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“It’s in the past, love.” To convey this doesn’t haunt me as you’d expect, I drop a quick peck to her beanie-covered forehead, wishing I could take her hat off to rub and kiss her bald scalp. There’s no need to hide it.
Appreciating her outrage, I drop a second kiss there before I continue. Leaving little to the imagination, I fill in what I think she can stomach. How Bonez hated it at first, then became addicted. How I loved it. The power. The pleasure. How I hated my mother for being an awful cunt who never really loved us, but never hated her for selling me for sex. I learned so much from those experiences. Sure, it warped my perception of sex and women. It made me want to consume more. To fuck more. To chase that addictive high. The worship. The praise. It was nothing more than pleasure in its purest form. No connection. No consequences. It was and has always been freedom.
“I… I have nothing to say,” Kit sputters when I’ve divulged the bulk of it.
Needing to touch her, I caress Kit’s cheekbone with the pad of my thumb. “You don’t have to, love. You asked for real. I gave ya somethin’ I’ve never given to anybody else, just like watching movies on the couch with you, or reading books in bed, or sharin’ my home.”
Looking at me like I’m some hero, she utters, “You’re amazing.”
I shake my head repeatedly to cut that shit right the hell off. “I’m not, love. I’m really not.”
“But you are.” Kit reaches up to touch me, slow enough I could stop her if I wanted. I don’t. On my shoulder, she rests two fingers at first to test the waters, then her full palm comes to rest. Sparks ignite beneath her warmth, an electrical charge to the system, standing the hairs on the back of my neck on end. I shiver down to my toes. My abs flex as I gasp softly at how this woman affects me. Even my cock tingles. Balls ache.Oblivious to her voodoo, she keeps talking as if my heart isn’t pounding its way outta my chest. “You can’t see it. But I can… So… Okay… Um… If she, ya know, used those as references for her… I can’t even say the words. How did gun and bone turn into your names with the z?”
Focus, Gunz.
Expelling a leaden breath, I will my heart to calm before I speak.
“My father, who was also a Sacred Sinner at the time, came home after some long drunken gambling binge, demandin’ money from my mom. She always took the calendar down when she expected him home. Ya know, to save face. We lived in your standard single-story suburbia, where all the houses looked the same. My mom might have been a former club whore, but she had a reputation to uphold. Everything was always perfect, including the illusion that her husband and kids were the same. When he found the calendar, he saw the names, and demanded to know what it was all about. Me and Bonez listened from our bedroom that night. Dad came in after, said he knew what she’d done, made no apologies, congratulated us on our sexual aptitude, and bestowed us with our road names right then and there.”
“Gunz and Bonez,” she verbalizes for me.
“Yeah. They stuck. My brother hated his for a while. I used mine to my advantage and became a Sacred Sinner early on. The less I gave a shit about bangin’ club whores in front of brothers, the more they respected me. The more successful and helpful I became to the club, the more they wanted me here. It didn’t take long to rise up the ranks and get my father kicked out.”
For Kit’s sake, I omit the gory details. She doesn’t need to know my father visited the shed. That Big stood and watched me strip him of his patch with my knife before I lit his cut on fire, then beat him to death with nothing more than my fists. He deserved it. As children, anytime the bastard came ‘round, he was always fuckin’ my mom in front of us. We tried to hide, but he made us watch. The older he got, the less it appealed to him, the less he came around. I vowed, even before I had hair on my nutsac, I was gonna be the one to end his life, someway, somehow. And I did… in my early twenties. My third official kill. It took hours and I was sore days after. Was it worth it? Hell yeah.
Busy digesting my past in her own way, a companionable silence falls upon us. Because I’m a slut for my woman’s touch, I snuggle her up in my arms. Her head rests against my chest, listening to my heartbeat thrum as I press my lips to the top of her head. Eyes closing of their own volition, I revel in the moment, in her soft warmth, in the weight off my shoulders.
Fuckin’ Bonez.
Always gotta be right.
Contentment settles in my gut. Happiness blooms in my chest.
When Kit speaks, her lips graze my pec with every word. “I’m proud of you.”
She’s proud of me.
I want to ask why. Tell her I don’t deserve it. Yet, I somehow understand. So, I don’t act like a fuckin’ tool and undermine her conviction. I take it into me. Soak it in like a sponge. Her pride. Her affection…
and I…
Almost cry.
Because… fuck.
Nobody’s ever said that to me before.
Not like that.
Not…
Fuck.
I love this woman.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-ONE
KIT
