Trash Daddy

12. More Red Flags than Green Ones

I’m an asshole.

I wasn’t mad at Carmella so much as I was mad at myself for knowing it was too soon and pushing the issue. It blew up in my face and ruined last night for both of us.

The empty bed hugs my ass as I sit across from Carmella’s sleeping form and watch her catch her breath before settling. It doesn’t go unnoticed that her face is still puffy from crying. I checked the camera footage, fully intending to make a copy of our tryst. Instead, I deleted the video after watching her cry.

A pang of guilt and remorse washes over me. The metal cap on the glass bottle makes a swirly sound as I unscrew it from the vodka. Alcohol burns my throat as I suck it down, and the vapors work up my sinuses and into my eyes. Fuck me.

Although I’m pretty heated about that boyfriend horseshit, I’m sorry I left things like that. I’m sorry that, sometimes, I’m a rough man. If I knew a better way... or could be other than I am... then I would. The skunky smell of the giggle stick between my fingers wafts around me, and I take a drag, letting the flower do its job and ease the grief in my chest. This shit feels like Tracey all over again. For a moment, I spiral.

I’m back in the house I built, sitting at my kitchen table. My wife sits across from me. Her short blonde hair is still damp from the shower, a shower she didn’t take with me, and the pink silk robe I gave her as a birthday present wraps around her body, molding to her athletic figure. I squeeze the pen in my hand so hard I wish it would snap and ruin all the forms and documents spread across the table we had breakfast at earlier that day. The barrel of the gun presses against my temple as my wife’s lover shoves it into my face.

“Don’t do this, Trace,” I beg.

She laughs, and it’s the coldest sound I’ve ever heard. “Already done. Sign it.”

“They’ll come after you. Sasha won’t work with you, knowing that you betrayed me.”

She’s flippant. “No, they’ll come after you. If Sasha won’t work with me, maybe someone else will.”

I shake my head, knowing we all might be dead soon.

“You were always too ambitious, Trace,” I whisper to the darkness.

I polish off the bottle of vodka, knowing it’s a bad idea. My stomach is already revolting.

Carmella looks so young and sad; it twists something up inside me. I don’t really blame her for being caught between desires. It doesn’t take a leap of imagination to know that what Carmella really needs are the things I’m offering. Yet another man holds the title of being hers, even if he isn’t offering her shit. Is that what I want? To be her... boyfriend?

I snort at the idea. It seems ludicrous. I’m thirty-four years old. Can I still be someone’s boyfriend? Yet the thought of another man calling Carmella his girl, touching her, putting his dick in her... Well, he’s dead already and just doesn’t know it. Fuck it. He’s dead for leaving her on the streets. I’ll wring the life from his pathetic neck myself if he ever bothers to show up.

I can’t tell if this aggression is because of Carmella or Tracey’s lover. Maybe both.

Getting up, I lay down another crumpled hundred next to her. For the trouble I caused. Stumbling toward the kitchen, I groan as the early-morning light trickles through the windows. It’s going to be a horribly long day.

Stopping to puke up all the vodka in the bathroom, I decide it’s probably time to switch to water and wonder, not for the first time, if I’m an alcoholic.

Snagging a bottle of water from the fridge, I chug it, and it, too, comes right back up. I’m a fucking idiot. I’m not going to make it today.

A smell catches my attention and I sniff myself. Sex and alcohol cling to my clothes. I didn’t even wash my face last night after eating Carmella out. It’s definitely a shower day, but a quick rinse wouldn’t hurt.

I’m standing on a stool, splashing cold water from the kitchen faucet onto my dick, when a sleepy Carmella rounds the corner, startling us both.

“What the fuck!” she yells, slapping her hands over her eyes. Backpedaling out of the room, she ducks behind the wall. “Are you jerking off in the sink!?”

My heart sinks. Well, fuck.This was not how I wanted this morning to go. Shaking my head, I ask, “Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know, because it’s easier to wash down the drain or something?”

Technically, she isn’t wrong.Chuckling, I reach for a washcloth to dry my cock. “Sorry, thing’s got to get washed. Speaking of that, when was the last time you cleaned those tits and lips?”

“Oh. My. God. Luke. What does that matter? I wouldn’t do it in the kitchen sink when I have a... guest who could walk in on me!”

I snort and step down from the stool. “Well, I don’t remember you being so modest last night. Don’t know why you’re so shocked at seeing my dick now. You nearly rode it a couple hours ago. But I apologize. It’s an old habit.”

“It’s a habit to wash your dick in the sink?” Her incredulous voice floats back to me.

Stopping in the doorway, I stare at a freshly scandalized Carmella. “Hey, you saw my cock. What did you think? It’s big, right?”

A blush creeps over her shocked face as her jaw drops open. Her lips make a perfect O. Shit, there is her tongue, hot and wet, a deep red instead of pink. I haven’t even had time to kiss those plump lips yet. It reminds me of the deep rose color of her pussy, and while a stab of lust shoots through me, my dick remains flaccid. Fucking whiskey-dicked myself.

“That’s what you ask me after last night? Oh my God, you’re still drunk. Did you drink all night? Luke, what about the store? We need to talk.” Pain flicks across her face.

That’s too many problems and questions for me to process right now.“You know, the last woman who tried to hold me this accountable was my ex-wife. You looking to get wed, sugar?”

Carmella says nothing. Hurt just stares out at me from her eyes.

Waving all that away, I say, ”Okay, fine, chill, sweetheart. I got us. I’ll make some coffee, eat some toast, pound a Red Bull, and we’ll be fine.”

Her eyes cast down to the floor as she nods her head. I can see the disappointment flaring across her face as she tries to hide the quiver in her lower lip. Christ, she is so fucking emotional and I am not currently equipped for this. Grabbing her shoulders, I pull her against me hard and wrap my arms around her in a bear hug.

My head rests perfectly on top of her curls until she relaxes and buries her face into my shirt. Tropical fruits and a soft floral smell wrap around my senses. Tentatively, she places her hands on my hips before wrapping them around my back and giving into the snuggle. We stay like that for a long moment. An ache in my chest that I didn’t even know was there eases, while she holds me back.

I only want good things for Carmella, things I couldn’t give myself: safety, peace of mind, and, occasionally, my dick if she’d stop running from me. I don’t have to know all of her past to know she got the raw end of the deal, and I’m not looking to make it worse. Nuzzling my face into her messy curls, I breathe deeply, filling my lungs with her scent.

Her muffled voice floats up to me. “Why are you still drunk?”

My mind flickers back to me leaving, enraged that she had the gall to tell me she had a boyfriend mid-sex, then chase me down, only to tell me no again by slamming a door in my face.

I could tell her I’m still drunk because I’m a loser that had every intention of fucking another woman last night, couldn’t get my cock to work, left the bar, and pulled over at the beach so I could puke my guts up. And I stayed there, sitting pathetically in the sand, until I could drive. Honestly, I don’t even know how I’m standing right now. I’m saturated with so much liquor that the hangover shakes have kicked in and my whole body quivers. But that story has more red flags than green ones, and I am pretty sure that it won’t make her feel better.

Telling her I get drunk because I’m lonely, traumatized by a shitty childhood, a slew of shitty marriages, and trying to move hundreds of thousands of drug and blood money through a used furniture store, and I’m low-key losing it, isn’t going to be reassuring either. Especially when I tack on the fact that the Bratva is breathing down Sasha’s neck, and he, in turn, is breathing down mine because both of our asses are on the line... Where was I going with this?Oh. Yeah, that doesn’t seem like a suitable answer either.She probably thinks I’m an alcoholic.

I have nothing, so I just hug her tighter.

“Is it because of last night? If I’m making you miserable...” She pauses and tries to pull away, but I don’t let her. The tears in her voice are thick. “I can leave. I won’t bother you again.” Her voice is soft and small.

Fuck, I need to sober up.“No, it’s not you. I drink ‘cause of my own bullshit. Nothing to do with you, caramel drop.”

“Promise?” she asks.

I squeeze her as tight as I can, molding her to me. “Promise. Why would you think that my drinking has anything to do with you? You being here is the highlight of my day. If I could, I would spend all my time with you. You are the only good thing I have going in my life, and I don’t want you to leave.” The confession is out of my mouth before I can shut the fuck up.

Good job, Luke. She rejects you, and here you are pouring out your heart and soul like a sad sack of shit. Might as well give her a knife and show her where to carve out what Tracey left of you.

“A foster dad I had used to blame his drinking on me. He told me I made the home rotten, and the only way he could be happy is if he drank around me. And all my aunt’s boyfriends are drunks because she is also a drunk, and I just...” She trails off and shrugs.

I close my eyes against the battering rage that surges in me, threatening to drown out all common sense. I tuck Carmella closer. “What was his name?”

“Who?”

I look down at her. “The foster dad. Do you remember where he lives?”

Whatever promise of violence is written in my face causes her to still under my hands. She pales as her lips squish together and she shakes her head. “I don’t remember.”

We both know that’s a lie. Sharp, angry pain slashes across my chest, and I breathe through the discomfort. It’s probably for the best. Getting myself tossed in jail for beating up some stranger does nothing to help my girl.

I rub soothing circles on her back as I tuck her into my arms. Those little motions seem to ease both of us.

I control my voice when I speak. “He was an asshole. I’m an asshole, and you aren’t rotten. His drinking started long before you. Only fucking scum of the earth blame their adult problems on a kid. Gutless. Dickless sack of shit. He wasn’t even a real man, and all you got to do is say the word. I’ll find him and remind him of that.”

She squeezes me and rubs a little circle on my lower back, mirroring my attempts at comfort. That’s sweet, but I’m not the one who deserves it. I smile to myself, and as much as I am loath to stop touching her, I need to. She has earned some space from me this morning.

Stepping back, I keep my hands on her shoulders. “Okay, I am sorry about last night. Can we have a do-over this morning?” I ask. She nods.

“Great. Good morning, Carmella. Did you sleep well?”

Her mouth twists into a sad, tearful smile, and she wipes at her face with her sleeve. “Good morning, Luke. I did a little. How about you?”

“I haven’t actually been to sleep yet, but that’s alright because caffeine, food, and beautiful ladies like yourself exist. If a rough day with little sleep is the price I have to pay to enjoy those things, so be it.”

She gives me a genuine smile, and it makes her entire face brighten. My hands have a mind of their own as they brush her sandy-colored curls behind her ear. Twisty locks smooth between my fingers and I admire the thick, silky texture. I make a mental note to get her a stylist, a good one that knows how to cut curls.

“I can make you coffee and grab the bleach,” she offers.

“Planning to poison me already?”

Cocking her hip out, she folds her arms over her chest with a renewed attitude. “Planning to disinfect the sink.”

“Ahhh, I will do that. It’s my custard launcher, after all.”

Her eyes widen in horror as her face slips into that familiar scandalized look. “Custard launcher! Luke, that’s disgusting. Who says shit like that?”

I burst out laughing, which sets off a migraine that’s akin to having my skull fucked by a garden trowel. If she only knew how much custard having her around produced. Gasping for air, I turn and wander back into the kitchen as my stomach clenches and threatens another round of vomiting. “I need ice and cold water.”

“You need a drink?” she asks, following me. Stoppering the sink, I dump a fresh bag of ice into it and turn on the cold water.

“No, it’s for my face,” I say before plunging headfirst into the icy water.

Making the executive decision to wait until noon to open the store was the best thing I’ve done all day. Not my finest moment, to be sure, or my most responsible, but at least the hangover shakes have passed.

I can hear the TV playing from the front of the store, and empty microwavable mac ‘n’ cheese packages sit on the countertop in the kitchen. Grabbing a pot of cold coffee, I pour a cup and stick it in the microwave.

A berry-flavored Gatorade sits chilling in the fridge, and I unscrew the lid, gulping down half the beverage before rooting around in the drawers for ibuprofen. The microwave beeps just as soon as I find the pill bottle. Swiping a sleeve of crackers, I stumble to the microwave and take out my coffee. Burnt orange pills tumble into my hand and then my mouth as I chug down the cup of go-juice, praying both the pills and caffeine kick in at the same time.

It’s time for a shower. I can feel it. Been a couple days since Carmella and I went to the truck stop showers, and marinating in my tequila-vodka sweats probably isn’t getting me any points in the hygiene department. Carmella probably needs one as well after the sticky mess I made of her. I chuckle at the memory of how she sounded riding my face. Shit, I’ve had multiple pussies on me in the last twenty-four hours and a sink rinse off only goes so far. A flash of disappointment on the face of the blonde barfly as she learned I couldn’t get it up flicks across my mind. My nose crinkles up in disgust at myself as I try to dislodge the memory of trying to stuff my limp dick in her and it folding up like some sad, broken accordion. The self-loathing is real.

Grabbing the hangover cures, I head toward the show floor. Hopefully, caramel drop is dressed and ready to start the day.

Carmella’s giggle and perky voice bring me up short before I step out onto the floor. My eyes narrow on her. Sitting at the desk with the phone to her ear, she spins in a circle, tangling and untangling herself in the landline wire. “No, it’s all good.” She laughs. “I just hadn’t heard from you and was worried.”

Steam rolls out of the cup of java as I wait in the hallway and eavesdrop.

“I’m so sorry about all that. I feel like it’s my fault.” She pauses. “Well... yeah, I know. And yeah, she is. It doesn’t make me feel any better, though.” She blows out a breath and spins again. “So, like I was saying last time, I’m fine, and I found a place to stay. I also got a job now.” She hesitates, biting her lip. “Umm, yeah, it’s going great. It’s that used furniture place off Seadrive Blvd in White Cove.” Another pause. “Mmm hmm, that one. The owner gave me an advance to buy some stuff, but I have to pay him back.”

Never in my life have I asked for a single penny back from her.

She leans forward in the chair. “Of course, he’s been kind to me, so I’m going to stick around and work off my bill.” She picks up a pencil and rolls it in her fingers.

“Where am I staying? Um, it’s with this girl from school. You don’t know her. She moves in different circles. Real nice. Her name is Lucy.”

I snort and realize she is probably talking to the “boyfriend.” It’s not a stretch of the imagination to know who Lucy is. She lies to me and to him. Liar liar, pants on fire.

I don’t like her tone. It’s too perky. Flirty even? Leaning against the wall, I watch her twist the phone cable in her fingers and laugh. She uncaps a tube of ChapStick and runs it along her lips before rubbing them together and grinning. Damned woman looks like she just got invited to a fucking ball and the glass slipper fits. Or some stupid fairy-tale bullshit. She grins ear to ear and giggles in a way that makes me want to snip the landline running to the phone. Can’t fucking flirt if the phone doesn’t work.

It’s got to be the boyfriend. He must be who she’s been calling to check in with. What fucking excuse could he possibly have that earns him a giggle and an easy pass while I’m over here arguing with this little firecracker on the daily? Where he’s fucking been while she’s sleeping on the streets, breaking into places, all skin and bones?

I’m going to grind this chump ass motherfucker’s skull into dust.Fucking sack of shit. Useless cuck. And he still has the balls to sniff around Carmella. The only silver lining I can figure is that if he hasn’t come around yet, then he probably isn’t going to start now. That eases the angry wasp zipping around in my chest somewhat until she says, “Yeah, I’m available tonight.”

The. Fuck. You. Are. Maybe you’re not banging me... yet... but you sure as fuck aren’t going to bang this guy, either.

I startle for a moment. So… I guess I have my answer about what I want from Carmella.

Stomping around the corner, I beeline it to where she sits. “Carmella, get off the phone. We have to open the store.”

She spins, looking like a deer caught in headlights, and nods, acknowledging my order. She leans forward, rising out of the seat to hang up. “Oh, hey, my boss just walked in the door. We have to open now. Yeah, I’ll talk to you later.”

The. Fuck. You. Will.

She hangs up the phone and I pass her the keys, ordering her to unlock the doors and turn on the open sign.

When she returns to the counter, the keys make a scratching noise as she slides them back to me. “How are you feeling?”

“Like death warmed over. I need a shower. You need a shower. We will do that tonight after dinner. How about you bust out that new Crock-Pot and throw in a roast?”

She shifts her weight and fidgets with some papers. “Sure, that sounds great. Um, what time will we be back?”

“Why, you got plans smelling like that?” Her eyes snap open and she sniffs herself.

“Is it bad?”

I want to be mean, but seeing her so alarmed gentles my tone. “No, it’s not bad. You never smell bad, but we should wash up and do laundry.”

She considers this a moment. “Yeah, that’s fair. I could use a hot shower. Plus, my curls are getting dry again and I want to use that deep conditioner you got me. We won’t be out late, right?”

If I have my way, you’ll be busy the whole night.I give her a noncommittal nod. I bought her a whole slew of essentials during our last grocery trip, plus food and a few cooking tools. There were other things, too, that she didn’t notice I picked up, like a fresh box of condoms.

I follow the logic of wrap it before you tap it, especially when I pick up strays. The reality is, I don’t know what Carmella brought in with her. My caramel drop might not even have all her shots, or worse, based on that phone conversation. I never considered that she might be currently fucking someone. She could have some pussy of the wild between her legs. And I nearly raw dogged her on the table. I drag the palm of my hand down my face and groan. The “boyfriend” complicates issues.

As Carmella wanders around the store, busying herself, my curiosity gets the better of me. Rolling my chair over to the phone, I punch the redial button and the call goes through. I wait a couple seconds and check to see where Carmella is. A deep male voice answers the phone. “Hey, beautiful, miss me already?”

“I got the wrong number. Was trying to call a business associate of mine.” I drop the phone in its cradle, more pissed off than ever. Whoever he is, I already don’t like him.

The next couple of hours pass by painfully slowly. However busy last week was, today is dead. I go over a few things with Carmella and help her bring in a couple of new pieces from the shop onto the show floor.

“Thank fuck it’s five,” I say, locking the doors and turning off the open neon sign. The nighttime blue neon flickers unhappily. Dammit, I forgot to call that light repairman. Carmella is turning into a huge distraction. Scowling, I open my phone and scroll down to the messages between the technician and me. Punching the call option, it rings a couple times before going to voicemail.

“Hey, it’s Luke from Luke’s Furniture, the job you supposedly did a week and a half ago. You said the neon was fixed, and it wasn’t. I’m none too happy about it. I paid you and have nothing to show for it. Call me back when you get this.” I hang up. Dude has till tomorrow before I go knocking on doors.

I’m in a sour ass mood and the idea of waiting in line at the truck stop for a used shower room irritates my sensibilities. I want some privacy, and I want to relax. Preferably with Carmella. Weighing our options, a wonderful dirty seedling of an idea takes root in my mind before blossoming into a full evening of events for my girl. I can work with this. I chuckle. She’s going to hate it, though.