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I love listening to him growl my name.
I love the way he smells of clean sheets when he’s pressed up against me.
I love…him.
That last thought almost cuts off my rising orgasm.
It’s just the sex. That’s why I’m feeling this way.
I’m not in love with Dash. I can’t be.
With another strong stroke of his tongue the worried thoughts drift away, and I let the pleasure overwhelm my anxious mind.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
DASH
The minute I open the door, the scent of spiced beef cooking teases my nose. The few happy memories I have from childhood with my mom bombard me, all tied to the familiar smell of her cooking. Like a mouse being led into a trap with the promise of cheese, I follow the trail toward the kitchen.
Another one of the shotguns so popular here in NOLA, the house requires me to navigate through a series of rooms first. The shell of this place is familiar, seeing as how it’s where I grew up. I’m pretty sure the only reason my parents were able to hold onto the place is because my grandparents willed it to my dad. If they were renting, things would’ve gone a lot differently.
At a glance, someone might think the occupants of this house are doing well for themselves. A fat leather couch takes up half the room with high-quality speakers tucked in the corners and the latest, largest TV hangs mounted on the wall. But behind the shiny electronics and plush furniture lurks ratty wallpaper, scuffed floors, leaking pipes, and plenty of other code violations.
I step over the spot in the area rug that has nothing but a hole beneath it. You learn the tricks of this house after living in it for close to two decades.
It’s not that my parents don’t make money. Well, my dad does. Uncle Mike makes sure to include his little brother in all his under-the-table activities. At least, all the ones I know about.
But the second either of my parents has cash in their pocket, they’re out spending it. Dad wants all the latest gadgets; Mom wants manicures and designer clothes. I’d be surprised to find out they even had a savings account.
The TV shakes, just slightly, with each of my footsteps across the living room. I wonder if one day the weight of all their purchases will cave in the old walls of this house. Then they’ll be trapped, finally buried under a pile of their bad decisions.
When I come upon my mom in the kitchen, she has her back to me, busy stirring a pot at the stove. The sight, mixed with the hearty smells, twists a combination of happiness and depression in my chest. When I was a kid, the scent of beef noodles meant that Vivian Lamont was home and acting like a normal mother.
The situation was rarer than Christmas.
“Mom.”
She jumps, whipping around only to gift me with one of her eye-shattering smiles. I’ve never had to wonder why my dad fell in love with her. Vivian Lamont is a beautiful woman. She’s dressed in clothes normally reserved for girls half her age, but seeing as how she looks half her age, there’s not really a problem. The only hint she’s passed the forty-year mark is a set of light wrinkles hovering at the corner of her eyes. But ask any passerby on the street, and they’d guess she was my sister.
Staying young and wild is the only life plan Vivian Lamont ever made.
“My little prince!” She glides across the kitchen, a spatula in one hand, short glass with clear liquid in the other. When her lips press against my cheek, I pick up the pine scent of gin on her breath. “Oh, I’m so sorry. You don’t like to be called that, do you?” She feigns disappointment, blinking up at me like an innocent kitten.
“You can call me whatever you want, Mom.” I rub her shoulder before pulling out a chair at the tiny kitchen table and settling in it. “Why’re you cooking?” Throughout grade school, kids never let me or my siblings forget that we were the minority. Over half my classmates were black, most of the rest where white, then there existed a small amount of Hispanic and Asian kids.
That tiny slice was where Luna, Leo, and I existed. None of us inherited our father’s blonde hair or anything more than a hint of his Anglo features. And for some reason, that made us targets. The vicious teasing only stopped when Leo got big enough to fight back, and Luna grew cunning enough to enact creative revenge on our tormentors.
There were times I hated the way I looked. Other times I wondered if I wouldn’t mind so much if I knew even a little bit about where that side of my family came from.
Mom never spoke about her parents, or anything to do with her life before she met our father. The time might as well be a blank slate. I don’t even know what type of Asian I am. If I had money to throw around, I might think about doing one of those DNA tests where you spit in a tube.
The only hint I have at my ancestry is the generic beef noodle dish. The one that my mom makes when she’s in a really good mood. The one that she off-handedly mentioned her mother taught her to make. The one she’s gone back to stirring right now.
“Your father bought me a gift last night.” She places down her drink before extending her arm toward me. Dangling from her wrist is a bracelet, sparkling with some sort of indigo jewels. “Those are real sapphires. Can you believe it? And you know how I love blue.” A sigh of pure happiness drifts out as she admires the stones, turning them side to side so they catch the light. My mother is a simple woman to please. Simple, but expensive.
Although, I’m not sure ‘bought’ is the best word to describe how my father acquires gifts for her.
“You’re cooking for him?”
