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17
He dragged me to his car, a shiny sports Ferrari. You could tell he did not like to attract attention. I helped him put things in the trunk and got into the passenger seat. Before I could close the door, he did it for me.
Once inside he put his sunglasses on me and covered my head with a black cap. Surely the paparazzi didn't recognize me like that. G acted like we were famous. I laughed softly, and he listened to me because he always did. He turned on the radio, changing stations until Eminem filled the silence. His musical tastes matched mine.
I sang in tandem with the rapper, earning several funny looks from my crazy date. It mattered little to me. Rather, I raised the tone until I and my failures were heard more than Eminem himself. I know, I shouldn't spoil your songs with my pokey voice, but what can I say? Life is very short and I am not going to waste it quietly when I can raise my voice all I want. Maybe not that much either, because G might get tired of
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The mobster and the writer 18
-Excuse me?- I frowned and looked back at his growing erection. How had that happened? We had hardly done anything.-You started it by dressing as if you were a Christmas present waiting to be unwrapped.- He ran his index finger over my collarbone and looked down at my chest, where my black bra was visible. It looked like a neon sign in Vegas. He took me by the waist and sat me on his lap. Now I felt it much more against my femininity. Interesting.- Aren't you going too fast? We just kissed for the first time- I had to be the one to bring up the uncomfortable topic.-It's been the second time, cutie- He laughed as he bit my earlobe- The first time was at Hunter's house, where you behaved like a shameful virgin- I blushed and looked away-Samantha... Are you a virgin?- I coughed a little.- Maybe?- I felt like I was in hell and everything around me was on fire. I wish the ground had been opened at that time. He wasn't sure if admitting that to her wa
The mobster and the writer 19
Time alone passed more slowly than with the idiot next to her. I spent my time trying to make him a good meal, not what he made the other day that was inedible. I was still gagging from the steak. I shuddered to relive that again. The last time I ate meat cooked by him. I pursed my lips in an attempt to think, but every time I tried, G came back to my mind, but this time in objectionable thoughts.I opened the drawers and the refrigerator to distract myself. There were tomato, minced meat, and cheese and in a cupboard, I found plates of lasagna. The food was already fixed. I took my cell phone and turned on the music. The funniest thing about cooking was music. He made the task be done with more love and affection and that in the end, the food was richer. I had it checked. My mother never understood why she made mistakes at lunchtime and it was for this reason.Can't Help Falling in love flooded the entire kitchen. It was the version sung by Christina Grimmie on vocals
The mobster and the writer 20
He pressed me against the wall of the room and tugged on my shirt. His eyes were n almost covered by their lids, but I knew I looked. I wanted to cover myself with my arms, but it was more comfortable to put my hands on his shoulders. He licked my shoulder and I arched, offering my body to him. He accepted it because he led me to bed, cradling my breasts.He lay on top of me and placed my lips on my chest. I moaned his name, earning a nipple bite. I screamed and circled his waist to press him against my heat. He pushed, making our clothes a hindrance. I mentally wished my panties and pants were gone. I tugged at his shirt in frustration. He needed the nudity to be fair. I wanted to eat it the moment I saw his tattooed pecs, being the beginning of the tattoos on his arms. I lowered my lips to the drawn roses and traced their stems with my tongue. He got rid of his pants. We are left in our panties and boxer shorts and our breathing is racing.Did you want to
The mobster and the writer 21
At the time I hated G. I hated him when he came into my house and caught me like who doesn't want the thing. He just made me not bear it, but somehow he had radically changed my opinion of him. I no longer saw him as a callous idiot. Sometimes he behaved like one, which was not going to deny, but most of the time he was a sincere and loyal person. Every morning when I woke up, I would look him in the eye and wonder how I was lucky enough to find someone like him. I knew it wasn't going to last. I do not stick with him, no matter how much contact glue he wanted to add to our relationship.- You have to go back to the big house- We were lying on his bed, doing nothing at all. They used to be our lazy mornings.-And why is that?- I yawned and settled into his tattooed arm. I placed my lips on one of her roses and smiled. I had never imagined myself with a tattooed man before. He was not the typical man I would take home to introduce to my parents, but I still loved
The mobster and the writer 22
The three weeks I waited for him were hell with an oasis. At first, it was weird. Used to be with him all day, I suddenly felt empty, incomplete. It was as if half of me was missing. I didn't like feeling a hole in my chest that wasn't even filled with chocolate. It was sad. Not everything was gloating in sadness. I did more things, but that's almost secondary when my head was wherever G was.The first day I woke up in the bedroom that was once mine. I looked at the walls, which seemed a little barer than they should as if they needed paintings to hang. I stayed in bed, doing time. My mind wanted to imagine that G was at my fingertips, sleeping next to me, shirtless and in his navy blue boxers. He could even tell where he had each tattoo by heart. I had learned it very well in the little time we had.I sat down on the covers, wrinkled around me. I yawned and stretched as hard as I could, that is until my back creaked. I got up and let my bare feet touch the cold ground
The mobster and the writer 23
To say that I did not feel like partying falls short. Still, we went out. The too short and red dress that Cami had lent me was off the list of clothes that I could at any time. It looked like a version of Pretty Woman before being picked up by Richard Gere. I let Cami use me as a life-size Barbie. I didn't care about everything. I felt like something inside me wasn't working quite right, I didn't know what was wrong with me. I had never felt like this and I didn't like it in the least.Arm in arm with Hunter I got into a chicken yellow car, similar to Alice Cullen's in New Moon. I wondered if Cami was a fan of the Twilight saga. Something told me it was very possible. The leather seats were comfortable and my heavy lashes covered in thousands of layers of mascara pulled my lids down. I was going to fall asleep before I got anywhere. One of us turned on the radio and Thrift Shop made me forget my tiredness completely. If that song sounded it meant that everything was going to
The mobster and the writer 24
I flopped down on the bed. Tomorrow was going to be another day, a better one. I repeated myself in my head over and over again. The next time I opened my eyes it was daylight and the sun was lighting up the entire room. It was another day, but that was no consolation. I didn't understand how they said that in the movies. I rolled my eyes and stretched. The dress rolled around my body. I had forgotten I was wearing it. I took it off in disgust. It belonged to Camille and the last thing she wanted was to have something of her on top. Never wear something that belongs to a whore. I yanked it off and looked around for scissors. Once they were taken I began to cut the dress. That way no one could wear that shitty outfit. Salem licked my cheek. I laughed a little. At least he knew she had him and that was something. Why did I want a man when I had a beautiful animal by my side? I kissed her furry little
The mobster and the writer 25
Waking up with a stabbing pain in the cheek is not the best clock in the world, that is what s promise. I prefer the incessant beeping of my cell phone a thousand times. My cheek burned and felt hot, both inside my mouth and outside. My head throbbed with an impossible pain, those squares that make you dizzy. My side ached when I breathed as if I had been hit there. I was almost certainly getting a bruise the size of the Colorado Canyon there.When I finally opened my eyes, which weighed on me like two armored bank doors, I saw a motley crowd around me. There were 4. Two of them were younger, between 26 and 30 or so. One of them looked nice, but in this gray concrete room, he couldn't trust anyone, no matter how good a person he might seem with his blue eyes, straw-blond hair, and dimples. No. The other one looked like I was the one who hit me to wake up. Now she was wide awake. His eyes were cold and calculating. That sure wasn't going to be my new best friend. Another
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