Page 60 of Dirty Roxie
“And this luscious neck, I want to spend my days here kissing, biting, inhaling, experiencing.”
“I’m, uh . . .” Her voice cracks and she clears her throat. “I’m not seeing the problem.”
I move my lips from her neck up her jawline to her mouth. “Allow me to show you,” I say against her lips, reluctantly pulling my hand free. I stand and tug her up with me. Guiding her toward the bedroom with my hand on her lower back. Before we’ve crossed the threshold, I’ve got my hands under her shirt, pushing it up and over her head. Leaving her clad only in a black lace bra from the waist up.
She gasps as I spin her and push her onto the bed so I can pull her jeans off. Then, making quick time, I flip her onto her stomach to run my nose up her spine. Goosebumps rise on her skin. All that luscious white skin that I want to bruise and bite, mark in such a way that she won’t ever forget that I was here. I use a tie I’d hung on the door earlier to bind her hands at the wrist behind her back. And the belt from her bathrobe to do the same with her ankles.
I run my hands down her length, starting at her shoulders and not stopping until I’ve reached her ankles. Then step back from the bed to survey my work. She looks incredible. Vulnerable. Mine for the taking.
And her skin, so soft.
“What are you going to do?” she asks, turning her head to the side to peek at me.
That won’t do.
Looking around, I see the bandana she ties around her forehead when she works out, and shove that into her mouth. This will only work if she can’t talk.
She looks up at me—part fear and part lust in her expression.
How long will it take before it’s nothing but fear?
“You leave me no choice, Roxie.” I walk to the side of the bed where she can see me, slowly unbuttoning my shirt as I go. Her eyes widen as my shirt opens completely, and I allow it to fall to the floor. She’s seen the scar.
Making this the perfect time to start my story. I drag a large chair up next to the bed, kicking off my shoes and removing my socks before settling back, ankle over knee with forearms resting on either arm of the chair.
She looks at me warily.
“Being restrained not all you’d cracked it up to be?” I ask. Knowing on some level I was messing up the colloquial phrase, yet not caring. I run my fingers along her cheek, the muscles jumping at my touch.
I hold up a finger to indicateone moment, then leave to get a scotch. Because this story will always require something heavier tasting than vodka. Like I need to know I’m drinking, need it to differ from my usual libation to commemorate the moment.
It takes a moment for me to return. When I do, her eyes have turned defiant and she struggles against the restraints.
“I tried to warn you, dear Roxie. I’m a monster.” I retake my seat and get comfortable, slowly sipping my scotch once I’m settled. “But you push. You push until I break. You won’t like me broken.”
She shakes her head as though to argue with me. But I know the truth. Even if she’s not frightened of me now, she will be soon. Once I’ve told her everything. And she sees who I really am.
“My father was a weak man,” I begin. “Not a good role model for an impressionable young boy. Still, I idolized him to an extent. I suppose most young boys do with their father. He liked to gamble, but not on cards or horses. You know, thenormalthings that would have no lasting impact on his life one way or another outside of the financial loss. To my father, that was boring. He preferred to gamble on people.”
I stand and move away from the chair to pace the floor, realizing I can’t sit still for this. I need to be moving, to feel like I’m in action. Because to sit while I speak would be to remain inactive while it plays out in my mind. Which makes me no better than the man I loathe. I take a chance and glance at her to see her reaction to my words. Her expression remains calm, almost empathetic, and serene. There is no judgment there, only acceptance.
That will change.
“It started small when he was a young man. His bets being more like dares.If I win, you jump into the river with all your clothes on. If you win, I have to streak through town, naked.Small things like that. It’s how he got my mother to marry him. If she lost, that was her punishment. Only my mother thought she won because she loved my father with all her heart, even at the very end.”
I run my palm down my face. Hoping to wipe clean the memories from that night. But it never works. Those scenes never leave my mind, flashing through like a horrific montage on repeat.
“He moved on to underground fighting. Managing, not taking part in. First, pitting the homeless against one another, then street kids, then anyone who wanted to volunteer. It was a fight to the death. Winner takes all. And the winner’s benefactor, most often my father, would take the most.”
Her eyes track me, filled with compassion, as though she’s sorry because she knows what I’m about to say.
She doesn’t.
“His winning streak only lasted so long. Every guy he brought in died in the ring. To the point where he became convinced someone rigged the entire thing. He accused the guys above him of running a fixed game. Word got out and business tanked. It wasn’t pretty.”
My hands fist at my sides, my short fingernails bite into my palms, the pain a welcome reminder of what’s coming.
“Lucky for us, my mom still worked as a bookkeeper for a little shop down the street. She made enough to keep food on the table and, most of the time, a roof over our heads. We didn’t need much, Mom and me. But Dad always had his head in the clouds. He was a dreamer, perpetually chasing the next best thing. And Mom loved that about him. Thought it made him the eternal optimist. Not realizing it just made him a fool.”
