Soaring (Magdalene #2)(113)

“Babe, f*ckin’ look at me.”

I turned squinty eyes to him. “Yes?”

“Tell me, how is it you just gave me the best blowjob of my life, capped that by takin’ my cum, I asked you to go away for a weekend with me, and I’m this pissed?” he demanded.

“How is it that you went down on me, gave me only the fourth best orgasm of my life, the first two were our first time, the third one the time on the rug by my bed, you asked me to go away with you, and I’m this pissed?” I retorted.

“Fuck,” he growled. “I don’t have enough time to f*ck you properly in order to f*ck that sass outta you before I gotta get my kid.”

“Then do it improperly, Mickey,” I challenged.

I barely got his name out before I was on my back, Mickey looming over me, his hands at my ankles forcing my knees bent and my legs wide, and just with that, I was breathing heavy and speeding near orgasm.

It was then, his phone rang.

We both looked down to it but only Mickey clipped, “Fuck me.”

He lowered himself between my spread legs, resting some of his weight on me, and reached a long arm out to his phone. He nabbed it, turned a heated scowl to me, something I ignored entirely, wrapped my legs around his thighs and rested my hands to his chest as he took the call and put the phone to his ear.

“Coert, swear to f*ck, this better be good,” he ground down the phone.

He listened for less than a minute before he was up, seated on the daybed, and he’d arranged me straddling him.

His eyes were to the fire, but they saw no romantic fire blazing by a marvelous daybed.

They were far, far away.

I watched with some awe, and admittedly some unease, as whatever was happening far, far away began to piss Mickey off.

To extremes.

“What do I want you to do?” Mickey asked the unknown Coert, his voice low, rough and filled with such fury, I felt it vibrating all through me. “It’s cool you called me, and just sayin’, she doesn’t have the kids, they’re with me. But I’m not owin’ a favor this time. I want that bitch’s DUI on record.”

I tensed.

It wasn’t even eight thirty and Rhiannon was drunk driving?

And…this time?

“Yeah,” he grunted. “Yeah,” he grunted again. “Right. Thanks, Coert.”

He disconnected and tossed his phone to the afghan.

“Goddamn shit,” he muttered to the fire.

“Mickey,” I whispered.

“Goddamn f*cking shit!” he roared, surging up, but planting me gently on my feet before he did something that was sweet— unbelievably sweet in the circumstances—and bent, tagging his tee and handing it to me.

He then went after his boxers as I pulled his tee over my head and when I had it on, I saw he had his boxers up and was nabbing his jeans.

“She’s done this before?” I asked carefully.

He shoved his foot in one leg, answering, “Yeah.” He shoved in the other one and tugged them up then he looked at me. “That was what happened before the thing that happened before the bender that happened when I got shot of her ass.”

“Oh, Mickey,” I said softly, wishing words were magic and I could find the right ones to make that magic work.

He started pacing.

“Maybe she’s…” I started, stopped, then tried, “Maybe all these things are happening and she’s going to hit bottom and—”

He twisted his head to face me and snarled, “She’s not doin’ that shit with my kids.”

I stood there staring at him thinking I’d never seen anyone that angry.

In all my antics, I’d made Conrad spitting mad.

But he’d never been as angry as Mickey was right then.

Somehow, in the face of his rage, I felt no fear.

I just murmured soothingly, “Of course not, honey. You wouldn’t let it.”

“Loved her,” he spat and I flinched. Not at his words, at his emotion. “Only bitch I tagged more beautiful than her is you. Lookin’ back, I knew it was gonna be her the minute I laid eyes on her. Knowin’ that, from the second I met her, treated her ass like gold. I had it to give to her, I gave it. We had it good. She gave me babies. It didn’t happen fast, her sinkin’ into the bottle. It went slow. Can you imagine, Amy, day after day, no matter how hard you held on, watchin’ someone you love slip right through your fingers?”

“No, baby,” I said gently, again feeling the bleed inside.

This time, though, I was bleeding for Mickey.

“Does she love them?” he asked suddenly.

“I’m sorry?” I asked back in confusion.

“Ash and Cill,” he bit out. “’Cause, she does, I don’t get it. She didn’t love me. Told her to get sober or get out. We fought. She swore she didn’t have a problem, told me I had a problem. Comin’ back to me and our family smellin’ like stale booze and lookin’ like shit, and I had the problem. Then she got out. That meant she chose the bottle over me. That’s not love. That the same thing with my kids?”

“I don’t know anything about addiction, Mickey, but I would guess she does, and she loved you too. But she’s not in control. The addiction is.”

“That’s weak,” he clipped.