43. Wentworth
FORTY-THREE
Wentworth
With Kait gone, I started to go a little stir-crazy. As soon as she disappeared around the side of the house, I went back inside and stood at the living room window so I could watch her ride past it.
And when she disappeared over the rise that would take her back down into the valley, I started thinking about following her. Going after her. Snatching her right off her horse and carrying her back up the mountain.
Her damn horse could find its own way home.
Instead, I draw the heavy curtains closed before going upstairs to check my phone. All I have waiting for me is a voicemail from Delilah telling me that she and Jane, Silver’s best friend, are on their way to kidnap her and take her clubbing for her twenty-first birthday.
If you see us on TMZ, no you didn’t .
Backing out my voicemail, I send Silver a text.
Me: Happy Birthday!
She hits me back almost immediately.
Silver: Thank you!
Her reply is immediately followed by a selfie. She’s standing in her living room in a pair of sweats, Pretty Woman on the TV behind her, the coffee table laden with junk food—Dingdongs, and Twinkies. Doritos and pizza rolls, while she beams into the camera. Delilah and I look nothing alike. She’s petite and blonde like our mother. Big blue eyes and delicate features. She looks like an angel. I’m about as far from angelic looking as you can get—black hair. Black eyes. Enough tattoos to give a biker pause. Add the fact that I’m 6’5 and weigh close to three-hundred pounds, and there’s no way anyone who didn’t know us would peg us as brother and sister. Silver is different.
She has my coloring—olive skin and black hair—and she’s tall for a woman. Save for the fact that her eyes are a luminous gray color that prompted her name, people would have no trouble believing the two of us are related. Laughing at the picture she sent, I text her back.
Me: Holy shit, are those pizza rolls??
Silver: DO NOT TELL DAD!
Our father, Davino Fiorella is the most decorated chef in history. Food is his religion. If he knew his favorite was a junk food junkie he would probably throw himself off the Brooklyn Bridge.
Me: Snitches get stitches. Lol
She sends me a couple of knife emojis followed by another text.
Silver: I’ve been meaning to text you… how are you holding up?
Me: Lilah told you?
Silver: No. Hollywood Buzz told me. Lexi Chase is crying all over the place about how you were the one behind the wheel. Someone needs to shut her up before I decide to fly to LA and do it myself.
Even though it’s not even remotely funny, I bark out a laugh because Silver would actually do it—and more than likely, Delilah and Jane would be right behind her.
Me: My lawyer’s working on it. Just… don’t do that.
Waiting a beat, I type out another text.
Me: Does Dad know?
I hate that I care what he thinks.
That I still, after all the damage he’s done, don’t want him to be disappointed in me.
Silver: If he does, he hasn’t said anything to me about it.
I don’t know if I’m relieved that he hasn’t been paying attention or pissed off for the same reason.
Me: are you going to ask me if I did it
Silver: I’m going to pretend you didn’t just ask me that.
Before I can think of something to say, she sends another text.
Silver: Gotta go. Someone is knocking. I think it’s Jane. I love you. As soon as This is over and you get to come home, We’ll have dinner. 3
Remembering Delilah’s plan to ambush her and take her clubbing, I say a quick prayer that neither one of them ends up in trouble because I’m usually the one who bails Delilah out and I’m in no position to play rescue ranger.
Me: I love you too.
After I hit send, I text Damien.
Me: Don’t come up here tonight. I want to be alone.
Switching my phone off without waiting for a reply, I throw it back in the drawer and slam it shut.
Going downstairs, I make one of the three things I know how to cook—scrambled eggs and toast—for dinner. Loading my plate, I stand at the kitchen counter and stare at the place Kait sat all day, studying, while shoveling eggs and slightly burnt toast into my mouth.
After I’m finished, I rinse my plate and put it in the dishwasher and wash my hands before turning on every light I can find downstairs. Making my way to my makeshift studio, I sit down at the table where I have my supplies spread out. Flipping through the 11x13 art pad that I’ve halfway filled since I’ve been here, to my current work in progress.
Careful not to smudge its predecessors, I find the piece I started this morning. It’s of Kait. The way she looked sitting in front of me on the dock, right before I started drawing her tattoo. Her shoulders bared to the sun. Long wisps of hair dancing in the breeze. The soft curve of her jaw, angled toward me without showing me her face.
It's not the first drawing I’ve done of her.
My portfolio is filled with them. Not as finely tuned as a finished picture but that’s okay. These are for later. For when I’m gone. So that when I want to draw her again, I can remember exactly what she looks like.
Even though the drawing of her on the dock is only half finished, I flip away from it to find a blank page. Heart pounding in my chest, I pull out my pocketknife and careful sharpen my pencils, all the while telling myself that what I’m doing is wrong. That I shouldn’t... but I’m not listening.
The second my pencil touches the paper, I go hard. My cock stiffening and throbbing, every stroke of my pencil bringing to life the image that’s been plaguing me since I saw her sitting on the dock this morning.
Kait, naked and spread out in front of me on the dock. Me, kneeing between her open thighs. Rough, tattooed hands gripped around her hips, tight enough that the tips of my fingers disappear into the soft give of them. The wide pad of my thumb pressed against her clit while I lift them off the worn, sun-bleached wood, so I can fuck her. The angle of the drawing shows me what it would look like to watch my cock disappear inside her wet, swollen pussy. Her full, round breasts pushed high, stiff nipples begging for my tongue. Her back arched. Face turned away. Shoulders digging into the scarred wood beneath them. Her mouth open on a moan only I can hear while I pound myself into her slick, greedy pussy.
Fuck.
Slamming the door closed on any sort of decency or self-control I might have, I toss my pencil aside and stand. Fitting my shaking hands into the waistband of my jeans, I rip them open. Pushing them down just far enough to free my stiff cock, I fist my hand around it on a low groan.
What the fuck am I doing?
I don’t give myself time to answer.
Time to think.
Chest heaving, eyes nailed to the image of me fucking Kait on the dock, I stroke my fist up the length of my shaft. Squeezing the head of it hard enough to hurt, I lean forward, bracing my free hand on the table in front of me while I slide my grip down my cock, palm slick with the pre-cum leaking from its tip. I do it again. And again, my hand sliding and stroking along the length of my stiff, swollen shaft, fast and tight, Eyes pinned to the picture in front of me so I can imagine it’s her pussy I’m fucking That I’m pumping myself into her so hard and deep her thighs start to shake and she moans my name every time I bottom out. The rhythmic snap of it, my hips slapping against her inner thighs with every hard pump, I can hear her. Feel her coming for me.
Went… ohmygod…
“Fuuuck…” Pressure and heat explode against the base of my spine while I come on another rough groan, fist still working and pumping my cock while hot spurts of semen hit the table in front of me. Thick ropes of it lashing across the picture I just drew.
Shit.
Hand still fisted around my cock, Breath raging through my lungs, Heart pounding so hard I swear to Christ I can hear my ribs crack, I stare at the drawing of us fucking on the dock, now covered in my cum.
Throw it away.
Fuck— burn that shit.
I don’t throw it away.
I don’t rip it out of my art pad and carry it to the fireplace so I can toss it in.
I leave it right where it is.
Because if Kait comes back, I want her to see it.
Want her to know how much I want her.
How crazy the thought of fucking her makes me .
Chest still heaving, I tuck myself back into my pants before picking up my pencil again. Using it to write something across the bottom of the page, I turn off all the lights, save one, and go to bed.