SLACK: A Day in the Life of Ford Aston (Rook and Ronin Spin-off) (2 page)

“You have plans?” I ask to clarify.

She shakes her head no.

“I’m surprised, really. You’re pretty.”

Why does she do this? Why does she participate in this… this… this
totally
fucked up arrangement? And it’s not the submissive thing that makes me wonder. Lots of women enjoy being submissive. That’s not weird. What’s weird is that she allows me to treat her like she’s worthless. I’ve never understood this.

I love it, don’t get me wrong. I love that there are women who will put aside their own needs and submit to my whims. Not speak to me, not touch me with their hands—and still pleasure me sexually. But what could she possibly get out of it? More often than not I pay no attention to them. I’ve left this pet sitting on the mat outside the door for hours. Twice. And once I never even showed up. I have no idea how long she stayed waiting because I couldn’t even be bothered to check the security footage to find out.

I am the first to admit that my rules are unreasonable. My behavior is atrocious. My indifference is derogatory. But if the pets don’t care, why should I?

She contemplates my statement, probably wondering if she’s supposed to actually address it. But she decides correctly that I really do not give a fuck, and she exits quietly.

I tuck my dick back into my pants and reach for my coffee and take a sip.

What a productive morning.

I grin widely.

The coffee’s still hot, I ran, I got a blowjob, and I’m ready for whatever the fuck this stupid Christmas Eve decides to throw at me.

Life could be worse.

Chapter Two

My phone rings and I glance over at the screen. “Fuck.” I pick it up and swipe my fingers. “What’s up?”

“I need a small, you available?”

He sounds paranoid and this means I can mess with his head, so I take a loud slurping sip of coffee and swallow. “I have a date tonight. Will we be finished by ten?”

“Shut the fuck up and come get me, you freak. I’m at DIA, west terminal, parking garage level two, behind a blue station wagon, near the south elevators. Do the call and I’ll come out when you get here.”

“Merc, I swear, if you complicate my life today, I’ll be—” I get the three quick beeps on my phone that tells me the line went dead. I hope he hung up on me and didn’t get caught in whatever scheme he’s involved in this time.

Goddammit.

I walk to the bedroom and pull on a white t-shirt. I wanted to wear a suit today but Merc will be looking like a vagrant, and a suit would make us stand out. So this is it. I open the patio door and check the temperature, it’s still mild. Not as warm as it was when I was running this morning, the cold front is getting closer. But still forties, easy.

I grab my leather jacket and stuff my keys and phone into the pockets. There’s a small bag sitting on the pet mat and I bend down and pick it up. What the hell? She’s leaving me things? I open it up and I’m accosted with the scent of homemade cookies. I take one out and bite, chewing as I wait for the elevator. They’re pretty good. When the ding comes and the doors open, I toss the bag back down on the pet mat and leave it for later.

Someone gets on a few floors below. Woman with a dog. She nods and I’m just about to turn my head and ignore her when Rook comes to mind. I smile and dog lady starts chatting about the weather.

“Yes,” I say, agreeing with her about the coming snow.

See, this is why I ignore people. They talk to you if you acknowledge them. But Rook is friendly, so maybe she likes friendly guys? Ronin is friendly. And Spencer even more so. So I figure if I want Rook to like me, then I should try to emulate the other people in her life whom she likes. Ronin is her number one and Spencer is not far behind. She’s always smiling with Spencer. He makes her laugh. Ronin makes her blush.

And me? I make her uncomfortable.

The elevator doors open and I nod at the chatty dog woman as she gets off. “Nice talking to you,” I say amicably. She sets her dog down and hurries off, calling out a
good day
to me as she goes.

Well, that wasn’t so bad.

The doors close and I descend to the parking garage and then make my way over to the Bronco, Rook still on my mind. I sigh as I picture her with Ronin. Why? Why him? Of all people? I like Ronin these days, he’s not a bad guy. But why does he always get the fucking girl?

I met Ronin on his first day of high school. Spencer and I grew up together—he lived across the street from us, in fact. We both went to St. Margaret’s for elementary and middle school, so Spencer graduating up to the Catholic high school was something I looked forward to. Since I had my truck, I picked him up on his first day of ninth grade. Ronin came along as part of the package. I’m two years older than them, so I was already in high school when Spence and Ronin were putting the Team together back at St. Margaret’s.

Spencer got in the front seat, looking like a fucking linebacker for the Broncos—that’s how big he was at fifteen, and Ronin got in the back, looking like a fucking Calvin Klein underwear model.

He was too young for that kind of modeling back then, but I know for a fact he did jeans and sportswear. His life was bizarre. And not in a bad way, but bizarre in a way that makes people jealous. He never spent the entire school year in
actual
school. And our high school was pretty strict about attendance, but did Ronin Flynn have to abide by the rules?

No.

Antoine fucking Chaput stepped in and glossed it all over so Ronin could leave every month or so for a few days to go shoot in New York or LA for his own work, or just travel with Antoine and Elise for Chaput Photography. The girls went wild over him. Our school was co-ed, but the boys and girls were separated for classes, and the only time we got to mix was during lunch or at afterhours events.

Sitting with Ronin at lunch was enough to give any guy an inferiority complex, but add my social limitations to that mess, and it was torture for me.

I get in the Bronco and start her up. It’s not too cold so I don’t bother letting the engine warm up, just put her in gear and head out towards Denver International. The drive is long. They made this airport a while back and it was in the middle of the Denver expansion. That was their excuse for why the fucking place had to be an hour outside of the damn city. It takes forever to get there. Literally in the middle of nowhere. Which means I have all this time to sit and stew on why Ronin gets the girls and I get the pets.

Fucking pets.

Not that I don’t enjoy them, I do. I like the sex, they’re good at it. And the girl this morning is not bad. She’s pretty in her blonde way. She’s trying hard to please me. She keeps her mouth shut. She’s acceptable.

But I want Rook.

Rook is all those things the pet is, times a million. She’s obedient, she’s submissive, and she’s beautiful—far,
far
more beautiful than the girl this morning. And Rook is smart. She might not think so, she’s always down on herself about school. But she’s smart in all the ways that count. Plus, she likes to run. I love that.
Love that
. I miss her running with me so fucking bad. It kills me to run alone after having her as a partner for half the year. I hate it. It takes all the joy out of it.

I miss her.

I really,
really
miss her.

The traffic on I-70 is horrific—must be an accident up ahead. Colorado has the worst drivers. They say California drivers are bad, but that’s not true. California drivers know what they’re doing. They might speed the hell down the freeway, but they can cut over six lanes of traffic, find a song on the iPod, check their teeth in the mirror, and flip off the slow driver they’re passing, without even blinking.

Here—every day is a major fuck-up on the freeway. And there is really only one way to get to DIA from Denver unless I want to drive up north and cut back around on the toll road. And I don’t. So I sit in traffic.

Back to Ronin. God that guy just pissed me off from the minute I met him. Getting into my truck, chatting and laughing with Spencer like they’re best friends since birth or something.

I was Spencer’s friend all growing up. Spence comes from money, like me. My parents inherited our house and Spencer came from the same situation. Our families have lived across the street from each other for close to fifty years. But there was Ronin, inserting himself between us like be belonged, even though he wasn’t even
from
Park Hill. He was from fucking Five Points. The slum of Denver. And he was practically the son of a porn photographer.

I mean, looking at it objectively, that’s exactly what the situation was.

I inch past the accident and finally the freeway opens up just past the 225. I get over in the right lane so I can get on Pena. One long-ass road that only leads to one lonely-ass place. The airport.

But every girl at school loved Ronin the minute he got out of the truck that day. It was like something out of a movie where the action is all slow-mo, the dude drags his hand through his perfectly messed up, yet still coiffed, hair, and all the girls drop their Trapper-Keepers and gawk at him with their mouths open.

I hated him.

I still might hate him a little. Maybe even more than a little.

He’s just lucky that loyalty is my number one moral value. Maybe my only moral value. I do, after all, steal, cheat, lie, and lust. I have most of the vices covered. But for some reason, my whole worldview begins and ends with this absolute dedication to Spencer and Ronin. I’m not even sure how it started since I hated him immediately.

But it’s there. I can’t
not
be loyal to Ronin. I simply can’t change it. We’re bound together in this life whether we want to be or not. I’m sure he hates me as well. Maybe even more, since he knows Rook loves me in her own way, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

DIA eventually shows up off in the distance. They say the white peaked roof is supposed to remind people of the snow-capped Rocky Mountains, but it looks like some futuristic circus tent of you ask me. I always get a strange craving for cotton candy when I come here.

I get in the lane for the west terminal garage and then follow the road around to the ticket station. Fucking Merc. Making me get a ticket and pay for parking. Why can’t he just show up like normal people instead of being all paranoid and stealthy? Now security will have my plates when I leave because I have to stop at the exit and pay as they take pictures of my car. If he would just stand out at
Arrivals
like everyone else, then I could swoop in, pick his ass up, and swoop back out. No plates. No pictures. No payment.

I pull up in front of the stop gate and roll my window down so I can take a parking ticket. The gate lifts and I drive through, trying to get my bearings on which way is north so I can find the south elevators on level two.

In California, west equals the ocean. In Denver, west equals the mountains. I find the mountains so I know where south is, and then take the ramp up to level two. This place is packed since it’s Christmas Eve, and there are holiday travelers everywhere. Kids are crying, moms and dads are stressed, and grandparents are happy to be with them, even though it’s an all-out nightmare trying to get in and out of this garage.

I drive past the south elevators, looking for a station wagon and come up short. So I try the old-fashioned method. I roll the window down and yell, “Merc!”

Every set of stressed-out eyeballs turns at my call and stares at me.

I stare back and have to tuck down the urge to say something nasty.

Then the passenger door opens and a man slides in, half ducking down thinking no one can see him, and tugging on his hat to cover his eyes. Merc is a huge guy, at least six foot four and two hundred pounds. So him thinking he can duck in the seat and hide himself is almost funny. His hazel eyes are darting all over the place, checking the parking lot. His hand rubs the stubble on his chin, and his cropped brown hair is covered by a trucker hat that proclaims he’s a bacon lover.

“Good going, Rutherford. Just call out my fucking name in one of the busiest airports on the planet, on one of the busiest days of the year.”

“You said call you.”

“No, I said, do
The Call
, Ford. Not just scream out my name.”

“I do not scream. And the last call we had together was a duck. Quacking out a duck call in an airport parking garage is gonna be less conspicuous than your name?”

“Whatever,” he says as he turns to check behind us like the paranoid freak he is, “just drive.”

“Well now we have to stop at security to get our fucking pictures taken, so this is all moot anyway. You should’ve stayed in
Arrivals
.”

“Fuck that, I saw a few suspicious people back there. One on the plane and one in baggage. I went to baggage because it’s what people do and I was blending in, plus I wanted to see if this guy would follow me. And he did.”

“Let me guess, he picked up bags from baggage as well? Suspicious.”

He sneers his lip at me in typical Merc fashion. “Don’t patronize me, just take me to your rig. I got a smallish-big, I said.”