"Fuck you asshole! I make over five-hundred thousand a year! I could buy you! I could buy your whole family! I spent more on my tennis shoes than you spent on your wife's engagement ring."
Loughlan's jaw tightened as he stopped himself from opening his mouth to reply. The entire conversation was being recorded. He calmed himself by deciding to put this lowlife in a police cell over the weekend with the roughest cell mates he could find.
Maybe after some thug showed this jerk a little rough love, Mr. Trent Berger wouldn’t feel so important. Bringing the pompous asshole down a peg or two sounded just about right.
Max, his partner opened the back door of his black and white, and pushed the suspect in. Trent's car was locked and left on the side of the road. Officer Loughlan would have it towed away later. For now, this yuppie prick, this dickless piece of shit, was going to jail.
It seemed that Trent's really bad day was about to get even worse.
57. The Wheel Turns
Trent Berger was confused and disoriented. Partially he was confused because the world had tilted off its usual axis. Partially he was disoriented because he was intoxicated.
But mainly he was off balance because he was going to spend the weekend in a police cell.
He had lost his wife, and his home. The outcome for his business was up in the air, but he would lose that, too. His father-in-law, that scary bastard, was going to be furious. And now he was sitting here in jail for some trumped up, nonexistent crime.
Why did this happen to him?
Everyone was jealous, always trying to take him down to their level.
Trent had his car keys, watch, phone, coins and wallet taken from him and put into a clear zip-locked bag. In exchange he was given a signed receipt. Once he was released from jail his possessions would be returned.
The big cop Loughlan watched him through narrowed eyes while drinking black coffee. Trent wasn't offered any. A uniformed woman put down the donut she had been eating. She picked up a plastic number holder, and made Trent hold the numbers while she prepared to take his picture.
Trent was revolted by the police station. The induction area had a weird tang to it, the smell of sweat, and fear. The linoleum floors, the cheap furniture and complete lack of décor sickened him. And now this fat ugly cow wanted to take his picture. The woman was so brown and wrinkled from the Nevada sun that she looked to be about a hundred and ten years old.
"Face front," she droned. Click.
"Face side. No, not like that," she said positioning him how she wanted. Trent was disgusted.
"Don't touch me," he snarled.
She didn’t reply. Click.
"You watch your mouth in front of a lady, Mr. Berger," the cop warned.
The lady in question laughed loudly and began to fingerprint him like a common criminal. The effects of alcohol were beginning to wear off. Or else the circumstances he was in had a sobering effect.
Trent began to think in repeating waves, just like a crazy person. His head was beginning to spin. How could he get out of this? Charming possible adversaries was a standby action, but it was too late to use ingratiating charm. He had already pissed that big cop off. Threats had proved useless.
Why couldn't these idiots see how important he was?
He was given one phone call but that had presented a problem. Who should he call?
His wife was gone. His mother was in Florida and he hadn’t talked to her in months. He didn't know his secretary's home phone number. The women he had sex with wouldn't have been helpful. In fact they probably would have laughed at him. He didn't know any lawyers.
Trent had many sycophants and acquaintances. Too bad that he didn’t have any friends.
In the end he had gotten the name of a law firm out of the yellow pages and called them. No one was there so he had left a message.
"So how do I get out of here?" Trent asked in a small perplexed voice. All his belligerence was gone, dead and buried right next to his arrogance. When you took away all the bluff and self-important bluster, there was only a frightened little boy left. What was going to happen now?
"You wait until Monday when the Judge comes to work," the cop said. "If you're lucky he'll grant you bail."
As he was marched down toward the cell block, Trent felt something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel for years: dread.
"Why don't I have any friends?" and "Why am I so isolated and alone?" These questions penetrated his brain. For once the familiar mantra that people were jealous of his superior IQ and good-looks didn’t seem to cut it. Not when he was going to be locked up in jail.
The Las Vegas prison cell was six by ten feet in size with concrete walls. It had a toilet, washbasin, a bunk bed for two people, and an extra mattress thrown on the floor. Legally they could have up to four people in the cell. Trent was lucky. He was only the third man.
The cop that was mad at him locked him in. "You kids play nice, now, ya hear?" he said with a chuckle, and left.
Two big men, both under twenty-five slid off the bunks. They were covered in gang tattoos, dressed in oversized pants that were worn low, sagging and dragging on the ground.
One guy was huge. He had a shaved head and looked like someone had stuffed his body with food. He was fat – but he wasn't. A lot of that size equated to muscle. The other man was wiry, he was all muscle too.
"Well, look what we got here?" the big man said.
"Yo, white boy," said the other man, which was odd, because everyone in that cell was Caucasian.
"Woo hee, just look at these clothes, will ya? I think we got us a real special boy right here."
Like a deer being backed into a corner by two vicious wolves, Trent was trapped. Yelling or telling these two just how important he was, wasn't going to work. Was now the time to use charm?
"Hey, fellas'," Trent said, showing a nervous smile. His brilliantly white teeth didn’t seem to make any impression. When one boy took the yellow sweater from his shoulders, Trent said, "Oh, sure, you can have that."
The big man grabbed him by the neck and held him against the wall. His immense smile had not an ounce of goodwill or humor in it. He smiled much like a shark might just before tearing into the flesh of a seal.
"I have money! I can pay you guys! What do you want? I can get you anything you want!" Trent said in a high squeaky voice. He was barely able to speak.
"We want you to tell us, you ever had a woman go down on your dick? You know, sucked you off until you shot your load?"
"Of course." They laughed and Trent's tension eased. Maybe these guys just wanted to hear lewd stories? Well he could tell lots of those.
"Good. Good. Now we're getting somewhere. What about butt fucking? Have you ever butt fucked a nice piece of ass?"
Trent couldn’t understand what they wanted, but he simply answered. "Sure. I've butt fucked my share of women."
The two young men laughed again. "That's good. It's always good to have a man with experience, don't you think, Jax my man?"
"Oh yeah," the smaller man said.
"On your knees, bitch," the big man said to Trent.
When Trent started to scream for help, he was hit and kicked so hard in the gut and kidneys, that he couldn’t make a sound. The pain was intense and exhausting. As effectively as air sucked into the vacuum of space, it sucked the will right out of him.
In the end Trent did whatever they told him to do.
He waited two long days for his private hell to come to an end.
58. PMS
Marcy was stressed out of her brain, and didn't know that it showed.
They dropped Katie at Mike's sister's house for the day. Janice's daughter Madison was having her nine year old birthday party. Ziggy - literally a party animal - was overjoyed to be invited, too. Good fun would be had by all, Marcy was sure. Katie was as happy and comfortable at Janice's home as she was here.
After that Mike and Marcy had gone grocery shopping and had picked up a few stocking stuffers for Christmas.
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Their wedding date was set for Saturday, January 15th.
It was too soon – they would never get everything done on time. True, the wedding consultant was doing the work, but Marcy had to make all the choices. There were so many possibilities! She still couldn't make up her mind over the wedding dress.
Marcy's childhood friend, Sue, could come – that was the main thing. She was going to be the Maid of Honor. She would fly into Vegas three days before to help with any last minute issues and to be at the rehearsal. Meanwhile, Mike's sister, Janice was a great help.
Katie, as predicted, was overjoyed by the planned nuptials. She had already asked her mother about changing her last name. She wanted to be Katie Thompson. Mike said he would instruct his lawyer to contact Trent's lawyer to look into that possibility.
Marcy figured if Mike offered Trent money, and played it right, Katie's father would happily sell the rights to his only child.
The only problem would be if Trent figured he would have more of an advantage by having a child named Katie Berger. Marcy couldn’t see it – but who knew what went on in Trent's selfish, calculating mind?
It turned out that Mike was well known and respected in Vegas. Between him and André Chevalier they were inviting a number of celebrity guests to the wedding. Talk about a society page event! Marcy was worried about how she and Mike danced together, so she had arranged lessons.
Mike, laid back as usual, wasn't bothered by any of it.
Stressed, irritable and annoyed, and not even conscious of it, Marcy brought in a few bags of shopping from the car in the garage. Mike, after a few trips, brought the rest. All Marcy knew was that her boobs felt like overfilled balloons and Mike was under her feet and bugging her.
"Just stay out of my way!" she snapped when he came near. She had put the ice cream in the freezer and the other cold items in the fridge. "I have things to do and the last thing I need is a man around, tangling me up."
He laughed, and in her current state it really upset her. Was he laughing at her?
"Marcy, my love, right now you'd start a fight in an empty house," he said. Mike wasn't stupid enough to argue with an irritable woman, it seemed. Well, that was a point for him. She saw Mike checking something on his phone. His lips tugged up in a thoughtful smile.
"What?" she snapped.
"Nothing."
Marcy glared at him.
"Okay, yes," he said. "You forget. I've lived with a woman before. I keep a calendar on my phone with due dates noted. That way I know when you get PMS, and I take it into account. So, sue me."
"You keep track of when my period is?" she said with incredulous disbelief.
"Every man with the smallest of IQ's does, honey," he said calmly. "It's only self-defense."
"I'm not any different just because my period is due in a few days."
"Yes you are," he said, "and its due in six days."
Marcy snarled, wildly infuriated. Her fists clenched. She drew in a deep breath, almost panting in her sudden rage. The growing irritability she had been feeling all day long now had a valid target. Insufferable man! Mike came toward her and wrapped his arms around her, her back to his front.
She struggled, kicked and fought. "Let me go!"
Mike just held on tighter. "No."
This caused her to thrash further. He picked her up and took her over to the family room couch, never once relaxing his hold. He was so much stronger. She was, quite literally trapped in his arms and unable to move. They stayed there at an impasse for a few minutes.
"If I let you go will you promise to be good and let me explain?" he asked.
Marcy bit her lips, completely furious. She struggled once more, finding that he held her too snuggly to put up a fight. Reluctantly and with bad grace, she agreed.
Mike threw a pillow at the end of the couch. "You are going to lay down right here, okay?"
Marcy scowled and frowned, but said she would lie down. Physically carrying her, he lay her down, head on the pillow. "Stay," he said with one admonitory finger in the air. He went to the kitchen cupboards, rummaged around and came out with a bar of chocolate. He then sat down at the end of the couch, and put her feet on his legs.
"Eat some of this," he said, handing her a Nestlé dark chocolate bar. Now that seemed like a great idea, Marcy thought. She peeled away the wrapping, broke off a piece and started eating.
Mike calmly took the sandal off her left foot, and pressed both thumbs into the arch. He began kneading and massaging.
"What are you doing?" she hissed from between clenched teeth.
He gave her a look, but clearly trying to remain on her good side he said evenly, "I'm giving you a foot massage."
Marcy huffed, but didn’t take her foot away.
"Are you ready to listen to me?"
With a frown and a glare, she nodded.
"I don't know how women do it," he began. "I have observed that during the last week of a menstrual cycle, a woman - through no fault of her own - is at a disadvantage. Uncomfortable feelings sneak up on her, causing physical aches, like sore breasts, headaches, gut and period pain. Pre-menstruation causes emotional disturbance and irritability. Feelings that a woman doesn't usually suffer during other weeks of the month."
Marcy sighed. That foot rub was really getting to her.
Tension that she hadn't even been aware of drifted away. All that stress had just snuck up on her. She shifted, lying back further on the couch. He pressed into the ball of her foot, stimulating the tight nerves. It made her whole body tingle. Man, it felt so good that she began to relax.
Mike took off her other sandal, and began to rub her other foot. "As a man, my hormones are completely stable all year long. Lucky me. A woman's hormones alter throughout the month. How the hell do women do it?"
Mike brought her ankle up to his mouth, and showered it and the rest of her foot with kisses. She screeched in protest, mainly because it tickled. Laughing, he did it to the other one too. Then he went back to work. He rubbed down her calves, pressing his thumb deep, soothing her ankles and the top of her foot.
Marcy's eyes drifted shut as her body melted. Mike's sensual touch was divine, and his carefree laugh was so genuine, that it made her chest ache.
"I figured out that part of my job as a husband is to be there and help the woman I love through this inevitable shit as much as possible," he said. "I honestly think that women get a raw deal. They have to bleed every twenty-eight days. If that isn’t a crazy idea, I don’t know what is."
Marcy giggled at the comment and the incredulous expression of disbelief and revulsion on Mike's face. He wasn't squeamish about blood. As an engineering type, he was just showing his distaste for what he considered to be a flaw in the design.
"To add insult to injury, women have to go through childbirth." There was an expression on his face she couldn’t quite read. Once it may have been disappointment. Now, because they planned on having children as soon as possible, it seemed more like longing.
"I don’t mind having children," she breathed. His eyes darkened, and his fingers tightened on her feet as he shot an affectionate smile her way.
Marcy's heart tugged as she studied his well-loved face. Whatever emotions she normally had – during the last few days of her cycle the intensity of them tripled. Just now she was feeling loving, and pretty frisky. How lucky was she to have found a man like him?
Her bad mood vanished completely.
She took her foot from his hand, and stroked it over Mike's jeans, along the zip where his jeans were already showing an impressive bulge.
"Marcy," he said in a low voice. "Are you teasing me?"
She laughed and sat up. Her hand went to his face, her fingers trailed fondly over him. Was there any man more perfect for her than Mike?
"I think you're going to get yourself in trouble, sweetheart."
"Kinky trouble?" she asked.
"Humm. Kink sounds good," he tilted his head with a considering look. "Want to play Master/Sl
ave? It's a sex game. I think you're gonna love it."
Marcy cocked an interested brow at him. Since her very first orgasm with Mike, she was greedy for more. She wanted him inside her, in a million different ways. She loved everything he did, and had lost count of the number of climaxes she had experienced.
Marcy had once considered that this crazy sexual hunger may lessen, but it hadn’t so far. In fact, it had only gotten worse. She thought of Mike all the time. Vivid sexual memories and sensations came to her at awkward moments, making her wet with desire.
Did she want to play a sexy kink game?
Marcy smiled. "Sure," she replied. "I'll play. Why not?"
59. Master
Mike assumed a commanding aspect. He sat up straighter, his expression proprietary and almost predatory, yet there was mischief in his eyes… and burning hot lust.
He wanted her.
Everything about him drew her attention. Strong, overwhelmingly male and dominant, he was strangely intimidating. Struggling to maintain her composure, Marcy shivered.
"Okay, well this is the fantasy game we're going to play," he said, pulling her up onto his lap. He cradled her back against his chest and kissed her temple. "I am a rich and powerful King, and I have tons of slave women that I use for sex."
March giggled, and her tension relaxed. It was a just a game after all. "Is that right?"
"You betcha," he said in a husky low tone, "but you are my favorite sex slave." The lazy pleasure in his voice was so arousing. For her, Mike was the ultimate turn-on anyway. Would she ever get over how much she constantly lusted for him?
Mike smoothed her hair away from her nape, and wound the thick wavy locks of it in his hands. With a firm grasp he pulled her hair, tilting her head to the side. Nuzzling his nose against her, Mike breathed her in. With one hand in her hair and one arm wrapped around her waist, he bound her to him as effectively as thick rope.