Chapter 6
And there I am, standing on the street, staring at my crashed car, in a towel, getting snowed on.
I look up at the sky. “Wanna take a shit on my head, buddy?” God says nothing.
We stopped conversing a while back when I realized it was a one-sided convo and people think I’ve really lost it.
When I said they call me Ludi because my last name implies I’m crazy, it’s a joke, but I’m starting to think God threw Isla in my way to test me.
I scrub my face, debating what to do, if I should cool down before I go upstairs and confront her or if I should just go upstairs, bend her over my knee, and introduce my palm to her ass.
I get in my car, grab the wheel so my hands stop shivering, and rev the engine.
It makes some sort of a noise I’d compare to a vacuum and dies.
More smoke rises, and I groan, then lean the back of my head on the headrest.
A honk sounds.
I jerk and hit my head on the ceiling. Motherfucker.
I swear to God, people will die today. Closing my eyes, I grip the wheel tightly and do the mental yoga thing, the same one I do before a job, especially ones where I need to enter homes, hotels, bathrooms, or other places where people could get in the way and I have to make snap decisions and control the situation, such as avoid civilians while completing the job.
A knock on my window makes me snap open my eyes.
I roll it down, and Mr. Homer bends down, gaze quickly landing on my bare chest, the towel, and my one boot.
He scratches his head and opens my door, and I get out.
Mr. Homer pops open his truck, hands me two paper bags from the grocery store, and says, “I’ll take a look at it. ”
“The key’s in the car.”
“Ludi, I’m real sorry about the girl.”
“Oh no,” I say, my face peering between the two fifty-pound bags. “She’s the fucking highlight of my life. Don’t be sorry. Be happy for me.”
“Are you all right?”
I love it when people ask this question when they clearly see or sense someone is definitely not all right. “I am dandy. Dandelion dandy. Carry on, universe. Carry on.”
I spin on my one boot and carefully, slowly, walk up the driveway and climb the steps. At the door, I kick, breaking my own lock, and enter like a Viking might enter the house he’s about to raid. Paper bags on the kitchen counter, I kick off the boot and make it up the stairs in record time.
I walk into the bathroom and barely see Isla’s form through the steam-saturated space. In the tub, she’s playing footsy with the water gushing out of the faucet. Bubbles fly into my face.
I bat them away.
There’s millions of them. She must’ve found more bath bubbles and poured a gallon of it inside the spa. Or Jacuzzi. Like I give a fuck which is which.
She glances at me before shutting the water off with her foot.
If she were a guy, I’d know exactly what to do, but she’s not, so I grip the edge of the sink and lean in.
First, I fix my hair and school my face from murderous raiding Viking to a…
well, me when I’m on the job and need to be cool, taking care of business. “Did you call your dad?” I ask.
“No.”
“Why not?”
She shrugs, gaze out the window. “Did you call your wife?”
I smirk, wondering if I should mess with her just to see how angry she’d get. I decide I will. “Yes.”
“You bastard. Get out of here.”
“It’s my house.”
“I rented it, and you accepted, so it’s mine.”
I fling the towel away and lock the bathroom door. That gets her attention. Isla snaps her head toward me, her gaze lowering to my erection, then back to my face. “What are you doing?”
“Gonna have a bath. Calm my nerves.” I step inside the tub, bend to sit, and freeze. Isla dug through all my things, namely the jacket, and grabbed my piece. The barrel points at my head, and while her hand shakes, I slowly sit down across from her. “Put that thing away.”
“Get out of the tub, the house, my entire life. I never want anything to do with you or any other married man. You disgust me.”
I purse my lips. “If I weren’t married, would you have things to do with me?”
“That’s not the point. Out.” She glances at the door, probably trying to calculate how quickly she can make it there.
I twist her wrist and snatch the weapon, then put it on my side of the spa.
Isla rises, splashing water everywhere, and makes to bolt.
I get up too, grabbing her arms, folding them at the small of her back, and press her against me.
Her soft curves melt against my body, her red cheeks take on more color, her plush mouth opens, and I put a finger over her lips. She took off her glasses, and I get to stare at her stunning green eyes. Clear green. No flecks of yellow.
“Let me go.” She struggles against me, her still-dry hair sticking to her wet face.
I hold her wrists with one hand and move the hair away from her face with the other. “I’m not married.”
“That’s not what she said on the phone.”
“Let’s call her again, hm?”
Isla’s eyebrows draw down, “No, thank you. Once was enough.”
“We’re gonna do it anyway. Calm down and relax.”
Unsure, she bites her lip.
“It’s fair that I get to defend myself, no?
” When I’m certain she won’t bolt, slip on the tile, and break something, I release her and reach for my phone on the sink.
I settle into the bath again, though Isla doesn’t.
She stands, still biting her lip, thinking or planning my death.
And while she does that, I lean back and enjoy the view of her body.
Full breasts, ass, a bump on the belly, Isla’s got curves I’m gonna squeeze as soon as I hang up with my sister.
I dial my sister, who doesn’t answer.
Isla sits, a smirk on her face. “I wouldn’t answer either if I were her. I’d be packing my stuff and selling all yours.”
I chuckle. “Good to know.”
“Pendejo,” she adds.
“You’re gonna pay for name-calling.” I wink.
My sister’s not picking up. On purpose for sure. I spoiled her, and I love her, but when I call, she better fucking answer unless she’s dead or hospitalized. Which I’m sure she’s not.
Isla stares at me. “I can’t believe you. I really can’t believe you’re trying to get your wife on the phone right now. What do you think she’s doing? She’s not your bitch, you know.”
“Okay, this is getting out of control.” My jaw works, and I send my sister a text.
Pick up or lose the ranch house.
The phone rings, and I put my sister on the speaker.
The moment she answers, she laughs. “Oh my God, I was doing my nails and didn’t want to ruin them. What?”
“Did you tell my girl you’re my wife?”
“Your girl? You have a girl? Like a daughter? Because I can’t see you with a grown woman.”
Isla smiles. “Me either,” she says.
“Is that her?” Ivana asks.
“Tell her the truth, or lose the fucking ranch.”
“Don’t be a dick, Stefan. I was just kidding.”
“Tell her.”
“Hi, girl, I’m Ivana, and Stefan is my brother. Unfortunately, as you can see, he doesn’t get jokes. Don’t marry him. He’ll make a horrible husband.”
I hang up the phone and stare at it. Gonna get back at her for this one.
Isla dunks underwater, stays there for a while, and I spread my legs in case she’s eyeballing my balls.
When she comes back up, she gets busy with shampoo, which I let her use, then conditioner, then mask, then I have no idea what’s in that bottle, and she’ doing all this as if I’m not around.
The more I let her think she’s in control of this situation, the less likely she is to bolt.
After what feels like two hours have passed of her hair ritual and my patience has tripped over the wire and I’m gonna blow, Isla rinses her hair. She takes a bottle of shampoo and crawls to me, then squirts some on my hair.
I put a palm against the small of her back and press her body closer, pulling her up at the same time so her tits come out of the water. I lift one and put it in my mouth, regretting my mouth isn’t bigger so I can get the entire thing in there.
She’s got one of those little nipples that poke out of large tanned areolas, and I suck one while rubbing the other with my palm.
Isla stills from washing my hair and throws her head back, and I feel her hips jerk forward.
That’s a pussy flex. That pussy’s looking for dick.
It’s empty, and she’s gonna dry hump me soon.
There will be no dry humping in this cabin.
I switch to the other tit and feel the shampoo sliding from my forehead, traveling to my eye.
Before it stings, I slide underwater, between her legs, and press my mouth on her.
I latch onto her clit, because that’s the only thing that matters, and set a goal.
I need to get her off or die down here with no air and a pussy attached to my face.
While lapping her clit, which is swelling by the second, I pump two fingers inside her to stimulate the soft spot.
Isla’s riding my face. The back of my head hits the seat, and I use it to rest my head so she can sit better.
She does and grinds onto me. I use my other hand to rub her back, then come around to the front, slap her breast, then squeeze the nipple, slap it again, then rub the nipple with my palm.
My palms are rough, so the rub must feel good.
She’s rubbing and rubbing on my face, and I’m pumping my fingers and sucking on her clit, running out of air.
My throat tightens, my lungs start burning, and my instincts scream that I need to come up, but I fight them and really get up into that pussy. She’s not coming.
I got one ace in my sleeve, and if that doesn’t work, I need to breathe or die as the most incompetent pussy eater that has ever lived.
I shove my thumb into her pucker hole.
Isla sits on it, her body stills, her thighs clamp my face, and I stick my tongue inside the channel so I can feel those tremors, taste some liquid before I pass out. Goals. I have them.