The Arrangement 21 (The Arrangement #21) (5 page)

Sean lowers himself slightly and reaches for my breasts. He holds them together as he pushes his hard length between. He slides between my girls repeatedly as his fingers tighten around my nipples, teasing them. Sean dips his head back and makes a guttural sound in the back of his throat. He's so hard, so close.

More things, more requests I thought I'd never say. "Come on me, and then feed it to me. I want to taste you when you're done."

He doesn't say anything, he just does it. Sean forces his dick between my breasts hard and fast, fucking my girls hard. He shudders, and I feel the warm trail of sweetness as he slows his hips, pressing into me one last time, covering me in him.

Breathless, he rises to his knees and holds himself out to me. I can't quite reach. He does it on purpose—he must. He moves his wet cock along my lips, watching me as I struggle against the collar, trying to take him in my mouth. He finally pushes himself between my lips and moans.

I'm engulfed by sensations and emotions so intense I wish my hands were free so I could worship his dick the way I want. It's perfection, smooth and hardening again with every flick of my tongue. He growls, gripping both sides of my head. He presses himself over my lips and down my throat, moaning my name, saying how sexy I am for taking the length of him at once. Every last inch of him is in my mouth, tip to base. I stroke him with my tongue and he rocks into my face, fucking me the way I wanted.

As he grows harder, he gets thicker, longer. His thrusts become more forceful and I want him to do it. I want all of him, nothing held back. He pounds into me three times, then holds his cock in place. He gasps, and his voice is liquid sex. "I can't believe you did this to me."

I feel the pulsing, and he pulls back. I suck hard to keep him there, wanting more. Sean slides the tip of his dick over my lips, pushing it into my mouth, and I suck hard, trying to pull him all the way in before he pulls out again. He makes a sexy sigh of resignation and holds my face, pumping into me, pushing all the way in until I feel him pulsing and coming in my mouth. I suck him savagely, milking every last drop from him, and when he pulls away, I lick my lips.

Sean leans on his side, gasping, covered in sweat. "Oh my God, Avery. I never—" He flops down on his back and covers his face with his arm, still breathing hard. "God, that was amazing."

M
orning comes and goes
. Sean is asleep next to me in the blood-colored bedroom once again. We planned to stay up last night, wearing ourselves out until we passed out this morning in order to sleep before tonight. The thing is, I can't sleep. There are no nightmares. I just can't doze off. I lie here, staring at the ceiling, wondering about everything.

Like Henry. He was such a great guy when I met him. I wonder which version of him is real, the dashing English nobleman or Jack the Ripper. Maybe he was high or something the night he went nuts on me? His intolerance of Sean is obvious, regardless of everything else.

Why do I care if he's a good guy or a bad guy? I'm with Sean.

It's not about that. Thoughts start to simmer at the back of my mind. They have no words yet, no pictures to help me discover what I'm thinking. Then there's a bubble of truth—it's about you, Avery. Then another—picking paths. Soon the pot is boiling, and I can't stop it. My mind wraps around the hot pot with nothing to keep it from searing my skin. My heart pounds harder and my breathing shallows. Suddenly it's too hot, and I don't want to think about it anymore. But the thought is still there, plain as a black mark on a white page.

Vic Jr., my brother, had to start somewhere. People aren't born evil.

Constance. Sean's mother, she had to be kind as a girl. People choose paths.

Mom. The woman I knew wouldn't be in bed with a guy like that, never mind everything else. I didn't know her as well as I thought. I faulted her for things I was clueless about.

Sean. The man sleeping next to me was once a wide-eyed little boy with no nefarious thoughts at all.

Mel. Surviving justifies anything.

Isn't that what they all have in common? Isn't that why I feel an anxiety attack ready to bop me in the back of the head like a two by four? Because it's not just them and they didn't do this to me, to my life—I did. I made my choices, and I have to live with the consequences. Trying to outrun them turns people cold, like Constance. Reveling in it leads down my brother's path. He's a bloodthirsty nut. If he had a brother instead of a sister, I doubt incest would be on his mind. Or necrophilia. Maybe it would be. Sex is power, and that guy is power thirsty. He'd do anything and everything to get it. I shudder under the blankets even though the room is warm.

It's past noon. I can tell from the way the light cuts through the center of the drapes, casting a long golden slab of light on the dark carpet.

I watch Sean for a moment and want to ask him where he was the night he came back covered in blood, what he did, but I know better. Leave the past in the past. Bury it and walk away.

There's a problem with that theory of dealing with life. Inner conflicts, thoughts, and actions never shown the light of day have a way of turning into something dark and despicable in the shadows. Demons will kill you faster than anything else. I have a hissing gaggle of them following me around, waiting for me to crack—that thought terrifies me most—because I know who I'll become.

I
have
on a pair of sweats I found in the closet. I don't want to ponder on the size of the women's clothing or that tank. It's like Henry stocked his house with Avery-sized things. I shake my head and banish the thought.

Good people can do bad things. I already have, but if things get out of hand tonight, can I do what I need to do? Can I execute the Plan B Mel and I created? Can I deviate to my own sick, twisted plan and end this once and for all?

Vic isn't only aiming for me. He's got sights on Sean, his brothers, Mel, Marty, Henry, and even Gabe. Memories of the gruff old man pass behind my eyes as I wander the empty house. He told me so many times to get away from Black. She's the one who started this. She's the one who moved from selling sex to selling murder. I blame her, but she's a distraction. She needed Vic to pull this off. If we take him down, that'll end it.

If I take Black out, too—I cut off both heads. I'm not new here, I know the heads will just grow back, but it'll take time. In the meantime, everyone in New York with a price on their head can breathe easy, their debts forgiven.

I'm walking along an upper corridor with a cup of coffee in my hands. My hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail, and I'm barefoot. I sip the cup as I stare at the madness on the walls. Henry's infatuation with Henry VIII is concerning. This particular passage shows his timeline, from young boy, to idyllic young king, to insanity. He took what he wanted and left a path of carnage in his wake. He killed his best friends and advisors—and, of course, his wives. I knew he killed them to bypass the divorce issue, as if that justifies murder, but I didn't understand the accusations. As I travel down the hall, I see the list of crimes and cringe. I wonder if the king himself thought up those charges or if the power hungry people around him did it. Either way, this wall shows a good man's descent into Hell.

I wonder what my wall will include.

"Avery?" Marty's voice is soft, as if he didn't mean to startle me. I turn and almost don't recognize him. His head is shaved, and there's a gash on his temple with fresh sutures. He's wearing black cargo pants and a dark gray shirt with something resembling Kevlar woven into the fabric over his chest and torso. "I didn't know you were up."

My eyes go wide, and I rush him, yelling a million things at once. "Where were you? I thought you were dead!" I crash into him and pound my fists on his chest. It feels like he's back from the dead. I didn't even want to think about where he's been.

Marty stands there like I'm some crazy girl he ran into at the mall, as if I shouldn't be upset. "I'm here now."

I make a strangled sound in the back of my throat and slam both palms on his chest. "Where were you? Don't do that to me, again." I deflate and suck in a sharp breath, and step away another pace.

He swallows hard, looking at me as if he wants to say something. He finally shoves his hands in his pockets and talks. "I had a situation with Vic's men after I pulled Sean off the beach. He was pretty banged up, and I couldn't stay with him. Long story short, I made up some bullshit and then ran after you. By the time I got back to the beach, Vic was beyond pissed. That fucker did this with his gun." He points to the stitches above his eye. "I'm surprised he didn't pull the trigger."

"Oh my God." I stare at him, horrified. "Why did he let you go?"

"I convinced him he still needs me. I may have threatened to expose him, too. I expected to die, so I said whatever sounded good. Apparently saying fuck-ass crazy crap appeals to the man. He laughed, slapped me on the back, and sent me to find you."

"Where have you been, then?"

"Hanging back, making sure Vic isn't following me. I didn't come here until I knew I'd lost them for a few days."

There are things I want to ask him, lingering questions that won't fade away. I still have no idea if I should hug him or hit him. He was supposed to kill me. Does the fact that I'm still breathing negate that whole thing? He lied so many times.

So have I.

I shake off my disgust. In many ways, we are the same. Besides, he kept me alive, and that's hard to overlook. I shove the thought aside and lock it away under my mental floorboards with the rest. I'm wholly aware there will be a huge-ass tidal wave of bad crap coming one day, and that's the thing—I know it's not today—so I stuff it away.

"So, I thought you were supposed to be sleeping. Henry filled me in about tonight."

"Yeah, I couldn't sleep." My grip on the mug tightens, and I try to focus on the warmth radiating through the porcelain walls.

He nods, but his eyes don't leave my face. There's something about the way he stands that makes me think he has a lot to say, conversations the size of mountains, words I don't want to hear. He knows things about my parents, about my mother. There's also softness there, something in the corner of his eyes, hanging like a tear that never falls. He still cares about me. After everything that happened, he's not over me.

I'm a train wreck of emotions and regret. How can he still think of me as pure-hearted and perfect? What happened to the Marty who dressed by the decade and made me smile? Was that an act for my benefit? The man is an assassin, and he's too smart to be here now, but he is.

Marty stands there, feet a shoulders width apart, hands clasped behind his back like a soldier. Why didn't I see it before? The overcompensation, the way he slouched all the time, and his dramatic movements. He spoke volumes with his hands, and each expression held a myriad of thoughts. I thought it was because he was gay and wanted people to know. I accepted the act as genuine, assuming I knew the reason.

Everyone wears a mask from the time they wake up to the time they pass out every night. Some are acceptable, others, not so much. People can't be real, because when they are, when they say what's truly lurking in their hearts, they're people like Vic and his dad. People who hide nothing about how they think or feel. That scares most people, myself included.

This might be the last time we speak. Say it, Avery. If you want to know so much, ask him.

Before I can speak, Marty inclines his head toward the wall. There's a painting of Jane Seymore, Henry VIII's third wife. "Not much is known about her, except that she seemed to be able to navigate Henry's dark past without making it explode. Her epithet calls her a phoenix, a bird reborn from its ashes."

I stare at the light brown liquid in the cup. I don't think I like where this conversation is going. I force my gaze up and let it harden. "Don't tell me you have a fascination with the murdering king, too."

"When a person's life slips away from the light, they have to find a way to make peace with it. Everything around us says one thing, but the masses are sheep. People who can think are screwed if they follow the flock. You're not a follower, Avery. I know you."

The last three words hang in the air. He knows I'm thinking about deviating from our plan. He knows how I feel about everything I've done. He suspects I've done worse than I said, but he never pries, never asks.

"I'm not going rogue tonight, so you don't need to worry about that." I begin to walk away, but he reaches out and takes my arm. I stop and gaze up at all six-plus feet of him.

He laughs jadedly. "Tell me. Let another person in on your suicide mission."

"It's not like that, and I did. Mel knows, and she helped me with it. If things don't work out, then I have a Plan B."

"Right, and what about Plan C? Don't pretend with me. I know you struggle with all the shit that's come your way, and I'm shocked you held it together this long. But Vic isn't the guy to test how far you can go. He'll ruin you."

"I don't know what you're talking about. There is no alternate plan beyond that." I go to walk away, but he jerks my arm, spilling coffee on the rug.

Marty gets in my face and leans down, lowering his voice. "I've known you longer than him." He points back in the general direction of Sean's room. "He's missing this. You're going to implode. You're creating a meticulous plan to take out all your adversaries at once. There's always carnage in the area surrounding a blast. You want to make the most of it, which means you're thinking something horrible. For me to say it's horrible, as in a nauseatingly, blood-curdling idea, then it's really bad. You know me, and I know you."

My mouth goes dry. I stand there staring into his face and feel ice dripping into my stomach. I can't think about tonight. It'll make me sick, but somehow Marty managed to lock on something everyone else missed. It's not a death wish, not exactly. It's more pragmatic than that. The only way I can make sure every single person involved dies is to die with them. I can't find another way around it.

I remember to breathe and place my hand on his forearm, making him drop my elbow. "What do you want from me?"

Marty steps back, making an exasperated sound as he drags his hands down his face. "I'm not having this conversation with you again. We've had it twenty times already." He steps toward me, closing the space between us. "I can't let you do this. If that means fucking up their plans, so be it. I'll take you from them, here and now, and never let you go."

The desperation in his voice makes me believe him. I stop pretending it's not true. He thinks too much like me. He knows me too well to deny it. I need him as an ally, not an adversary. I pull him down the hall by his arm to a spot I'm sure no one else can hear or see us. There are no windows, no rooms, and the hallway dead ends under a big painting of King Henry VIII as a young man.

Marty lifts his brows, waiting for me to speak. He's beyond irritated, and I think he might make good on kidnapping me. I have to talk him down, and the only way to do that is to include him in my plans. But he cares about me. That part is going to make him unbalanced. If Sean were going to do what I'm planning, I'd threaten kidnapping, too. A brick to the brain is safer than my plan.

"Marty, I know you think I'm an idiot, but—"

"No, I don't. I think you're on a mission to annihilate anyone who fucked with you, myself included. I could get behind that, accepting whatever is coming to me, but not at this cost. You're not factoring everything into the equation."

"Yes, I am."

"No, you're not. The question isn't what are you capable of? It's what can you live with if you survive? Say by some freak chance you make it out alive—"

"I won't."

"You don't know that. Anything could happen when you put Black and Vic in a room together. For all you know, it could turn into a three-way or the two of them could feed you to the bear."

That makes me pause. I straighten, blinking too many times. "Vic has a bear?"

"It's white with freaky pink eyes. He likes hearing people scream, Avery. That fucker could do anything, and I mean anything. He has no mercy, and his soul is long gone. I think he was born evil. He likes to tell the story of how he killed his mother, and the things he did with her—with her body and her blood—" his face twists with disgust. "He liked her, Avery. Vic hates you."

There's only one way to leave this hallway that doesn't end with a kidnapping. "Then help me, and I swear to God if you tell anyone about this, I'll make you wish you hadn't."

His eyes are wide and warm, like melted chocolates. "You never need to threaten me. I'll give you anything you ask for, do anything you want. Just say you want my help." He watches me with such intensity that my skin prickles and a shiver works its way up my throat.

I've never had someone pledge allegiance to me before, not like this, not when I wasn't in love with him. Marty knows it, and he's still here. Guilt tries to overtake me, but I take a mental shovel to its head before I feel it. My shed has stuff in it.

Swallowing hard, I say, "I want your help, Marty."