Then, around four in the morning, I woke up to her mouth on my cock. I let her suck me until I finally flipped her onto her side and hooked my arm under her knee, pulling her leg up so I could sink as deep as possible.

The girl passed out after that, and I followed shortly after.

I pull the sheet up over her body, tucking it around her shoulders, and she lets out another snore. My lips quirk, and I let my gaze linger for a moment. Then I drag my fingers through my hair and leave the room, pulling the door shut behind me.

The common area is a fucking disaster. Empty bottles litter every surface, and there is a pair of stilettos that sit abandoned on the pool table. A bra also hangs from the ceiling fan that I’m pretty sure belongs to Nightmare’s collection, and the air reeks of weed, whiskey, and sex. All signs of a good time.

Dread is perched on one of the barstools wearing nothing but a pair of jeans as he rolls a joint, his bare chest covered in tattoos and what looks like scratch marks.

“I thought you said Tormentor needed to speak with us,” I say, dropping onto the stool beside him.

“He got a call and stepped out for a minute.” He seals the joint with a quick lick, then brings it to his lips, flicking his lighter. The tip catches, and he takes a long pull, holding the smoke in his lungs. When he exhales, a cloud of thick gray smoke billows toward the ceiling. “So, you consummated your marriage.” He takes another hit, then points the joint at me. “Mazel tov.”

I glare at him.

He takes another puff and points a finger at me. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“For what?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He counts off on his fingers, smoke curling between them. “For coming up with the idea to marry her. For forging your marriage certificate. For pushing you to visit her.” He leans in, dropping his voice. “Most of all, you probably should be thanking me for taking Ginger off your hands last night. I took one for the team, and you got laid.” He spreads his hands wide. “Like I said, you’re welcome. I expect you fuckers to name your firstborn after me.”

I roll my eyes. “Let’s not pretend you didn’t get laid last night too.”

“Touché.” He takes another hit, the joint crackling softly. “So, now what? You gonna finally put a property patch on her and put an end to this charade?”

I drag my fingers through my hair, and my hand comes away smelling like her. I stare at my palm for a beat, then drop it to the bar. “Now, I figure out how to be a fucking husband so she doesn’t cut me loose.”

Dread lowers the joint from his lips, narrowing his eyes at me. “Is there a school for that?”

“If there is, I need the fucking address.”

“Maybe you could ask Shadow for some pointers. He’s in marital bliss or whatever the fuck you ball and chainers call being pussy whipped these days.” He pauses for a beat. “You know what? Forget it. I think you’re better off with the school. Should we Google it?”

“I’m serious, Dread.”

“Me too. Google knows everything.” He takes another puff of his joint. “The other day I asked Google if it’s normal to get hard when someone tells you to piss off and die, and it gave me a comprehensive article on anger management, along with the number to a hotline. Google knows all the things, man. All. The. Things.”

I stare at him blankly. There’s got to be something in the weed he’s smoking. I should make Nightmare drug test him and see what the fuck comes up on his blood panel.