Attest (Centrifuge Duet Book 2)(11)
Pushing the door to the shower open, I head for the bathroom vanity. I open the door and am greeted with half empty bottles of various cologne—instantly recognisable as mine—and a couple of tins of antiperspirant. I pick up the closest tin and try to judge its weight in my hands. It feels half-full.
“Motherfucking psycho bitch.” Shaking my head, I toss the tin into the basin and step back into the shower. “That crazy cow. Breaking into my house and bringing my shit here.”
I’m still shaking my head as I start washing my hair. B is past deranged—the woman needs some serious therapy. Why the fuck would she bring my old shit here? Is it a way to tell me that she thinks she knows me? Or is she trying to spook the shit out of me?
Because if it’s the latter, it’s working.
As I rinse the shampoo out of my hair, I try my hardest to ignore the burning arousal that’s starting in my pelvic region. Showers were always fun when Amber was around and being surrounded by the same aromas that accompanied those good times has my dick twitching. Force of habit has me thinking about math equations and marking homework, in hopes that it will die down, until it hits me that I don’t have to worry about having an erection. I’m alone. All by myself and free to find release if I choose.
My hand slips down the front of my body. I grasp my cock at the root and slowly raise my hand to the tip. A shudder runs the length of me, a reminder that the opportunities for self-pleasure were few and far between over the past two years. Repeating the journey I just took in reverse, I start to stroke myself in an even rhythm. Up and down. Up and down. Squeezing tight when I near the end.
The pace quickens as my body responds to the stimulation. I feel my balls begin to tighten as that oh so fucking familiar sensation builds. I should be embarrassed by the speed with which it’s coming, but I can’t find it in me to care.
Hot water, clean skin, privacy, and an orgasm. What more could a man wish for after almost two years being deprived of his freedom?
As my climax starts, thick ribbons of cum shooting onto the floor of the shower and washing down the drain, the answer hits me.
Amber. She’s the only thing more I would wish for.
SIX
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My bare feet are quiet on the cold tiles as I make my way into the living room once I’m dressed. I’m trying not to let the fact that I’m wearing my own bloody clothes freak me out. My discomfort only grows as I see that B has thoughtfully added my old keyring to the set of car keys that sit next to a brand-new cell phone on the coffee table.
My partner is one screw lose and a couple of dollars short of sane. Her ability to rattle me without being present would inspire an undying appreciation for her evilness—if I wasn’t her target.
I pick up the keys first, turning the keyring over in my hands to read the inscription I know from memory on the back.
“One day this will be a BMW.”
The engraving is a joke. Amber gave it to me the day I picked out our new-to-us, second-hand shit box after the final death of our previous one. Knowing how much I coveted one of the new BMW’s over the other side of the caryard, my thoughtful woman had found a way to lighten the mood when our finance had been approved for a much cheaper car.
Closing my fingers around the key ring, I squeeze them as rage rushes up my spine and digs its way into my brain. The psycho thinks she’s pulling the strings, but she has another think coming if she’s decided that this is the way to play her hand. These reminders of my previous life aren’t going to bring me to heel. They’re going to drive my desire to see them all six-feet underground as quickly as possible into a frenzy.
I snatch up the cell phone and march back into the bedroom. My feet are shoved into the first pair of shoes that I find and I’m standing next to the BMW in the drive a minute later.
“Let’s see how good your fucking monitoring is.” I utter the challenge into the cool night sky as I press the button to unlock the car. One GPS entry later and I’m heading off into the dark with nothing, but the burning need to see how far I can push B’s limits in my head.
Driving the car is like operating a cloud. It’s smooth, easy to control, and another dagger to my heart. It’s taken a deal with the devil for me to get my ass in the car of my dreams. I push away that thought because I know it’s going to take me down an unwanted track, and distract myself by trying to remember what day of the bloody week it is instead. It’s not readily apparent to me, but I think it’s Sunday evening. The traffic is light—lighter than I expected—and we had the prison’s Sunday special for dinner.
I guess I’m not completely out of touch with the world then.
“In fifty metres, make a right turn onto Seventh Avenue.” The GPS scares the shit out of me when it comes through the speakers of the car. I concentrate on following the directions through the semi-familiar neighbourhood, jiggling my non-accelerator leg as the anticipation of what I’m about to do grows too much to handle.
“The destination is on your left.” The GPS tells me what I already know. I pull the BMW to the side of the street, parking in front of the house where Amber grew up.
Memories of the last time I was parked in front of this house return to the forefront of my mind as the sounds of people approaching grow louder. I brace for confrontation, for the accusation that I’m an interloper in their little oasis. It doesn’t come. This time my vehicle is a much better fit for the surroundings. The dog walkers in their expensive jogging outfits with their electronics strapped their upper arms barely offer me a skerrick of their attention when they pass.