Page 13 of Petrichor

The fuck, he did? I grab him by the neck and yank his face an inch from mine. I feel his Adam’s apple bobbing under my hand. “You think that because I fucked your face we are pals now?” Fear—I seenone in his eyes. Why? Is he a masochist? My thumbs moves toward his mouth, pressing hard on his swollen lips

“You drank too much. You look tired,” he says calmly. I feel the wet tip of his tongue against my finger. He’s actually enjoying it.

“And what does it have to do with you?”

He doesn’t try to fight me. Even when I tighten my grip around his throat, his arms remain at his sides.

“I’m sorry about your suit. You helped me with Jerry, so I want to help you back.” He gasps as I squeeze. “Unless…you want another go at my throat?”

His face has turned red, eyes dazed.He likes to be choked, and not only on cock.My twitching dick lets me know its interest, but I ignore it.

I loosen my grip, my fingers lingering a couple of seconds too long on the smooth skin of his neck and lips before I let go. Luca is coming tomorrow early in the morning. I need to fucking rest.

“Give me the keys,” he insists. “I saw what you can do against two men. I’m not an idiot. I won’t fuck with you.”

He already damn did.The smell of tomato juice and whiskey on my clothes is a vivid reminder of that.

“I don’t know you.” I’m deeply irritated by his puzzling, carefree behavior around me. He heard my name back at the bar, and he saw what I’m capable of. So why is he still here?

“Then ask away while I take you to your place. I’ll answer every question.” His eyes widen as he seems to have an idea. He drops the heavy-looking duffle bag on the ground before hiking his left knee up to place the other bag on it and starts rummaging inside.

“Hold this, please.” He hands me a handful of things as he keeps searching, trying to keep his balance on one leg. I look at my palm, there’s an open pack of tissues, a purple glasses case, a couple of candies, a pen with a pink bobble hanging from the clip, and what looks like a mouse trap.

“Why do you carry a mouse trap?” I feel the frown on my face.

He chuckles. “I have no idea. Oh, found it!” He passes me his ID and takes back the other stuff.

Joel Locke. So Fly is a nickname. Twenty-two years old. The address is from Boston, is he visiting?

“Call me Fly. Everybody does. Are we good?” We aren’t in the least. This innocent act goes against the slutty, cock-sucking one he had in the bathroom earlier. He’s waiting with his hand outstretched. I take a pic of the ID before giving it back to him.

“No. You still owe me three thousand dollars.”

“Three—” he chokes on the word. “Why?”

I growl as I pinch the wet fabric of my shirt. His hand lifts toward me, but I grab his wrist before he makes contact. My personal space is sacred. Nobody enters unless I give my permission.

“Just wanted to touch the suit that costs almost seven times more than a room’s rent,” he explains with an uncertain smile.

I let go of his wrist and start walking toward my car. I need to rest. I left my migraine medicine back at my place. I shouldn’t have told Carlo and Jo to leave. They are my crew, always following me everywhere I go. But once in a while, I want to be left alone.

“Nice car,” Fly says.

Nice? My Cadillac Lyriq is not nice. It’s perfection.

“It surprises me nobody fucked with it while you were inside Rino’s,” he states.

To which I reply thunderously, “It would be a death sentence to whoever dares to try.” I take the key fob out of my inner pocket and squeeze it in my palm.

Fly insists once again, “Drunk and pissed off is a bad combination behind the wheel.”

I push my palm against my aching forehead. Christ, so fucking annoying. I open the car door on the passenger side. Then why am I letting him tag along?

He sets his bag on the back seats and gets in. I hear him mumbling something about my temper and festering anger, but when I take my seat, he has a small smirk on his face. He’s lucky my head is exploding, or I’d have already turned him into a sack of meat and blood.

“Why aren’t you driving?” I sigh. He’s just sitting there, hands caressing the leather steering wheel.

“It smells like you,” he whispers contentedly, before adjusting the seat and pushing the engine button. What a fucking weird thing to say.

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