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That’s more like my mom.A little bit of this... a little bit of that.
She’d often speak on the importance of fluidity as she’d wiggle her arms in the air like waves in her imaginary ocean. Mom is a free spirit. The only thing worth a damn on this whole street, and I can’t wait to wrap my arms around her and thank her for saving me despite me ignoring all her warnings. I thought I could stop the Portuguese Mafia, all I did was piss them off.
When they came for blood, she covered my ass, said I stole every last penny from her.
But I didn’t. She used it to book a private jet and send me to my father. The mob believed her, because my mom had that kind of personality, one that inspired confidence.
She may be mad at me for the path I’ve headed down, for not calling and falling off the face of the Earth, but she loved me.
I hope she still does.
“Mom?” I jiggle the doorknob to the upstairs. “Where are you?” The apartment door is locked, so I head back down the hall, stopping at the little wall of family: my little cousin, my uncles, my grandparents, me, a dried rose petal, and in the last picture—my mom with a girl I didn’t recognize.
Mom looks exactly the same, a little more white hair, but no major change. The girl…
Big ass, nice tits, thick thighs. Unmistakably beautiful. I can’t pry my gaze away from the thick lashes. They’re probably fake, but they look amazing on her, so does the extra weight. Mom never did like skinny girls, but who the hell is this girl, and why was my mom holding on to her hand?
I step forward and squint at the stranger’s wrist; the hospital band around the mystery girl had letters but not legible ones.
“Can I help you?”
That voice sounds so familiar. When I swivel on my heels to face the person it came from, I stop dead in my tracks. I’m met with the angel-face from the picture, lashes not an add on. She stands in front of me in head-to-toe black. The only added color are the pink letters written across her massive chest and the blush that floods her cheeks.
“Are you old enough to work here?” Her rosy plump lips and small chin contort into the sexiest pout. With a body like that, not even her baby face can confuse the age.
“Styx.” My name coming from that seductive mouth has me picturing her with a lot less clothes on. My cock twitches in response to her arched brows, catching me by surprise. I guess fourteen forced days of abstinence and a brush with death does that too a man.
“You know me?” I move closer to her. “Ormaybeyou’d like to get to know me?”
She holds perfectly still, her lips parted as if words should be coming out of them.
Twelve inches away, and the scent of butter pecan ice cream with a dash of salted caramel hits my nose. Sweet and savory, my favorite.
She scoffs and crosses her arms under her chest, constricting her breasts and drawing my attention to that hour-glass figure. “You’re alive,” she shoots back and angles herself away from me. “H-h-how...”
I slide a finger under her long hair and twirl the strand around. “Where is my mother?”
“H-h-ow are you alive?”
“H-h-how do you know me?” I imitate her stutter to be a dick. Contrary to what mydickbelieves, I don’t have time for a quickie. I drop her hair like it has lice and back up, adding some distance between us. “D-d-d-o you always stutter?”
Her emblazoned cheeks do little to mask how uncomfortable she is in my presence. Her cleavage reddens right between the vale of her breasts.
Sexy as fuck.
“She’s- not - here.” The words come out stunted but the letters attached to their respectful vowels.
“Mom always did have a thing for the weak links.” I point to the picture frame on the wall, the pad of my finger on my mom’s face, gearing myself up to for her whereabouts again, when the chick breaks her statuesque pose. My eyes travel down her long legs to the shoes.
Fuck me shoes on a come-hither body.
“They told me you died when I went to the hospital.”
Ah. So she saved me.“You work here?”
She tucks a strand of her long hair behind her ear. The lobe is also tinted pink, which makes me wonder what other parts of her are flushed with blood, aroused at the sight of me. Or terrified. It’s hard to tell which. There’s a fine line between danger and lust.
The way she hesitates to step back, the way she keeps from coming forward—the way her shoulders square back like they’re at attention... that’s fear.
