Page 121 of Chad's Chase
Was it just me or were all the acclaimed “baddest” and “most powerful” turning out to be a bunch of clit-less pussies?
Sambo kept his stare out the window, refusing to look at me. “There’s something you should know, Jhay.”
I remained quiet, waiting for him to bring me up to speed.
“Did Niiveux ever tell you about your mother? That she had an affair with the Pinnacle of The Organization long before she moved to Russia?”
“Yes. He did.”
“Well the Pinnacle is Org.”
What? “Oh. Wow.” I thought about this for a minute, then asked, “Why would Chad hide something so simple from me?”
Sambo looked at me now. “Maybe because he didn’t want you to put the pieces together.”
I stared at him. Blank. “What pieces?”
“Think, Jhay,” he said in a tone that made me feel like a loghead. “Why would the Pinnacle of The Organization, the manyour motherused to havean affairwith, be so keen on protecting you and offering you the world?”
Connecting the dots, it took a few minutes before the shit finally slapped into my brain. “You’re screwing with me, right?”
He shook his head no, eyes on me, taking in my reaction.
Leaping up off the daybed, I backed away from him. “No. This is a lie. Michael Byrd is my father. Notthatman.”
Sambo turned on the bed to face me. “This will take some time for you to accept. But it’s the truth. Org is your real father.”
This was what Chad was forbidden to tell me? This information, he was threatened with death if he spilled it? I didn’t understand. Why would my real fathernotwant me to know he was my real father? Who does that? Who finds their long-lost daughter after a dozen years then chooses to keep his identity hidden?
Okay. This was just too much. I was done.
“Next time you speak to him,” I gritted out, pointing a finger at Sambo, “you let him know he’s a piece of shit and I will never accept him as my father. I know only one father, and that’sMichael.Byrd.”
Sambo nodded, as though he understood.
I began shedding my clothes in front of him. “You wanted me,”—off went my top—“you fought for me,”—then the bra— “you won me”—right boot—“so I’m yours.”—left boot—“I won’t fuck you yet because I’m not attracted to you in any way, shape, or form, and I was only straight for Chad.”—Jeans button popped, zipper down—“You’ll have to work on making me attracted.”—Jeans off—“ButI will let you eat my pussy whenever I’m horny.”—Panties off—“And I get horny quite often.”
Sambo swallowed.
“Now, where’s the bathroom?”
I was tired of New Orleans after a fortnight.
The liveliness outside the court gates that I’d yearned for on the first day was now gratingly annoying.
After a week of Sambo familiarizing me with the place, doing fun stuff like ride in carriages, the trains, visiting museums, shopping, and eating really damn good food at really damn good restaurants, I became surfeited. I felt suffocated. But I knew it wasn’t the place.
It was me.
All those activities were decidedly fun, but Sambo wasn’t the one I wanted to be doing them with. I wanted Chad. I missed him. I missed our fucked up relationship, our fights, our abuses, our threats. I missed missing him while with him. I missed him hating me. I missed having his big, steel-hard cock pushing inside me.
I was forcing contentment, to deter myself from breaking down and start shooting random people—my way of mourning his death.
How normal was it that I hadn’t shed a single tear, knowing the only human being, aside from my father, who I’d everreallyloved was dead? And what did it say about me, that I hadn’t mourned my brother either, my own flesh and blood, and the fact that I was more upset about Chad’s death than his?
My reactions to certain situations sometimes made me believe that somewhere along the line, from being abused to my first kill, I’d lost my heart. And there was nothing but a bottomless black hole in my chest, sucking away every bit of humanity in me.
But my non-existent heart, the black hole, loved him. Loved him too much. And I knew sooner or later, if I didn’t allow myself to mourn him, I would snap, and innocent people would get hurt.
