Authors: Kerri Ann
Charged
Table of Contents
Copyright 2016 by Kerri Ann
Cover art by Canva, with assistance from Geri Glenn
Formatting by
Shanoff Formats
All rights reserved.
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Kerri Ann. CHARGED.
My dedications have changed hugely in the past months. Once again thank you to my darling husband. For the times I ignored the world, became held in my head alone and literally removed myself from life -- you let me take off on big wings and only begrudgingly harassed me.
To my children for listening to the stories (what you were allowed to hear) and felt that it was time well spent.
To those great friends that read and re-read the stories as my mind made changes. Jac you were the first to give me a big nod of encouragement and I appreciate it
so
much. Terri for listening to my ramblings on the drive home from work. You let me bounce off on you my horrible thoughts and laughable moments worthy of only a great friend.
To Geri Glenn. Gosh lady what to say. You have given this girl a direction I never would have found on my own. I was adrift and you brought my dingy in from the storm of book self publishing insanity. PS, I would be a basket case without the help of Nicole, Amanda, Shannon, Sarah and Philena. Each of you have put this book in motion and helped to put it out in an amazing fashion. Without any of you I would have been just a scrambled mess of words.
To the bloggers, reviewers, cross posts and such, thank you for taking the time to help me on this journey.
To those who read, posted, reviewed and assisted in making me get my ass in gear to make this come to life; I’m immeasurably grateful to everyone of you.
And most of all; thank you to my mother who thought my ideas were worth writing down, even if they were a tad bit too racy for her tastes.
Kate
A
s the jukebox caterwauls with the crooning voice of pure desperation, a southern steel guitar slides, snares jangle restlessly and a bass guitar strums. I’d added quarter after quarter, selecting the saddest shit I could find to the cracked glass, peeling, ancient vinyl selector. I’m sure the other cocked-up, lonely patrons that frequented this hole-in-the-backwoods didn’t give a shit what played as long as they could drink themselves into a stupor. This all happens while I sit and ponder over the last week’s events.
I swirl the chipped glass of amber whiskey while the ice cubes clink back and forth within. It’s amazing how a single moment can change your perspective. We’re all just like these tiny ice cubes, one small block swirling in the giant mess of life, melting down to the bitter end, until all that’s left is a lingering diluted reason for being alive.
Tipping it up, allowing the full contents to collect in my mouth, I down the whole thing until it burns. It’s that good kind of burn. The one that reminds you that you’re alive; otherwise there’d be no feeling at all.
I motion to the bartender — a man with more mullet growing out of his ears than on his head— to refill my glass, and help me forget why I’m here in the first place.
I’ve hit my limit.
I know
that. Normally whiskey and I have an understanding that four is three too much, but tonight — I really don’t give an ever loving crocodile ass. I know at the end of this night I have to move on again and that staying is just not an option.
Tonight, Florida will be in my tail lights after three months of hiding. I was hoping that I wouldn’t be tracked.
Fuck I was WRONG. So wrong.
I should have known better.
GF’s grubby reach is so wide that I’m sure he has deep deep dirt on every politician, Bishop, and school teacher from here to So Cal. I was deluding myself to think I could escape him.
Jim the bartender swishes the Kentucky wash into my glass once more, then slides it across the grooved and dingy bar-top to my outward awaiting hand. Before the libations take hold, I mark the worm worn, earmarked, food splattered map, looking for yet another spot to hide. The first places he’ll look — Alabama, Texas, Georgia, and anything remotely close to Tobacco Patch Landing, Florida where I currently sit.
Since May I’ve moved twelve times, but why count when none of it makes a lick of difference.
He’ll always find me.
I’ll never be free.
I’ll never be free of him, the past indiscretions of others, the ties of family, blood and brotherhood.
Worst of all — I’ll never be free of those memories.
Ryker
“
L
ove, if you bite that I won’t be happy.”
Fucking little girls who think they know what they’re doing after only one high school football captain boyfriend, that thought he was a fucking Don Juan.
This
is why I should stop messing around with these college girls. But my downfall — I’m a sucker for a mile-wide smile, slim hips, a soft spoken ‘fuck me’ while they brush up against me with their tits, trying to entice my dick. It doesn’t take much to entice my dick. A stiff warm breeze, a loose white shirt with nothing more than what god gave them, and let’s not forget the pouty lips that look like they’ve pulled enough hose, the training is ingrained deep inside to suck long and hard.
Without lifting her head, Kristina adjusts her mouth wider so she stops scraping her teeth across the head of my cock. Her dorm-mate, Jessie, ran out of power over an hour ago, and is sleeping sideways across the bed. Her bright red hair fans across my legs, tangling me up as Kristina sucks harder, gaining me a bit of happiness before slowing down, barely pulling in her cheeks.
This is boring. I can’t get off like this. It’s pure torture to have happiness constantly dragged away, and if she can’t get the job right, then there’s no reason to drag this out.
Fuck it. I’m going home.
“Stop, love. I ain’t gonna cum that way.” I pull at her shoulders to lift her off, and I swear her body sags in relief. “Off ya get.”
She rocks back on her heels, careful not to kneel on her friend’s hair as I sit up, reaching for my jeans on the nearby hand-me-down chair, littered with various pieces of chick clothing. Kristina leans on her elbow, draping her body across the tossed bedding, attempting to look seductive.
“Do you really need to be going? Why don’t you stay the night? We can have more fun in the morning, then we can go-”
“Not happening, sweetie,” I declare, cutting her off. “I don’t do stay overs. It was fun while it lasted, but I’m off.” I kiss her lightly on the forehead zipping my semi-hard cock into my jeans.
I’d said it quite gruffly as I was tossing my shirt on, and I was probably rougher than she deserved, but definitely nicer than I could have been. These little escapades only remind me that these women never fully satiate my inner devil, who always seems to be peeking around the next corner.
I need rough. Sinking balls deep into a cunt, ass or mouth, as my little black winged angel calls out his approval. The harsher the cry, the deeper the screams of ecstasy — the more he shows his true satisfaction. This sweet shit is for little boys, and I’m more man than that.
“Well, if you ever want more, call,” Kristina says as she tucks into the side of her girlfriend, pulling the covers over them both. She rolls over as if I’d never been there, having a conversation just a minute ago. I gather the last of my things and head out into the deserted hall of Frazer Place.