25. Pillowcase and a Lunchable
Pillowcase and a Lunchable
Bianca
“Head” was definitely the word of the day.
My coochie is still tapping an SOS after I came like Niagara Falls. He feasted on me like I was a five-course meal with no leftovers. His mouth pisses me off, but that tongue magic is next level. Who spits in someone’s pussy while they’re in a headstand?
I don’t have a claim on him, but I feel some kind of way being locked up after our deal and last night. Is it wrong to expect more than a Tubi production with a pillowcase and a Lunchable? I don’t think so!
My offense is offended. Because what do you mean I need to wear a sheet during transport? I don’t know where I am and don’t have a phone to tell anybody if I did.
I huffed and puffed inside that fabric until Alfred told our driver to pull over so he could deal with me. Two goons already have me sandwiched in the back seat with their thighs digging into my knees. Where do they think I’m going?
A girl defends herself one time and is suddenly a threat to a crime organization.
“How much longer?” I ask around a chocolate chip cookie.
Benny can still kiss my ass. I don’t know how he did it, but he managed to get a light Bologna and American Lunchable to Alfred for my mid-morning snack, like his refrigerator doesn’t have better meats and cheese.
Alfred glances at me through the rearview mirror. “Ten minutes,” he says in clipped English. “In five—“
“Yeah, yeah. Put on the hood.” I brush the crumbs from my pajama shorts, which takes more effort than it should with these plastic handcuffs, while between Dummy One and Dummy Two.
Alfred agreed to no pillowcase, provided I wear the zip ties “for their safety.” I’m not going to an unknown location looking like the baby Michael Jackson dangled out of the window.
The road winds and curves. At the five-minute mark, the pillowcase goes back on, obscuring any hints as to where I am. Smooth pavement meets gravel. The car pitches up a hill and slows before it stops. The back doors click and the seats dip.
“We’re here,” Alfred says. He cuts off the zip ties and removes my pillowcase.
My eyes adjust to the sun heating my skin.
A string of lazy clouds drifts over green hills, reaching for the coast. Trees decorate the property between orchards.
A low-pitched roof rests in the shade of the trees cast across a gravel pathway.
It’s peaceful, a far cry from the gaudy estate with the dungeon.
“It’s not a castle next to the cliff,” I say to the stone facade of a single-story house.
“The kitchen and dining room are in the primary villa. You may choose one of the five guest rooms where you’ll stay for the duration of your time here.” Alfred motions for me to enter the door he’s opened.
I catch a whiff of his aftershave hanging on his two-piece linen set with a chain. “You look nice.”
“Thank you.” He nods in stoic Billy Dee.
“I bet you broke a lot of hearts back in the day.”
He grimaces. “I assure you I did not. This way.”
The scent of jasmine rolls through the open windows from the gardens.
“This is Benny’s house?” My eyes slide from the tiled floor to the large exposed beams weaving across the ceiling.
“Sir Bennici resides here, yes,” Alfred says, back straight and a hand in his pocket. “He owns several properties across Sicily, but this is home.”
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.
If I was shown this house and told a crime boss lives here, I wouldn’t believe it.
Mama Vee would make herself right at home, talking about the aged tiles, found objects mounted to the walls, and whatever else she learned from Better Homes & Gardens.
This is the kind of house from a romantic comedy about a middle-aged woman who finds herself again while falling in love with the groundskeeper.
It gives Nancy Meyers, white lady cozy, in feel-good beiges and creams.
I peek inside a room and sigh. A bed with a wrought-iron headboard faces wooden doors parted to a private balcony.
“Bougainvillea.” Alfred points to the vibrant fuchsia blooming from thick stems, hovering above the iron railing. “This is one of my favorite rooms. You’ll enjoy it here.”
I smile. “Thank you, Alfred.”
He huffs.
“Alfonso,” I correct.
The tiniest smile curls the whiskers above his lip. “Lunch will be ready shortly,” he says, his baritone softer. “Sir Bennici had your belongings transported from Napoli. Please let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
“Can I look around?” I drag my fingers across the old writing desk next to the balcony doors. A small lamp sits across from a computer, a pen, and a stack of papers.
“You’re free to roam the premises, though you may get lost venturing beyond the grove. The property sits on four hectares, a little under ten acres.” He pauses. “Sir Bennici advised we provide a laptop and writing materials in every guest room for your planning.”
“Planning?”
“Your consulting business.”
He gives me a slight bow and leaves. I want to laugh at the formality, but I hold it in. I’m not Dame Judi Dench.
A warm breeze skates through the bougainvillea into my new bedroom. Papers flutter under my fingertips. Benny is still on my shit list, but this is nice.
The sun fades to moonlight over white walls and worn wood. Just me, the shadows cast around my desk lamp, and a glass of red wine I uncorked before Alfred left for the evening.
Alone again.
I set my pen down. The papers containing the first part of my business plan for working with a crime boss weren’t anywhere on my vision board, but one million euros would do more than get my consultancy off the ground.
It will let it fly. As long as I’m not complicit in harming babies or cats, I’ll sleep just fine.
“Enough business for tonight.”
I grab my glass to roam the rest of the house. There’s one room pulling me to find it.
Wall sconces spread through the empty hall. I veer right toward a separate area from my bedroom. A paneled door is next to an accent table with a fresh bouquet of red roses. Locked. I pass three empty bedrooms to reach double doors.
Benny’s room.
Citrus and spice thicken the air. I should turn back, but curiosity tugs me through the door.
He might surprise you.
Stone walls the color of sand reach for a ceiling ribbed with wooden beams. There’s no mirror hovering over the bed. Only a suspended wrought-iron chandelier. Off-white sheets fall lazily over the mattress, soaked in moonlight from an arched doorway next to a fireplace.
On the other side of the knotted hardwood is a closet of suits, blazers, and pants between built-in shelves holding shoes and accessories.
A small frame catches my eye. The picture is old, dull around the edges, but the love is bright.
A young Benny stands between a couple with the biggest smiles.
His complexion matches the woman grinning from ear to ear.
Her silky strands reach her shoulders, her face serving full Salli Richardson.
She’s hugging the man next to her with coiled Black hair and caramel skin.
His family.
Life forced him to become who he is.
I drain my wineglass. “What happened?”
Asking too many questions leads to the bottom of the ocean, or worse, feelings. Caring for my kidnapper is not part of the program.
Back in my room, I refill my glass with a dildo in hand and zero thoughts about the man I want to ignore.