Contingency Plan (Blackbridge Security 3)

“Motherfucker! Do you people know this is a place of business not a goddamned honeymoon suite?”

“Did you see her tits?” Puffy Daddy squawks. “Perfect tits.”

“Puff,” Wren warns.

“Tight little nipples,” the bird continues.

“Tightest pus—” the bird squeals, words cut off when Wren tosses a peppermint in his direction.

“And that’s my cue to leave.” Whitney smacks a chaste kiss to Wren’s lips before sliding past me with red cheeks.

“Did you see her tits?” Wren hisses, his face masked with anger.

“I didn’t. A flash of skin, that’s all, but are you really in any position to say a fucking thing? It’s not like you haven’t been up my ass and in my personal business the last couple of weeks.”

“I’m doing my job.”

“You’re in here getting ready to fuck your girl on your desk,” I argue. “That’s not working.”

“I do my best when my nuts are empty.”

“Don’t we all,” I mutter.

“Where did Momma go? Daddy wants to play!”

Puff Daddy bobs his head, dancing back and forth to a song only he can hear.

“You need to quit doing shit in front of that dude. It’s creepy.”

“Exhibitionism is a healthy form of sexual expression. I think—”

“Stop.” I hold my hand up. “I need to know who is looking after her.”

“Security Plus,” he answers without having to look at his computer. “A guy named Reginald Quake. He’s a good guy, very professional. She’s in good hands.”

Not my hands, literally or metaphorically.

“You’ll let me know if that changes?”

“Yep.” He dismisses me by turning back around and facing his numerous computer screens. “Now I have work to do.”

“Stroke my cock like a good little girl,” is what Puff says as I step out of the room.

Wren only laughs before saying, “So true, Puff. So true.”Chapter 26Remington

Reginald is so quiet, it’s almost like he’s a ghost. I don’t forget he’s around. That would be like forgetting that Flynn used to be in the very position he’s now tasked with. I don’t think I’ll be able to forget Flynn Coleman. I can’t even sleep without seeing flashes of his stupid handsome face in my dreams.

What is it about me that makes people use me up and throw me away? It’s almost like I have those words written on my face, in plain sight instructions there for the world to see. Why else would everyone continue to treat me the same way?

Unable to be alone with myself any longer, I came down to the living room this morning and I’ve been posted up on the sofa ever since. The pile of magazines burns holes in my crossed legs, but I can’t seem to set them to the side.

I’m just another joke, another hashtag trending online. Some girls comment about how lucky I am, many others call me a whore. The Karens of the world are praying for my soul while blessing my mother for having raised such a child.

My mom and Charles left the day after I returned, making sure to let me know they won’t be around much over the next month. They’re both too ashamed of my actions to even look me in the eye. I couldn’t care less, and as the days drag by, I don’t think I care if I never see them again.

Other than a controlling interest, they haven’t been a part of my life for years. I mourned the loss of them a long time ago.

Shifting my weight, trying to get the ache in my back to subside, I accidentally knock one of the magazines to the floor. I can’t be bothered to pick it back up. It’s not like I don’t have a dozen more staring up at me. I’ve studied every picture they took of me that night. The ones on the dance floor are my favorite, and if there weren’t the ones of him coming out of the hotel like he’d just smelled something rotten, I can almost let myself imagine that he wanted to be with me.

The primal look in his eyes with his mouth inches from mine has the power to make me hot. If it weren’t for the broken heart, it might even be possible.

His hands were on me, keeping me close in what I thought was a protective embrace. Turns out it was just another lie, another manipulation to keep me compliant. I fell for it. Every breath, every time he watched me, touched me, every time he pushed me away, he knew that it would make me hungry for more, and by the end I was practically on hands and knees begging him to give me just a little more, another taste of what he was offering.

I gave up drugs, cocaine and pills, just to turn around and form another addiction. One that has left me more messed up, more strung out than anything ever has before. He’s in my soul, not my bloodstream. There’s no way to detox from him, no way to move on knowing what he felt like, what he sounded like.