Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CADE
“You won’t mind if I finish my misdemeanor. I really need some butt plugs.”
I smell bacon and guilt.
Silas and Charlie keep exchanging glances. And not in a we-just-fucked-around way.
They’re up to something.
We found them asleep this morning on the cushions in the Treat Tent. They said they didn’t want to wake us last night.
Eily smiled, wrapping her arms around Silas’s neck, asking him with delight in her eyes, “What did y’all do?”
“We went gigging,” he answered her.
Eily believed it, and so did Daniel. We all know how Silas and Charlie love flounder gigging. You have to do it at night.
But I noted Charlie’s flip-flops. She’s too smart to fish in those. Same with Silas.
And I’m a mom to little ones. A flea fart could wake me. So, I know they never came into the tent overnight to grab their deck shoes.
Stalking the breakfast buffet, I grab a pumpkin latte, a pumpkin muffin, a pumpkin waffle … you know? ’Tis the season. Go gourds or go home.
Finally, when she’s alone, I pounce.
“I smell cunty tricks.”
Charlie smirks, choosing a green Frankenstein smoothie. “If you’d start using soap when you shower, you wouldn’t have such a pungent pussy.”
“Don’t flip my witch switch.” I elbow her. “You’re up to something.”
“Holster your strap-on. I’m closed for breakfast.”
“Eily didn’t notice your flip-flops, but I did. The hell you and Silas went gigging last night.”
She knows I’m just giving her hell.
Not Charlie. Not one of us would ever hurt the other. But sneak around and try to pull off a surprise?
Pile on a life sentence for that guilt.
Proving my point, she doesn’t answer me.
“I have ways of making you talk.”
Looking me dead in the eye, she sucks her green smoothie through an orange paper straw. “Uh-huh. And I have ways of making you come.”
“I won’t put out until you tell me.”
Laughing, she answers, “That’s why I have four other partners.”
“I’ll get Redix to go on a fuck-strike, too.”
“Hmmm,” she jokes. “Guess I’ll be calling Stacey and her husbands more often. Or making more trips to Atlanta to visit Blair, Beau, and Colton.”
“Oh, come on.” I sag, almost dropping my waffle. “I need two more cups of coffee to put up with this shit. Just tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“Tell me what you and Silas are planning.”
Slowly, a warm smile crinkles her scar. In a whisper, she answers, “A fertility ritual.”
Lightning fast, I figure it out. “For Eily? For tonight?”
“Yeah,” she answers. “But one of us needs to go to Delta’s today. And it can’t be Stacey. It’ll be too obvious if she leaves.”
I glance around the Treat Tent. All are gathered around tables, laughing and drinking coffee.
It’s our last day. No one wants to leave, not even Colton. Rumor has it he finagled his way out of practice today.
“I’ll go. I can say I need to check on the girls. That granddad ran out of diapers or something.”
“That’s lame,” Charlie answers. “Your dad is the best babysitter ever. Eily will see right through it.”
“A yeast infection! I can say I need some cream.”
“This ain’t amateur hour. You know we stocked our fuck pharmacy.”
“Fine then,” I sigh. “Come up with something better. But it should be me. Other than you and Silas, I know the tides and the water. I can get to the mainland fastest.”
Charlie twists her lips, her stare scanning our group. Logic fires across her sapphire eyes. Maybe a little smoke wisps from her ears, too.
“Cummings,” she says, whipping her stare back at me. “We say you’re going to confront him at Delta’s. It’s Thursday. He should be there, according to Stacey, and you’ve been such a cop about him. Why not? Eily would believe it.”
“Eily would be pissed. I can’t rain on her spooky parade. ”
“Then say you won’t confront him. Just tell her you want to meet him. To make sure he’s legit and to encourage him to terrify the men tonight.”
I nod. “If that pans out, Eily would love it. And you’re not wrong. I want to meet this man.”
An hour later, I’m whipping the rope free of the cleat while Eily stands on the dock, begging me, “Just don’t pull a Cade.”
“A Cade ?”
“Yeah,” she says while Silas unties the bow of his boat, ready to send me on this secret mission. “Just don’t kill Cummings if you think he’s bad. I mean … he is bad but in a sweet way.”
“In all my years, I’ve never met a sweet criminal.”
This ruse of Charlie’s is actually working because I’m not lying.
Yeah, I’m going to Delta’s to pick up supplies for a surprise ritual tonight.
But hell yes, I’m going to Delta’s to confront a mobster, too.
The only thing I’m afraid of? The traffic I may fight on the bridge.
“Cade, I’m serious.” Eily’s fists are on her hips, her pumpkin sunglasses making it hard for me to take her seriously. She’s too cute. “Do NOT piss off Cummings. I kinda like him.”
“You like him because of his fake name.” Silas tosses the fenders overboard, prepping the boat to launch. “ Cummings. That’s fucking classic.”
“No, I like him because he’s good at scaring the shit out of y’all.”
“Then where has he been the last two nights?” I ask .
“That’s his tactic,” she answers. “He keeps you guessing.”
“Well, I’m not guessing. I’m getting answers.” I grip the key, turning over the engine. “And I’ll be back in a few hours. Text me if y’all need me to pick up anything.”
Quickly, Silas slices me a look.
He’s already schemed with Stacey about what she has in stock at her store. He’s already texted Vale, the store manager, who’s prepared a box for me to pick up.
Will I happen to stumble up to the third floor and, whoops, pick the lock on a secret black door?
Does a queef make a sound?
Two hours later, I’m standing in Delta’s front parlor. Five large, flat black boxes are stacked by my feet.
“Thanks for this,” I tell Vale.
“You’re welcome.”
Of course, her smile is identical to Blair’s. Except I notice a new piercing—a diamond Monroe above her left lip. She didn’t have it the last time I shopped here.
“You really saved us. It’s going to be a hot, haunting Halloween eve.” I gotta ask. I can’t be a bitch. Not to another woman. “Do you want to join us? And witness your spell?”
Barely, Vale laughs.
No, she’s forcing it, tossing her thumb over her shoulder.
A man, an older, hot man with glasses, sits at her desk. He tries hiding his glance, but I catch it.
He’s clocking me.
“I gotta pass,” Vale says. “I’m in the middle of an audit. Our accountant has me chained to my desk.”
The man in glasses coughs.
“All night? ”
“Yeah,” she twirls her long black braid, “all day, all night—I’m his prisoner.”
“Ahem.” He clears his throat again.
“I mean, we gotta stay,” Vale says. “The IRS will kill me if we don’t resolve this taxing issue.”
I search her gray eyes. Vale’s trying to tell me something. She’s not in danger. Not imminently, I can tell.
But something is going on.
Something with the accountant.
“Well, I’m good at math,” I offer. “I did some forensic accounting for the Sheriff’s Department back in the day.”
“We’re fine.” A gruff voice erupts from the elegant man, and I confront his stare.
He leans back in his chair, lifting his chin, a smile ghosting his bearded lips. “The IRS won’t touch her,” he assures, “ not while I’m around.”
Plot, meet the thickening.
This guy?
He’s clearly more than an accountant. Or at least, he’s the hottest fucking one I’ve ever seen. Sexy, mussed, light brown hair. A shadow of a dark beard. Brown, bedroom eyes under a stern brow. And pillow lips your cat wants to pounce on.
I’d evade my taxes for his internal audit.
Instead, I shrug. “Suit yourself.”
Stacey said her historic Charleston row house is haunted. Probably. But rife with testosterone, mobsters, and taxing issues?
I’m on to something.
“Can I shop?” I thumb toward the stairs. “I want to pick out something special for Eily.”
Vale winks. “Please, be our guest.”
“Ms. Monroe,” Mr. Taxing My Clit snarls at Vale, “the upper floors are closed this afternoon until we finish inventory of your assets.”
“Not for Cade,” Vale chirps, sounding thrilled to defy him. “The Six are loyal customers. Stacey trusts them.”
Vale flits her hand toward the stairs. “Me cunty casa, es su casa.”
A bilingual invitation? That’s all I need.
With a cheerful wave, I grab a black leather shopping basket and stroll past Mount Beefcake, aka Jace, one of Delta’s two bodyguards.
Every time I see him … I swear I’ve seen him before.
Leisurely, I climb the wooden stairs. Since the upper floors are apparently closed this afternoon, I’m free to snoop.
On the second floor, I aim for the ivory lacquered drawers in the showroom, quickly selecting two white gowns for Silas to choose from. Surely, he’ll love one for Eily.
Folding them in the basket on my arm, I strain my ears. Downstairs, it sounds like Vale is giving the accountant some lip.
Good.
Sorry, but I can just tell…
That man is hotter than the Devil’s boxers, but his ass is so tight he’d skin a fart.
Quietly, I leave the showroom and sneak up to the third floor. At the top of the landing, on the right, is the infamous “classroom,” as we jest. It’s where Stacey and her husbands, or guests, can give or receive “educational” demonstrations of the various sex furniture and toys that Delta’s sells.
Gotta say: best oral exam ever.
But not all are allowed. Not all are permitted up here.
Evidenced by the camera monitoring the doorway. Stacey doesn’t allow cameras in the room, but she does ensure safety. Jace, downstairs, can see who enters. So, I make sure he catches me doing so.
I set my basket down and take a moment to admire one of the leather sex chaises in the room. I’ve been wanting to get one. And if our kids or guests ask what it is, it’s mommy’s “yoga chair.”
You know … for downward doggy style and all.
Waiting a few minutes, I listen again and hear the din of voices downstairs, so I slide against the wall, right under the camera above my head. At this angle, it can’t see me.
At the opposite end of the third-floor landing, a black door calls me like The Bachelorette .
Magnolia Cade Bryant, pick me. Pick me. Pick me.
Sliding out the decorative spider bobby pin holding back my bangs, I pry it open with my teeth. Squatting down, I wedge the metal into the brass keyhole.
Do I know how to break into shit? Guilty.
Am I a former cop? Guilty.
Do I give a shit? Not guilty.
Because guilty skills can do good sometimes.
Yeah, I taste the hypocrisy.
According to Stacey, Michael Cummings and his crew are guilty criminals who do good work, so how am I any different?
Meh. I shrug. That’s why the Fifth Amendment is so much fun.
I’m protected from self-incrimination and being forced to?—
“Can I help you?”
Fuck me, Jesus and Joseph. You, too, Mary.
Please tell me Vale Monroe grew a set of balls in five minutes and suddenly sounds like a dangerous man .
“Uh, yeah.” Don’t look. Don’t look. You’re fifty shades of guilty. “I was hoping to find some more butt plugs in here. Our glow-in-the-dark ones don’t work. Then again, butt cheeks get in the way, so what do you ex?—”
“So, you need to pick a lock to satisfy your sphincter’s needs?”
Sphincter?
Someone plays with Wordle. Or asses. Or both.
“Well, if you knew my husband’s fetishes, I’m hoping there’s a candy store behind this door, too.”
Yes, I’m still squatting. Yes, I’m still facing a keyhole with my guilty spider bobby pin in it. Yes, I can do this all day.
Unless I have to pee.
“I’m well aware Mr. Redix Dean is a very lucky man to have a wife like you so devoted that she commits felonies for him.”
Did you hear his asshole tone?
Yeah, me too.
This fucker ain’t talking about this damn door.
He knows.
And I’m pissed.
Slowly, I rise, turning to face him. Stifling my surprise, it’s not the mysterious Michael Cummings I expected.
No…
I’m glaring at the Anal Accountant.
Black-horned glasses that define a sexy nerd. Starched white button-down that could stand on its own. A gold and navy silk tie knotted so tight it’d survive a hurricane. Tailored navy pants with a razor-sharp front crease over his muscular quads, his cuffs breaking perfectly over spit-shined brown leather oxfords. Damn, I can see my reflection in them .
This man not only counts money, he has it.
And yet, something’s off about him.
But here we go…
“Breaking and entering isn’t a felony.”
It’s his intensity that’s odd. Is it scary? Or sexy? Dang it, it’s Halloween. My horny cat can’t tell the difference.
“I wasn’t speaking of breaking and entering,” he says, casually lacing his hands framing his crotch.
Is he protecting his bulge? Or showing it off? Tough call, but it adds up to be a big one.
“Well, then. You won’t mind if I finish my misdemeanor. I really need some butt plugs.”
“Sergeant Bryant, did you not complete your anal phase of psychosexual development?”
I scoff, “I wasn’t aware they taught Freud’s bullshit in Business School.”
“And yet,” his lush lips tighten, “I’m well-schooled on how they teach law enforcement how to break the law.”
Yep, there’s another veiled threat. And yep, he’s standing so close I can taste his cologne: chocolate musk, sweet money, and one big creamy man muscle.
“So, this is your room?”
Checkmate.
“No,” he answers calmly. “But I know the gentleman who rents it.”
“Who?”
“Someone like you who appreciates privacy.” He’s so fucking hot, he’s cold. “Secrecy. Loyalty. Protection .”
Yeah, I could interrogate. Or I could banter. Both are my favorite pastimes.
But I have an orgy waiting.
“Look, we can whip out our verbal dicks and compare the length of our lexicons for hours. But I have a question that will be answered, and friends waiting for a Whorey Halloween. And yes, I’m willing to commit felonies for the ones I love. Wanna be next?” His brows tick up. “That’s what I thought. So cut the shit and tell me where Michael Cummings is.”
Is that a smile or a smirk?
“I don’t know that name.”
“Oh, so you’re one of those?”
His stare burns.
“One of those who thinks because I have breasts, I can’t smell bullshit?”
He tsks, “Again. Shit. You really have anorectal fixation.”
“I really have an asshole-tell-me-before-I-break-your-dick fixation. Where is Michael Cummings?”
“Umm?” A deep voice cautions. “Do we have a problem, folks?”
Jace, the bodyguard, looms behind Mr. Assmunch.
“No,” I smile at Jace genuinely. “We don’t have a problem. Mr. Anocrat here was just about to tell me where I can find Mr. Michael Cummings, the man who rents this room.”
Taxy Tush cocks a grin while Jace answers for him, “Perhaps I can relay a message to our tenant for you, and Mr. Allen can return downstairs where he’s needed.”
“Mr. Allen ?” I laugh in his face. “Oh, so you’re like Mr. Asshole Allen? And you claim I have anality?”
It’s his turn.
He opens his mouth to say something … but stops.
Then, I swear it happens in slow motion.
Arrogantly, he removes his geeky glasses, and Clark Kent has nothing on him. Before my eyes, he transforms like Superman, but this time…
He’s a supervillain.
That’s when I catch the knavish rake of his eyes and the dark ink hiding under his starched collar. His nipples harden, betraying how they’re pierced, too.
Leaning forward, his lush lips curl, his sneer sounding so sexy while his warm mouth steams over my ear. “If we’re talking fetishes, it’s Mr. Hybristophilia Allen to you, Cade. But, shhh , it’s my very big secret.”
When he pulls away, his smile is pure porn and power.
And, goddammit, I need Google in my brain.
What the hell does hybristophilia mean?
While he returns to his innocent disguise, sliding on his geeky glasses, I address Jace.
But really? I’m ordering Mr. Allen.
“Tell Michael Cummings he has one hour to return Eily Van de May’s call.”
Jace stammers, “May I tell … er… Mister … Cummings what the matter is about?”
Why does Jace stall over that last name? And not as Eily does, like she’s tickled by it?
“Yes,” I answer, brushing past Mr. Allen’s broad shoulder. “Tell Cummings it’s about his next breath if he wants one.”
I take a Sunday stroll back into the sexy classroom to retrieve my basket. On my way down the stairs, Mr. Allen follows me like an ominous shadow.
Do I want to turn around and put him in a chokehold until he confesses? I’d climax to it.
Do I want to disrespect Stacey and her business? No, I trust her too much.
Still, there’s more to this criminal cock, Mr. Allen, than meets the eye, and I’m an addict for the truth. I’ll get my fix soon enough.
In the front parlor, Vale greets me with a hug. It’s like I just gave her a pony. “It’s on the house!” she says of my gowns for Eily.
“Please,” I insist. “Put it on our tab. And next time I’m in Charleston, I owe you lunch. No audit. No excuses.”
“Well, at least let Jace carry all the boxes for you.”
“No. I got it.”
Because like hell if I’ll let Mr. Allen think I’m dainty and dumb.
I lift the teetering pile of boxes with the grace of a hippo, then turn, giving Mr. Allen my model smile. Fortunately, I remember how to fake that like a pro.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Allen.” I wink. “I will be seeing your ass again. You can count on that.”
Take that, Mr. Fuck-You-Philia.
But while I wait with my gift boxes on the sidewalk by the cobblestone street outside Delta’s for my car back to the marina, I slightly stomp, cursing myself.
“Fuck! You did it! You totally pulled a Cade. You verbally twisted that man’s balls. That man who clearly works with Micahel Cummings.”
Eily’s going to kill me.
Maybe Stacey will, too.
In the minutes it takes for my car to arrive, I whip out my phone and look up “hybristophilia.”
The screen warns, “ Hybristophilia: Sexual interest and attraction to criminals, particularly violent ones.”
Twisting my stare back to Delta’s tall front windows, I search for shadows through the white sheers that block the view inside.
But like he’s reading my mind, the curtain pulls back, and Mr. Allen toasts me with a come-hither smile and his cup of tea.
The sexy, sinful, son-of-a-bi …
Wait, I like bitches.
I can be one.
Specifically, to men like Mr. Allen.
By the time I’m back, Silas is pacing the dock. While we tie up the boat, I get an earful.
“Damn, Cade, I’m sweating like a sinner in church. You were supposed to be back an hour ago.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I have to lie. I won’t ruin tonight for them. “The traffic on the bridge was horrible.”
“Do you have the gown?”
“Yeah. I got you two to choose from.” He jumps into the boat while I snap off the lid to the storage bin containing the boxes from Delta’s. Lifting the lid off a black garment box, I show Silas my selections.
He examines the white silk chemise, then the white lace babydoll.
“They’re pretty,” he sighs, exasperated. “But they look like what she wore on our wedding night.”
“You said ‘something virginal,’ and nowadays, the only time a woman wants to be a virgin again is on her wedding night.”
“But she’ll be cold.”
“No, she won’t.” I lift the lid to another, even thicker garment box and show Silas my surprise. “It’s a white, faux fur cape with a hood.”
“It’s perfect!” he marvels. “But how the hell did you get this at Delta’s? It looks like something from a fairytale.”
“Vale said they have lots of Furries.”
“Lots of what? ”
“People with a fur fetish. Or anything fuzzy or whatever. Don’t ask,” I huff. “I’ve had my fill of fetishes today.”
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, and god, I want to tell him about Mr. Allen and Mr. Cummings. I want to tell him that Eily’s “sweet criminal” is on my shitlist.
Shit.
Shit.
No. No. No. I do NOT have an anorectal fixation.
I have a protect-my-family fixation.
“Okay,” I snap the lid back on the bin. “What’s next?”
“I’ll take this to Charlie. She’s been setting up all day while Blair, Scarlett, and Stacey have kept Eily distracted.”
“Distracted with what?”
“They’re in the Treat Tent, with everyone carving pumpkins to take home to all the kids tomorrow. And with Eily and her Dremel tools, that means pumpkin Picassos … and Paw Patrol ones.”
“Aww. Is she really?” It hits me hard. “The girls are gonna love it!”
Why am I suddenly getting choked up?
Oh, I know.
Because Eily’s so sweet like that. She often does crafts with our kids. I don’t even mind when her indigo art turns their little hands blue.
It clenches my heart. I want this so much for Eily and Silas. Our hearts are tethered to the same dream.
Years from now, I can see our front porches in a row, loaded with pumpkins carved by a dozen kids.
Okay. Maybe not a dozen because I’m done at two.
Half a dozen.
Two for me and Redix. Three for Charlie and Daniel. And please, I pray to whatever bewitching ritual we do tonight for at least one child for Silas and Eily .
“So, how can I help?”
Silas rushes, “Can you go to the house and get a lantern? Something for her to carry so she can see.”
“Uh, they make these things called flashlights.”
He rolls his eyes.
Poor fella.
Usually, Silas is immune to stress.
But I have a feeling he’ll be a dad soon because that’s one big ball of bouncing, blissful stress, and he’s getting his first taste.
“Not tonight,” he says. “It’s an old ritual, so no electricity, nothing modern. It’s all lanterns, pumpkins with candles … you get the idea.”
“Oh, my god. That’s going to be so beautiful. She’s going to love it. All the jack-o-lanterns and flickering candles and her in a long, white cape and?—”
“Can we do this Pinterest board later?”
“How do you know about Pinterest?”
“Jeez, Cade.” Silas laughs. “Quit investigating. No cops tonight.” I raise my eyebrow. “Fine. My wife is an artist. If we have a kid, their middle name will be Pinterest. Satisfied?”
I twitch my nose. “Yep.”
“Okay. So, get a lantern for her. And … and … boots! She’ll need her boots. Get her Doc Martens.”
“Doc Martens and bridal lace babydoll? If that doesn’t conjure your cock, a coven, and a conception, I don’t know what will.”
He sighs, a heavy exhale falling from his chest.
Pecking my forehead, he mutters, “How can I tell her I want a baby with her, but she’s really my dream come true? No matter what happens.”
I hug his waist, muttering against his pecs. “You say exactly that. A million times if you have to.”
He kisses my hair. “What if it doesn’t work?”
“What if you have twins?”
He jerks back, shocked.
“Look, you can play the what if game, or you get on with life. You decide.”
Hope finds his face again.
“Alright. Enough wallowing.” I pick up the big bin and shove it into his hands. “Now, go be the baby-making, love liquid sharing, seed-spreading, beefy, breeding, sex shaman you’ve practiced to be your whole damn life. You know how to do it. And might I say,” I blow a kiss, “damn well, so just do it.
“Just love her tonight.”