The End of Me (The Single Lady Spy #1)

I started to become afraid but his voice was rhythmic and soft. It flowed with the motion of his massaging. His accent seemed thicker.

"We got inside and I saw all his workers were lined up. There were other men there. I rarely went to the factory but I knew who they were. Father clapped his hands and shouted for a man named Roberto to come forward. The poor man shook when he walked but tried to look proud. I was so naïve. I had no idea what my father wanted."

I knew exactly what he wanted. I was biting my lip and waiting for it.

"He handed me a gun and told me that I was to shoot Roberto. I asked him why? He backhanded me in front of the men. His ring cut my cheek slightly. I was scared and confused, I guess. I stood up and took the gun from my father and pulled the trigger. The gun never fired. It was empty. My father laughed and took the gun from me. He backhanded me again and told me that a real man chose for himself, what he did and didn’t do. He told me to take what I wanted in the world and let no man be the ruler of my choices. He said even if I got slapped around by the world, I still needed to make my own choices."

The story was sad but I was grateful what I assumed was going to happen, never did.

"Then he raised the gun and shot Roberto. He knew the chamber I fired was empty and the next was not. Roberto died in front of me, bleeding to death and gasping for air. My face stung and I hated my father. He laughed and patted me on the back, then took me to see the real family packaging business. Business was what made me a man. It was never firing the gun. He knew I had that in me, all along."

I was lost. His story contradicted the back massage, and the fact he was sharing it with me, made me want to run away. I didn’t want to get close to him, not emotionally.

He sighed, "It was the first time I saw someone die. Very sad day indeed."

I closed the lid and grabbed some toilet paper to wipe my face. I focused on the silver handle of the toilet and the sensation of the paper wiping my face. I didn’t want inside of his world. I didn’t want to know what he had been through.

He pressed his face against the back of the robe and kissed me once before standing, "So you see, I understand the feelings you have over killing him. It gets easier I'm afraid." He left the bathroom. I felt considerably worse. Not about killing the fat man, but about the fact I would have to kill him. Servario would have to die, if I was going to get away. He was fucking insane, like his father. And his stories were creepy.

I washed my face and brushed my teeth with the one toothbrush on the counter, I assumed was for me. I rinsed with mouthwash and left feeling the hopelessness of the situation. I slipped the belladonna in my robe pocket.

He was waiting on the couch. I walked past him, towards the bed in the smaller bedroom of the two I had noticed. I curled into the sheets and closed my eyes. Every inch of me hurt. The weird bathroom-plane sex had more than likely left marks on my back. The second time made me uncomfortably sore between my legs, and the death of the fat man, and the loss of my children's safety made my heart heavy.

"Is there a reason you're sleeping in here? There is a huge bed in the master quarters," he asked. I opened my heavy eyelids to his silhouette in the doorway.

I sighed and rolled over, "Sleepy."

"Fine." I heard him close the door but he was still in the room. I cringed as he unzipped. I tucked my arm under the pillow and turned my mind off. I refused to let his warm body next to mine be anything beyond a reminder of my predicament, which there was nothing I could do about. I was his, for the time being.

The next morning he was on the far side of the bed, as far as he could get from me. I shivered and rolled towards him.

I could let him be a body pillow. He was roasting with intense body heat. I wrapped my freezing feet around his calf making him jump.

“What are you doing?” he shouted.

I shivered, “It’s cold in here.”

He gave me an odd look and then put his arm out for me. He wrapped around me, when I laid on it.

Instantly, his hand took mine and placed it on his huge erection. I sighed, “No,” and pulled it back.

“What?”

I shook my head, “I need to eat. I’m starved.”

He pulled my hand back and began stroking himself with my palm.

I gave him an unimpressed look, earning me a grin. I hadn’t been expecting it. I snorted, “You’re cheerful in the morning.”

His eyes were filled with green flecks, “You are having a strange effect on me, Evie.”

“Ditto,” I said and wrapped my hand around his rigid, morning wood and squeezed.

Chapter Nine - A silver locket in my pocket

I rolled over and cuddled into him, pulling the covers up and smothering him with my body. I felt his body go rigid; even in his sleep he disliked intimacy.

It made me smile inside. He wasn’t comfortable with anything but fucking and working, and of course, talking about things that made me uncomfortable.

I still didn’t understand why he had chosen to sleep in the small bed with me for the past few nights. I thought about that more than my own escape or why he had tried to set me up, for killing the fat man.

We had grown closer and closer, my cabin fever lessening with every moment. Three days of the spa-like bathroom, any meal I craved, and ridiculous amounts of sex had changed me.

I felt like something inside of me was waking up. Like the hibernation of marriage was finally starting to end and the fun, sassy girl I had once been, was emerging from her cave. It had to be the result of multiple orgasms a day.

Of course I had tried to fight it. I drugged the shit out of him with the belladonna. Apparently, his reaction to it wasn’t the intended one. He got relaxed and wanted slow, intense sex. I had come to the conclusion, he was a magician with his tongue. I blushed just watching him sleeping, forcing myself not to want to like him, let alone desire him, as much as I did.

He stirred and woke, giving me a look, “You’re like a cat. Do you have to touch me while you sleep? I’m sweating from it.”

I nodded, “You’re warm and Steve has the damned air conditioning on so high, I can see my breath in here.”

He rolled his eyes and sat up, sort of pushing me off of him.

I liked watching him squirm.

He pulled his computer up onto his lap, “Is breakfast here?”

I shook my head, “I don’t know. I haven’t left the room.”

He cocked an eyebrow, “Well, you can’t spoon me all night long like a girlfriend and then not act like one in the morning. Go see.”

I shook my head, “This is my first vacation in forever, fake or not—I intend on enjoying it. You go get me breakfast. You want to fuck me as much as you possibly can, then you’ll have to start acting like a boyfriend. I want spooning and breakfast in bed. Later, you may read to me,” I chuckled.

He growled and I rolled on top of him some more.

"I'm trying to type," he said, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his tone.

I nestled in closer and moaned.

I was getting good at ignoring the sad fact, I had a life that was in chaos outside of the hotel room. Denial was an easier emotion than guilt, or fear, or anything I didn’t want to deal with.

I disregarded the fact his body had been doing bad things to mine since we met, and embraced that I had yet to not enjoy one of them.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true.

The day before, he had demanded a blowjob. I had tried telling him I was shit at them, and besides that, we were in the shower. All those jets and showerheads had nearly drowned me, when he grabbed my hair and pushed my face down farther on him.

He didn’t appreciate it when I shoved him back and shouted that I was a wife, not a deep-throating porn star. Thankfully, it had earned me a hard fuck on my hands and knees instead. I struggled and worked at pretending I didn’t like it.

I plucked at the dark hairs on his arms, "So what's the job?" I asked.

He spoke distractedly, "Firstly, you’re going to stop plucking at me like I am a chicken and get me some damned breakfast. Secondly, I am going to fuck you, when I am done sending this email, and then we are going to take a shower. Thirdly, you will then go and kill a man named Derringer and you will do it messy. Fourthly, we will then be taking the jet back to Boston."

I looked up at him, fully blocking out the demand I kill someone else, and shook my head. "We can't have sex in the morning. We can have it on the jet back to Boston. I don’t do mornings."

He gave me a look and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes, "My God, you have a lot of rules. Why can’t we have morning sex?"

I licked my lips nervously and then just said it, "I can't have it until I've had coffee and a full bathroom experience. Otherwise, I won't go all day and I’ll have a bloated belly."

His hand dropped, "Did you just tell me you can't have sex, because you need some coffee and raisin bran to complete the morning… first?"

I nodded.

He bit his lip and processed, "That’s sickening. You have to learn about appropriate sharing and not appropriate sharing."

I climbed off the bed, pulled on the sweats I had made Steve go buy for me, and tied my hair into a messy ponytail. I stretched and yawned, "You’re keeping me here against my will. I am a thirty-six-year-old woman. You can't expect me to be a giggly, twenty-year-old who keeps secret the fact she poops and passes gas."

He grimaced and continued to type on the laptop, "Good God, you aren’t going to start passing gas in front of me, are you?”

I laughed, “No. My mother would beat me if I did that.”

He looked wounded, “You know you’re not here against your will. You may leave, if you want."

I stopped the act of disgustingly-lazy housewife and frowned, "What?"

He nodded, "You can leave anytime. You know the deal we have."

I walked out of the room to where my clutch was on the table in the foyer. If I stayed, I would have to kill the Derringer man, messily. I needed out. I needed to take my chances and run.