I glance over. Tor is reading a book; her feet propped up on the railing of the deck. The sun glints from her blonde hair, highlighting her tanned skin. Cayla wiggles against my bare chest, and I gently pat her back, slouching down in the sun-lounger. She grunts, flopping her head against my shoulder. "It's alright little girl. Daddy's got you."
The waves crash against the shore. The cool breeze blows over the porch, catching the wind chimes in their wake and creating a soothing tinkering. Tor closes her book and sets it on the table as she rises. "I'm going to go and make dinner."
I smile, and grab her wrist, pulling her into my lap. She leans forward and gently strokes the back of Cayla's blonde head, her eyes going soft. I've always thought she was beautiful, but the way she is with Cayla, it makes my cock rock-fucking-hard. I wrap my free hand around the back of her neck, and pull her forward, placing a kiss on her lips.
"Fuck me, you are beautiful," I growl. "And I fucking love you."
She smiles, caressing her fingers over my jaw. "I love you." She presses her lips to mine once more, and stands up, making her way inside the house.
I settle back down in the lounger and stare out over the turquoise waters, gently circling my finger over Cayla's tiny back as she sleeps.
Fate has a fucking funny way of working itself out. At one point I thought I had lost everything, but someone threw me a lifeline. Turns out, I was so damn good at what I did, the FBI was willing to stroke out a deal, even to a convicted murderer. I stood my fucking ground, refusing to give up anything to them until they granted me my freedom. Seems like letting one criminal go in exchange for dozens is an even trade. That wreck was no accident. It was planned, but the only people that know that are me and two government officials. I took a bullet for that shit, just to make it convincing, and now, as far as the world is concerned, Jude Pearson is dead.
Tor comes back, perching on the edge of my sun lounger. I place my hand on her thigh, pushing her dress up slightly. She cocks an eyebrow and shoves my hand away with a smirk. I'm determined to get her knocked up again, and she's not having any of it.
I look up when Marney clears his throat, and I choke on a laugh. Tor struggles to keep a straight face. He's wearing a vest, and his tattooed arms are covered in nicotine patches. He's one week into giving up smoking. Tor has tried to explain to him that you're supposed to wean off the fucking patches, but shit, he must be wearing at least ten of the fucking things. He slaps one on my arm.
"You need to give up too," he grumbles. "It's not good for the little'n."
Tor buries her face in my chest, but her shoulders shake as she laughs. I nod. "Sure thing, old man."
"Give me that baby," he says, taking Cayla from my chest. "It's my turn." He huffs and walks back inside the house rocking Cayla in his arms.
Tor laughs hysterically. "Oh, shit, he's so grumpy!" she howls.
"He has a point though. I should fucking quit.”
"No!" She scowls at me.
"No? Fuck, you better be glad you aren't a fucking doctor, with that damn attitude we'd be filing bankruptcy from the goddamn lawsuits."
Her lips kick up at one side. "But I like that you smell of cigarettes," she says, a slight blush creeping over her cheeks. "It really..." she moves to straddle me, leaning forward as she teases her lips over my neck. "Really, does it for me."
"Oh, no, doll," I growl into her ear, nipping at it. "I know what fucking does it for you." I push her up, bringing my face inches from hers as I lace my fingers around her neck. "You like it when I treat you like a dirty whore..." I bite her bottom lip, and she moans against my mouth.
My hands skim up her thighs, brushing between them, and my cock hardens. I slip my finger beneath the edge of her underwear, and then...
"Hey! Hey!" Marney shouts from the door to the living room, and I hear Cayla fussing. "She's crying and she tried sucking on my neck. I think she wants some food."
I groan, resting my head on Tor's chest. "You're up, dairy cow." I slap her ass, and she glares at me.
"Arsehole," she mumbles, getting up, and taking Cayla. "I'll be upstairs if you need me."
I sit staring out at the waters, reflecting on the past year when my phone rings. I pick it up from the table and pull it to my ear. "Go ahead, partner..."
"This is Redcoat thirty three. I want to place a bet on St. Louis. Bottom five, half ten."
"Alright," I say. "St. Louis. Bottom five. Half ten."
I don’t want to be Jude Pearson, infamous bookie, but sometimes, no matter how much you want to put the past behind you, you can’t escape who you are.
I did make a fucking deal after all, and it was for more than a few names...
The. Fucking. End.