Page 21 of Vow of Revenge
“Eh, yeah…” He hesitated. “I’m making her breakfast. Then I’m all yours, I mean Tilly’s.”
I snorted loudly. “Next you’ll be rolling out the red carpet and then find yourself pussy whipped.”
“Fuck off, Kaleb. Not all of us have issues with tissues. What about you? Why are you so fucked up then? Did you hook up with another unlucky lady last night?”
Freya wasn’t unlucky. If anything, she was lucky I made her scream. “The sister came back with me. She was off her tits on E, so I joined in the fun.”
“Syrah’s sister was high? I didn’t see that coming. She seemed so...” Brett went silent, thinking of the right word.
“Uptight…? Stuck up?” I offered.
“I was going to say angelic.”
I huffed out a laughed. “Right… she’s far from angelic.”
“So, you had fun with her?”
“I…” Why was I hesitating. My shit memory usually acted like a blanket of darkness, but this time I could remember every single detail of last night, including the cheap bracelet on her wrist. “Yeah, I fucked her, like I always do.”
“Right.” Brett’s tone dipped. “Is that it – you just screwed her?”
“What else would I do with her?” I swiped a layer of dust free from the picture frame and made a mental note to tell Luca to do his job properly.
“What, no story to tell? No ‘I fucked her over. She was begging for me’?” Brett was starting to get on my nerves.
“Fuck off, Brett, or I’ll tell Tilly that you’re screwing some random woman.”
“You’re an asshole. She’s on her way. Half an hour at the most.” The line went dead.
Chucking the phone onto the leather-bound desktop, I looked down at my naked chest and white snug boxers. I had just enough time to take out some of my mental frustration with a quick workout, grab a shower and still be ready for Tilly.
I flicked open the laptop, scrolled through the auction listings, checked off the items in my notebook and jogged down the hall to my home gym. Pummelling the punching bag felt good. It had been my go-to method of banishing aggression, and right now, I was thrashing out the memories of Freya. With each sucker punch I recalled the taste of her pussy, heard the sweet groans of her arousal, felt the tug of her hands in my hair and the scratches of her nails down my back. Stopping dead, I craned my neck over my shoulder and caught the bright red blazes on my shoulders reflecting back at me from the wall mirror. It gave me a buzz, and I began to rhythmically hit the bag with so much force that my breathing became stilted. I couldn’t remember a time when I’d been so sparked by the taste of a woman.
Guilt.
That’s all I felt.
A weighty golden bullion of guilt sat on my chest. She’d tasted better than guilt and felt hot and tight like sin. Thinking about a repeat performance was an outright betrayal to my father. Quickly snapping my rationality back into line, I confirmed with myself that she was a figment of trickery, and without the use of drugs I would feel nothing, zero – sweet fuck all.
The water sluiced down my achy shoulders. I had punished them enough over the years with relentless boxing sessions and workouts. It was my vice, something to keep me within the lines. I found solace in the strict training because it took me away from thinking about what happened. In the steam and heat haze a familiar glimpse of the past returned.
The door is a jar. I don’t know why I’m standing there.
It sounds like he’s angry, or so I thought. He’s laughing now with a strange hoarseness like he was the evil one, but he’s not. My father is the victim.
Sometimes he was angry, more often than not. I knew that was why he sent me off to boarding school.
The smile drops. His eyes… his eyes are black and soulless.
A crimson tide pours from his throat like a river of death, oozing down his pale blue shirt.
My father coughs and splutters on his knees in surrender before his executioner.
His last image is the face of his killer.
The scent of woman fills the room. I can’t see her face. I can’t remember.
He was murdered, at the hand of a woman. He was betrayed.
