Don’t You Pucking Dare (The Blackridge Reapers #2)

Chapter 36

The unknown number flashes on my screen, casting blue light across my cramped dorm room. Sheet music litters the floor, yesterday's practice session abandoned mid-phrase. My cello leans against the wall, still wearing the marks from where I gripped it too hard during that last piece.

I let it ring twice, watching dust motes dance in the afternoon sunlight streaming through my window. On the third ring, I answer.

"Lola." My mother's voice scrapes through the speaker like a bow across unrosined strings.

The familiar scent of rosin and wood fills my lungs as I grip the edge of my scratched desk. "Hey, mom. How are you?"

"Could be better. Listen, did you get a phone call?" Her words have that familiar floating quality, disconnected. She's definitely using again.

"A phone call?"

"A phone call." I can picture her pacing, probably in her boyfriend’s rundown apartment with cigarette burns on the carpet. That's where she always ends up.

"For?" I trace the groove in my desk where I once dug my pen in too hard.

"If you didn't get the fucking phone call, just say so." The edge in her voice makes my shoulders tense. Some things never change.

"Mom, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"This is my phone number. You need to save it." I barely believe her. I bet it’s her boyfriend’s number.

"Okay. Is everything okay, mom?" Outside my window, a group of students passes by, laughing. Normal people living normal lives.

"No, I'm not. He owes me. He fucking owes me everything he's got."

"Mom, are you okay? You sound… crazy." The words escape before I can stop them.

"Don't fucking tell me I sound crazy!"

Her screaming fills my dorm as I pull the phone away from my ear. Then she starts mouthing off all the terrible shit she possibly can.

My last straw is when she says, "Do you know what I've done for you!"

I end the call. The silence hits like a physical thing. My hands shake, and the cello calls to me from its corner, promising the only kind of control I've ever really had.

Her silence broken by greed. The irony would be funny if it didn't hurt so much.

My phone lights up again. Different number. The sun has shifted, throwing shadows across my practice space like prison bars.

"Hello?"

A man’s voice says, "Hello, is this Lola Kemper?"

"Yes, this is her." My reflection watches me from the window, pale and wary.

"Hi, Miss Kemper. My name's Daniel Rothschild, and I'm calling in regards to your father, Rick Kemper." Professional voice, practiced sympathy. "I'm so sorry for your loss. Are you able to come down in person so that we can have a chat?"

My heart skips against my ribs. "A chat? We can chat now." I press my free hand against the cool glass of the window, leaving fingerprints on the surface.

"Well, Miss Kemper, you are your father's only beneficiary and we need you in person to sign documents before we can release anything to you."

My gut sinks. "Release what to me?" The dorm suddenly feels too small, the walls pressing in.

"He left you a letter and $1.5 million dollars. When you turn 25, you’ll receive the other half."

The words hit like wrong notes in a familiar piece. Three million total. I know where that money came from—the illegal trafficking houses tucked behind legitimate businesses, the girls who disappeared after asking too many questions, the deals made in rooms that I never want to be in. Everything he touched turned to poison, and now he's trying to spread it to me from beyond the grave.

My hand shakes as I write down the bank details in my composition notebook, right next to the melody I wrote thinking about Brody last week. The pen tears through the paper on the last digit.

My mom calls again. Mystery solved. The prodigal mother returns, drawn by the scent of money. Probably knew about it before his body was cold.

I sink into my office chair, the material cracking under my weight. Around me, the evidence of my life clutters the small room—dog-eared sheet music, coffee-stained music theory textbooks. All of it suddenly feels like a lie. Like I’m not meant to be here, that I am not because of my talent but because of Rick Kemper.

I grab my phone from where it sits next to a stack of Bach compositions.

Lola: I need you

Brody shows up fifteen minutes later, leather jacket carrying the crisp air. I'm still in my practice clothes—leggings and an oversized sweater that slides off one shoulder. The bruises on his face are fresh, dark against his skin, but they barely register in my head what it means. All I can see are zeros spinning behind my eyes. Three million. Life insurance. Who knew about this?

I shove Brody onto my unmade bed, unable to decipher if I want to fuck him like I originally thought or if I want to torture him. His body bounces once on the mattress as I straddle him. The lighter from my desk catches on the first try.

"Did you know?" My voice sounds strange in my ears, like someone else is speaking. The flame trembles with my hand, reflecting in his dark eyes. I press the lighter to his neck, but he doesn’t flinch. "Is that why you're keeping me around?"

His hands slide up my thighs, fingers digging into flesh. Even now, with a flame near his face, he's getting hard beneath me. Typical Brody—threat and arousal are the same thing to him.

"Duchess," he growls, low and dangerous. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about—" The certainty in his confusion makes me hesitate. That split second is all he needs. He knocks the lighter from my grip and flips our position, pinning me to the mattress.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," I say, but doubt creeps in.

"I don't." His weight holds me down, those fresh bruises stark on his face. "I did my job, got my stripes, and now I'm sworn in."

"You are?" I ask, now knowing he’s officially a Reaper.

He leans in close, his breath hot against my skin. "What's going on, Duchess?"

I try shoving him off, but it's like pushing against a wall. "I need to sign some paperwork apparently." Let him connect the dots.

"Paperwork for what?" he asks.

"What do you think?" I search his face for any sign of deception.

"Something with Blackridge. Your mom. I don't fucking know."

The rawness in his voice chips away at my suspicion. Maybe... maybe I can trust this. Trust him. The words spill out before I can stop them. "Rick Kemper left me a trust fund."

His eyes widen, genuine surprise darkening them. "Duchess, this is news to me."

"So, no one's after me for that money?" I ask.

He shakes his head, then shrugs. One hand comes up to grip my chin. "Not that I'm aware of, but you're under my protection, Duchess. No one can touch you. They’ll have to get through me first. Do you understand?"

Relief floods through me, making my limbs heavy. "So, you didn't know?"

"Baby," he mutters, fingers trailing up my legs with dangerous intent. "If this was a game, I wouldn't have dropped everything to get over here because you needed me..." His touch leaves fire in its wake. "And I wouldn't keep coming back for more of this."

His fingers press between my legs, making my stomach flutter.

Fuck it.

I bring his mouth to mine, hot and demanding. His tongue slides against mine as I wrap my legs around his waist, rocking against him. Need pulses through me, drowning out everything else.

When I pull his shirt over his head, his sharp intake of breath stops me. Purple and black bruises mottle his ribs, spreading across his abs like spilled ink.

"What did they do to you?" I sit up, stomach twisting. "Brody..." My fingers hover over the worst of the bruising, barely touching. Each mark is a story he won't tell me.

He watches me trace the edges of the bruises, something unreadable in his expression.

I mutter, "I don't like seeing you like this."

"What? I thought you liked it?" His mouth quirks up.

My eyes snap to his. "I don't. I'll kill whoever did this to you." The intensity of my own words brings anger to my chest.

He grabs my chin, his other hand working at his pants. "Be mine, Duchess. Officially."

"Officially?" My heart stutters, watching him pull out his dick. I look back into his eyes. After everything—the torture, the games, the violence—this is what he wants? I’m shocked to say the least.

His eyes lock onto mine, dead serious. "Yes, officially. Be my fucking girlfriend. If you say no—"

The words hit me like a bow striking perfect pitch. This man who used and tortured me, who fucks me awake, who showed me that he’ll walk through my darkness—he's become everything. He matches my violence with tenderness, my fury with understanding. Every time I've pushed him away, he's come back stronger. Where others saw broken pieces, he saw possibility. He doesn't try to fix me. He hands me the matches and watches me burn.

"Of course, I'll be your girlfriend, Brody."

His mouth crashes into mine, hungry and possessive. This kiss is different—no more games, no more pretending. His hands tangle in my hair as I arch into him, claiming what's been mine all along.

He rips off my pants, hungry to get back to my lips. He aims his dick and slides right in, keeping eye contact with me. I moan, giving him space between my legs. He dives really deep, watching me squirm from the fullness.

"This pussy is mine and only mine," he groans, working his dick harder into me. He presses his fingers against my clit. "Mine to fuck whenever I please. Eat whenever I please. Do whatever the fuck I want with it."

I nod as he starts building my orgasm. "Now that I’m your girlfriend," I squeak. "This pussy is only yours."

"That’s fucking right," he says, pounding into me. His fingers start moving faster. He grips my neck. "I’ll fucking kill you if you––"

I grin, loving what he’s saying. I grind him. I’m only his now. He grunts in pleasure, not needing to finish his sentence.

I sit up, asking him to release my neck by grabbing his wrist. I curl my finger at him, asking him to come closer.

He slides in and out slowly as he leans down. I smell the mint on his breath as I whisper, "I’ll fucking kill you if you play me, Brody."

He pulls out, turns me around so fast that I get dizzy and smacks my ass. "Only I make the threats."

I smile, lifting my ass in the air for him. I want him to fuck me from the back. His dick slides into my wet throbbing pussy, and this angle feels so much better. I can squeeze his cock by clenching.

"Fuck, Duchess," he says. "I fucking love when you do that."

I clench his dick, and then he smacks my ass again, ramming into me harder. He grips my ass, using the leverage to slide me up and down his dick.

"That’s it, baby. Fuck, that pussy feels so fucking good."

He pounds into me and fills me with come.

For the first time since I met him, it feels like this could be a normal relationship.