Incendiary (11 page)

I’ve lived with this and I’ve made it work. No more.

Once I lost Georgie, nothing else mattered.

“Mr. Sloane,” Amika murmurs, as I walk out of the bathroom, two hours later, dressed in only a towel.

The last member of the staff my mother hired before her death, Amika sits on the edge of my bed. She’s five or six years older than me. Over the years, we’ve fucked here and there. My specialty is casual relationships, best for me. Considering what happened with Georgie, I will never again stray from the success of flings and meaningless fucking.

“I’ve brought you something to eat.” Amika nods toward the sitting room, her brown eyes alive with heat and mischief, not caring at the lameness of her double entendre. “Do you want me to serve you?”

Need she ask? “Fuck food for now.” She wasn’t referring to food in the first place, but she enjoys my orders. I crook my finger at her and drop my towel. “Come here.”

Standing, she unbuttons her dress, the hem flirting with indecency, before pushing it over her shoulders and allowing it to drop to the floor. The sight of her nude body hardens my cock. Her tits swing as she walks toward me. When she reaches me, she fists my dick, stands on her tiptoes and kisses me.

She smells divine, like sweet lavender and hot pussy, and tastes like mint. The feel of her womanly curves pushes away the memory of the discomfort of solitary confinement. The air in my jail cell was stale and oppressive, worsened by the scent of human waste.

All atrocities I suffered thanks to Georgiana. The thought of her urges me to deepen the kiss with Amika.

“Sloane, please.”

Georgie’s words to me the night we met. Her image rises in my head, haunting me.

Taunting me.

Growling, I wrap my hand around Amika’s, encouraging her to stroke my prick. She had been, but, somewhere along the way she halted. Her hands are firm, her warm fingers sure in their movements.

“I love you.”

An innocent declaration from Georgie that I believed.

“Please, please, don’t do this. Don’t send me away. Please. I love you.”

My nostrils flare at the memory of Georgie’s desperation the last time I saw her. I pull away from Amika’s mouth to lick her nipple, clutching her ass in my hands.

“
Please, please, don’t do this.”

Fuck her! I squeeze my eyes shut, searching for the words from her interview, the ones where I’ll strengthen my hatred for her and justify fucking a woman I don’t want.

Determined, I thrust my cock against Amika’s belly.

“
I love you, Sloane.”

Georgie has taken up residence in my head. I can’t fuck her away. I can’t will her away. I can’t hate her away. As much as my dick aches to come, my heart—my head, I mean—rebels.

Releasing Amika, I step back and wipe the taste of her tongue from my mouth. “I’m not in the mood for you.”

Her eyes widen and hurt crosses her face before her gaze drops to my stiff cock. “You’re always in the mood, sir.” Sir. Amika calls me ‘sir’ and ‘mister’ out of habit, and as a show of respect to her boss’s son. I’ve given her money. I’ve eaten her cunt. I’ve used her for my own pleasure. But I’ve never given her the respect she deserves, because I’ve never given myself respect.

Tired from the turmoil of the past seven days, I rub a hand over my face. My stomach growls. Being under my father’s roof again makes me restless. Still, nothing compares to how unsettled I am being in the same city as Georgie and unable to see her. Disquieted by my fury and sense of betrayal, I convince myself I hate her.

My stomach growls again.

“Would you like your meal now, Mr. Sloane?” Amika’s dressed again, her mouth swollen from my kisses. “I can bring the cart in here if you’d prefer.”

The prospect of real food brings a small smile to me. “I’ll prepare my plate and eat in the sitting room.”

She hesitates and shifts her weight. “Do you need me to suck your cock?”

I always need a dick suck, but a sickness invades me. I don’t want her to touch me. The malady began months ago. When I left for Europe knowing Georgie was carrying my baby, I sought to protect my own ass. I’d broken Helen’s rules, slept with Georgie, and gotten her pregnant. After Cassandra led Helen to believe I backed out of an arrangement between her and Parnell because of Georgie, Helen sought to avenge her daughter.

I believed I could walk away and not care about Georgie’s pregnancy. Misery followed me around and the only time I didn’t suffer was when I was onstage or when I fucked. Through music, I spent my passion and emotion. In pussy, I shed my loneliness and my unending need for Georgiana.

The snick of a closing door brings me out of my thoughts. Amika is gone, so I head to my closet for clothes. The luggage I had with me on tour was sent here, so I don’t have to worry about a new wardrobe for however long I’m required to remain in Houston. Under my father’s watchful eye.

Fuck.

Once I dress and shove away the irony of my predicament, I walk to the sitting room and find the cart holding silver chafing dishes. As I remove the lid, one of the containers slide and the Sterno flame crackles at the bottom. It reminds me of the fire at one of my concerts and I grimace at the misplaced memory.

Resigning from the band was past due. I fought a losing battle for months.

I slam the lid down again, shoving my hand through my hair, the whiff of mint, garlic, braised lamb, rosemary, and truffles making my stomach growl once more. I prepare my plate, then set it on the tasseled silk placemat. Wondering why the fuck I sent Amika away, I go to the bar and pour myself a scotch.

Drink in hand, I return to the table and sit, ignoring the daunting silence. Cutting into the tender lamb, I shovel it into my mouth. The taste explodes on my tongue, satisfying me. I tear through it and add a second piece to my plate, where everything else is untouched.

A knock sounds on my door.

“Come in,” I grunt, in no mood for the company of any motherfucker currently at the house.

Maitland walks in and shuts the door. Though he’s still capable of fashioning a man bun with the hair sitting on top, each side of his head is freshly shaved.

“What?” I ask when he stares at me like a dickhead.

Glowering, he digs in the pocket of his board shorts and tosses me a key. “Your Volante is in the garage.”

I taste the basmati rice, flavored with saffron and chives. It’s delicious. World travel is a primary reason I’m able to identify ingredients, something I enjoyed teaching Georgie during our stay in Denver.

Glaring at the roasted baby zucchini because I can’t escape thoughts of her, I suck my teeth. “Did my Aston drive itself here?”

My fucking car is a much easier topic than Georgiana. It’s a cut-and-dry topic. She’s never been so easy.

Maitland’s blue eyes narrow on me. “I flew to Denver three days ago and drove it here,” he explains with a touch of indignation. He scratches his jaw and my eyes stray to the enormous gauge in his earlobe. He’ll have deformed earlobes for the rest of his fucking life. Knowing me and my train of thought, he scowls. “Fuck, Sloane. I don’t get high anymore. I stopped years ago. Long before you did.”

“Said this, heard that,” I point out, resentment rising in me. “You must’ve known I’d bond out before me, so you wanted to do me a favor and get my car.”

We’d gotten past the bullshit. During the tour so rudely interrupted by my arrest, we’d hit all types of music records. Moot point, right now. Someone has to take the brunt of my blame and anger.

“It’s a mystery why you went through so much fucking trouble on my behalf.”

Fists balled, he looms in front of me, only a small dinner table separating us. “Dude, fuck you.”

Not wanting to fight just as I didn’t want to fuck, I sigh. “Thank you for my car. Now, get the fuck out of my face.”

“What the fuck are you angriest about? Georgie? The band? Your daughter? I didn’t make you leave the fucking band,” he reminds me as if I don’t know. “You quit.”

Standing, I stalk around to him. We’re nose-to-nose, in perfect range to pummel each other. “I quit because I don’t give a fuck about it anymore. Not the music or the band.” I clarify the blatant, bald-faced lie, so he’ll have no doubt to the ‘it’ I refer to.

I lose a little more of myself. Music is me. At one time, I’d play and find whatever inside of me I lacked. If I was lonely, it used to fill me up. My guitar is an extension of me. My fingers strum strings in my sleep. How can I face tomorrow knowing I have to mute the songs inside of me?

“I don’t care about any of it,” I repeat.

“I don’t fucking believe you.” Sure of his statement, Maitland turns away. He was the one who did the most drugs with me.
Most
being the key word. All three of those fuckers used with me at one time or another. “What do you want me to say, Sloane?”

What is there to say?
That’s the logical question. Instead, completely unrelated bullshit spews from my mouth, shocking the fuck out of me. “What gave you the fucking right to keep tabs on
my
girlfriend? You knew Bryn’s name before I did.”

My question and the vehemence startles Maitland, too. After a moment of silence, he gives a tired sigh and shrugs. “I assume Rand and Helen had dealings here and there.”

Undoubtedly. Lucinda and Lucifer at it again.

“Rand must’ve shared shit with Kiln to turn him against you or because he was frustrated as your father…”

His voice trails off at my glare. My father doesn’t suffer such human emotions. Since Maitland doesn’t know anything other than Steffie’s death being an accident and my father’s highhandedness in forcing me to work with Kiln and Jaeger, he sometimes feels I’m too hard on Dad. Like now.

“Dude, Rand has moments like the rest of us. Don’t you? Times where you allow your emotions to take over. As I recall, you agreed to his press conference that turned the mother of your daughter into a fucking faithless slut.”

I shove him, hating the reminder.

“The truth hurts, huh, asshole?” he snarls, unintimidated.

Confused by my seesawing feelings, I turn away and head to the door. I can’t hear any more about her. Even if I didn’t want to shake the fuck out of her, I can’t go anywhere near her by fucking court-order.

Downstairs in the foyer, I pick up the phone on the antique chest used to summon staff and dial the extension to the house manager. I need my Aston brought around.

“Sloane,” Kiln calls, just as I return the receiver to the base.

“Fuck off.”

He’s the last motherfucker I’m dealing with right now. Tossing him the finger, I open the door and step into the heat, itching to drive away and find an escape. I bypassed losing myself in pussy, so I’ll hunt down a hit. Or two. Or three.

No need to call one dealer, when I intend to make use of several.

The waxy leaves on a gardenia bush flutter and I lick my lips at the memories of Mom, Steffie, and I planting flowers. I was there for the heavy work, a spoiled little asshole as usual, complaining about the gardeners on the payroll who should’ve been pouring cow shit in the beds.

“And you pay for this?” I’d complained. “We have a fucking pasture. Have someone scoop that for you. Money saved. Manure gained.”

“You have no appreciation for simple things, Slo.”

“Simple things, Steffie? I’m cavorting in shit.”

“Sloane Andrew Mason.”

“Mom, don’t do the full name deal. I’m just saying. Steffie thinks this is simple. I’m fourteen. To me, gardening is boring and hard work. Far from simple.”

“Bryn, is it okay if grumpy gets his guitar and serenade us while we work?”

“Excellent idea, Stefanie. As long as you’re willing to help as needed, Sloane, that’s fine.”

Steffie had winked at me, protecting me as usual.

Yanking my hair, I glance beyond the circular driveway. A narrow pathway is almost hidden by the bushes at the side of the house. I wander toward it. Being in residence without Mom and Steffie crystallizes in my head. It’s a fully formed realization, not the abstract consideration like it was earlier when I looked at the chandelier.