Truyensexhay

It took a moment before we had the strength the separate, and, even once we did, Carter was so tired that all he could do was collapse next to me. The two of us had to sit there for several minutes, waiting for our strength to return.

I might not have even gotten out of bed, had I not heard my phone going off, in the other room.

“Oh, fuck,” I said, my legs barely closing enough to walk.

As the Carter’s warm fluids dripped down my thighs, I rummaged in my purse, trying to find my phone.

“You never told me you were married.” Carter followed me into the living room, but seemed to have no inclination to put any clothes on.

“I try not to think about it,” I told him, honestly, before finally reading the message.

Donovan had sent me multiple texts in the last few minutes, but the most recent one summed them all up quite well. “Get out of there!”

“Something wrong?” asked Carter, pouring himself another drink.

“Oh, nothing.” I quickly slipped my dress back on, but Carter blocked my path to the elevator.

“Did someone tell you about me?”

“What is there to know?” I asked, nervously.

He looked at me with regret in his eyes. “I guess this is a bit awkward now,” he said, stumbling a bit over his words. “But I had fun. Come back again, if you feel comfortable.”

And as those last few words came to a close, he stepped aside, clearing my path to the exit.

“I get it, if you’re angry with me, but, like you said, I’ve never met a woman like you before. I’d hate to lose out on the chance to get to know you better.”

I could see a genuine sadness behind his eyes, as he escorted me towards the door, and, somehow, it put my mind at ease, despite the frantic texts from Donovan.

Instead of heading straight outside, I took the time to talk a bit with Carter, clean myself up, and we even made out a bit, before I finally went to the elevator.

“I’ll understand if you say no,” he told me. “But is there any chance I’ll see you again?”

“I think there is.”

We shared one last kiss, before the doors closed between us, and it was only once the elevator was rocketing towards the lobby that I finally texted Donovan back to say, “I’m on my way out.”

In retrospect, it was probably a mistake to not do that sooner.

My driver was waiting for me the moment the elevator doors opened. He grabbed me by the shoulder, and led me through the lobby faster than I would have liked, but was smart enough to not attract attention.

“What happened to all the guards?” I asked Donovan. I couldn’t see a single one of the men who had been patrolling the lobby earlier, including the one who had escorted me up in the first place.

“Must be on break,” he said, without taking his eyes off the door.

I could see my limo as soon as we walked outside, but Donovan didn’t seem interested in going back to it. Instead, he dragged me over to a car across the street.

“Is this ours?”

“It is, now,” he said without any doubt, at least until he began fumbling with the door and the alarm went off.

“What the hell are you doing, Donovan?”

“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” he said. It was an oddly formal thing to say, even for him, but I realized why when I saw the posh hotel patrons walking by and watching us. “I’ll get this fixed, right away, ma’am.”

Seconds later, we were in the car. Part of me expected someone to confront us, but, even after the alarm, no one seemed to bat an eye at the uniformed driver and the woman in the cocktail dress climbing into an expensive car.

“Are you ok?” he asked, as soon as the doors were closed.

“I’m fine.” I watched as he began ripping panels off of the dashboard, and quickly splicing wires together.

“This gets more complicated with every new make and model.”

“Where did you learn to steal a car?”

“Here’s a better question. Where did you put your goddamn phone? I told you to let me look this guy up first.”

I quickly glanced back at his string of messages, as the car roared to life and Donovan pulled away from the curb.

“What did you find? You never said.”

“It might be better that you not know.”

“Oh, shut up and tell me,” I told him, frustrated.

Donovan remained silent for almost a full minute, before he finally answered me. “Carter isn’t his real name.”

“Well, no shit,” I said, sarcastically.

“Do you want me to tell you, or not?”

I quieted down, and he continued.

“There is a crime syndicate run out of San Muerte that controls a good chunk of the drug trade in the Pacific. Every ounce of cocaine that moves across the ocean runs through them, and their leader is a man who goes by Carter.”

“Oh, come on,” I said. “There must be a billion Carter’s in California. How do you know that it’s the same one?”

“I had a friend trace the payment used to rent that hotel you were just in. All the accounts are associated with the Dirty Hand.”

“The Dirty Hand? That’s what they call themselves? I thought you said they were scary.”

“God, for once in your life, can you just trust me?”

To this day, I’m not sure why him saying that did such a good job of shutting me up. Maybe I just realized that he knew more than me. Maybe I was still a little bit drunk. Maybe one round of really great sex had been enough to render me more pliable than I usually was.

No matter the reason, it worked, and I spent the rest of the ride home sitting in silence.

“We’re here,” Donovan said, pulling up to the front yard.

I climbed outside, expecting to be thrilled at the prospect of seeing my bedroom again, or at least excited to see the well manicured lawn and flower bushes, but what I felt was the exact opposite.

“Fuck, I hate this place.”

One look at my perfectly maintained homestead was enough to remind me of why I had been so attracted to Carter in the first place, and, to be completely honest, knowing that he might very well be a drug kingpin didn’t do anything to abate the excitement he had brought to my life.

“I can’t go back,” I said both to Donovan and myself. It was timid, at first, but I soon repeated myself, with great fervor. “I cannot go back!”

Donovan rolled his eyes. “Oh, God. What are you talking to yourself about, now?”

“I can’t go back to this,” I said to him. “No more sitting at home all day, until I get called to attend some charity event. No more drowning my boredom in white wine. No more knowing my husband is screwing slutty housewives, every Sunday night. I need to get out of here. Take me somewhere else.”

Donovan stepped up to me, placing his hands on my shoulders. “Ms. Jones, I don’t think you’re in a good headspace to be making decisions, right now.”

I quickly shrugged him off. “Don’t you start doing it, too. I can think for myself. I’m not helpless.”

“I don’t think you’re helpless,” he said. “I just think you’re bad at making decisions.”

“Fuck you, Donovan.”

“I’m only trying to protect you.”

“But that’s the problem!” I screamed in his face. “I need to get hurt! I crave danger! I can’t spend every day locked in this gilded cage.”

My driver seemed to be at a loss for words, but, for once, he seemed to listen to me.

As I finally started to calm down, I asked him, “Do you know what it’s like, being an object? Do you know how it feels to be a trinket, pulled off the shelf once a day and then put back when my entertainment value wears off?”