11. Cucumber
ELEVEN
CUCUMBER
KYLIE
W ho ever thought getting my ass kicked at checkers would be a turn-on?
Then again, there’s something about this guy. I don’t know what it is. I mean, I like him. He’s like nothing I ever expected from a guy affiliated with one of the local gangs who run Springfield. He’s not a fuckboi, either. He just seems so… good.
He cooks me three meals a day. A simple breakfast, a basic lunch, and a hot dinner which, I have to say, is way more than my last, four, boyfriends did for me. It doesn’t have to be fancy. It has to be filling, and he gets bonus points for even doing all the dishes afterward.
I’ll give Luca credit. He really took my teasing to heart. When I taunted him for being unprepared to keep someone a captive up here… he’s done a complete one-eighty in the last week.
It doesn’t stop with three meals a day, either. There’s no laundry facilities here. When I ran out of clean clothes, he had another order for me delivered the same day. And it’s not like he’s rich. During our endless checkers games, I poke and prod and try to get any information out of him as I can.
I tell myself that, deep down, I’m still the Hummingbird. If I ever have to take out Luca, the more I know about him, the easier it will be. And after a week in the cabin, even I can’t pretend that I’m basically interrogating him for any other reason than that I’m curious.
Sometimes he humors me. Sometimes he sighs, then answers my questions as best he can without giving away Sinners business.
And then, sometimes, he turns the questions around on me. Which would be fine if he didn’t eventually end most of our conversations by whooping my butt at checkers and pleading with me to throw my lot in with his boss.
At this point, I should just throw him a bone. I kind of started to feel a little bad about how worried he is about me. He really believes that, if I can’t be swayed, I’ll end up dead. Not likely, especially since I never would’ve gone to the cops with what I saw, but he’s so… so earnest .
But I’m not an idiot. If I finally shrug and agree, he’ll be relieved—but if his boss isn’t just stringing him along, telling him what he wants to hear before he finally takes matters into his own hands, then that’s it. He won’t have any reason to be my babysitter anymore.
I can already sense that we’ve been here too long. His boss probably needs him, his buddy probably wants his cabin back, and he’s gotta be tired of buying everything I require. I even tried to give him the couple of dollars I had in my jacket pocket. Luca refused.
I’m his responsibility, after all.
Of course, then I retaliated by asking for a couple of things that I could use. I mean, if he really thinks he has to take care of me—and it’s obvious he’s not about to give me the one thing I’m really missing now—why not take him up on the offer?
We’re at an impasse now. He’s getting more and more determined to get me to agree with him. I don’t want to go home anytime soon since I kind of like being his captive.
Because of that, we’ve learned which topics of conversation to dance around. I’ve learned that Luca’s favorite movie is an 80s classic, Die Hard, that he didn’t see until he was an adult. He’s an only child; and that’s all I’ve gotten out of him about his family. He likes the color blue. He’s a Gemini.
I still don’t know why he wears that key on a chain around his neck.
I don’t know why, even when the fire in the fireplace cranks up the heat, he keeps his long-sleeves covering his arm all the way to his wrist.
And I don’t know what he’s doing as a Sinner…
That one bothers me the most, and after the fourth straight game of checkers where I didn’t even come close—and I’m beginning to regret even bringing up this particular game in the first place—I finally blurt out the question that’s been haunting me for days.
“Okay. I gotta know. How did a nice guy like you get mixed up with all this mafia bullshit?”
Luca was resetting the game board. He’s the black pieces, I’m the red, and since I hate the tediousness of putting the pieces on the board, I let him do it.
He pauses. “Do you really want to know?”
Desperately .
I give him a nonchalant shrug of one of my shoulders. “Well, yeah. It’s just… like I said, you seem so nice. A good guy. You’ve been great to me. Five stars, you know? But then I remember that you’re part of the Sinners Syndicate. It doesn’t make sense. You’re not a killer or a dealer or any of that, are you?”
He shakes his head, letting the piece in his hand fall to the tabletop. “I thought you knew. I’m the driver.”
“Well, yeah. I saw you in the Devil’s car. I figured that was your job. But how does that happen? Become a mafia leader’s private chauffeur? I can’t imagine he hires out for that.”
Luca’s lips quirk in a crooked smile. “Nah. You’re right. I guess you could say I went to him and asked for the job. He didn’t really want a driver, but I was pretty motivated.” His eyes gleam at me. “And experienced, too.”
“You’ve driven around other murderers?”
Besides me?
“Not like you’re thinking.” He taps his fingertip. “I was a wheelman.”
A wheelman?
Oh.
“You robbed a bank. No. Not you. Some other guys did and you were the one who drove the getaway car? Really?”
I can’t keep myself from sounding impressed, and he knows it.
“‘Thou shall not steal.’ That was the first commandment I ever broke on purpose.” He pauses, reaching up, ruffling the top of his hair. “I break that one a lot.”
Right. Like he stole me .
Wait…
Commandment?
I start to ask him why he would mention the Ten Commandments—especially since that’s a key on his chain, not a cross, so I didn’t take him as uber religious or anything—but I stop when I notice that he’s rubbing his forearm through his shirt sleeve.
That’s not the first time I noticed the nervous gesture, though it is the first time I call him out on it.
“What are you hiding under there?” I ask. “Is that your devil tat? I wanna see it.”
Luca drops his hand down to his thigh. “It’s not my devil. have my horns and tail on my bicep.”
All Sinners have a tattoo that mark them as members of the syndicate. It’s a Springfield thing. Devil insists his guys get a pair of devil horns and a forked tail as a symbol of loyalty to him and the rest of the syndicate. Meanwhile, the Libellula Family all get inked with varying dragonfly designs to mark their affiliation.
I knew Luca would have to have a devil tat somewhere. Maybe it is on his bicep, but he’s still hiding something under his sleeve.
And I want to know what it is.
I start to reach for it. If he doesn’t want to tell me, I’ll look for myself. He can stop me. If he does, I won’t push this. But if he lets me…
He doesn’t let me.
Luca jumps up from his seat, dashing over to the refrigerator. “Oh. I almost forgot. Look what got delivered today.” He reaches in, pulling out something long and slender and green.
I nearly choke on my laugh. “My cucumber!”
I’ve been asking him for, like, three days now for one. And while I know it’s December, and an unusually snowy one at that, so it’s not like they’re in season, but I really, really wanted one, and now it’s here.
I swallow my giggle. Yes!
He seems pleased at my happy reaction. “The delivery guy only brought one, even though I tried to order a couple. You wanted it so badly, I figured it’s one of your favorite things to snack on.”
Snack on?
Oh, Luca, no.
“You sweet summer child,” I tease, walking over to the sink so that I can wash the cucumber. “I’m not gonna eat this.”
“You’re not.”
“Nope.”
The extra pop on the ‘p’ is so much fun!
His forehead furrows. “If you’re not going to eat it, what are you going to do with it?”
I stroke the side of the slightly bump peel with a paper towel, drying it off, then toss the used towel before grinning over at him.
“I’m going to fuck it,” I say, rapping the good-sized cucumber against my palm. “Unless you’d rather take its place.”
I don’t know what shocks him more: how open I am about my intent to masturbate with the cucumber, or that I once again propositioned him to join me downstairs.
Turns out, it’s most likely the second one because he suddenly blurts out nervously, “I can’t.”
I look at the cucumber. I pointedly look at his junk. I can’t see what he’s packing, but I’m not a size queen. I can take this cuke. Whether he’s big or small, thick or as narrow as a carrot, I don’t care. It’s the motion of the ocean, right? So long as he knows how to use what he has, I’m down.
“I’m sure you can.”
He shakes his head. “No. You don’t understand.”
I don’t think I do. “Is it me? You just don’t want to fuck me? If it’s because I’m your captive, don’t worry about it. I’m not doing this because I’m stuck here. Well, no. I am doing that because I’m stuck here and I’m bored. Sorry if that hurts your ego… I still think you’re pretty hot, Luca… but I find the best way to fight boredom is a couple of orgasms. So what do you say?”
He licks his bottom lip. “It’s not you. I mean, you’re gorgeous?—”
“Thank you.”
“And you didn’t offend me. I figured you were only offering because no one else is here.”
True.
“But I can’t.”
I should drop it. And maybe it’s because I’m taking this as a blow to my ego, but I have to ask one more time: “So why not?”
“Because I don’t do that. It’s… I’m saving myself for marriage,” he mumbles.
He’s what ?
I’m confused. I shouldn’t be. Sex is a personal choice, and if he wants to have it or not—if he wants to have it with me or not—I can respect that. Some people are ready at fifteen. I was seventeen the first time. I know others who waited until they were in college, or freshly graduated.
Some of my old friends just weren’t interested. Others have high body counts, and you know what? Good for them. I never did keep, like, a log or anything, but I’m up there. I have casual sex. I have meaningful sex. One-night-stands. Even quickies in a dingy bar bathroom so long as the guy has a condom. I’m very open with my sexuality.
Obviously.
But I’ve known a handful of guys and girl who decided to wait. And, for the most part, it was the same reason.
Commandments, I think. He mentioned the Ten Commandments.
Oh, boy.
“Is this a religion thing? I mean, I’m not knocking you or anything. You do you, even if that means you’re not doing anyone. I just… wow. That’s another shame, ace. We could’ve had a lot of fun together.”
“I know. But it was how I was raised. Now, I’m used to it.”
The way he’s fisting his hand tells me otherwise.
Hm. We could’ve had a lot of fun together—and maybe I still can.
“Is it a sin to watch?”
“What?”
“You heard me. I don’t know what your religion is.”
He gulps. “It’s a small church in Oklahoma. The HCofJD.” At my blank look, he says, “The Holy Church of Ja— of Jesus Devotion. It’s a Christian sect that?—”
And I stopped listening.
Hey. If it’s a sin, he can look away. But me?
I’m agnostic, and if I want to fuck myself with a cucumber, no bearded man in the sky is going to harsh my vibe.
“But is it a sin for you, Luca? I mean… if I did this and you watched?” Lifting the cucumber to my mouth, I tongue the tip, licking the slightly bumpy exterior. “Or what about this?”
He’s not saying a damn word. Lips slightly parted, eyes glazed over with lust, he just stands there as I grip the back of my leggings, plus my panties, and shimmy them down until they’re at my knees.
I have just enough give in the fabric to widen my legs and dip the cucumber between them. I squeal when the chill of the cucumber bumps into my clit.
Luca groans, but he’s still watching.
“No,” he rasps out after a moment. “I don’t think it would be a sin if you did that to yourself and I happened to see it.”
I angle the cuke, gathering all the juices slicking my pussy so that I can knock it at my entrance.
“What. About. This?”
His eyelids flutter closed. “Fuck me, Kylie…”
I take the cucumber back. “Sorry, ace. That’s not allowed. We’re not married.”
His eyes snap open. “But?—”
Nope. No ‘buts’.”
“Good night, Luca. I hope you enjoy yours.” I waggle the cucumber. It’s not exactly what I wanted, but waste not, want not? Sometimes a horny chick has to make do with what she has, and if he’s an untouchable virgin because of his convictions, at least I’m lucky to have this. I grin at him. “‘Cause I’m gonna enjoy mine.”
And if his muffled curse follows me as I abandon the new game of checkers, bouncing toward the basement door, well that’s not my fault, is it?