Faithless (Mistress & Master of Restraint) (65 page)

“Is this true?” Stanton turns to Wil, as if he can
trust Wil more than me- that fucking burns.

“Yes, sir,” Wil politely answers. “We will be good, but she isn’t promising to be good,” Wil stresses, causes Stanton to whip his head around and pin me with his uber-father stare.

“What does that mean?” Stanton slowly and succinctly says.

“It means that I’ll mess up and spread my legs. But since I’m borderline insane, it will be for some asshole I was commanded to screw and not the man I’m in love with. We all can’t be perfect, Stan,” I calmly say in a dead voice. “You of all people understand what I’m talking about or do I need to bring up the monthly cash exchanges for release?
Emotion is what kills us, Stanton- like pseudo-father, like pseudo-daughter,” I humorlessly sing.

“That’s private,”
Stanton says with a flinch and stands. He looks down at me like I’ve betrayed his trust.

“So is all the stuff you think should be a group discussion about me,” I counter.
“You’re upset that Grant told me your dirty little secret and that I just told them, but you have no problem spilling my dirty secrets.”

“You’re a child, so it’s not private,” Stanton glares down at me.

“Then it should be private between you and I. You talk about me to Grant, Caleb, and Wil. It’s not fair and it’s humiliating, Stanton,” I whimper. “I need you to respect me. I’ve done some really bad things that I don’t regret but hate that I was capable of doing. You have a bigger issue with me having sex than being a killer. But at the same time, I’ve been whored out to Ezra. I know you’d have no issue if Ezra were to walk up here and demand my body. You’d let him have me,” I growl.

“I couldn’t stop him,” Stanton says in defeat, falling into the chair next to me. “It’s his right.”

“That’s my point,” I sigh. “I’m not allowed to be with someone because I’m still a child, even if I love that someone. But it’s alright if I kill people and whore myself. You can’t have it both ways. It’s fucking up my head, Stan,” I whine.

“I’m sorry,” Stanton pleads; tears are evident in his voice. Caleb and Wil watch us with blank expressions on their faces, scared to show what they really feel. They stand up as a unit and quickly stride to the wall that surrounds the roof. The
y give us their backs for our privacy.

“This is killing me,” Stanton whispers. “I can lie to myself. I can ignore what is staring me in the face. But I’m just trying to be proactive about your feelings
that I can protect. I can’t save you from Ezra. I can’t save you from future plays. But I can hide you and take care of you- hoping the time expires. But what I can’t do is allow you to get hooked on Grant or fall into Wil’s arms. It would be a disaster.”

“I know that, Stanton,” I whimper. I close my eyes and lean my head on the back of my chair. I pretend that Caleb and Wil can’t hear us even though I know they can.

“I see you as my dad,” I admit. “It hurts that you think so little of me. It hurts that you think so little of my sister. But what hurts the most is that you think so little of yourself. Grant taught me that at least. I can see what will hurt me and what won’t. But you can’t.”

“
I know without a shadow of a doubt that I can’t protect you and Bianca against this. It makes me feel small that I can’t protect my girls. I sound like a sexist asshole, but it’s to help prepare Bianca for the ordeal that she must live through.”

“We have time-”

“I know, and I try to think positively. But I can feel it in here.” Stanton punches his chest. “I know that Bianca will marry that boy. I know it,” he seethes, “and I can do absolutely nothing to stop it. It’s the same feeling I have about you- a feeling I will not voice. I love you, Faith, and I need to keep you safe. But I know I can’t- I see it plain as day,” Stan hopelessly utters.

“See what?” I squeak.

Ignoring my question, he speaks on, “Every day I look at my baby girl and I see what she will have to do. As I teach her to speak French so she can converse with her in-laws, as I tell her how a wife behaves- it’s tainted with the game. As I sit at her recitals and watch the most beautiful, fluid movements of her body, I should feel proud. I should think to myself that that’s my talented daughter up there on the stage, telling a story from her soul- she’s a part of me. But a film plays over my eyes, overlaying the dance- all I see is the day I give her away to another family like she is disposable. And I know you know how that feels, Faith,” Stanton looks me in the eyes as he speaks.

“Oh, God, no,” I whimper. I want to tell Stanton it’s not true- but I feel it, too. I know deep down that he is right; there is no circumventing Bianca’s future.

“The only comfort I can take is that I made a vote on the play- Bianca has to be a high school graduate with the ability to reach her dreams and that she has to be nineteen before she marries. Dalton Fontaine will not govern over Bianca’s life- all choices she makes will be of her own free will. It’s all I was allowed. I fought for you, too. I fought the ruling, but look where that ended up- with Ezra rutting on you in the Whittenhower Study with all of us in the foyer as witnesses. I’m sickened. I’m doing all I can. So if you think I’m being controlling, it’s only because it’s the only comfort I have. It’s either control everything I can or kill something!”

With a lunge, Stanton picks up the plastic lawn chair he was sitting in and repeatedly smashes it against the stairwell door. I wince with every hit. The sharp snap of plastic splintering is deafening, even with the background sounds of the city playing as a soundtrack to Stanton’s violent tantrum.  Wil and Gunner stare in unflinching shock
as I cower in my seat.

The game reduces us to nothingness. It breaks us until we do as it bids. Watching Stanton come unhinged, I vow to never allow the game to break me. Bend- it will bend me, but never break me. The boys and I share a look- a look that means a billion different things.
Stanton can afford to breakdown right now because we will protect him. Stanton is respecting us with his trust.

The large male slumps to the ground in defeat, white plastic clutched to his chest like a broken teddy bear. “
Bianca’s my baby- my only baby,” Stanton cries, the hopeless quality of his voice threatens to break something crucial inside of me. I’ve never seen Wil cry, but he’s crying now, as is Caleb. I’m not. I’ve never felt more determined than ever to succeed.

A sharp, shrill sound erupts from Stanton’
s throat- a man emotionally dying on the inside. His soul grieves the loss of his child eleven years in the future. I wince as the mournful keen fills the night air and echoes down the block. Stanton screams his frustration to the sky, much as I did the night after I turned sixteen. We are locked into a life we despise, and all we can do is live it.

~Chapter Fifty-Five~

The last few days have not gone very well- for any of us. I thought when I told Wil that I loved him, he would drop everything and we’d run off into the sunset. I know I told him I wasn’t ready. Acting like a total girl, I thought he’d fight a little bit harder to win me. I may not believe such bullshit, but somewhere inside of me is a girl who believes in soulmates and happily ever after. It may be the size of a kernel, but it’s deeply rooted, and it never gives up hope. Even now, even after all the bullshit of the past few days and the months before that, she is glowing inside of me… patiently waiting for her Prince Charming.

Syn doesn’t need a Prince Charming- she is her own Prince Charming. But Faith… that stupid bitch does
believe in fairytales, and her Prince Charming keeps walking away from her and never looking back.

Stanton’s rooftop breakdown bent me
, and made me do something stupid- a few something stupids. After Wil left and never looked back, and Gunner went to sleep, I did the unthinkable. Stanton was in pain and I wanted to take it all away. I did the only thing I could think of- I kissed him. He didn’t yell at me or hit me or kiss me back, all of those things I’d expected. He’d pulled back from me and told me I was better than that. 

An immediate call to Grant, and I was forced to listen to a lecture about good touch verses bad touch, like I was a little kid. Grant repeated the
if you want a hug, don’t ask for a fuck, ask for a fucking hug
statement multiple times.

I did something even worse after that, or because of that. When Grant and I were alone, I kissed
him, too. But the bad thing was he kissed me back- hard. But a few seconds later, he pushed me away. The look of betrayal on his face made me burst into tears. I didn’t feel rejected, I felt lost and confused.

That is what drew me to Grant’s door
at the Brownstone- the need to apologize, like how I’ve groveled to Stanton for the past few days. He’s forgiven me, but… how can he ever forget what I did. I came here to talk to Grant and Roman. Stanton is in pain and stressed and depressed- not about me, but the game, his loneliness, and his lack of control over our lives. I came here for advice, and was thinking they could have a boys’ night out and take Caleb with them. I want Stanton to be happy.

But I found more than I’d ever expected to find at Grant and Roman’s house. I’m ashamed to say, I like what I found.

“I guess, I should have called first,” I sarcastically murmur in shock, swallowing a billion times to contain the drool that threatens to dribble down my chin. My mouth gapes open as the flood gates open between my thighs. I whimper with a need so strong that I press my legs together to contain my eager girly bits.

“And who might you be, little girl?” a black
-headed dude seductively purrs- a guy I’ve never met- a guy I do not know. A guy who has never hurt me, lied to me, betrayed me, thrown me away, or controlled me… and he is incredibly hot. Melt your panties at your crotch, hot. Your body will flood that fire, hot.

Hot.
Hotter than Hell, hot.

He’s a devil
with longish black ringlets and a tiny, tight body. I like that he isn’t much taller than me- it makes him all the more enticing. He just oozes sex- it bleeds into the air and readies my body for him… and he is ready… very ready. I’ve never seen a bulge that big in my life. Cortez was huge- this guy is gigantic.

I’ll try anything once. Where the hell did that thought come from? This man is making me babble inside my own mind. Get ahold of yourself, Syn!

My slut of a body needs its head examined. I shouldn’t be thinking of sex when I came here on an unselfish quest of apologies and Stanton’s happiness. It’s all the worse that I’m craving sex with this stranger, and it’s causing me to forget about my selfless quest.

Bad, Syn, bad!

I finally understand what this strange shit is about on Grant’s side of the Brownstone. I’ve visited a few times, and every time the rooms were more elaborately decorated with weirdness… weirdness that makes me horny for some reason. Wooden things that I’ve never seen before can’t be classified as furniture. Ropes and leather and stuff… hell if I know what to call any of it. Every time I visit, more of it lines the walls of the downstairs rooms. When I confronted Grant about it, he said it was Marcus’ stuff, and that I didn’t need to know the why or what.

More curious
than a cat- naturally, I didn’t stop there. I went to Roman, who is more tight-lipped than Grant. But curiosity killed the cat… I just walked in and heard the noises emanating from those rooms with the weird shit on the walls, and found…

Mr. Hot and D
ominant with a whip coiled around his hand, a huge bulge behind the fly of his leather pants, and an amused smirk on his stern lips.

A fucking whip.

A real fucking whip that he was using on another person… and that person wasn’t screaming in pain, they were orgasming. That person is tied to the wooden contraption with leather straps. Their upper-back, thighs, and ass are a crisscross framework of ruddy whip welts. The whip blinded me to the fact that the victim is male… and very satisfied. His limp cock crookedly lies against his ball sack. Cum drips from the tip of his dick to pool in a big puddle on the floor. His eyes are heavy-lidded to the point that I can’t even tell what color they are.

“I’ll be
Little Red Riding Hood, if you’re the Big Bad Wolf,” I respond to his ‘little girl’ comment. My voice is shaky- husky, deep, and lust-filled. I feel crazed… and it all centers around the whip coiled around his hand. I don’t know what I want from that whip- hit? To hit? Fucked with the whip?

I just
want
that whip in my palm. I want the power to make a man cum just from the pain.

The Big Bad Wolf laughs deep from his chest. The masculine noise is the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard. My legs go out on me, knees failing to hold my weight. I grab for the nearest object to hold myself up
, and blush bright red when I realize what it is- it’s a… it’s a gag with a red ball to go between the teeth- oh, Lord, have mercy!

“What’s your real name, Little Red? You look more like Little Black and Purple to me,”
he says, fingering my hair. His voice is deeper than expected and just as sarcastic as my own.