Chapter 28 – Mortician #2
“Bailey had some fucking responsibility too, fuckhead,” she yelled, swiping at her tears, rallying as always.
That’s what Kendall did. That’s why Mort admired her so much.
“She has a responsibility to you. To her children. Roxy. The club. Meggie. She stopped caring long before Johnnie got to her. That was just a convenient fucking excuse for her to go from bad behavior to worse fucking behavior.”
“Get the fuck out, Kendall. Before I say something you won’t like.”
“I’m your friend,” she told him. “We’ve always been honest with each other.”
“I didn’t say one fucking lie to you. You want to plead for your motherfucker’s life? Get the fuck out and don’t fucking come back.”
Her face crumpled and she finally stood. She looked so fucking tragic with her red hair streaming around her, her brown eyes devastated and her entire body wilted.
If he didn’t feel so fucking unsteady sitting down, he would’ve stood and hugged her. Talking wasn’t working. He was being a fuckhead, lashing out at her because she didn’t want him to kill her fucking husband.
She opened the picnic basket and took out the two bottles of wine. “You should eat something,” she told him quietly, nodding to the food she’d brought him, still safely inside the wicker basket.
“Sit down,” he told her.
“You aren’t changing my mind,” she said flatly. “My son hates me already. What kind of a mother would I be if I sanctioned his father’s murder?”
“You don’t have to sanction a motherfucking thing, but you definitely don’t have to beg for that motherfucker’s life. If it was only because of Rory, that would be bad enough.”
Before she sat down again, she dug out the corkscrew and opened both bottles of wine. She swigged from one and handed him the other. “I don’t want to argue with you, Mortician. If you let me stay, we don’t have to discuss Johnnie or Bailey.”
“Fine.”
“Can we play music?”
“I thought we needed to eat.”
“You do. I don’t,” she said primly.
Gripping the neck of the wine bottle and resting it on his thigh, he leaned his head against the sofa and closed his eyes. “Peel the armrest cover back. Press the middle button. Choose a station from there.” He should’ve known she’d find Opera music. “What is it with you and fucking Opera?”
“It’s so tragically beautiful.”
Like she was. “Find an instrumental classical station as a compromise. I can’t fucking stand Opera.”
“Okay,” she said meekly, and complied with his order. “I don’t know how I’m going to walk home,” she said once she was satisfied with the music. Still hideous, but tolerable.
“I don’t fucking know how the fuck I’m getting upstairs,” he responded. “Maybe that’s fucking good. What’s up there for me but memories of my wife?”
Kendall finished her bottle of wine. “Same for me in my room.”
Mortician frowned. “You think about Bailey in your room?” he asked, sounding like a drunken, high motherfucker for some reason.
Kendall screamed with laughter. “No, silly! I mean like memories of Johnnie, a happier time, for me in my room.”
He guffawed. “You think I’m faded?”
“Uh-huh. As faded as I am.”
“I don’t want Italian tonight,” Mort admitted. “How about we get to the kitchen and cook breakfast?”
At that hour, breakfast was perfect.
“Will I have to walk there?”
“Probably,” Mort said after a moment’s consideration. “Unless you got wings to fly, Red?”
Standing, Kendall swayed, fell back on the sofa, chortled, then stood again. She hiccupped and took her top off, revealing a lacy black bra. Brushing her hair over one shoulder, she turned.
“Do I got wings?” She laughed again, so hard she stomped her foot and clapped her hands. “Oh my God! Axel has invaded me.”
Mort finished his wine, chuckling right along with her. “If anybody can do it, it’s that little motherfucker.”
Giggling, she plopped next to him and nudged her head against his arm. Without hesitation, he wrapped an arm around her and she rested her head on his shoulder.
“Guess what, Mort?”
“What, Kendall?”
“My top is off.”
Leaning back, he dropped his gaze to the magnificent mounds of her tits. “How’d it get off?”
“The wings took it. Remember?”
Mort thought for a moment. “Where they went? You said you didn’t have any.”
She punched her chest. “I don’t have any.”
“Oh.” He set his empty wine bottle on the coffee table. “Other motherfuckers got them.”
“Yep.”
“You need to eat,” he told her, not quite remembering why. He was so used to taking care of her that he just knew he should tell her that. “What do you want me to cook you?”
“Lobster bolognese.”
“Fuck, baby, you stuck on Italian.”
“It can be plain lobster.”
“I have to go fishing then?”
Kendall giggled. “I’ll come with you. We can skinny dip in the ocean and get all the lobsters we can eat.”
“Wouldn’t mind the skinny dipping. Don’t want the lobsters. They’ll probably pinch Roscoe.”
“Booooooo,” she said. “I’d crush them if they hurt your cock. That would upset me.”
“Fuck, not as upset as I would be.”
“In pain, too. I’d kiss it and make it feel better.”
Roscoe perked at the idea and Mortician tipped his head down, meeting her sultry gaze. His balls fucking ached. “Motherfucker in pain right now,” he slurred.
Kendall brushed her hand over his crotch. “I want to kiss it and make it feel better.”
His brain was too foggy to remember why letting Kendall suck his dick was not only a bad idea, but wrong.
He pulled her into his arms and took her mouth in a ravenous kiss.
“God,” she groaned. “You smell so good. I love your cologne. I always have.”
He didn’t bother to answer and kissed her again, losing himself in the softness of her lips, her little sounds.
He only felt the sensation of her mouth on him, taking his cock down her throat, licking the aching head and fondling his balls. Her slurps sent chills down his body, but fucking her mouth wasn’t enough. He wanted her.
Her pants frustrated him. Discovering her thong when he finally removed her trousers annoyed him, too, and he ripped them away, burying his face between her legs and licking her pussy until she came against his tongue, crying out for more.
Rising above her, he trapped her hands above her head and sank into her. She felt so fucking good.
If he’d been more sober, he would’ve tied her hands. Or, if she’d been sober, he would told her to give him the sash from her pants, but since they were both drunk motherfuckers, he left it alone.
“Fuck me hard and fast,” she breathed.
He slammed into her, not releasing her hands even when she tried to escape.
“Please?” She lifted her hips and met his thrust. “I want to wrap my arms around you.”
“You don’t like a little bondage?” he asked her but relented.
Tangling her fingers through his hair, she pressed her lips against his, working her pussy against his cock, taking every ruthless inch he pounded into her.
“I want to swallow your cum,” she said in a plume of alcohol.
He grunted. She felt so fucking good, he hated to pull out of her pussy. “Come first,” he whispered, raining kisses along her jaw and down the column of her throat.
Leaning back, he slid his cock out of her, rested the head against her clit and used it to caress an orgasm from her. She screamed, the sound sending him over the edge. He burst over her pussy lips.
Breathing heavily, he went limp, truly sated for the first time in weeks.
Twice more, he fucked her. When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed of Bailey.
The next morning, he awakened to a pounding head. It took him a moment to get his bearings and to remember snippets from the night before.
Horror washed through him, but he could only think one thing: fuuuuuuuuccccccckkkkkkk.