Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“Oh my god, your dick is soo big,” the woman gasps, her voice pitched to flatter.
Dom’s laugh again. “Baby, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
His dick is big. I’ve known him my whole life and he went through a let’s-measure-our-dicks stage when he was fourteen. Ten inches.
Bigger than me, I’ll give him that. But only by half an inch.
The bed frame crashes methodically into the wall as he drives into her with that enormous cock. The noise trails me down the hallway like an indictment. Like defeat.
My room occupies the corridor’s end. The master suite. The summit of this empty mountain I’ve constructed for myself. I swing the door open and enter.
Stark lines. Sparse furnishings. A king bed with black sheets folded with military exactness. No pictures. No personal effects visible. The walk-in closet door remains ajar, rows of matching suits discernible in the faint light. The expansive window provides an unobstructed view of Riverview—the community stretched below resembling a miniature village. My village.
I place my beer on the nightstand and slacken my tie. The ceiling fan rotates idly above, circulating chilled air that perpetually stays cool. I can still detect them—Dom’s chuckling, Ricky’s moans, the rehearsed excitement of the three women.
The noises penetrate through the ducts, the floors, the walls.
Unavoidable.
I enter the closet, select a suit for tomorrow—charcoal gray—then meticulously place it into my garment bag.
I seal the carrier with one crisp, definitive motion. The noise is conclusive. Resolute.
Another explosion of laughter bursts from Dom’s room, followed by what appears to be someone tumbling off the mattress. The snickering grows louder.
I drape the bag across my shoulder, toss the vacant beer bottle into the waste bin as I depart the room, and proceed toward the rear staircase to avoid witnessing the woman being gagged by Ricky’s dick again.
This marks the fifth occasion in fourteen days I’ve departed.
It’s not a positive indicator.
I descend the stairs rapidly, my footfalls intentionally forceful. Let them hear me leave—I’m indifferent.
I reach the foyer, key fob in my hand. The chandelier captures the illumination differently now, the broken diamonds more severe, more cutting. The Monet appears as merely colored blotches in the low light.
The front door swings noiselessly on its well-lubricated hinges. The evening breeze strikes my face. Brisk, pure, bringing the aroma of pine from the woods that surround the property. I breathe in deeply. My lungs fill. Something within my chest slightly relaxes.
The Aventador waits in the circular driveway like a hunched beast, its Nero Nemesis finish swallowing the moonlight. I toss my bag onto the passenger seat and slip behind the wheel. The motor ignites with a snarl that pulses through the steering wheel and into my arms. The noise obliterates everything else—the mansion, the recollections, the void.
For three seconds, nothing exists but the flawless mechanical harmony of Italian craftsmanship.
I don’t glance back at the mansion as I drive away. The headlights slice through the blackness, brightening the private lane that curves down the hillside toward Riverview. The trees generate moving shadows that flutter across the car’s hood.
The journey takes six minutes.
River Avenue lies silent at this hour. A handful of passersby look up as the Lamborghini cruises by, their expressions showing recognition, then carefully composed nonchalance. Wise.
I park in the alley behind the restaurant and ascend the exterior staircase to the second floor. There’s a keypad lock. My fingers enter the code mechanically.
The corridor to the apartment is narrow but well-illuminated. My steps resonate across the tile floor. Another door, another code. Then I’m in.
The loft-style apartment greets me with quietude. Absolute, total quietude. No groans. No chuckling. No banging headboards or gagging on dicks. Just the soft drone of the refrigerator and the gentle purr of the AC.
This open-concept space above the restaurant is all exposed brick, massive wooden beams, and polished glass.
Floor-to-ceiling windows line the far wall, letting in a flood of moonlight that makes the hardwood floors gleam like bone. The furnishings are sparse and masculine—deep charcoal couches, a raw oak coffee table, and industrial lighting fixtures that hang like steel spiders from the ceiling.
A complete chef’s kitchen shines against the far wall, pristine, each stainless-steel device buzzing softly in position. The space was costly to transform. Assembled, the sort of fashionable opulence that should feature in design publications. But it seems empty. No disorder. No signs of life. No jackets thrown over furniture, no worn footwear near the entrance.
Merely an exquisite enclosure of bricks and glass, masquerading as a residence.
I drop my bag by the door and move to the front window. From here, I can see most of River Avenue. My street. My buildings. My town. The streetlights create pools of yellow light on empty sidewalks. A lone car passes, moving slowly.
I stand there for a moment, watching. Breathing. The tension in my shoulders begins to unwind, one muscle at a time.