Tap Dancing with the Devil Read online

  Tap Dancing with the Devil

  Faith Gibson

  There is no time limit on Revenge…

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction.

  Copyright © 2017 Bramblerose Press LLC

  Published by: Faith Gibson

  Editor: Jagged Rose Wordsmithing

  First E-book edition: April 2017

  Cover design by: Jay Aheer, Simply Defined Art

  Photography: Reggie Deanching, RplusM Photo

  Model: Connor Smith

  ISBN: 978- 0998516127

  This book is intended for mature audiences only.

  Dedication

  For Jen. I can’t imagine a world without you in it.

  Acknowledgements

  This book has been a long time coming – almost three years. It has taken on many incarnations since I began writing it, and the final product looks nothing like the original, intended story. I like to write in complete quietness, so when the man is watching TV, I can’t concentrate. But one day, an actor’s voice took me back almost thirty years to a movie I had seen, and just like that, this book took off. While the storylines are completely different, the idea of Cass falling for Lexie while breaking into her home stems from a scene in the movie. So, thank you, babe, for watching “Ray Donovan” on that day.

  My writing posse – Candy, Jennifer, Kendall, and Nikki. Without you all, I would never get a book out. You all make sure the storylines are cohesive and flow properly. You polish and shine the stuff that I spew forth. Each one of you brings something different to the table, and I wouldn’t be where I am without you all. Thank you for never batting an eye when I try something different.

  My beta readers, Mary Katie J, Kerstin Meier, Milgia Santiago, and Lita Thomas, your input was invaluable. Thank you all for being a part of this process.

  Reggie Deanching, Connor Smith, and Jay Aheer… Reggie, thank you for showing me the photo of Connor. Finding someone who is the epitome of your character is tough. Sometimes impossible. But as soon as I saw the badass version of Connor, I knew I had to have it for the cover. It sat for a long time before it saw the light of day, but I refused to put out a story that didn’t do the cover justice. The photo of Connor was perfect, or so I thought. When Jay got her hands on it, she made it even grittier. Even more perfect. I now feel the inside matches the outside.

  I have to thank Mildred Jordan for choosing Lexie’s name, and the following people for suggesting Zeus’s name: Barbara Achares, Melissa Ann, Andria Large, Candy Love, Kellene Martin, Julie Mishler, Kelly Rife, and JoAnn Tracey.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon

  About the Author

  Other Works by Faith Gibson

  Chapter 1

  Cass

  Thirteen years.

  Thirteen, long, goddamn years.

  The first thirteen years of my life aren’t exciting enough to think about. But the last thirteen? You bet your ass I remember them.

  Every single moment.

  In motherfucking technicolor.

  You would think the nine years in between would have been what I focused on – being a teenager. Falling in love. Getting married. Instead, I took all the good from those years and locked it up tight in a box and buried that shit deep. Walking out of the state penitentiary, I am nowhere near the same person who walked in. From the time the cell door closed with a resounding clang, I started my transformation from the clean-cut, do-gooder kid to the hardened man I am now. Granted, I was supposed to do thirty years, but one minute behind those cold, iron bars was one minute too long for an innocent man. I know what you’re thinking. “They all say they’re innocent.” I really was. But here I am, walking out a free man.

  One pissed-off free man.

  “You sure are an ugly bastard,” my ride home snarls at me as I stride through the gates to my freedom. He takes a long pull on the cigarette he’s smoking before tossing it to the ground, not bothering to crush it out.

  “Fuck you, Wolf,” I throw back at my cousin as he pulls me in for a bone-crunching hug. He doesn’t immediately let go, so I grunt out, “Goddamn, Jared, you’re killing me.” When Jared lets go, he slaps my shoulder, grinning.

  I probably should have shaved before I walked out of the prison, but really, what the fuck did it matter? There was no one waiting on me I needed to impress. When I was sentenced to thirty years behind bars, I was a scared, skinny kid. I had to learn to adapt quickly and grow a set of balls nobody wanted to mess with or bend over and let the big fuckers use my ass like a ragdoll whore at an orgy. Since I preferred to keep my asshole intact, I grew a set of cajones John Holmes would’ve been proud of.

  I know I look rough, but it isn’t like Jared doesn’t already know that. My cousin visited me once a week every week for thirteen years without fail. He saw the transformation taking place in me as it happened. My cousin is the one, the only one, who believes in my innocence. The only one to ever visit me. I wouldn’t have talked to my mother even if she had attempted to come see me. Her lack of faith in me during the trial killed anything I felt for her. Now, Jared is the only family I have left as far as I’m concerned.

  For one small moment, I considered having my mother pick me up so she could see I’ve become the man she thought I was back then. I’m not the same naïve kid she remembers. When I went in thirteen years ago, I looked like a squeaky-clean choir boy. Fuck, it wasn’t just a look. I’d actually sat my ass in a pew singing the praises of a God who is no longer a blip on my radar. At twenty-two, I had been tall and lean, closing in on underweight. I kept my dark hair neatly combed and my face shaved like I was going to church on Sunday, which I had been every week. Back then, I was the epitome of a do-gooder. Back then, I had a charmed life – a job I loved and a pretty wife who was everything to me. Now, I have dick, except the stain of a murder charge.

  And a cousin who is ready to back me up.

  No matter what my play is.

  That’s what family is. What real family is.

  Jared is quite a few years older than me, making forty-something look bad-fucking-ass. Our mothers are sisters and two peas in a Sister Christian pod. As far as I know, Aunt Dot still speaks to Jared, even if he doesn’t travel down the straight-and-narrow road to salvation. His thread-bare Harley T-shirt is stretched taut over his large chest. He’s solid, b
uilt like a fucking tank. Same as me. Jared got his body from the gym he has set up in a spare bedroom. Me? I spent the last thirteen years on the floor of my six-by-eight home doing push-ups and sit-ups. Pull-ups on a bar I convinced one of the guards I needed in exchange for something I don’t remember. Or choose to forget. Sparring in the yard with big motherfuckers who, at first, could pound my skinny ass into the ground until I learned I was quicker and smarter than most of them.

  What I am now is the epitome of a convict – long, stringy hair, an unkempt beard, and a body full of prison tats. Jared is the poster child of a biker. His ratty-ass jeans come complete with the wallet attached to a chain stuffed in the back pocket of said ratty-ass jeans. Top the look off with a pair of black moto boots. His dark hair is peppered with gray, and his face has more lines than a Texas roadmap. But he is still handsome in a rugged kind of way, and fuck if I’m not envious. Even though Jared was the black sheep of the family, I admired his free spirit all while praying for his soul. I never thought I should be praying for my own. Jared is a biker through and through but too much of a loner to join a club, thus the nickname Wolf. As in lone. Even though he never patched in with a club, he has friends who did, and those friends helped to ensure my ass stayed intact while on the inside.

  Over the last thirteen years, I’ve come to more than admire my cousin. I fucking love him. I’ve only ever known true love once in my life. With her. Each time Jared sat his ass in the chair on the other side of the plexiglass divider every week without fail, my feelings for my cousin grew stronger, bringing us to where we are now.

  I’d die for him.

  Kill for him.

  I’m grateful as fuck my cousin is the way he is. It means he accepts me, the new me, the way I am.

  Scarred.

  Full of motherfucking rage.

  “Where’s your shit?” Jared asks when he finally turns me loose.

  “Ain’t nothing in that godforsaken place I wanna bring with me.” And that is the truth. I walked in with nothing, and I left with even less. I’d already given Jared my personal effects when I was arrested. He had brought me a change of clothes for when I got out. Other than that… “Did you get what I asked for?”

  “Yeah, she’s waiting down the road. Let’s go.” Jared climbs into a sweet, older model Camaro. If I remember correctly, this is a ’68. In the pen, I learned auto mechanics as a trade, considering I can’t go back to my old life. Not that I would want to. Since Jared owns his own shop, I’ll be able to help out while getting back on my feet. I lower myself into the car and caress the dash. When I was younger, I envied Jared his collection of cars and motorcycles. Now, I admire the fuck out of the man who is giving me a chance at life on the outside.

  With Huntsville, Texas, in my side-view mirror, I give a middle finger salute, “Adios, motherfuckers,” and we head south toward The Hollows. A few miles down the road, Jared swings into the parking lot of a low-rent motel. “I’ll wait right here,” he says with a smirk, handing me a strip of condoms. I appreciate the thought, but this isn’t going to take long at all. I grab the offered rubbers and jog up the steps to room thirteen. Fitting.

  “Show me your tits, and don’t say a fucking word,” I order as soon as I close the door behind me.

  The redhead grins and pulls her skin-tight tank top over her head. The one and only attribute I had specified when Jared found me a whore was her hair color – no blondes. I didn’t care if she had big or small titties, had a few extra pounds, or wasn’t really pretty. I’ve been in prison for the last third of my life, and a soft, wet pussy is gonna feel oh-so-good. For the last ten or so years, I mastered control over three things – my tongue, my anger, and most certainly my dick. I had plenty of opportunity to stick it somewhere in return for favors. However, the need to prove to myself that I could control my dick until I was on the outside overrode my temptation to fuck a man just to get a nut that wasn’t a byproduct of my fist. My dick is hard as concrete and ready to jackhammer this bitch’s cunt, but I am not about to blow my load like a teenager seeing porn for the first time. Control – I call on it.

  I point to the floor, and without further encouragement, Red drops to her knees. We are in some dive on the outskirts of Huntsville, and even though Jared gave me a handful of condoms, I don’t plan on spending the night while we make slow, passionate love. I’m here to get a blowjob followed by a quick fuck. I push my jeans along with my underwear down to my ankles where they pool around my boots. I stroke my cock while Red pinches her own nipples. Grabbing a handful of her unnaturally red hair, I pull her head closer. I tap the fat, leaking head against her mouth, and she opens wide. I plow in, none too gently.

  Twisting my hand in her wavy hair, I give her no quarter, and she takes every inch like a champ. This most definitely isn’t her first suck job. I thrust all the way to the back of her throat, and instead of gagging, she sucks harder. It’s been a long fucking time since I had a blowjob. From a woman, anyway. I said I didn’t fuck a man, but in the early days, I might have let my cellmate blow me a time or two. Even as good as Red is sucking my dick and slurping spit like the pro she is, I’m ready to slide inside her cunt. I grip her red mop harder, and she moans around me. With my free hand, I pull my dick from her mouth and paint her fat tits white. She doesn’t bother waiting until I’m completely spent before she’s rubbing the creamy liquid all over both nipples. Maybe some men find that hot. Hell, maybe she finds it hot. I couldn’t give two shits about what she thinks or likes. This is about me and ending a goddamn thirteen-year dry spell.

  “Take off your shorts and get on the bed,” I demand while I suit up, already getting hard again. I have saved up a lot of cum for this moment. As soon as the condom is in place, I yank her legs toward me so her ass is hanging off the bed. I shove her knees toward her chest, plunge into her wet pussy, and go to town. I don’t know how much Jared paid for the few minutes I’m spending with this bitch, but it would have been worth any amount of money. Being in the federal penitentiary means you either fuck your hand or you find a willing pussy boy to bone. Having sex in prison doesn’t make you gay. It makes you human. At this point, I don’t feel human. I feel like the fucking devil himself.

  The only sound in the hotel room is the hum of the air conditioner, the slap of my balls on her ass each time I bottom out, and her moans. I don’t allow myself the pleasure of grunting or groaning. This isn’t about anything more than getting a nut.

  I push Red’s legs farther back and hammer into her hole, not giving two fucks if she is going to get off or not. This isn’t about her. It’s all about me. I close my eyes, but the face I see isn’t right. It’s her face, and I ain’t going there. Never do I want to go back there, so I open my eyes and stare down at Red’s big tits flopping back and forth from the intensity of my movements. If I wasn’t in a hurry, I might bury my face in between her soft breasts. Lave her nipples, biting the tips. But I am in a hurry. Ready to get on with my fucking life. I let go of the mental hold I have on my dick and shoot hard into the rubber, pounding her pussy until the last drop escapes. I should have pulled out before my orgasm hit. No way do I want to chance getting a bitch like her pregnant. I’ll chalk that mistake up to lack of blood in my brain.

  Gripping the condom, I slide my cock out of her cunt and pull my jeans up far enough to allow my feet to move without tripping. I retreat into the bathroom and clean up, fully expecting to see the girl right behind me. Instead, I return to the outer room where Red is already dressed. She opens her mouth to say something, but I give her a look that reminds her of the rules. No fucking talking. Up until that point, she has obeyed. I jerk my head toward the door, and she follows my silent command to leave. It’s a good fucking thing, because hurting women isn’t my deal. Not physically, anyway. I give her a few minutes’ head-start and then leave the room, making my way to where Jared is waiting in his car.

  “Get what you need?” he asks as he cranks the motor. The rumble under my ass has me growing hard all over again.
There’s just something about all that horsepower.

  “Yeah,” I respond on a sigh.

  “Pussy that good?” Jared asks, mistaking the look of appreciation for the car as me still in the midst of an orgasm hangover.

  “Fuck, no. She was just a hole, and not a very tight one. Fuck, but I’ve missed the roar of a good motor. That shit we worked on inside was four-cylinder bullshit for the most part. Every once in a while, we’d get in a cherry to break down and put back together, but nothing like this baby.”

  “Well, I got plenty of work for you to help me out with. If you learned the basics, I can teach you the rest.” Jared leans his tatted left arm against the door frame of the open window and smoothly navigates the streets of South Texas. Next, we head over to see a buddy of Jared’s. Snake is the best tattoo artist this side of the Mississippi, and I have an appointment for some ink that doesn’t look like an inmate scrawled across my skin.

  The last few times Jared came to visit, I described what I wanted, and he had Snake draw the design out. When I walk into the back room of his house, it doesn’t take long before he has the needle carving a black line into my skin. Jared has some errands to run, and since this sitting will be close to five hours, I don’t mind him not waiting on me. If this had been me thirteen years ago, I’d have been leery of the man putting the ink to my skin. Long hair pulled back in a ponytail, arms as big as my thighs, and a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth from the time I walked in the door. Anson “Snake” Dupree makes me look like the choirboy I used to be. Now, sitting here swapping stories about our time in the pen, Snake is a kindred spirit.

  The only difference between us is the woman who makes sure he has everything he needs. Mrs. Snake is a gorgeous brunette who Anson has spent plenty of time up close with, putting his needle to her skin. Both her arms are sleeved, but it doesn’t detract from her beauty. Taking the spent cigarette from her man’s lips, she crushes it out before lighting another to replace it. Every time she walks away, Snake lifts the needle and watches her ass until she’s out the door. I can’t blame him. It’s a fine fucking ass. I already know from talking to Jared that Snake and his old lady have been together for over twenty years. That shit right there is rare. The kind of rare I would have had with her if things hadn’t gone to hell.