7. Watch Me. I Dare You
Today was a good day.
Rerunning the numbers on the computer, I admire how quickly they rack up. I scribble down a few notes in the margins of the black book I keep for the other side of my “business.” While I may be able to hide thousands of dollars in upcharge used sales, the new products are always more difficult, with too many fucking paper trails and receipts. I had to deal with a few new orders today, but thankfully, those had been pricey, making it a little easier to slip in some hidden fees and a few more bucks my way.
Too bad it”s not enough to move all of Sasha”s money. That thought is enough to remind me that I need to call my pseudo brother, Avtoritet of the local Russian mafia, and update him on the figures. My hand hovers over the burner phone before I decide differently. The amount of money I’m able to launder for Sasha out of the store is a drop in the bucket compared to what I could eight months ago.
There was a time when Sasha didn’t make a dollar that didn’t get cleaned by me, and now all that’s left is the furniture store. My pet project. I rub my hand over my face. No, a phone call isn’t going to erase the frustration and impatience in Sasha’s voice every time we talk. It isn’t going to make up for all the ways I fucked up.
I’ve spent the last eight months trying to drink and fuck the grief, embarrassment, guilt, and shame out of myself, but low and behold, there is always more.
What happens when you get hit with several lawsuits by victims of your old cons gone bad and suddenly things are looking pretty bleak according to the lawyers? You think it’s a good idea to sign all your cash businesses and shell companies over to your partner in crime, your supposed other half. Your lovely wife. But, ironically enough, that bitch is already fucking some other dick, divorces you, and takes all your assets with her before disappearing into the wind. I snort.
At least I choose to believe she is in the wind. It’s the most logical choice. If the Bratva catches up to her, I’ll have my businesses back before she’s “disposed of.” I stare down at my hands folded in my lap. Tracey was always overly ambitious.
A fuckup on the scale of which I’ve fucked up usually ends in a lot of death. Bloody, painful examples being made of everyone involved. If I didn’t already owe Sasha my life from when we were kids, I definitely owe him now. I don’t know what he did—what deal he cut with our boss, the Pakhan—but I know his power and influence is how I’m still breathing and walking around a free man.
That makes the fact that I haven’t gotten my shit together eight months later even harder to bear. An appreciative man would have been out there busting his ass all day, coming up with schemes, cons, anything he could to pay back the brother whose authority protects him. But my ex-wife did more than just take away my home and business. She did more than just deliberately leave me for dead at the hands of the Bratva. She took away my enthusiasm to keep living this life. She left my desire to be the Avtoritet’s “man” at an all-time low. She stole my mojo.
That isn’t a reflection on Sasha—which I’ve told him hundreds of times. I just don’t know if I can recover from how badly Tracey leveled my world. I really did love her, that fucking bitch.
Rubbing my temple, I take a deep breath and wait for the rage that never comes. Even after Tracey’s lover held a gun to my head, the restraining orders, the courts, the promises to return my companies and business before she took off... I couldn’t find the anger. There is only heartache and ugly emotions to keep me company.
Grabbing the black money bag, I push back from the table. My gaze sweeps the floor for Carmella. The vacuum cleaner hums in the background as the refreshing scent of citrus wafts around me, creating a pleasant atmosphere. Her jean-clad ass sways to the beat of the overhead music and the push-pull motion of the vacuum cleaner as she moves across the floor. Fucking adorable. Consumed by her task, she won”t miss me.
Stepping out from behind the front counter, I quickly head to the back door and out into the evening. The air has settled from scorching hot into a muggy, humid mess that feels akin to breathing hot soup. I”m dressed to impress, not to go swimming through the air, and suddenly wish I was wearing less clothing. Unlocking the shop once more, I step inside the moldy old building. Damp earthiness, metal, and old crayons make up the original scent of this place. Jugs full of uncapped furniture polish and wood stain are my addition to the overwhelming odor of the shop. New-car smell pine trees decorate the space—my buddy Daniel’s attempt to make it smell less... workshop.
Shutting the door behind me, I walk into the shop”s darkest spot, unzipping the empty black money bag. Grabbing a flashlight off the top of a rusted shelf and flicking the button, I follow a beam of warm light that shoots off into the darkness. Locating the stack of tires, I twist off the false rim. Ten-thousand-dollar stacks of hundreds are wrapped in plastic and line the inside.
Scooping up one wrapped stack, I drop it into the bag, zip it tight, and tuck it under my arm. The flashlight pans across the room as I leave, catching the ceiling-high stack of tires and crates of boxed microwaves that have false backs, all flush with cash I can no longer move the way I used to. Fucking Tracey.
Retracing my steps, I slip back inside and behind my desk. Carmella didn”t miss me at all. In fact, I bet she didn”t even know I was gone. Good, the less my caramel drop knows, the better off she is.
Carmella is a welcome distraction from the day to day of barely being able to live with myself.
She brought with her a streak of luck tucked neatly into a shapely package, which I appreciate greatly. If Carmella hadn”t been a quick study, I would have lost out today. After watching me go a couple of rounds with customers, she stepped in, chatting and laughing. She seemed eager to work after that little bit of attitude this morning, which was a welcome surprise.
Fixing the numbers in my online spreadsheet to match my paper trail, I rebalance the black book. I mix the stack of cash in with the store”s income from today.
When she watched me rip that couple off earlier, I didn”t find much condemnation in her gaze. Instead, curiosity and wariness dominated her cute face. Little Miss Beach Barbie is bright, ballsy, and smoking hot. If I”m judging correctly by the crazy/hot matrix, and taking into account God only knows what kind of behavioral/mental issues she has that led her to be homeless, it”s only a matter of time until that side of her raises its ugly head. I”m probably more excited about her being a little unhinged than I should be, but hey, I like a little thrill in my life.
Most people would have balked or argued the ethics and morality of my actions, but not my sexy little trespasser. She barely blinked. Everyone has a price, and I suspect Carmella”s may be pretty cheap. If she is willing to bargain her ethics away for ten percent of every sale she makes, I”d like to know what else she”ll let me buy from her.
A little money, food, a warm place to sleep, affection, and some security could seal the deal. And all those things are within my power to provide. I have a hope she’s loyal, too, but time will tell. Keeping a cute, young something to pester and look at in the store definitely makes the time move quicker.
After a full day like today, I am more desperate for help than I realized. As much as I hate to admit it, running the deliveries on Monday, the store on Tuesday thru Friday, shopping for new inventory on the weekends, rebuilding broken furniture three nights a week, and partying on the other four have been taking their toll.
I finish the paperwork and calculate what I”m paying caramel drop, slipping it into an envelope. Hopefully, an envelope full of cash at the end of the next two weeks is incentive enough to keep her here. It’ll give her time to adjust, take stock of her situation, and come to the natural conclusion that she is better off with me. Better off on my dick than fucking on the streets.
The song changes to one of my favorites, “Wet Dreams” by Wet Leg, and my foot taps to the beat. I”m not the only one who notices the bright rhythm. Carmella has stripped off the polo I gave her this morning, revealing that scrumptious red tank top and her pushed-up tits. She walks toward me and flashes me a smile before running the vacuum around the front counter.
I”m suddenly thankful I had the foresight to hide some of her best assets today. My mind wouldn”t have been on making money. Right now, especially as she dances around, vacuuming the floor, her tits and body are all I can see. Desire rushes through me, and the trouser snake in my pants comes alive at the mental image of her tits bouncing in my face as she rides my cock.
My caramel drop turns away from me, and I nearly curse as I’m blocked from seeing those melons shake as she continues her cleaning. Hello, I was watching that. My eyes snag on her ass at the same time the phrase “love to watch you leave” flashes in my mind. Smoothing down my mustache, I pull out my phone and scroll to the video from last night. Holding the phone at eye level and next to the actual dancing Carmella, I open the clip of her half-naked and watch myself push her arm down and reach out to touch her nipple.
The scandalized look on her face on the tiny screen makes me chuckle. It won”t be the last time she gives me that look. In fact, I can barely wait for the next opportunity to elicit such a response. Get that woman all worked up.
My cock swells in my pants as the clip plays over in a loop. In the background, Carmella sways her hips to the rhythm, unaware of my voyeurism. She”s so fucking hot, and I still want to see her tongue. Her cute little updo has shaken loose over the course of the day and pretty little waves stick out this way and that, giving her a trashy sort of hot-mess look. The need to replace the hair clip with my fist as I drive my dick into her sassy mouth makes my hands twitch. A vivid fantasy of holding her pinned against the wall by her hair, forcing her to stick out that hot little pink tongue while I shoot ropey baby batter into her mouth, has me palming my erection.
Fuck it, she isn”t paying attention to me, anyway.Popping the button on my pants, I unzip and lean back in my chair, tugging my cock and balls free. Stroking my dick from root to tip out in the open like this feels like a fucking high, especially with her less than twenty feet from me. If she glances this way, what I”m doing will be unmistakable. She”ll be scandalized, no doubt, but also maybe curious. I’m packing some good-sized pipe after all. I want her to look.
I wish Carmella and I were in a place where I could just call her a good girl, bend her over, and stick it in long enough to dump my cum in that tight cunt. Then, I’d spend the rest of the evening making her orgasm over and over. The thought of doing just that makes my dick jump in my hand and sends me racing toward my orgasm.
My balls tighten as my fist pumps up and down the length of my cock. Spitting in my hand, I lube myself up and thrust into my tight grip. My breathing becomes erratic, and I”m thankful that the loud overhead music hides the sounds of me slapping my meat. Fuck, this nut will be big.
Grunting, I throw down the phone on the counter and stare at Carmella, daring her to turn around and watch me cum. She bends over to move the cord. The thought of her bent over one of the couches like that while I feed her my cock does the trick. Kneading my balls and squeezing my cock so hard I half wonder if it will bruise, I cum all over the plastic chair mats. Ropey squirts shoot out farther than I intended, smacking into the counter as my orgasm rocks me, making my balls kick hard. It feels so good that it hurts, and I get a little dizzy for a second.
Still jerking my softening cock while my heart rate slows, I take a steadying breath. Holy shit, that one nearly did me in.
Sliding my love stick back into my pants, I look up at Carmella, who has moved to a new spot next to the bed she slept in last night, still unaware. Shit, that was one of the hottest things I”ve done in a long time.
Surveying the mess, I decide a towel will be the easiest clean-up method. Carmella”s mouth would be the best, though, but only if she were a very, very good girl.
I’ve cleaned up my spunk by the time I hear the vacuum switch off and her making her way to where I sit. My earlier orgasm has me feeling quite relaxed and more than a bit hungry.
”Are you ready to get something to eat, caramel drop? We can stop by the store afterward,” I ask.
She nods eagerly, and a bottle of cleaning spray thumps on the counter as she sets it down. A dirty, damp rag joins it. ”Fuck yeah. I”m starved and want to sit down.”
”Good, let”s fucking go then.” The button clicks as I switch off the computer and grab the safety deposit bag. ”I got to drop this by the bank.”
”What”s that?” she questions.
”Just the day”s earnings.” I scoot back in the rolling chair and stand.
”No, I know what that is. I”m talking about that.”
I glance at what she is pointing at: a wet, whitish blob sits drying on the counter. Half of it has slimed its way off the edge and started a downward descent to the floor.
I freeze, actually mortified for a second. ”Um, I have no idea.”
”Did you eat a cinnamon roll or something? Looks like frosting or spoiled milk.” She crinkles her nose in disgust.
I bite my lip. Part of me wants to die laughing, another part has wicked ideas, and a tiny bit of me is ashamed. A very tiny part. I know immediately which one will win.
”I don”t know, babe. Why don”t you taste it and find out,” I suggest.
She gives me the same scandalized look I just jerked off to. ”Eww, no, you weirdo.”
Tipping my head back, I bust out laughing. She has no idea how accurate that is. She leans over and sprays the cum with the cleaning spray before wiping it up.
“There, all clean.” She nods at her handiwork.
I snicker, earning myself a suspicious glance from her.
“Come on, caramel drop. Let’s go get some grub.”