CHAPTER 13 #2
Charlie Thompson never walks away from a kingdom.
Not when there’s blood to spill and power to claim.
The conversation drifts, Mr Lewis’s voice fading into the background as he organises dates, but my focus is elsewhere.
My hand slips into my pocket, fingertips brushing against smooth plastic – the black lipstick.
Her lipstick. I twirl it between my fingers, rolling it around like Stella’s just going to appear.
I still feel it – the weight of it – the connection to her, and the ghost of where her lips touched it.
I push back into my chair, clearing my throat and mouth to Mr Lewis, ‘Need a minute.’ He barely acknowledges me, too consumed with the plan he’s weaving.
I step out, my stride steady, even though my mind is scattered, somewhere else entirely.
The bathroom is quiet, empty, and the tiled wall is cold against my skin. I exhale, pulling the lipstick out from my pocket. I stare at it. Proof she was here. Proof she’s real. The metal clicks, sharp and final, as I flip the door lock shut.
I roll the lipstick between my fingers, wondering if I’m losing my mind, or if I’m just too far gone to care.
Then, without thinking, and without hesitation – I pop the cap.
My mind is already drowning in her. What’s the harm in letting it sink a little deeper?
Just for a moment. I walk towards the toilet, dropping my trousers around my ankles, and close my eyes imagining Stella’s beautiful dark eyes.
‘Look at me while I demolish you,’ I groan, as my right hand clamps around the base of my cock.
My left hand strokes the lipstick, my thumb brushing over it as if it were her lips.
It’s too small to have this much power. I hate it.
I hate that she’s in my head, that her scent still clings to this goddamn lipstick, and how I can picture the exact way she’d drag it across her lips.
The way she’d touch it absentmindedly, the way she’d roll it between her fingers like I’m doing now.
Without thinking, I press my thumb hard against it, pressing it against my cock as if I was forcing it down her throat.
Fuck.
The lipstick smears, crushes, collapsing under the pressure, staining my skin.
It’s a mess now. Just like me. I drop it on the floor, and smash the remnants between my left thumb and forefinger.
With my right hand I pump, hard and fast into the tight hole of my left hand, because I can’t stop wanting more.
The thought of Charlie Thompson’s hands on her – his fingers brushing against her beautifully tattooed skin, his mouth near hers – it’s enough to make my blood boil.
She’s mine. Like in a way that can’t be claimed, bought or taken.
I release into the palm of my hand, breathing slowly, forcing the rage back down – but it sits there, coiled tight.
Zipping up and running my hands in the sink under water, I picture his face.
I picture how easily it would be to crush it, to take back what’s mine, to burn the whole damn operation to the ground just to pry her out from his grasp.
It’s reckless. It’s stupid. It might get me killed.
It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as her.
And soon – real soon - he won’t. Not if I have my way.
I see a stranger looking back at me in the mirror’s reflection.
A man I haven’t seen for years. My eyes are darker than usual, not from lack of sleep, but from something deeper, something burning.
There’s tension in my jaw, and tightness in my throat, like my body is bracing for war.
I see sweat glistening on my brow, a cut to my cheek, and my hands trembling slightly from the fury.
I shove what I can of the lipstick back into the casing, twisting it down, forcing it into some semblance of its original shape.
I flip the cap back on, shove it back into my pocket and straighten my jacket, then swing the bathroom door open.
Shoulders square, pulse steady. The calm before the storm. There’s work to do.
Once the call ended, we set to work. The map of the land sprawls before me, its winding trails and dense forests forming a puzzle only we can solve. Mr Lewis hunches over it, his fingers tracing possible paths.
‘They’ll take this route,’ I say, pointing to a narrow passage flanked by high terraces. Mr Lewis watches as I trace a finger, planning each movement like pieces on a chessboard.
‘Charlie always favours high ground,’ I continue, tapping the ridgeline. ‘If we pressure him here, he won’t retreat, he’ll reposition.’
Mr Lewis eyes me sceptically. ‘And you know this for sure?’
I exhale a quiet laugh. ‘Because this isn’t my first rodeo with the Thompsons.
The Thompson rivalry runs deeper than just the last two weeks, boss.
It’s family tradition.’ Mr Lewis leans back, considering my comment.
He wasn’t around when the feud began – decades back – but he’s heard the stories.
That’s how I know exactly where Charlie plays his hand.
When my father grew too old to keep fighting, he passed the reins to me.
And Charlie? He slid into the role, right where his uncle left off.
‘This year, Mr Lewis, we finish what our fathers started.’ He gives a knowing nod. We spend hours preparing, scattering false trails. The terrain works in our favour – thick forests, deceptive paths. Everything nudges them towards the clearing, towards the Trinity, where the final play unfolds.