when she’d still been a stripper. The fact it was
because I had been a low-level prostitute who couldn’t afford
enemies at the time, didn’t seem to matter to her. Betsy was
someone who remembered those who were loyal to her, which meant she
remembered me.
Dodger’s entryway was beautiful. With
beige marble floors and high, dramatic ceilings, I could see four
separate hallways from where we stood, with a long staircase
leading upstairs. I didn’t have a coat for him to take, or for
anyone else for that matter, not that there was anyone there, and I
turned to him when he stepped in behind me and locked the door
behind us.
“ There are five stories,
fifteen bedrooms, twelve-and-a-half bathrooms,” Dodger explained as
he took my hand and walked with me toward the hallway to the right
of the stairs. “A theater room, a library, office inside. Spa,
pool, a prayer garden out back. Two dining rooms, formal and
informal. A formal living room and an informal family room. A
gaming room. A ballroom for parties, and this…”
I gasped when we stepped
into the kitchen, and Dodger turned on the light. I felt as if I
had just stepped into the holiest of holies. It was the mother of
all gourmet kitchens. I stood in the doorway, afraid to breathe
because I didn’t want to dirty any of the gorgeous stainless steel
appliances. Everything was top of the line. There were three double
ovens, a huge island, a six-burner stove. Gorgeous, cherry wood
cabinets that were complemented beautifully by the dark blue walls
of the kitchen and the blue-and-white tiled floors. Pots and pans
hung over the island, and my fingers clenched and unclenched, my
palms itching to get in there and cook. I wanted to create a
masterpiece. I wanted to make… something for someone . No. Not someone. For
Dodger. I wanted to make something for Dodger. I wanted to see his
eyes close in bliss, as he ate my chicken cacciatore, or watch him
lick the frosting off my red velvet cake from his lips. My cock
hardened behind my zipper, as my mind was flooded with images of
feeding Dodger, of hearing his moans and his exclamations over my
food.
When my stupid, foolish heart, an
organ I was sure had been battered and bruised enough by betrayal
and disappointment, had Stella running into the kitchen asking for
a bite of cake, I slammed the drawbridge on those thoughts quickly
and yanked myself back into the present.
I tore my hand out of Dodger’s grasp
and stepped out of the kitchen, hoping he couldn’t see just how
much I ached to step foot inside of that room with him. That room
was dangerous. This house that felt like a home, even with its
massive size, was dangerous. And Dodger?
Dodger was lethal.
“ Tyler? What’s wrong?”
Dodger asked as he turned toward me.
I smiled at him and shook my head.
“Nothing,” I lied. “Your home is lovely, Dodger. So, are we having
dinner here? Or…” I deliberately let my sentence trail off, as if
the very thought of having dinner in his kitchen, his fabulously
glorious kitchen was unacceptable to me. I watched as Dodger looked
back at the kitchen and then back to me and sighed before he shook
his head.
“ No, we’re having dinner in
the dining room. Come with me.”
“ Splendid.” I tilted my
head, projecting an air of sophistication I really did not feel as
I walked with Dodger down the hallway to the dining room. We passed
what I assumed to be the formal dining room, filled with the
biggest, longest table I’d ever seen, with fancy china already set
in front of every chair, and into another room. In there was a
smaller table, big enough to only seat six. There was a portrait of
Earvin and his first wife on one wall and a black-and-white picture
of Earvin and Dodger on the other. I followed Dodger around the
table to where there were two place mats already laid out, and to
the end of the table where all the food lay, and when I went to sit
in the chair he held out for me, I made the mistake of looking up
at
because I had been a low-level prostitute who couldn’t afford
enemies at the time, didn’t seem to matter to her. Betsy was
someone who remembered those who were loyal to her, which meant she
remembered me.
Dodger’s entryway was beautiful. With
beige marble floors and high, dramatic ceilings, I could see four
separate hallways from where we stood, with a long staircase
leading upstairs. I didn’t have a coat for him to take, or for
anyone else for that matter, not that there was anyone there, and I
turned to him when he stepped in behind me and locked the door
behind us.
“ There are five stories,
fifteen bedrooms, twelve-and-a-half bathrooms,” Dodger explained as
he took my hand and walked with me toward the hallway to the right
of the stairs. “A theater room, a library, office inside. Spa,
pool, a prayer garden out back. Two dining rooms, formal and
informal. A formal living room and an informal family room. A
gaming room. A ballroom for parties, and this…”
I gasped when we stepped
into the kitchen, and Dodger turned on the light. I felt as if I
had just stepped into the holiest of holies. It was the mother of
all gourmet kitchens. I stood in the doorway, afraid to breathe
because I didn’t want to dirty any of the gorgeous stainless steel
appliances. Everything was top of the line. There were three double
ovens, a huge island, a six-burner stove. Gorgeous, cherry wood
cabinets that were complemented beautifully by the dark blue walls
of the kitchen and the blue-and-white tiled floors. Pots and pans
hung over the island, and my fingers clenched and unclenched, my
palms itching to get in there and cook. I wanted to create a
masterpiece. I wanted to make… something for someone . No. Not someone. For
Dodger. I wanted to make something for Dodger. I wanted to see his
eyes close in bliss, as he ate my chicken cacciatore, or watch him
lick the frosting off my red velvet cake from his lips. My cock
hardened behind my zipper, as my mind was flooded with images of
feeding Dodger, of hearing his moans and his exclamations over my
food.
When my stupid, foolish heart, an
organ I was sure had been battered and bruised enough by betrayal
and disappointment, had Stella running into the kitchen asking for
a bite of cake, I slammed the drawbridge on those thoughts quickly
and yanked myself back into the present.
I tore my hand out of Dodger’s grasp
and stepped out of the kitchen, hoping he couldn’t see just how
much I ached to step foot inside of that room with him. That room
was dangerous. This house that felt like a home, even with its
massive size, was dangerous. And Dodger?
Dodger was lethal.
“ Tyler? What’s wrong?”
Dodger asked as he turned toward me.
I smiled at him and shook my head.
“Nothing,” I lied. “Your home is lovely, Dodger. So, are we having
dinner here? Or…” I deliberately let my sentence trail off, as if
the very thought of having dinner in his kitchen, his fabulously
glorious kitchen was unacceptable to me. I watched as Dodger looked
back at the kitchen and then back to me and sighed before he shook
his head.
“ No, we’re having dinner in
the dining room. Come with me.”
“ Splendid.” I tilted my
head, projecting an air of sophistication I really did not feel as
I walked with Dodger down the hallway to the dining room. We passed
what I assumed to be the formal dining room, filled with the
biggest, longest table I’d ever seen, with fancy china already set
in front of every chair, and into another room. In there was a
smaller table, big enough to only seat six. There was a portrait of
Earvin and his first wife on one wall and a black-and-white picture
of Earvin and Dodger on the other. I followed Dodger around the
table to where there were two place mats already laid out, and to
the end of the table where all the food lay, and when I went to sit
in the chair he held out for me, I made the mistake of looking up
at
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