4. Chapter Four #2
Bronx stomped his way into his bathroom then slammed the door shut before he pushed his boxer briefs down onto his thighs again. His fingers returned to his shaft and he got to work on himself.
“Damn, damn, damn,” Bronx muttered. Less than five minutes into this quick session and he was already seeing stars as his balls began to lift up and tingle.
He tightened his fingers around his aching shaft and quickened his pace.
The muscles in his thighs and calves were beginning to cramp but no way was Bronx going to stop.
His impending orgasm was close enough to taste and every cell and nerve ending in his body was reaching for it in desperation.
He needed the relief he knew would come from this release.
His fist stroked in a blur of motion, then tiny explosions of light fired off behind his closed eyes as he readied for the climax his work promised.
He bit his bottom lip to keep himself from screaming out loud and gave himself over to the pleasure racing through his body like a freight train.
A few seconds later his orgasm shot from his tip and splashed against the tiled wall of the shower.
His legs were shaking and he was barely able to hold himself up.
He used the shower head to clean off the ribbons of come dripping down the shower wall as the last aftershock quaked through him.
He exhaled loudly and then stepped out of the bathroom on wobbly legs.
His entire body felt like an over-cooked noodle and it took great effort to slip into clean clothes. Ten minutes later, he was clomping down the stairs and headed out the back glass slider to get to the garage.
“I’ll be driving myself over to Dante and Ashton’s— alone , and that’s not open for debate. No idea when I’ll be home, either, so don’t wait up for me, Sweetheart,” Bronx grumbled as he passed Cavalari who was leaning up against a kitchen counter.
“I’ll tail you,” Cavalari offered and started to follow Bronx.
“If you take one step out of this house I will dissect you with a butter knife.”
“Dial it back, numb nuts,” Cavalari scoffed. “You’d think an orgasm would’ve tamed your foul mood.”
“You know what would improve my mood?” Bronx asked. “You giving your notice to Fizzbo.”
“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction, Princess,” Cavalari said with sarcasm. “And we both know you’d miss the hell out of me if I did find another job.”
“I would have an enormous house party to commemorate your departure from my life,” Bronx said as he stepped out onto the deck.
“Isn’t it funny how life worked out for us, Bronxy? After all the years that have passed since New York City and we found ourselves back in each other’s lives again. I’d call that fate,” Cavalari said with sarcasm dripping off each of his words.
“I’d call it the worst kind of torture imaginable,” Bronx argued.
“Or maybe it’s . . . romantic,” Cavalari said and then pretended to be dry heaving on the floor.
Bronx growled at Cavalari in utter frustration and stormed off the deck toward his garage where he housed half a dozen vintage vehicles to drive at his whim.
It wasn’t a huge collection like that of Jay Leno’s caliber, but each car represented different things to Bronx.
They served a purpose for the type of ride Bronx was looking for on any given day to suit his mood.
When he was feeling anxious and frustrated—or pissed off—he’d drive one of his more aggressive cars.
Today he was taking Clarice out to play—his classic black, 1989 Porsche 911 slant nose coupe.
Among his collection he also owned a gold metallic Jaguar E type, a gorgeously maintained Shelby Cobra, a brand new Ford Bronco, a 1969 Camaro SS with a bright candy red paint job and a modern Corvette engine swap, to name just a few of his favorites.
They were priceless to him and some had interesting backstories, like his 1994 Cadillac de Ville which was given to him by his beloved grandparents once he passed his driver’s test and it still smelled like the cigars his Grand Pop used to smoke while he took a young Rory on their many great adventures like fishing, camping, or hunting—even antiquing, although that was mostly lost on Bronx at that age but he tagged along anyway just to spend time with his Grand Pop.
His father was already a raging booze hound by that time, and his mother was showing subtle signs she had cancer, it was his grandparents who stepped in to care for Rory.
They spent many weekday nights and weekends of quality time with Rory and taught him how to survive life when the going got rough.
Once he had some real money, Bronx paid hefty amounts to have an expert restoration crew smooth out the dings, dents, and scratches Bronx himself put into the exterior in his younger years.
He also had them fix a few rust spots and give it a new paint job when all the body work was completed.
The old girl—Rory named her Bernice in memory of his grandmother—wasn’t spectacularly perfect from the restoration but it was the little flaws that kept Grand Pop and Grand Ma’s memory alive in his heart.
Every defect had a story behind it, like the faded come stain on the front seat from his first blowjob with a guy.
Over time the spot had greatly faded but Bronx never forgot it was there on the lower edge of the seat cushion.
It all solidified the ‘no selling’ rule he had with this particular car.
Death would part them and nothing less. The heavy steel bomber was slow as molasses on the highways but she excelled at meandering rides in the country.
She was built for show and she sure was a beauty.
Bronx entered his long garage that housed his precious cars.
He flipped on the special show-room quality lighting to illuminate his pride and joys and took a few seconds to appreciate the artistry and stunning aesthetics of the vehicles housed here.
He moved forward again, passed by Bernice and the Shelby Cobra named Stanley, until he was standing in front of Clarice, his one and only Porsche.
Today he wanted speed and flash which meant it was a ‘top-down’ kind of day.
The Porsche wasn’t new but it was sleek, sexy, and classic beyond words, and most importantly it went from zero to sixty in about five seconds flat.
It wasn’t necessarily those specific car facts that had him writing a fat check on the day of purchase.
He bought this special toy on the merits that a well-known rockstar had been a previous owner.
That was good enough for Bronx and Clarice had been a member of his fleet ever since.
He left his driveway with the wheels of Clarice screeching out a message on the pavement to Cavalari saying, “Fuck you!” Bronx ripped through a few gears to get away from his house as fast as his precious car was able to carry him.
When he was seriously agitated, like he was today, driving Clarice felt like he was floating above the road with his head in the clouds.
Less than a minute away from the house and his mood had improved dramatically.
It was sad to think his home was no longer the sanctuary it once was when he moved in but at least he still had his cars—and his enormous collection of guitars.
He had hundreds and hundreds of them and their value was well into the millions.
They were by far his most precious possessions and consistently soothed his anxious soul.
And frankly, that’s all he needed to exist these days.