16. Chapter 10
Dashiell
The Same Day
Every day, Wolfe has wanted to drop me off right at the station.
Every day, I’ve made him park down the block.
No way am I going to let the others see me get out of the swanky black SUV, like some small-scale celebrity.
So far, I’ve been able to keep this fake-dating situation a secret from my coworkers.
I plan to keep it that way.
“What the hell kinda car were you getting out of when you got here?” Vinnie says as soon as I get into the locker room and drop my bag in my locker. “I drove past you getting out on Sanchez. What was that, an Uber?”
He shimmies out of his civilian clothes until he’s wearing just a pair of black briefs, and I ignore the imprint of his cock when I answer, “Just my new…ride situation.”
Ride situation, really Dash? I couldn’t have been any less weird in my answer?
“Huh,” Vinnie says, reaching for his tactical pants. “That’s a really suspicious way to answer that question.”
I groan. “Fine. That’s my, um, driver. I’m kind of dating Lorenzo Diamante, and he wants his driver to take me to work.”
Vinnie has to pick his jaw up from the floor. “What? You’re dating Lorenzo Diamante? The mafia guy?”
“Don’t make a big deal of it,” I mutter, stripping out of my own civilian clothes and finding my uniform.
“Don’t make a big deal out of it? You’re getting mobster dick and you don’t want me to make a big deal out of it?” Suddenly, he grins. “I feel like there’s a joke in there somewhere about being hung like a horse, having fun in bed, and finding a horse head in your bed.”
“Jesus Christ, Vinnie.”
“Not good, eh?”
“Maybe workshop it a bit.” I pull on my uniform shirt. “I don’t think that one’s ready for the stage.”
Vinnie sits on a bench to pull on his boots. “So, is he?”
“Is he what?”
“Hung like a horse?”
I’m thankful for the thick material of my tactical pants to hide my sudden arousal as my mind goes to thoughts of how Lorenzo might be hung.
All the mafia erotica I read about him posited that he basically has the largest dong known to humankind, and the paparazzi photos of him in Speedos suggested that the fan fiction might not be too far off on that hypothesis.
I like to imagine that it’s long, thick, and veiny, maybe curved just the right amount to hit my deepest pleasure, with heavy balls that slap against my—
No.
I should not be thinking about Lorenzo Diamante’s balls slapping against my ass while he fucks my brains out.
Well, there I went and thought about it.
And now my cock is—
“Earth to Dashiell,” Vinnie says, waving a hand in my direction. “Did I lose you daydreaming about your boyfriend’s mob-nster cock?” He grins. “See what I did there? Mob and monster?”
I rub my face, trying to clear my mind of mental pictures of said mob-nster cock. “I see what you did there. No, I wasn’t daydreaming about it. And no, I’m not telling you if he’s hung like a decapitated horse.”
“You’re no fun.”
I lift both of my middle fingers. “You’re just jealous because I’m getting dick and you’re not.”
He stands, comes over to me, and bends down to whisper in my ear. “I prefer giving dick, rather than getting it. Just in case you were wondering.”
And then he leaves the locker room, and for just a moment I wish that I were sexually attracted to Vinnie, because that would be far less complicated than realizing that I’m most definitely sexually attracted to the prince of a mafia empire.
Vinnie, of course, tells everyone else in the station who will listen that I’m dating a mobster, and it takes less than an hour for the “mafia wife” jokes to start—going so far as Nick looking up faux fur coats I could buy and wear.
Thankfully, an emergency call interrupts the joking before anyone else can ask me about the size of Lorenzo’s penis.
There’s a multi-vehicle pileup around the Alemany Maze, the messy interchange between Route 101 and Interstate 280.
By the time we roll up, it’s already a mess. Five cars are crumpled together in a miserable collage, a sixth and seventh are rammed together just before the mess, and an eighth is pulled off to the shoulder with its hazards blinking uselessly.
Police cars and another ambulance have already arrived, and traffic has slowed to a non-starting crawl off to the side.
Another company’s captain is already running point, and we fill in the needed gaps.
“Ladder truck’s on extraction there!” Nick calls out, pointing to one of the cars. “Azul, Haden, get eyes on any injuries. Charlie, work with me on the driver’s side door. Dash and Vinnie, passenger’s.”
The work takes over. My whole body narrows to the minutest specifics, like the hydraulic spreader becomes another limb.
I use it to pry open the doors, then find myself kneeling and talking calmly to a frightened woman maybe younger than me, telling her that it’ll be okay while Vinnie works with his tools to free her.
“Everything is gonna be fine,” I promise, while assessing her for serious injuries.
Thankfully, looks like she’ll walk out of here with only a bruised collarbone and a cut above her eyebrow.
“We do this every day. I know that sound is fucking awful, but it’s a good sign.
I promise. It means Vinnie—this is Vinnie, an idiot when it comes to flirting, trust me, but a wizard with a life-saving tool—it means Vinnie here is making some good progress on getting you out. ”
In the end, it takes more than ten minutes of careful work to get her out. Her side of the car is all but destroyed and we have to be very delicate in our work.
My phone buzzes on the drive back.
Yes, sir: Are you all right? The dispatch radio mentioned a collision on the 280.
I stare at the message for a moment, vaguely annoyed by it.
Me: What are you, stalking me now?
Yes, sir: I don’t have to stalk you. I’m using the dispatch radio.
Me: I don’t think that means you’re not stalking me.
Yes, sir: You didn’t answer my question.
Despite my better judgment, I find my inner brat coming out, wanting to needle him and irritate him because I feel irritated.
Me: No, I didn’t. I don’t owe you an answer.
Yes, sir: One of these days, Dashiell, you’ll learn to obey me.
Teach me, I want to type. Teach me to obey you, punish me when I don’t, and praise me when I do.
Teach me to worship your very feet, to kiss the ground you walk on, to open myself up for you to be used for your pleasure and for none of mine.
Teach me to be a vessel, a tool, and use me in whatever ways you want, discard me when you’re done like I’m filth, then always pick me up again to treasure me.
Instead, I type:
Me: Maybe.
Yes, sir: Dashiell. Either answer my question—are you okay?—or I’m sending two of my men to the station to check on you when you get back.
Me: Would I be able to text you back if I wasn’t okay? Think about that!
Yes, sir: Someone needs to teach you to answer a question the first time.
Me: Oh, no. Have I been a naughty boy?
I watch the typing bubbles appear and disappear on my phone several times before we pull into the station. Finally, I convince myself that he’s probably not going to answer, and that it’s probably for the best.
When I’m taking off my gear, I notice a message on my phone, and immediately after have to go to my bunk room to take care of something…personal.
Yes, sir: A very, very naughty boy.