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JUAREZ, MEXICO.
YOLANDA
“Oh, Yolanda, I love her,” squeals my maid-of-honor Marybeth as my three-month-old baby daughter playfully tugs at the neckline of my white wedding gown. “She’s got Brock’s eyes and your nose. She’s perfect. Just like the two of you.”
I smile warmly at Marybeth, who looks radiant in her sunshine-yellow dress. Everything about the wedding was perfect, and I’m giddy with joy as I watch Brock stroll over after doing a couple of whiskey shots with his former biker brothers from the Skulls MC.
The Skulls President honored their deal, and later Brock found out that the Skulls weren’t too sad about Durand’s untimely death. Turns out a lot of the other Skulls brothers weren’t exactly thrilled about Durand trying to get the Skulls into the sex-trafficking business, and with both Kazi and Durand gone, that whole thing died a quick death. The Skulls decided to stick with old-fashioned gun-running and underworld security services, with the occasional takedown of some drug safehouse to kill some dealers and steal their cash.
Speaking of cash, Brock found more than just his gun and Durand’s body in that meat cooler. More than meat too.
And way more than just the fifty grand he’d used to buy me.
“I like what you’ve done with the place, baby,” drawls Brock as he saunters over and kisses me full on the mouth, then gives our daughter a big smackeroo on her nose, making her giggle up at Daddy. “But you didn’t get rid of all the old furniture, did you?”
“No,” I whisper, nodding for Marybeth to take our daughter for a bit. “Follow me.”
“With pleasure, baby,” comes Brock’s wicked whisper as he follows my ass towards the side-room adjoining this large space that was once an auction-hall.
That very same auction hall.
Yup, with the cash Brock and I snagged from Kazi’s meat cooler, we first paid most of it out to the rescued women from his whorehouses, then used the rest to buy this building and turn it into a charity shelter for women, staffed by international volunteers from all over the world. We decided to have our wedding here to inaugurate the newly decorated building, to make sure that the misery of this place was offset by a reminder of the joy that man and woman can find in love. Of course, we gutted the old place, purged its history of sin and sickness, burned all the furniture.
Except for one wooden table.
“It still smells sweet like your pussy,” Brock whispers as he pretends to sniff the tabletop where we fucked one year ago, where our love story started with sex and ended with salvation. “Which reminds me, now that we’re married, it means I legally own that pussy, don’t I, baby?”
“Um, I don’t think that’s how the law works, honey,” I say, my voice dropping to a whisper as Brock closes the door behind us, cutting out the sounds of our wedding reception, blocking out the lights from our decorations, casting that dangerous darkness over us again.
A darkness that maybe never left us, is inside us now.
“That’s how the law works in this world, baby,” Brock reminds me as he lifts my wedding dress and drops to his knees in front of me, pulling down my satin white panties that are already sticky from what my slit knows is coming. “Oh, fuck, that pussy’s mine,” comes his growl from beneath my wedding gown as my skirts fall over his head which is already bobbing up and down, his tongue already darting in and out, his cock already straining to find its way home.
The only home it knows.
Because home is a feeling, not a place.
The feeling of always
The feeling of forever.
The feeling of love.
∞
