Forbidden Sensations: A Dark Romance by Savannah Rose (best ereader for pdf and epub .TXT) 📗

Besides, all the things that happened between Ramona and I were going to be public knowledge soon enough. Once she touched back down on American soil, I was sure the first thing she'd do would be to go to the authorities, report my ass, and have me thrown in jail.

It was strange she hadn't done so already. Maybe it was the medication, or the whole recovery process. Those things can haze your head, big time. I should know.

In any event, everything from this point out was up to her. And, somehow, that was oddly comforting. Whatever she would decide, however many charges she would press, there were two things I needed to take care of before she dropped the ax.

Exactly why I was heading north on the I-95 in a beat to hell pickup truck I'd bought from the first used car lot I'd come across.

The salesguy's name was Dominic, a short, chubby guy upon who life and gravity had taken their toll. The elbows of his suit jacket were worn thin, and the fake leather loafers he wore hadn't been popular since Miami Vice went off the air.

He went into a sort of mild cardiac event when I traded him the Audi Spyder Quatro for a shit brown Chevy with a missing tailgate. No questions asked.

The reason behind my madness' method was simple. No one would recognize me in this shit-kicker mobile. Especially now, with a mane of red hair sprouting over my ears. I'd been shaving it for so long, it appeared to be growing back with revenge on its mind.

I'd gone so far as to pick up a few flannels from the local Goodwill, too. A perfect disguise to hide me in plain sight. No one would give me a second glance, or thought. Not the paparazzi, not the TMZ pariahs, and definitely not my parents.

If I'd pull up in front of their estate in my usual choice of transportation (mostly German imports with a price tag large enough to cover a percentage of the national debt) chances were, they'd draw the curtains and pretend they weren't home.

My phone dinged from the duct taped mount on the dashboard. My good ol' boy truck was built sometime last century – the technological dark ages, before on-board navigation became standard. I'd set only one Alert.

Ramona's plane had landed.

I let out a huge breath. Glanced in the rear view, then the side mirror which I just now noticed was secured with a fraying piece of bailing twine. Nice touch. I was expecting the red and blue lights of Florida's finest to reflect back at me. Or, now that I was crossing state lines, the feds.

Too soon, too soon, I thought. Surely she'll need time to settle in and gather herself together before traipsing down to her local precinct to give her statement. Fill out all the paperwork, give all the testimony, then there's warrants to be issued by judges I could no longer bribe.

Then again, no.

This was Ramona Sanchez I was talking about. She wouldn't wait. Nor would she give a fuck that I could counter with her breaking and entering or attempting to murder me.

Not that I would.

In fact, I'd made damn sure the footage of the once upon a time Maria the Maid slipping her gorgeous ass into my office was long gone. Phyllis, God bless her, had packed and loaded all of Jericho Armored's surveillance video as per my pre-trip instructions. The tapes smelled like toxic waste when I burned it in my fire pit.

I wondered how many poisonous fumes I was inhaling as I watched them burn. Hypnotized from the flames, sitting there, naked, like a native watching some sort of sacrificial ritual.

That box was the only thing I ended up bringing from my former office building. Well, that and my picture. It was sitting beside me on the thread-bare seat cover.

The nice lady who lived in my phone told me my turn off was in a quarter mile and that I should turn right.

I put on the blinker, hoping to hell it worked. The last thing I needed was to be pulled over for a stupid fix it ticket. The cops would run the plates, my ID, and the next thing I'd hear would be, “Sir, I need you to step out of the vehicle for me.”

I wiped my hand on my lap. My palms were sweating.

The truck and I had been idling behind a late model BMW for what seemed like a few hundred years.

I watched the driver's gnarled, arthritic finger push in yet another three digit key code, and heard the mechanical voice say it was sorry, but the numeric sequence was incorrect. Please try again.

I sighed, leaned back in the seat, and stared at the dashboard. The temperature gauge was on a steady climb and if the blue haired gentleman in the car ahead of me wasn't able to remember the magic, open-sesame numbers soon, my new-to-me truck would boil over and die in a puddle of radiator fluids. That'd be a great way to make an entrance.

He pushed again, a series of four digits this time. The mechanical voice said thank you, and the wrought iron barricades swung open.

I shoved the transmission into drive and followed him in. I didn't remember my parent's pass code. It had been that long.

A slight tendril of steam began snaking out from under the hood as I maneuvered down perfectly manicured, oak canopied streets. Moss hung from their branches in postcard worthy images, curtaining the frontage of plantation-esque estates. Reminding me of the mosses that had draped over my branch on an uncharted, tropical island.

I wanted to be back on that island, and have Ramona finish what she started. Wrap her legs around me, ease me inside of her, and bring me to