Prompted by: B.A. Mealer
I met him six years ago.
At the dickhead’s funeral.
That would be daddy dearest, in case you’re wondering who the dead dickhead is. And don’t you dare offer your condolences for my loss. Don’t even think about it. Because you’re not really sorry. And besides, you never even met him. If you had, you would know that I didn’t lose anything.
In fact, I gained something that day.
Something priceless. Something invaluable. Something I had thought about every single day since I can remember. Something I had prayed for every single night since I can recall. Something I had longed to achieve every single moment of my entire life.
When that bullet struck, piercing the flesh between his eyes, burrowing a glorious path straight through his skull to lodge deep inside his corrupt, rotten, disgusting-as-fuck mind?
I gained my freedom.
In a split second, I had finally gained my freedom.
What I didn’t realize was how quickly I would lose it again…
“It’s not your color.”
I glanced over and then up.
Because the smooth, velvety voice belonged to a giant. Even contained in a full pinstripe suit oozing with power and money, I could tell he was built like a brick shithouse.
When I didn’t reply, he clarified solemnly, “Black isn’t your color.”
He wasn’t looking at me, which was fortunate since I’d started to salivate. I could see the tip of a tattoo peeking out from under his collar.
Just call me Pavlov’s dog.
My gaze drifted higher, sweeping along the edge of his jawline, before I whispered, “It’s a funeral.”
“You’re not mourning.”
I fought the sudden urge to smile and asked instead, “Do I know you?”
“You do now.”
I couldn’t resist, “Only if you’re lucky.”
“I’m always lucky.”
Cocky fucking bastard.
I simply couldn’t resist, “How lucky?”
Finally, his head turned toward me, sinfully dark eyes settling comfortably on mine. A wicked glint flashed from within the endless void as he murmured, “I bet your panties are red.”
My lips curved uncontrollably. “No such luck.”
His lips curved too. “Must be my handprint then.”
And that was it.
That was all it took.
The only difference between my first and second time in captivity?
I surrendered voluntarily the second time around.
The only difference between my father the dickhead and my husband the asshole?
I fell for the asshole.
The merciless hurt he caused. The brutal pain he inflicted. The pure hatred he felt. The trail of death and destruction he always left behind. The evil slowly consuming him, eating him alive from the inside out.
I fell hard for each and every facet of his vindictive, tortured soul.
And as the car slowed to a halt, I couldn’t even imagine what he might have in store for me.
But I knew one thing.
I still love him.
What’s the prompt for next week, guys?
Make suggestions below. 7 words or less.