And that may’ve been one of the bad reasons why I’d kissed her again, in front of anyone who’d cared to look at us.
My cock hardened as I thought about that kiss. She’d been wearing a dress that gave just enough away, one that had showcased tits that were just enough of a handful, and hips that had lost girlishness and had a curve that made me think of exactly how I’d hold on while I fucked her from behind.
I stroked my cock, that picture in my head. Her ass tilted, her hair wrapped around my fist, my cock sinking deep into her. I imagined her moans, my name on her lips when she came and the tightening of her cunt around me.
My own orgasm didn’t take long. Streaks of cum painting the tiles, washed away almost immediately by the water.
Jameson Kearney was too pretty and too posh for me. She was one beautifully complicated box, and if I ever took the lid off, there’d be more demons unleashed than at the gates of hell.
My orgasm took the edge off the stress that had accumulated from a bad night’s sleep. I washed, the plain bar of soap probably a complete contrast to whatever Jameson had in her shower. I didn’t bother to shave; my day was simple – gym and then the bar, stocking up before heading to Formentera to check out a property there for a secondCòctels.There would be no one to see, or impress, and as much as fucking my hand in the shower had taken only an edge off, I wasn’t in the mood to call Marielle.
Outside, the Ibizan sun had lazily woken, the pale yellow light making everywhere look faded and vintage. There were days when I knew leaving the island was the only way to get away from the shadow my family cast, but I loved the place more than I’d loved almost anything else, apart from Leila.
I thought of her while I walked to the gym. She’d been tall, dark haired with olive skin that I’d loved to lick and suck. I used to tell her that she had a taste, one that was exotic and rich, like pomegranates with burned demerara sugar caramelised on top. She’d said I tasted of the men her father warned her about, which was true. I was one of those men, only for her, I wanted not to be.
Leila had been Ibiza, but not the part the tourists saw. She was the wild rocks and quiet coves. The buzzing magnetism of Es Vedra ran through her, and she carried the island’s potent ambience in her bones.
Mornings like this, I thought of her. She woke early, always, and would head outside as soon as she could. I’d find her outside our home drinking chai and watching the clouds fade away to uncover blue sky.
Missing her needed a description that changed every time I remembered how she looked or sounded or felt. Sometimes it brought anger, other times happiness when I caught those memories that were sweetest. Other times I wanted to walk into the Mediterranean Sea and never come back out of it. Only that wouldn’t have been what she wanted. And I’d always tried to give Leila what she wanted. Every single fucking day, even if she’d never asked for anything.
I was no saint. I’d mourned her by fucking my way through a summer and an autumn. In the winter, I’d drank every spirit dry in the hope of finding hers, and when we hit the one year anniversary of her death I’d been almost dead myself. Drugs. Drink. Sticking my dick in anything.
It had been Leila’s mother who’d slapped me round the face and told me I was failing her daughter. I walked away from her and headed to my boat, spending two weeks at sea without alcohol or anything to numb the pain. I’d already done what I could to disown my family, I just needed to decide what to do with my life.
I still hadn’t decided what to do with my life, but I had made the decision that I wanted to live.
The gym was a couple of prefab garages, knocked together and filled with old gym equipment that would never have passed any health and safety tests. Huge tyres were there for flipping or battering with a hammer, an area was fenced off for boxing, and there were some weight machines that looked like they’d been designed to be torture devices.
We didn’t pay a fee here. It was open to anyone who knew it existed, which wasn’t many. Super, modern, air-conditioned gyms had opened up in Sant Antoni and Ibiza Town where people went to pose. Here it was you against the elements, including equipment that should’ve been condemned.
Only a couple of people were there when I arrived; Lance, who owned one of the cruise companies that headed out from Sant Antoni, and Henri Cruz, a man who had a couple of decent restaurants, ran by his daughters who we all knew he paid unfairly. He wasn’t popular, but he also wasn’t my problem.
I headed to the rack because skipping leg day wasn’t an option, and loaded it up, sticking in ear buds so I didn’t have to listen to Henri on the phone to one of his daughters, being as close to abusive as he could get before someone laid a fist into him.
More weights were added, the burn getting heavier and deeper as I squatted as much as I could without a spotter. I lost myself in the lifting, the pressure of heaviness on my shoulders, the pinch of pain in my joints.
Four sets, a fifth, then I racked up, the deadlift area calling my name. I was bent over, adding weights to the bar when a hand landed on my shoulder.
I froze, knowing exactly who it was before I even looked over my shoulder. The man who should’ve been the person I called my brother, the person who should always have had my back.
The man I’d half hoped was lying dead in a shallow grave somewhere.
“What the fuck?”
I dropped the weight I was adding on the floor.
“Man, I really needed to see you, but I couldn’t chance the bar.” Ash looked rough as fuck. His left eye was every shade of green mixed with dark blue, the lid slightly swollen. There were a couple of deep cuts on the side of his face that would more than likely scar, and his nose was a different shape to what it had been the last time I saw him.
The temptation to add another bruise to his face was strong.
“I’ve made it really fucking clear that you need to stay the fuck away from me. That hasn’t changed.”
Ash pushed his hand through dark hair that was too much like mine. “You need to move on, Tommy. She’s dead. You can’t keep blaming me. It’s been five years.”
He was wrong. I could keep on blaming him, and I wouldn’t be wrong. It was his fault Leila died.
“Go away, Ash. Your dad’s been looking for you. I think he wants a chat.”
