Page 22 of Volatile Waters

Mrs. Thompson was breathless, her body arching into mine. “Can’t. He and Harry are off to a father and son retreat for two weeks.”

I stopped moving. Everything suddenly made perfect sense. A phone call to a certain drug dealer had an unpredicted outcome. There was no rehab for Timothy, nor a retreat for Harry. That was only one lie to cover another. I was starting to suspect Timothy didn’t even have a habit to cure, and that Harold was trying to save Timothy while fearing for his own son’s life due to interfering.

Mrs. Thompson peered over her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

My eyes met hers, and I lied to her face. “Nothing.” My hands released her and went for my belt. “I just need to free my dick so I can fuck you.”

She turned to face me, her back against the wall. “What about my lesson?”

Suddenly feeling like the rejected one, I released my belt buckle. Mrs. Thompson wasn’t here for me. She was here to learn how to hold on to her lowlife husband, the one fucking with my livelihood. Swallowing the unexpected injury to feelings I didn’t know I had, and burying them with irritation, I stepped back from her. “Of course.” My eyes now bored into hers as I repeated words. “Why else would you be here?”

Concern crossed her expression as she tried to explain, “Yury, I love my husband.”

I snarled, “And I should give a fuck, why?”

Her chin rose as her shoulders set back. “I just wanted to be sure you understood what is happening here.”

My anger grew as I stalked over to my bed and walked around to the nightstand. “It is you who is unaware of what is happening here.” I gestured to the room service cart. It contained a display of butter, coconut oil, and lube, as well as a bottle of champagne on ice.

Paling by the second, she grabbed her throat. “Oh…” Hurt eyes found mine again. “He… Harold liked to fuck her in the ass?”

“Meh.” I shrugged. “She doesn’t have an ordinary ass.”

The scorned woman’s nostrils flared. “What the fuck does that mean?”

I smirked. “Jealous?”

High heels spun on the carpet and headed for the door.

Watching her soon exit, I merely said, “This is a one-time offer.”

Those heels stopped. She slowly faced me, her jaw painfully locked.

I held up a prescription bottle. “Want to relax before we get started?”

Her stare raced and locked onto the bottle with a ravenousness that surprised me. That stare didn’t cease while she told me, “No. I don’t touch drugs anymore. Harry needs me.”

Toying with the bottle in my fingers, I watched her eyes light with a desire that no longer included anything her husband or I could offer. Mrs. Thompson was an addict.

Did I take pity or pride that she was trying hard to make the right decision for Junior?

No.

I blamed her for my numbness that was fading away, not my father’s actions and horrid guidance. I blamed her for awakening a conscience in me, not the fact that my father didn’t even bother to tell me my true name. Not only did I eventually convince Mrs. Thompson one pill wouldn’t hurt, but I sent her on a downward spiral that she would never recover from. Never. Inadvertently, affecting Junior’s very future.

I deserve all of God’s fury and judgment.

In the morning, Mrs. Thompson awoke in my bed on her back, confused with the loss of time and events. Her makeup was smeared, and she was fully naked. Propped on her elbows, she blinked and blinked, trying to clear hungover eyes. On the room service cart, there were opened jars, used butter sticks, and an empty bottle of champagne. She fell back to her pillow, groaning. “Tell me I at least had a good time.”

Fully clothed, I crawled into bed next to her. “Oh, you had a very fulfilling evening.” I held up my cellphone in the palm of my hand. “Want to see?”

Her jaw dropped. “You filmed us?”

“My cousin did.”

The color drained from her cheeks. “What?”

I winked. “He filmed all of us.”