Up in Smoke (King #8)

A clinking sound grabs my attention away from the ceiling. My eyes land on Frankie who’s shifted on the bed. She’s awake. The clinking was her cuff against the bedpost. Her eyes are open and staring straight at me. Wild and offended and something else. Jealous? Turned on?

The truth is I’m keeping my eyes locked on her because it’s the only thing bringing me to the fucking edge. It’s Frankie’s mouth I’m imagining as I grow thicker. Harder. It’s the taste of Frankie’s pussy on my tongue that’s driving me to fuck the back of her throat. I want it to be Frankie who swallows every drop of what I give her.

The redhead pops up and rolls a condom over my length. She raises up and takes a hold of me in her hand but before she has a chance to impale herself I spin her around by the hips so she’s facing away from me.

I push on her shoulders so that she’s slightly bent and not blocking my view of Frankie who’s still watching, but the redhead doesn’t notice her.

After a few exaggerated moans, she’s either come or faked it, but I couldn’t care less. I grab her hips and take control even though she’s the one on top. I thrust up into her roughly as I lock eyes with Frankie with every intention of annoying her or smirking at her or pissing her off. Punishment for what she’s already done to me, even if she knows it or not. But I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m too lost in her eyes. When I come, I don’t tear them from hers as I come harder than I ever have, so hard I’m seeing stars. I’m so lost that it’s a while before I come to, but when I do, the redhead is gone, my pants remain open, and Frankie’s eyes are closed once again.

I take a quick shower, feeling worse than I had before I went in search of relief that never came.

I should feel better. More powerful. I showed her who was in control, and in return, I’ve never felt so out of control. Because one inhale of her scent on the pillow, one little tease of her essence, and any satisfaction I might have felt is gone, and I am rock hard again.

My stomach a hollow pit. My soul a shade blacker than it was this morning.

I slide into bed and reach for her, pulling her against my chest. She tries to wiggle from my grasp, but I hold her steady until she stops resisting.

“Sssshhhh,” I tell her. “Go back to sleep.”

“I hate you,” she says. I hear the tears in her words, and they fucking sting. For the first time in my life, I can feel the pain of words strike like a shiv to the ribs.

You and me both.

Despite the unwanted and unwelcome new pain, I feel something else. Something that feels a lot like pride. She’s still defiant. She hasn’t given up. I haven’t broken her.

I kiss the top of her head and sigh into her hair.

“Good. You should.”





Chapter Thirty





I mechanically throw the ball for the fifteenth time, and The Warden brings it back within seconds, sitting at my feet and waiting eagerly for yet another toss. It’s all I can do to keep the anger from exploding inside of me, making me do something I know I’ll regret.

Like tell Smoke the truth.

“Alright, boy. Time for a challenge.” This time, I throw it as far as I can. I think it’s going to stop at the fence, but the ball hits the ground and goes bouncing over it instead.

“Shit,” I curse as The Warden leaps over the fence like a miniature horse jumping barrels. He lands with a yelp, and I leap to my feet and run toward him.

I’m not sure of where the property line is that will end in my demise if I cross over it, but Smoke assured me of a warning beep so I make my way slowly to the other side of the fence, careful not to make too much noise so I can hear the beep in case the warning isn’t a loud one.

I jump down on the other side and look around. I don’t see the ball or The Warden. “Where did you go, boy?” I call out.

The Warden whips past me, a big furry yellow blur, almost knocking me over. I watch him cross the field and dart into the open door of a small run down shed with rusted metal roof. I trudge through the long grass still listening for the beep when I hear a noise that sounds like a woodpecker hammering his beak into the trunk of a tree, but it can’t be a woodpecker. It’s much slower, and then it stops completely.

As I approach the shack the scent of pine hits me, reminding me of the tall trees covering the vacant lot around the townhouse. It’s only been a few days since I’ve seen it but it feels like a lifetime ago.

“There better not be spiders in there,” I grumble, carefully pushing open the door, peering into the darkness of the shack. The walls of the tiny room are covered with shelves and those shelves are full to the edges with wooden statues of all kinds and sizes, similar to the ones I saw in Zelda’s home.

There are several dog statues that look like The Warden along with many torsos. Women’s torsos. Some with large breasts, some with small. One with a large rounded pregnant belly on a center spot above the dirty window.

All are extremely beautiful. I stand there for a moment in awe with my mouth agape, taking it all in. The noise starts again, startling me. I look down from the shelves to the other side of the shack where I see movement in the shadows.

I approach slowly until I can make out the source of the noise which isn’t a bird at all, it’s the sound of a soft hammer banging against the end of a chisel, and that chisel is in the hands of none other than Smoke.

I’m surprised.

He’s shirtless. His trap muscles flex, tightening and rotating as he rotates a block of wood upon a lazy-susan type of rotating wheel. One of his bare feet is propped up against the table leg, the other is flat on the floor.

Smoke created all this?

The Warden approaches me with the tennis ball in his mouth. He drops it at my feet, and that’s when Smoke looks up. “What are you doing in here?” he asks.

“The Warden jumped the fence looking for his ball.”

“Get out!” Smoke orders.

I barely register him speaking because my eyes are glued to the piece he’s working on. The woman’s figure isn’t like the others. It’s larger in scale, and it isn’t smooth and perfect like the others. The wood is knotted and cracked as if representing bruises and scrapes. There’s even a ding right below the left collarbone that looks just like…

“Get the fuck out,” Smoke warns. His stool falls to the floor as he stands with his fists clenched at his sides.

I spin around and run back with The Warden hot on my heels, the ball still in his mouth, as if we’re playing a game and he’s chasing me.

I jump back over the fence and run to the porch. I don’t stop until I’m inside the house with the door shut behind me. The Warden drops the ball at my feet, but I step over it on my way to the bathroom.

I rip off my shirt and look in the mirror at my now faded bruises and scrapes. I remember the piece Smoke was working on.

My eyes go wide as I trace my fingers over the small mole right below my left collarbone.





Chapter Thirty-One





I can’t sleep.