Chapter 8
KAIRO
It’s Lucy’s eighth birthday. I decorate the lobby, the elevator, and the hall leading to her apartment with balloons and streamers. Over her door, I hang letters that read ‘Happy Fifth Birthday, Lauren.’ She’s going to love it and be furious at the same time.
I make two piles of presents on either side of her door, all with different L names. All except one. One actually says Lucy, and it’s something super special. I’m having dinner delivered, and I ordered enough for eight people, ensuring that they’ll have leftovers.
Then I’ll bring down cake and ice cream once I’m sure Maria and Lucy have had a chance to celebrate together.
I’m not truly showing these particular tenants special treatment.
In a way, they’re my family. Maria and little Lucy touched me in a way that so many others in need hadn’t before, though I’m not entirely sure why.
I’ve always found myself sensitive to the less fortunate.
Since I moved to Chicago, I’ve made a point of contributing to bettering the lives of those who need help.
Those who are trying and struggling and still can’t seem to catch a break.
I’d already been volunteering and donating for a few years when I happened upon Maria and Lucy. I’ve tried many times over the last four years to figure out why they specifically broke my heart. I don’t know. All I know is that I’ve made them my family. I go out of my way to take care of them.
While in no way being the same set of circumstances, part of me wonders if maybe I feel some parallels between myself and Lucy. Lucy lost her father. I was abandoned to my brother’s care by my parents.
Yes, I lived a fucking privileged life all the same, while Lucy doesn’t have those same luxuries.
Maybe I don’t want Lucy to feel abandoned.
Unlike my parents, it wasn’t a choice for Lucy’s father.
From everything Maria has told me about him, I don’t believe for a second that he’d ever have willingly left his wife and daughter.
There’s something in my chest that says I haven’t quite hit the nail on the head as to why they’re so important to me. Why their happiness is mine to support. But it’s something to do with this line of thinking.
I don’t want her to grow up an asshole with trust issues, the way I did. I’m not sure that has to do with my parents, but who fucking knows?
When I’m finished decorating the building for Lucy, I sit in my apartment and stare out the window.
It’s only Thursday. I should be at work.
But I’m fucking terrified of going into work.
Malcolm will be there. The way he’s peeling away every fucking layer that hides the broken little boy in me is absolutely panicking.
Yet, I fucking want to be there. I want to see him. I want his arms around me, and I want him to give me a fucking orgasm.
I scowl at the park outside and turn away. I hate how he plays my fucking body like it’s his own. He knows how to undo me in the worst, best possible way and fuck my life, I don’t want to stop feeling it. My cock demands I go into the office right now. Just in case Malcolm is there.
I’m going to go into the office because I go into the office every day. It’s important to me that I’m there every day for my crew. For my employees. They need to know that I’ll do anything I’d ask them to do.
I’m not going in to see Malcolm. I should just revoke his access. That’s what I should do.
Apparently, I’m so lost in thought that I don’t realize I’d walked to my office building until the elevator doors open and I’m staring at the window where Carlotta polices the entire floor.
As I step out of the elevator, I hear Malcolm’s laughter, and my entire body stiffens.
A little closer and I can just make out the side of his body leaning against the wall beside Carlotta’s desk as they talk, a big smile across his face.
A flirty smile?
Something inside me feels like it cracks. I hear it. I feel it under my skin. My breath catches, and furious anger surges to the surface, trying to fortify the tattered armor that I mistakenly allowed Malcolm to tear his way through.
Once I’m assured that I’m in control, I let myself into the back and give Carlotta a tight smile. Malcolm looks at me, picking himself up from the wall. I don’t meet his eyes. I don’t address either of them as I head down the hall toward my office.
I’m not in the least bit surprised when Malcolm follows. The door shuts quietly behind him. Before I can sit in my chair, his hands are on my hips. I try valiantly to pull from his grip, but his arms wrap around me in a bear hug, pinning me to his chest.
Once more, I feel those cracks surface. I hate this feeling. I hate my defenses falling, exposing all the soft pieces inside. I try to grip my anger with claws, but it’s slipping away as emotion takes over.
“What’s wrong, baby girl?”
“Get out,” I hiss.
His gentle rocking stops. Inside my head, I’m screaming insanely because if he leaves, I may fall apart entirely.
“Is that what you want?” Malcolm asks.
Catching my breath proves a little more difficult than I’m willing to admit, which means, for just a second, we’re both saved from whatever bullshit might spill from my mouth. I say things to hurt people. That’s what I do.
“No,” I grit out.
“Tell me what’s wrong, baby,” he murmurs. I feel his thumb rubbing gently along my hip bone. His lips press softly to my neck.
“Why are you here?” I hiss.
“To see you. To spend time with you.” His answer is immediate.
“Then why are you—” I can’t get the words out. They sound foolish.
“Waiting for you while Carlotta tells me about her niece learning to tell jokes?” he asks. “Same answer. I’m waiting for you. To spend time with you.”
My inhale shakes. I hear his words. I do. I think I even believe him. Carlotta’s niece is fucking hilarious, and she’s an expert at delivering these stories in such a way that I’m laughing until my cheeks hurt.
“I’m here to see you. That’s the only reason I’m still in Chicago, Kairo. Don’t listen to all the voices in your head telling you otherwise. Listen to the words I’m telling you.”
Jesus fucking Christ. He sees right through me.
Malcolm hugs me tightly as I struggle through breaths that refuse to come smoothly. He continues to murmur everything that I need to hear. He’s here for me. Only for me. Period. The more he talks, the easier I breathe.
Until I feel fucking foolish. God, what’s wrong with me?!
“Sorry,” I mutter.
He shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. I’m sorry you thought I was here for any other reason. I should have been clearer about my intentions.”
I scowl, something he likely sees in my reflection in the window. Which only makes me scowl more. Fuck. He’s watched my mess of emotions over my face this entire time.
Malcolm turns me around, and I struggle because I don’t want to look into his eyes. He’s already seen all those ugly pieces of me over the last ten minutes. He cups my face gently and kisses me softly, thankfully allowing me to close my eyes.
“My only interest is you. Okay?” he asks, forcing me to meet his eyes.
I nod. Once. A single sharp bob of my head.
“I’m proud of you for working through the truth of what’s bothering you, Kairo.” His calloused thumbs rub against my skin, over my beard. “I know that was difficult, and I’m so fucking proud of you, baby girl. So brave.”
Fucking fuck. I hate how his compliments make me feel warm inside. Like the sun is brushing my skin. I press my lips together, trying to keep it inside.
“What do you want as a reward for telling me a difficult truth, Kairo?” Malcolm asks.
He doesn’t ask seductively. He asks indulgently. I can hear the pride in his voice. He isn’t just saying shit to make me feel good. He’s also telling me the truth. This was a weird exchange of communication that makes me really uncomfortable.
“I want a hug,” I mutter.
Malcolm tilts his head to the side. “That’s what you want?”
I nod, aware that this part of the game is about reinforcing my good behavior.
Specifically, my words. But I don’t particularly care about orgasms for rewards.
Yes, I ask for them, but it’s not so much about sex.
It’s about shutting off the horrors that keep replaying in my mind from all the videos of masked men committing brutal violence against innocent people.
The loudest thing that combats that noise is Malcolm’s ability to short-circuit my brain with the arousal he feeds me like no one else ever has. Maybe because I don’t let anyone get that close.
“Yes,” I answer. “I want you to hold me.”
God, I hate that tone. I hate the weak tone.
Malcolm kisses me, and for a minute, his mouth on mine, his tongue claiming me, allows me to forget that I can’t stop exposing all the hideous pieces I fight so hard to hide.
Then he picks me up like I’m a child and brings me to the couch, where he tucks me into his arms and holds me like I’m the only person in the world. The only one he sees. The only person he cares about.
For a while, I let that be the truth. I close my eyes and lose myself in the fantasy that I’m Malcolm’s entire world. No one else exists for him. Just me. Only me.
“Are you hungry?” Malcolm asks after a while.
I shake my head.
“I’m starving. Come with me and watch me eat.”
A snort leaves my mouth. I chew the inside of my lip as I consider his request. The word I mean to say is ‘okay’. The words that come out of my mouth are, “Come to my house instead, and I’ll feed you.”
I wince when they’re hanging in the air. So I’m not surprised when Malcolm asks, as he does so often, “Is that what you want?”
He always allows me to change my mind. He gives me several opportunities throughout every single encounter together to change my mind. I might not have seen it for what it was until just now. Malcolm is always seeking my consent by continuously checking in with me.
Why does that make me feel all excited inside? Why is my gut flipping and my heart racing wildly?
“Yes,” I answer. “I’m sorry I told you to get out. I don’t want that.”
Malcolm hums in approval. “That’s my good boy,” he murmurs, kissing me softly.
Not a single kiss. He showers me with kisses until all the tension in my body melts away, and I feel special.
I feel all the things I was trying to convince myself of earlier.
I’m everything Malcolm sees. The only person.
His constant praise of ‘good boy’ has my body humming with excitement. Something he doesn’t miss. But he doesn’t touch me there for long. He always waits until I ask. Which, right now, feels frustrating and sexy and brings tears to my eyes all at the same time.
“My sweet baby girl,” Malcolm purrs. “I will let you feed me at your house. Then I’m going to give you a bath and wash every inch of you until you’re entirely, completely relaxed. I’m going to spoil the fuck out of you.”
I swallow.
“After you feed me. I’m seriously starving. You took for-fucking-ever to get here.”
A smile splits my face before I can stop it.