Page 68 of Darcy
“Pussy,” he smirks. “I want to watch it run down over your little clit…” He trails off, lost to the fantasy.
I don’t know why that’s so hot. Maybe it’s because he’s still drawing patterns in the cooling liquid across my ass with one finger, or perhaps it’s just some long-dormant primal part of my psyche popping up to make itself known.
The spiral patterns he’s tracing with his finger are actually pretty soothing. Without meaning to, I start mimicking the patterns across his skin, following the flowing lines of black script.
“Discipline equals freedom?” I ask, following three words down the side of his abs.
If it’s a lyric, it’s not one I recognise, and I thought I knew all the band’s songs.
He shrugs. “Something I figured out pretty quick in juvie. As a teenager, I had a massive temper. I was just…angry, all the time. Sometimes for good reason, other times…” He pauses. “Other times it was just hormones, I guess. It’s what landed me in that place with the others. But being a small kid with a big attitude doesn’t get you far behind bars.”
I keep quiet, biting my lip. Of all the guys, Slate’s crime was arguably the worst. Aggravated assault with a weapon—although his step-dad was really trying to have him done for attempted murder. But since juvie records are sealed, there’s no way that any normal person would know that.
“I don’t know what the others have told you about our time there…” He trails off, as if hoping I’ll interrupt, but I don’t. “It was bad in a lot of ways. Dodger had it worse, but the boredom almost broke me. The walls are grey. Your bedding is grey. They serve you bland food. Apart from a few hours of classes, there’s nothing to do for most of the day. Lights go out, and you can’t do anything but sleep.
“Without creating a disciplined routine that gave me purpose and sticking to it, I would’ve gone mad. Having that structure, along with the two hours a day we were allocated in the music room, kept me sane.” He pauses, fingers lifting from my skin as he glances down at his own abdomen. “After we got out, discipline kept me housed and off the streets until we managed to hit our big break. It got me through working two jobs while getting my online qualifications. The tat is a reminder that when I start to lose sight of myself, discipline will put me on the path back.”
“You were inside for longer than the others,” I murmur, leaving the statement intentionally open.
He stiffens, finger leaving my spine as he swiftly changes the subject. “Let me get you cleaned up.”
Shifting out from underneath me, he heads for the bathroom. Despite the lingering exhaustion from round one, I can’t help but watch his ass move as he goes. For all his faults, Slate Fletcher-Reyes has the ass of a god, and I could happily stare at it all day.
When he returns, warm towel in hand, he won’t meet my eyes.
“You have the right to know this,” he murmurs, beginning the task of cleaning me up with gentle strokes. “But it’s not something I’m proud of. I went to juvie because I tried to kill my step-dad after I caught him beatingmi mamá.”
I freeze, sympathy gripping my heart and squeezing. “Slate, I—”
“My dad was killed in a hit and run when I was a baby. She married the bastard because he was a ‘man of God.’ He wasn’t. He was just another slick, righteouscoñopassing as a preacher. The abuse must have been going on a while, but it wasn’t until I was fifteen that I came home from school and caught him smashing her head against the kitchen counter. I didn’t think. I just reacted.” His eyes finally meet mine. “If given half the chance, I wouldn’t just stab him again, I’d finish the fucking job.”
Death from multiple shrapnel wounds is infinitely more painful, but I don’t say it aloud.
“I don’t blame you,” I whisper, instead.
“I got my mom to a shelter,” he finishes. “Then I handed myself in. She still went back to him as soon as I was behind bars, though. The week before I was due to be released, I got a letter saying I wasn’t to return home or contact my family.”
“Assholes,” I mutter, twisting and taking the towel from him—because I must be clean by now—before throwing it in the direction of the bathroom. With it out of the way, I tug him back into the bed, wrapping the covers around us both.
“It was brave, what you did.”
After years of taking out the worst society has to offer, I know better than most that some people deserve to be removed from this world. Slate was just a kid, defending his mom against someone physically stronger and in a position of power. Someone who should’ve protected and cherished them.
I’ve half a mind to send their details on to Tabby. She considers taking out abusive assholes a hobby.
He scoffs. “It was stupid. I’ve gone over the situation a thousand times in my head. If I’d just had a handle on my anger, I could’ve videoed the whole thing and gotten enough evidence to put that dick away, or at least keep him out of our lives.”
I press a kiss to his jaw. “You can’t change the past, Slate.”
“Nope, but I’ve learned a valuable lesson from it.” His tone darkens, eyes glinting dangerously. “If you want to protect the people you care about, you have to be ruthless.”
All my thoughts of sending Slate’s step-father’s details to Tabby flee in that second. I have a gut feeling that Slate is already well on the way to dealing with his step-father, and when he’s finished, the man will wish he’d dealt with an accident at the hands of my sister instead.
Twenty-Three
Darcy
Ifell asleep snuggling Slate, but when I wake, he’s conspicuously absent. His side of the bed is cold, and there’s a tiny folded note on his pillow. I trace the edges with one hand as I scramble for my glasses with the other. When I can finally focus my eyes enough to read, I snort at how messy his writing is. Such a mundane flaw for a rock star to have.
