Page 23 of Dark Horse

The next photo is more artistic, the side of her jaw and neck framed by a shadow that falls across her chest to where the bra she has on is starting to slip off. The straps are hanging limply off her shoulders, and her breasts are threatening to tumble over the edge of the lace. I note that she doesn’t put her face in the photo, just like with the ones she posted on the site. I’ll give her credit for that much.

I flip back to the first photo. No face there either, and her upper body is blurred because of the focus on the bottle and her legs. My eyes trace the silk ribbon that travels over her thigh and connects to the garter she has on. I can only see parts of it. The bottle blocks most of the view I want. Or would want. If it was a different woman. One I’m allowed to fantasize about.

But I’m already imagining running my hands up the insides of her thighs. Telling her to spread wider for me. Trying to decide which is the shot and which is the chaser.

Fuck.

I press the button to darken the screen and lay the phone flat on the table, closing my eyes to try to find my fucking reason. Clearly, I’ve lost it. I can see Jesse standing in front of me, threatening to gut me from stem to stern. He would drag me back to hell for even thinking it.

If I’m going to keep doing this with her, I’m going to have to face that reality every day. I’ll have to look at myself in the mirror knowing full well I’m a bastard for even fantasizing about the idea even if I never act on it. Which I won’t.Ever.

My phone buzzes quietly on the table, and I pick it up again like it’s a fucking snake. Her name is emblazoned across the screen, and I swipe it open.

HARTFIELD:

You have to tell me what you like besides Scotch and money if you want me to make good on the debt.

The devil on my shoulder and my dick are already working in concert, making a list of the things they want next. I rub my temples and drink the last of my whisky just as the server appears to pick up the empty glass.

“Rough day?” He gives me a sympathetic look.

“You could say that.”

“Another?”

“Nah. I’m good. Thanks.” I nod, and he takes off back to the bar.

I pick my phone up again and open the contact screen for Hartfield. I delete her name and replace it with “HELLFIRE.” Apparently, I was going to need a constant reminder.My eyes drift back to her message when I close out the pop-up.

We need to lay some ground rules.

EIGHT

DAKOTA

THE DEVIL:

We need to lay some ground rules.

I seethe text pop up as I work to fill a couple of beer glasses with the IPA on tap. Not my favorite, but these guys drink it up like it’s water, so who am I to argue? I roll my eyes at his text. If I thought this situation would make Daddy Grant disappear, I was wrong. He’s back in full force.

I hand the beers off and tuck the cash in my apron after I thank them for the tips. My attention returns to my phone, and I run my teeth along my lower lip as Ianswer him.

Rule number one should be that we don’t tell anyone about any of this.

THE DEVIL:

That’s a given. It doesn’t need to be a rule.

And correction. I didn’t mean we in the collaborative sense. I meant I’m setting the rules.

I roll my eyes at his declaration. Of course. He always has to be in charge. He leads, and the rest of us are simply meant to follow. Not that I’ve ever done it well. I’m pretty sure those brief months he had to put up with teenage me nearly broke him.

You like setting rules then? I guess that makes sense. Your obsession with control is unmatched.

I’ll have to think about how to incorporate that into the content. I know you said you wanted me to beg.

Apparently, you like being a sugar daddy when it suits you. Do you like being called Daddy? Or just Cowboy?

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