“Oh, quit whining,” I mutter. “I could’ve just bit you... or, you know, punched you in the balls.”
He glares at me when I say that, giving me an ‘I’d like to see you fucking try’ look, trying to be intimidating, but it’s kind of hard to take him seriously when his cock is just hanging out of his pants.
I smirk. “You know, you’d probably be a lot scarier if your junk wasn’t dangling all up in my face.”
Before the last syllable is completely out of my mouth, he steps toward me, grabbing his cock. “Keep talking shit, I’ll fucking slap you with it.”
Laughing, I throw my hands up defensively, warding him off as he swings it, shoving it right at my face, smacking me in the forehead.
“Oh my god,” I yell, still laughing, shoving him so hard he staggers. “What is wrong with you?”
He shrugs, tucking himself away, zipping his pants up. “You sucked the brain cells right out of my dick with that goddamn Dyson mouth.”
Turning, he starts to walk away from me when I grab his leg. “Whoa, where are you going?”
“To take a shower,” he says, trying to shake me off.
“Oh, hell no,” I say, tugging him back toward me. “I’m not done with you yet.”
He thrusts his leg out, damn near kicking me so I’ll let go. “What do you want?”
“Some reciprocation would be nice,” I say, “but I’ll settle for just knowing what you said in Italian.”
He pauses as he starts to undress, stripping out of his suit, like reciprocation may not only happen but that it might go even further. “I said I’ve been fantasizing about those beautiful lips wrapped around my cock since the moment I met you.”
“Seriously?”
He crouches down in front of me, wearing only his unbuttoned black slacks. “Yes, seriously, my sweet little trombamica.”
“What does that mean?”
A slow smile spreads across his face as he leans closer, kissing me softly, quick pecks on my lips, before he stands back up, saying, “Figure it out, Scarlet.”
“Figure it out, Scarlet,” I grumble mockingly as he goes into the bathroom and shuts the door, leaving me kneeling here. Rolling my eyes, I get up and head straight downstairs to where Leo and Melody still hang out in the living room.
Leo looks up at me when I appear. He has questions, I know, but I’m not in the mood to talk about those things, so I beat him to speaking.
“Hey, Leo, you know what a trombamica is?”
His eyes widen. “Uh, yeah...”
“What is it?”
“It’s a... friend.”
“A friend.”
“Yeah,” he says, “one with benefits.”
“A friend with benefits.”
“Just a, uh, more vulgar term.”
My eyes narrow.
Leo’s about to say something else, but I don’t give him the chance, walking back out and stomping upstairs. Unbelievable. I hear the water running in the bathroom and don’t even hesitate, opening the door and walking right in since he never locks anything.
Grabbing the shower curtain, I fling it open, glaring at a naked, soapy Lorenzo. “A fuck-buddy? Really?”
He stands beneath the spray, water cascading down his bare chest. It distracts me momentarily, detracting from my anger, as I follow the trail of water down his body.
“Didn’t take you long to figure it out, trombamica.”
I scowl, looking back at his face. He’s grinning. Smug son of a—ugh. Before I can respond, he grabs me, yanking me beneath the spray. I nearly trip over the edge of the tub as he pulls me into it with him, fully dressed.
“What the hell, Lorenzo? You’re getting me wet!”
“Don’t I always?” he asks with a laugh, grabbing my drenched clothes and tearing them off, flinging them onto the floor before drawing the shower curtain closed again. He shoves me back against the tile wall, and I gasp as he grabs my thighs, lifting me up. I wrap my legs around his waist, my arms around his neck, holding onto him. “Guess I owe you some reciprocation, huh?”
“You’re damn right you do,” I say. “You better make it good, too.”
He grins, kissing me, whispering against my lips, “I’ll do my best.”
Chapter Three
“You son of a bitch,” I growl, squinting, hunkered beneath the glowing lamp in the library with my gaze fixed to my lap. “I swear to God, if you don’t go in that fucking hole, I’m going to lose my shit...”
Carefully, I aim, lining up for what feels like the twentieth goddamn time, but my hand slips right past my target, once again, instead somehow making me stab myself in the thumb.
“Fuck!” I yank my hand back, watching as a bead of bright red blood bubbles up on the surface. I pop my thumb in my mouth and shove up out of my chair, sending it flying halfway across the room. “Motherfucker!”
The word’s jumbled, since I’m sucking my damn thumb, sounding more like a bitch ass shriek than anything resembling English. Frustration builds up inside of me as I kick the table, lashing out, making it screech along the floor.
“Boss?”
Seven’s hesitant voice calls out from the doorway just in the knick of time, because I was three seconds away from pulling out my gun and shooting something, which would’ve probably just pissed me off more. Goddamn bullet holes.
I turn, regarding him. He looks like his usual self, fresh-faced and wide awake, despite it being around five o’clock in the morning, the sun not yet shining. He has probably already eaten breakfast. Probably fucked his wife before leaving his house. Probably got some extra snacks stashed in his pockets. Probably did it all while I sat here like a fucking schmuck, struggling to thread this stupid ass needle.
“Everything okay?” he asks. “What happened?”
What happened?
His favorite goddamn question.
“What happened,” I say, pulling my thumb from between my lips, “is I can’t take Tab A and stick it in Slot B properly because my brain thinks the world is fucking flat so nothing appears 3D.”
He stares at me cautiously, like how you regard a wild animal, like he’s afraid of what I might be getting myself into this morning.
“Come thread this fucking needle,” I say, throwing the sewing kit down on the table, pieces of it scattering, “before I stab myself again.”
Seven approaches, assessing things, picking up the discarded needle and cutting a fresh piece of black thread, since the one I used is knotted and frayed. Three seconds, just like that, he holds the needle up in front of him and slips the thread right through it, securing the ends before handing it back.
Three seconds.
I’ve been at this for thirty minutes.
“Bullshit,” I mutter as I snatch it back. “Thanks.”
“Anytime, boss,” he says. “Is that all you needed? Is that why you called?”
“Do you seriously think I’d make you come to Queens just to thread a fucking needle for me at five o’clock in the morning?”
“Yes.”
I cast him a glare.
He’s right.
I would.
But I didn’t.
Shaking my head, I reach down, snatching the damn stuffed bear from the floor where I tossed it earlier after swiping it out of Scarlet’s clutches in bed. I motion for Seven to have a seat in my chair, while I slide up onto the table, sitting on the edge of it, beneath the lamp.
I don’t know where to start.
With any of this shit, really.
When building a puzzle, you always start with the border, since those pieces are the easiest to pick out and put together. From there, depending on the puzzle, you either separate by color or you use the picture as reference, if there’s something unique to pinpoint. Regardless, you hit what’s most obvious first, breaking it down into manageable chunks. Divide and conquer.
Start at the border and work our way in.
I push the needle through the side of the bear, to close a hole some fluffy guts are spilling out of.
Seven sits down, still watching. “You ever sewn before, boss?”
“Sewed someone’s lips shut before when they wouldn’t shut the fuck up,” I say. “Why? Do I look like I don’t know what I’m doing?”