Page 31 of Killing Emma

Squeeze, Luca. Just squeeze.

My fingers dig into her vocal cords, cutting off her moan. My cock explodes inside of her, and I growl as I come. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I hold my breath, continuing to squeeze—harder. Her hands fly up now, trying to pull my hand from her throat.

“Please don’t,” I hear her whisper in my head. It's a shock to my system. I instantly release Emma, stumbling backward. She gasps for air and slides down the wall, and I imagine her hands are on her neck, trying to soothe the damage I've done to her.

I can’t catch my fucking breath as rage funnels into my chest. It's directed at myself—at the way she didn’t have to speak for me to hear her loud and clear.

Emma whimpers from the floor. I push the shower door open and feel for the clothes on the floor. What is so fucking special about her? I rip the bathroom door open, stalk out, and slam it behind me. It splinters against the door frame and rattles the walls.

And to make matters worse, today is fucking Friday.

I have to leave for dinner in an hour. And so, I don’t stop until I’m locking the basement door behind me. Only then do I glance down at the wad of clothes in my hand—my jeans, boxer briefs, and everything of Emma’s. I did it on purpose. I know I did. I left my fucking shirt, just so she has something to wear while I wash her clothes.

And I hate myself for it.

I slide back into my boxers, still raging inside myself. I smell like her, and she reeks of me. I toss the clothes into the washer, and start the load, staring into our mix of garments. I don’t know what about it bothers me, but it does. I punch the metal front, denting the machine.

I have to leave her here alone. Manny is out partying. I have no one to keep an eye on her that I trust. Except Major. He’ll just have to guard her.

She should be dead, my inner voice chides me, sounding a lot like Victor. I push it away and stomp up to my room like a pissed off teenager. I just got laid, but I fucking failed.

Unless making her come twice counts.

“Fucking stupid,” I mutter as I get dressed, pulling on a pair of dark wash jeans, and a black button up. However, maybe the outing will be good for me. Maybe it’ll be enough to snap me out of whatever the hell is going on.

I stare at myself in the mirror, meeting my dark, brown-eyed stare. The remnants of gold are still there. I’ve never seen a picture of my biological parents, but I often wonder if they were both Italian, or if only one of them were. It doesn’t matter, but the mystery of who I really am has never left my mind entirely.

I don’t spend long styling my hair. It’s going under a helmet, anyway. I slide on my boots and head out of the room, Major hot on my heels. I can’t decide if I want to walk down and check on Emma before I leave or if I should just send Major down the stairs and let it be.

But what if she hurt herself? What if the water was too warm? What if I fucked her up by squeezing too hard?

“Motherfucker,” I mutter at myself. I’m not a doctor. I shouldn’t care if I injured her—and to prove to myself that I don’t, I swing the basement door open. “Guard her.” Major takes off down the stairs, and I slam the door closed, locking it.

***

I pull into the California beachside house hours later, the sun already setting in the sky. The garage opens and I park inside. I kill the engine of my Ducati and swing a leg over the side of it. I don’t feel like socializing, especially given the situation.

“You came.” The garage door swings open to Henry Bayne, sporting his usual white T-shirt and jeans. “I’m surprised.”

“I’d be shit friend if I didn’t,” I grunt, hanging my helmet from the handlebars of my black bike. I take a deep breath and follow him inside. I’ve been to his place before, though it was to hide out. I was waiting for someone to break in, so I could gather intel on a hit placed on him. But that's in the past.

“Hi,” Lydia, his blonde-haired wife, greets me as I enter the kitchen. My stomach hurts as I force a smile back.

“Hey. Thanks for the invite.”

“Yeah, of course. Want a glass of wine?” She holds up a bottle for me to see, and I shake my head.

“Nah, no thanks.”

“I don’t drink either.”

“Just not tonight,” I answer flatly, my eyes casting out across the ocean view. I have a similar view at my beachside place, but I’d make a guess that Manny is tearing it apart at this point. “Can’t stay too long,” I add when she shoots me a questioning look.

Henry drapes his arms around her as I stand there, watching the two. I feel physically ill at the sight and as I lean against the counter, they exchange a glance that causes me pause.

“This isn’t just about dinner, is it?”

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