Page 45 of Begging for Mercy
“I don’t need interesting.” The cut of his jaw is sharp enough to snap glass. “I need to know what you’ve done with Mercy.”
Holding my hands up, I try to show a little good faith. “I haven’t done anything, or you’d already know about it. I’m not above sharing home videos with interested parties.”
His lip curls, but I think if a video of Mercy sucking me off graced his presence, he’d jerk off like the rest of us degenerates.
“She’s on her way here,” I say, extending an olive branch. “Zane is bringing her since she didn’t want to ride on my bike. Sit down and wait like a good dog.”
Despite any misgivings he may have, Sam actually sits. “If you’re lying?—”
“I’m not.”
There he goes with that murderous glint in his eye again. He maintains his composure, though, actually gracing me with a fake smile. “If you or your friend hurt her, we won’t have to play this stupid game anymore. That, I can promise.” Settling into his chair, he slings his arm over the back and glances at the nearby mirror to check the front door. Mercy and Zane still haven’t arrived, and he’s right to be antsy.
I’m getting nervous, too.
But I have no reason not to trust Zane. He’s always had my back. Yeah, he wanted to kill Mercy that first night, but he wouldn’t… Not without me. Then again, something’s differentthis time. I can feel it in the air when he looks at her. There’s a crackle of tension that’s usually missing when it comes to our targets. Normally, Zane keeps his distance because he doesn’t want to get involved with the romantic parts. This time, he’s not only bugging her bedroom, but he’s fingering her afterward. He’s lingering in shared spaces and pretending that he doesn’t care.
Something’s up with him, but I’m not sure how it involves Mercy.
I’d hoped that the peck on the cheek would prompt him to say something, but I must have shocked him. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, frozen solid and immobile. Unable to think past the blindingly obvious implication.
I don’t just want to take Mercy out on a date. I want to take him out, too.
Logistics for these kinds of things don’t matter to me, so it’s not like we have to put a label on it. I’m happy so long as we’re all happy. Why make things complicated? I swirl the ice in my glass, enjoying the way the cubes clink together. They slowly melt before mixing with the alcohol, and I imagine that Zane and I are much the same way. I have to warm him up, get him comfortable, before he’ll melt in my hands.
The past few years have been a kind of slow, agonizing foreplay where no one wins. Not my kink—could be his.
Ignoring his drink, Sam cuts his gaze across the mirror to glare at me. “Seriously, Reaper, where are you hiding her? She wasn’t at home, she’s not here—are you fucking with me?”
Grabbing his knee under the table, I lean over the short distance between us, unable to keep a wolfish grin off my face. “You’d know if I was fucking with you, Samson, because you’d be on your knees worshipping my cock right now. I can be very persuasive.” I glance at his lips, mildly curious. Sometimes themost pent-up ones are worth the explosion. “I’ve baited more than one man away from their home team.”
“Fuck you.” He rips my hand off his thigh, rudely knocking my knuckles against the underside of the table and jostling our silverware. “There’s no way in hell I’m interested. Back the fuck off.”
“Just your girl, then. Got it.” Sam doesn’t say anything, so I continue. “We could share, you know.” I’ve been toying with the idea over the past few days. Zane and I already get along, so it’s a no-brainer with us. Sam is the odd man out. If he wants in on the action, he has to join the winning side, otherwise, he’ll end up going home alone. “You might even enjoy it.” I study his expression, looking for any sign that he’s curious. He sits perfectly still, which could be a tell of its own. He’s trying too hard to remain neutral. But then his fingers twitch, and he takes a slow, steady breath, filling his lungs to the brim.
“Don’t talk about her like she’s—” he laughs, the sound cracking like glass, “like she’s one of your whores.” Dragging his hand through his chestnut hair, he shuts his eyes. “She’s important to me, Reaper, and I—” He swallows. “She deserves so much more thanthis.” Snapping his eyes back open, he gestures between us. “We’re sick fucking bastards, aren’t we? Fighting over her like children.”
My mouth curves up. “Speak for yourself.” I can see where he’s coming from, but I’m not about to water myself down for Mercy’s sake. “She can handle it. I even think she can handlemore.”
Oh, have I thought about it.
My paintings usually start out tame. Smiles. Flowers. Beachside bikinis and tan lines. The condensation dripping down a forgotten iced coffee. Hands linked together. They’re cute little vignettes that tell a story of two people falling in love.These sell, of course, to basic bitches who want their homes to feel warm and inviting.
Therealart comes later.
With Mercy, however, I’ve traded simple paintings depicting hand-holding and daisies for impassioned clutching. Wrists. Fingers. Thighs. I’ve only been able to imagine snippets—nothing overtly sexual—but I know that it’s coming. That’s usually stage two. The physical intimacy. But we’ve flipped the script, and I don’t know what comes after.
I’m eager to find out.
Sam sits up straight and damn near topples over his chair as Mercy and Zane suddenly appear in the doorway. Zane’s arm is slung over her shoulder in a show of confidence that’s unlike him, but then I realize why. He’s limping and trying to play it off.
What’s more, she’shelpinghim.
They approach our table and do a good job of pretending everything is normal. Despite the low lighting, I can see the scrapes and bruises on Mercy’s skin, a few of them mirrored on Zane’s. They got into a tussle and didn’t think to forewarn either me or Sam before showing up.
Grabbing Mercy’s wrist, Sam stops her from sliding into our oversized booth. His eyes bore into hers, and she shakes her head. But that doesn’t stop him from grazing the back of his hand over the bump on her forehead or kissing the scrape across her knuckles. “I tried to pick you up.”
“I know.” Her mouth twists. “I heard you.” She sighs but doesn’t explain any further. “I need a drink.”
