K. Bromberg - Bend

“Fuck you are.”

“I’m sorry I can’t be here. I think you’ll be just fine. You’re doing great.”

“Save the platitudes for the ones who need them.”

His neck tensed, and his eyes got hard. That was my gotcha moment, and I didn’t want it. His voice went from heavy cream to wire brush, and the stroke of every syllable drew blood. “Once you get out there with your cute little plea deal, you’ll get eaten alive. Maybe by the press. Maybe by that man you almost killed. Maybe he’ll kill you this time instead of breaking your teeth. The judge on your case is not out to help you, trust me. You don’t have the tools to handle life outside these doors. You’ll go back to using, and I’m not willing to wonder if I could have done something else to help you. I’m just going to do it. This is the only way to protect you.”

“It was your job to assess my sanity. Not protect me.”

He held his hands out, his clipboard clutched in his fingers. “That’s just tough, Fiona. This was the last real thing I did here, and I’m okay with it.”

“Fuck you.”

He nodded, making me feel like a tantrum-prone child. And now what? He was going to say good-bye and leave me? No. Not allowed.

“This is not done,” I said.

“Good-bye, Fiona. Meeting you was something else.”

I turned around and ran back down the hall before he could say a word. I didn’t know what I was trying to stop. Some freight train of my thwarted expectations before it ran me over? Maybe the moment where I would wake up and realize I’d failed, and I was stuck here? So help me God, I couldn’t be there, cut off from everything for another month. Something had to be done, and if no one would do it for me, I would do it myself. I slammed past the glass doors, out of breath.

Margie stood staring at her phone.

“You have to keep Doctor Chapman here,” I said in a breath. “Make them. He can’t walk away.”

Margie heard me, I knew she did. I was right there, but she wasn’t listening.

“I fucked up,” she said.

“How? You made a deal, they can’t—”

“Dad was right. I’m too inexperienced. I would have had my finger on the judge’s pulse if I’d known better.”

What she was saying hit me like a slap.

“No,” I said.

“I’m sorry, Fiona. I tried, but you need a better lawyer. It’s not fair to you.”

“Not fair to me? I’m here now with nothing and no one… I don’t have Elliot, and now you’re leaving? What am I supposed to do? Margie, how am I supposed to make it? Don’t leave me.” My hands were flying. I was screaming.

Margie was trying to grab my hands and shush me at the same time. “Calm down.”

“Stay, and I’ll calm down. Stay with me.”

“I can’t. It’s not the best—”

“Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!”

When I tried to hold her close, hands on me pulled and tugged. There was a floor under me, and shadows in the light, and voices in all kinds of timbres and shades of gentleness. There was a discomfort in my arm like a stiff finger pushing against me, and soon after that, the hands relaxed, and everything went grey.

To be continued…

Thank you for reading.

If you know me, you know about the cliffhangers, and the ending of Kick would have been of no consequence. If you don’t know me, well, I do cliffies, and that one was pretty bad. Kick is the first book of a story told in serial novella format, called Songs of Perdition. You can find out when the next one comes out by getting on the mailing list. It should be no later than mid-July, but typically, it’s 99c the first 24 hours after the mailing list notice goes out.

If you liked the writing, but fancy something complete, you should try the Songs of Submission, the serialized story of Jonathan Drazen, ten years after the incidents here. Seven novellas and three short stories about a kinky billionaire, an ingénue singer, love, sex, art and sin in the city of Los Angeles. Get the omni of books 1-3, or check out Book One, Beg. It’s free.

If you prefer full length reads, I’ve started a series called Songs of Corruption, about Theresa Drazen’s relationship with mafia capo Antonio Spinelli, wherein all her attempts at lawfulness and peace fail in the name of love. You can get the full length novel of Book One, Spin, here. There’s no cliffhanger.

Reading order and links are below:

My Goodreads fan group is called CD Canaries: join the group!

Facebook fan-run group, go here. Most fun, guaranteed.

Facebook fan page is here. I run this, and it's for official news and announcements.

I’m on Pinterest, Tumblr, Twitter and Instagram with varying degrees of frequency.

My email is cdreiss.writer@gmail.com.

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Links and reading order below:

Songs of Submission, Sequence One

1) Beg (usually free on Amazon)

2) Tease

3) Submit

Songs of Dominance

Very short, optional read

3.5) Jessica/Sharon

Songs of Submission, Sequence Two

4) Control

5) Burn

6) Resist

Songs of Dominance

Very short, optional read between Burn and Resist

5.5) Rachel

Songs of Submission, Sequence Three

7) Sing

Songs of Dominance

7.5) Monica - a very short story, is the last of it, and you might need it after Sing.

If you prefer saving a couple of dollars, and feel ok committing to a few books at a time, the bundles might work for you.

Sequence One - books 1-3 Beg/Tease/Submit

Sequence Two - books 4-6 Control/Burn/Resist

Sing, and all the Songs of Dominance, are still separate as of this moment.

The cart bounced, and rippling pain traveled swiftly up my side. It radiated from the point where a sword had entered my left side and then up to where my arm met the rest of my body. I felt need to vomit, but swallowed back bile rather than soil the back end of the rickety, horse-drawn cart.

I tightened my hands into fists and stared up at the wooden roof above me. A young man wearing his battle-scarred armor stepped into view and knelt beside me. His dark hair creased his forehead as he looked down upon me with concern in his eyes.

“Antonius, where the fuck are we?” I snarled at the young man. I looked down at myself, sans armor, wearing nothing but the tunic normally beneath it and a subligarium wrapped around my lower region. There was a long tear up the side of the tunic, and blood seeped into the woven fabric despite the bandages wrapped around me.

“Nearly there, Faustus,” Antonius replied.

“Nearly where, you cocksucker?” I clenched my teeth as the cart hit a rut in the road. Another pain seared through me.

“Mediolanum,” he replied. He gripped the inside wall of the cart to steady himself. “There is a hospital there with a good medicus named Sergius. He has skills as a surgeon. He can sew your wound.”

“Fucking Gauls,” I growled under my breath. Flashes of the battle and of the young Gaul who stabbed me took over my thoughts. I tightened my hand around the edge of the bench where I lay and remembered the feeling of my own sword cleaving his body in two—punishment for his grievance against me. “They know they can’t win, but still they fight like dogs for a bitch.”

“They do at that.” He smiled half a smile and raised an eyebrow at me. “There are far fewer of them fighting today, thanks to you.”

I huffed a breath out my nose, which caused further pain up my side. I closed my eyes tightly and willed the pain to pass, but it remained. I let my mind return to the battlefield where I commanded a Legion of Rome against the insufferable Gauls who still attempted to defy the emperor’s rule. I lost a few good men on the field today, but the blood of the Gauls was far more prevalent.

The cart jarred as it hit another deep rut in the road. I gritted my teeth and bit into my tongue to keep the scream from passing my lips.

“Not much longer,” Antonius assured me. He placed his hand on my forearm, but I shook it away.

“If the gods let me live so long,” I muttered before the cart again bounced wildly, and a scream passed my lips right before all went dark.

When I finally managed to open my eyes again, the first thing I saw was her.

She had flax-colored hair, as brilliant as the sun on a summer morning and eyes of dark blue nearly as dark as midnight with long lashes to frame them. Her skin was creamy, smooth and flawless. As she leaned over my body, the thin folds of her dress billowed to show the curve of her breasts beneath the fabric. The cold bronze collar coiled around her slender neck marked her as a slave.

It had been long since I had laid eyes upon a woman, slave or otherwise. Though there was a camp near the battlefield tents filled with whores for the taking, I did not deem it necessary to frequent the place. My thoughts were always of blood and battle, not the baser needs I prescribed for my men. I felt myself beyond such things.

However, the slave woman above me turned my thoughts from both battle and wound.

Even in my injured state, my first thoughts were of having her on her back in my bed, her thighs spread wide and her knees bent before me. I wanted to feel her skin in my hands, taste her sweat on my tongue, and feel her body give way to my cock. I wanted to hear her screaming underneath me as I plowed into her over and over again. I wanted to feel her insides clench around me as I filled her with my seed.