Page 29 of Erik

I should’ve stuck to the plan, taken the pleasure I sought, and she so clearly wished to give. Why complicate things? Tonight confirmed my fears that a quickie with Christine wouldn’t do for me. Turning the knob on my bedroom door, I step inside, and kick it close. Stripping on the way to the bathroom, I scatter the clothes around the floor.

Once in front of the sink, I grip the marble edge until my knuckles turn white, peering at myself in the mirror. Uneven fishnet patterns on my chest, shoulders, and back mark the spots of the grafts to treat the burns. I brace for impact as memories of the fire that took Mom from me, and burned my father to a crisp, dance in front of my open eyes as they often do. This time, however, they’re intertwined with imagines of a little girl, with curly red hair, and ragged clothes, roaming streets littered with rubble. She turns her tearstained cheeks up and we lock eyes. Her anguish claws at my chest, where my heart used to be, robbing me of air.

That’s why I couldn’t stay another minute in the living room with Christine. The pain she experienced as a child connected with a part of me, I’ve locked away in the dungeons on my mind years ago. Stirring these dangerous emotions threatens my hard-earned sobriety. They used to cripple me, fueling my need to escape reality through drugs. I can’t succumb to them now that I’ve got Liam to consider.

Gasping, I shake my head to return to the present, and focus on the mirror again. Scars of varying colors and thickness crisscross my torso, the outcome of years of self-harm. This addiction doesn’t hurt my son, but it shushes the chaos inside. With a sigh, I push the top drawer out of its tracks, and settle it on the marble counter. I reach inside the open slot until my fingers touch the large strip of duct tape I’ve stuck there. Ripping it, I use the thick material to hold the only razor blade left in my house.

I turn on my heels, cover the distance to the shower stall without hurry, and slide the glass door open. I set the stream of water to lukewarm but lean against the opposite wall. The stall is large enough that I don’t get wet. I’ll need the shower afterward to wash away the evidence. Glancing down, I knit my eyebrows at the tremor in my fingers. Their white tips press against the blade. I relax my grip to stop the shaking. It doesn’t work.

For the first time, the hateful memories dissipate without drugs or cuts. Instead, images of Christine’s face, pleasure heavy on her lids, hit me like an eighteen-wheeler barreling down a highway. I squint my eyes, but the sensations grow, squeezing my heart. Blood rushes down, flooding my cock, and stiffening it into a throbbing erection. I stretch my arm to deposit the razor blade on one of the glass shelves, between the body wash and shampoo bottles.

I palm my dick, wrap my fingers around the pulsing shaft, and slide them up and down. As I set the pace, I lean my head back, shut my eyes, and let my fantasies unwind. Visions of Christine, knelt at my feet, naked body bound in rope like a kinky gift, her eyes covered by a black blindfold. Breathing scorches my lungs and throat as I increase the speed of my movements. Pleasure tightens my balls as another scenario plays out. Kneeling between her thighs, I hold them apart, as my cock strokes her tight body. I move in and out of her, with slow and steady thrusts, as she howls my name.Wait! What?Before my brain can process the novelty, I unload into the air in hot jets. My eyes blur, as ecstasy short-circuits my synapses.

Getting under the shower, I lather myself with the pine-scented body wash, and frown at the idea I might enjoy vanilla with Ms. Christine Daee, after all. That last fantasy doesn’t fit with my regular sex menu, but as long as Christine’s on the table, I’ll have her. That leads my dirty mind straight into another scene out of a porn movie, and I indulge in a second round under the water, keeping the inner chaos away.

***

Muggy weather in Mid-July makes wearing leather an insane proposition in most cities. In San Francisco, I don’t break a sweat strolling from the limo to the entrance door of M.o.D offices.

Tipping my head to the cute brunette manning the front desk, I glance at her name tag, thankful for my mirrored shades. “Good afternoon, Melinda.”

She glances about herself before muttering, “Good afternoon, Mr. Crawford.”

She manages to add a faint smile as I pass by. I take the corridor to the left and climb the six flights of stairs to the third floor. Kimberly’s office faces the stairs. Glass walls everywhere make keeping track of one another’s whereabouts easy. I confirm the band manager hasn’t returned yet. She had a business lunch with Tarmac Records execs.

As I walk past Nick’s, Wes’s, and Logan’s offices, I’m not surprised to find them empty. Nick took off to Boston to deal with family I didn’t even know he had. Kim has sent Wes down to South America to do a little PR. He needs to improve his image, the band will benefit, so everyone is happy.

I open the last door on the right and plop myself on the leather chair behind my sleek glass-and-chrome desk. I lift the phone to my ear, press an extension number, and ask the lawyer to come over. No phones or electronic communication for this kind of dealings.

As I wait, the lights in Logan’s office go off. While Allyson takes a seat on the sofa against the wall, Logan stretches over his desk to press a button on the console, turning the glass opaque for privacy.

A discreet knock on the door announces Robert Davies before he enters. With the glass, that gesture becomes unnecessary, but it highlights the young man’s manners.

“Excuse me, Erik. Good afternoon,” he greets. After shaking my hand, he takes the chair opposite me.

With no patience for small talk in this matter, I go straight to the point. “I want you to draft an NDA and deliver it in person to Ms. Christine Daee before seven o’clock today.”

“Consider it done.” A slight widening of his eyes is the only reaction I see. “Is that the same young woman you asked me to background check?”

“Precisely. By the way, your job lacked the usual precision this time. You left out all information about her childhood.”

A deep crease appears on his brow. “I’m sorry about that. Although, we never go back more than a few years.”

I play with a fountain pen, twirling it in my fingers, as I ponder his words. “You’re right.” I lift my gaze to his. “I’ve never asked you to. Sorry.”

He dismisses the topic with a one-shoulder shrug. “Are we talking standard NDA here? No discussions about physical details with anybody ever?”

I scoff. “Goes without saying. But I need a clause about Liam.”

His jaw drops in a comic-book-y expression, before he snaps out of it and mutters, “You’re taking her to your house?”

“Done that. I don’t want to send Liam to his favorite theme park every time I want to take Christine home.”

I can almost hear the gears grinding in his head, but he keeps jotting down information on a legal pad. “I see. Anything else you want to add.”

I steeple my fingers and smirk. “Other women who signed my NDAs had no issues with kink. That’s not Ms. Daee. We need a new section on that. I want it detailed, without room for misunderstandings, or doubt, on her part.”

Robert moves the yellow pad from his lap to the top of my desk and hunches over it. “Let’s get to it.”

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