I stare at the sky, and it's my way of saying goodbye.
Goodbye, my last year at the beach house.
Goodbye, my last year of innocence.
Goodbye, Dom... Sweet, forbidden Dom.
Goodbye, Daddy. I'll always be your little girl. Even when you can't hold my hand anymore.
A card arrives the next week. A blank white card, so hopeful amidst the sea of black that surrounds the house. I see the clumsy writing on it, and my heart breaks, even though I thought it couldn't take another beating. It's already in pieces.
Sorry
The one word in the card. No signature.
I can picture his shaky fingers scribbling it down, so inexperienced with words and feelings. And even though it shouldn't, it means so much.
But I hate that it does, so I watch it burn in the fireplace before going to Daddy's funeral. And I close that chapter of my life once and for all.
Chapter eighteen
DOM
4 years later
"Dom!" she moans at the top of her lungs, her lithe body writhing under my weight as I pump my length inside her dripping pussy. "Oh, manache!"
I smile at her, clenching my teeth as I finish, releasing my cum. She keeps begging for more, but my needs have been satisfied with that final thrust of my hips.
Rolling off her, I run a hand through my hair and get up, my breath catching in my throat as I grin at the blonde in my bed. She's gorgeous, and if my memory is not deceiving me, she models for an Italian agency and is in the city because of work.
"Thanks for that, darlin'," I tell her with a groan, taking off the condom with a pop and discarding it in the waste basket next to my bed. "Do you need me to call you a cab?"
Blondie throws a pillow at my head, but I'm too fast for her, moving out of the way. I'm grinning at her as an avalanche of Italian curse words rolls from her lips.
She jumps up from my bed, her tits bouncing and making my cock stir despite what we just did. Pulling on her skimpy outfit from last night, Blondie gives me the finger before storming towards the front door.
"You're dripping," I call after her, grinning from ear to ear and she turns around, glaring at me. If looks could kill...
"Cazzo!" she screams, slamming the door as I laugh out loud. What a treat that was, and an unexpected one, too. When I went to the club with friends last night, I was expecting to leave with someone, but most definitely not the girl of the moment.
I jump in the shower, rinsing off her scent of alcohol and expensive perfume, my mind replaying the sex I just had with a smile on my lips. Just as I'm heading out of the bathroom, my phone starts ringing.
I fumble around for my cell and realize it's turned off, so it must be the land line. Only one person calls me on that line, and that is my mother.
I'm already dreading this conversation as I reach for the phone. I mentally prepare myself for the onslaught.
I don't know when my relationship with Mom went to shit. It must've been around four years ago. I make myself vanquish those thoughts, just like I always do.
There aren't many rules I go by, but there is a big one I never, ever break.
Don't think about that summer. Don't call. Don't care. Just forget.
"Hello?" I answer the incessant ringing, my voice already tired before the conversation even begins. I rub my eyes with my free hand, my wet hair dripping down my back as I do so.
"Dom," my mother greets me formally. There's always this tension when we talk, full of unasked and unanswered questions. My mouth forms a tense line as I wait for her to go on.
She never calls me without a reason, so this must be something important.
"What can I do for you, Mother?" I ask, just as formal. Let's play this game, then – I can be a jackass if I want to. And if she insists on treating me like a business partner instead of her own goddamned son, so be it.
"I am calling to tell you of some news," she retorts stiffly after a brisk pause. She's so damn formal it makes me wonder if she's upset that our relationship reached this point, if she ever wonders what could have been had that summer that never happened.
"What is it?" I ask, preparing for the worst.
"I'm getting married," she admits, and her voice seems almost shy.
And because I’m a jerk, I make fun of my mother. The one woman who is a constant in my life, and who, despite our drifting apart over the last few years, loves me no matter what. "Oh, again?" I ask with a mocking voice. "What else is new?"