OGs: Deep Down (21 page)

Wilma’s truck was a knockout of a pink gem from the fifties that Wilma’s granddaughter, Rachel, the best mechanic in town, kept in perfect running condition. Mike was fiercely opposed to riding anything pink, but that machine sure was something to behold.

Wilma rolled the window down and waved at them. “You need to get a new cell, Becca. We can’t wait forever for you to find your old one. I don’t mind bothering your boy here, but what if you weren’t with him? And I don’t dare text him. He might sue me for sexual harassment.”

Yeah, no texting, please.

Kyra lifted her eyebrows questioningly to him, but asked nothing.

“My old one is not even old,” Rebecca protested. “I got it three months ago. And I didn’t lose it. I’m sure it’s at home, in a secure place.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Wilma said, rolling her eyes.

Mike rolled his eyes too. This was her third cell phone. She kept misplacing them, which drove his mom bonkers. This time, though, the battery had died, so there was not a chance in hell of retrieving it anytime soon, at least not by calling and tracking the sound down.

“So secure she can’t even find it,” Mike told Kyra.

“Drawbacks of getting senile,” Rebecca said to Kyra. “On the plus side though, I can hide my own Easter eggs.”

“I so miss my car,” Greta mumbled as she reached them.

Of the three of them, the only one motorized nowadays was Wilma. Greta’s son had come and confiscated her ride after several incidents involving her, a one-eyed cat, and a fence. To this day she swore the cat had it in for her. Be that as it may, the son hadn’t budged. There were just so many tickets and scares one could handle without losing it. Mike hadn’t had to take any hard-core measures; the sheriff had confiscated Rebecca’s driving license a year ago, and his grandma was many things, but she was too much of a law-abiding citizen to drive without it. And that was good, because the woman was a daredevil behind the wheel, especially as she looked everywhere except ahead and claimed the speed-limit signs were too small to see without her reading glasses. When she wore her distance glasses, though, she’d claimed she couldn’t see what the speedometer registered. So yeah, no-win situation.

“It totally sucks when one turns seventy and suddenly is treated like she’s seven,” Wilma consoled Greta, who was caressing the chassis of the car. “That said, your son Grady was always too…uptight.”

Translation: an ass of the biggest caliber. Mike agreed with them.

Greta sighed. “Took after his dad. No sense of fun whatsoever. I loved my husband, you know I did, and may God keep him in his glory, but boy, was he boring.”

Rebecca nodded. “We told you nothing good would come from a guy who didn’t like Elvis.”

“I was in love. And he was the only one my father didn’t threaten to shoot.”

“True.”

“Imagine what we could have done if we’d had speed dating back in the day, huh? That and Internet dating sites,” Greta added.

Both of her friends nodded.

“Okay, girls, enough of memory lane. We need to get moving, or the best places will be taken,” Wilma warned.

“Yes, the front-row seats are always the first to go,” Kyra said as Greta and his grandmother climbed into the truck.

Wilma shook her head. “Oh, honey. We’re in our golden years. With that kind of crowd, the hottest seats in the house are always the ones near the bathroom.”

“What does ‘golden years’ mean?” Sam asked. “How do you know you’re in your golden years?”

The three grandmas looked at each other, and then Rebecca answered, “Let’s put it this way: you’re in your golden years when your secrets are safe with your friends because they can’t remember them either.”

Greta said something, and the other two snorted, amused, but at that moment Wilma turned the engine on, and Greta’s words were lost. Plus Kyra was laughing.

“They’re still as crazy as ever,” Kyra mumbled to him while watching them ride away.

“Nope. They’re crazier. They have a messenger group called the OGs nowadays.”

“OGs? As in Original Gangstas?”

“Nope. As in Original Grandmas. You should read their messages. Total madness.”

Kyra broke into laughter. “Really? They’ve always reminded me of Charlie’s Angels.”

Mike snorted.

“Come on. Pizza is waiting,” Sam said as she headed inside.

“Sam, sweetie, I think Mike would enjoy some hamburgers more; what do you say?”

The kid pouted. “But today is Saturday. Saturday is pizza night.”

“So pizza is it,” Mike stated. How bad could it be, right?

“Can I choose your ingredients, please?”

Sam looked so hopeful that not even Kyra shaking her head vigorously from behind her daughter deterred him. “Sure, baby girl. As long as the ingredients are edible and the pizza tastes good, I’m okay with it.”

“Oh, my pizzas taste the best,” Sam assured him, pulling at his hand and directing him to the kitchen. “Come on, Mom.”

Kyra followed them in, muttering something he didn’t catch.

“We already have the ingredients in bowls. And the dough is rising. Mom did it before we left,” Sam explained as she opened the refrigerator.

Kyra frowned at her daughter. “Missy, you have to change out of that outfit and wash your hands.”

“Can I keep the wings and the antennas on?”

“Okay.”

“Cool,” she squeaked, darting out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

“You know what they say about tastes, right?” Kyra whispered to him. “They are like opinions—everyone has one.”

Mike chuckled softly. “I think that quote doesn’t refer to taste and has the word ‘assholes’ somewhere in it, Blondie.”

She tucked some loose strands of hair behind her ears. “Paraphrasing, honey.”

God, she looked so adorable, and he wanted to touch her so badly. He could hear Sam moving around upstairs, humming some tune, so Mike went for it. He wrapped his hand around Kyra’s neck and brought her against him for a hard, long kiss. She stiffened and for a split second tried to push him away, but he didn’t budge. Soon she was kissing him back, giving him her tongue too.

“Mike, not here. Sam could see us,” she whispered as they came up for air, her eyes darting nervously to the kitchen door.

“Love how you taste,” he said against her lips. “Everywhere. Up here and between your legs. Miss you.”

“You had me yesterday.”

Yeah, he’d had her around his cock and around his tongue. It wasn’t enough. There was never enough.

“Didn’t have you today.”

He caressed her lips with his thumb, and unable to resist, he delved in for another kiss.

As they heard Sam running down the stairs, Kyra jumped away from him, flushed and short of breath, her lips swollen.

Mike pulled his T-shirt out of his pants to cover his hard-on.

Luckily, Sam was oblivious to anything but her pizza night. “Let’s spread the dough!”

“I’ll wash my hands,” he mumbled, turning to face the sink. He needed a couple of seconds to get his cock to stand down and mind his surroundings. God, nobody tempted him like Kyra. She’d look at him, and he was ready to go.

He took in a deep, calming breath, dried his hands, and joined the girls.

The dough had been divided into three parts, and Sam was manning a rolling pin.

Cooking with Sam was fun. And damn messy. By the time they had three thin pizza crusts, Sam was totally covered in flour, antennae included. Mike and Kyra were faring better, but just marginally. The radio had been turned on, and both daughter and mother were singing out of tune and swaying.

Kyra had several flour smudges on her face, so he reached for her and swiped the one on her cheek with his thumb. Before he could get the other, she took a step back.

“What?” she asked, looking from the corner of her eye to Sam.

He lowered his hand. “Just flour. You have another on your front.”

“Oh, thanks,” she said, swiping her forehead with her forearm.

Message came through loud and clear; he was not supposed to touch Kyra in any way while Sam was present. He’d known it. He didn’t like it one bit.

After they spread the tomato sauce on the dough and some on the table and the floor, Kyra took the bowls from the refrigerator. Grated cheese, pepperoni, bacon, olives, pineapple, sausage, canned tuna, mushrooms. He watched as Sam got a handful from each bowl and sprinkled them over the dough.

When Sam reached for the pineapple, and before Mike could say anything, Kyra stopped her daughter. “Mike doesn’t like pineapple.”

Mike looked at Kyra, and she smiled. His stomach somersaulted. She remembered. He knew it was stupid, that he shouldn’t read too much into it, yet he couldn’t avoid his reaction. Probably because he remembered everything about her. Absolutely everything.

“Oh, okay. We’ll skip it,” Sam said and continued loading the pizzas with everything except pineapple. “Mike’s pizza in first.”

“I don’t think it’s that bad, is it?” he whispered to Kyra as he perused the final product going into the oven. The mixture was unconventional, true, and Sam had put on so much of everything it was a bit of overkill, but nothing horrifying. He’d eaten worse looking things Kyra had cooked for him when they were together. Kyra cocked her brows but didn’t answer.

Sam was drinking, standing on the chair, when she lost her footing. Mike steadied her before she fell, but the cranberry juice landed all over his shirt.

“Sam, are you okay?” Kyra asked, reaching for her. Sam was now looking warily at Mike, as if waiting for him to yell or something.

“Sorry, Mike. Didn’t mean to,” she whispered, her lower lip trembling.

He moved slowly, not wanting to scare her, and ruffled her hair. “No worries, baby girl. It’s just a T-shirt. No harm done. And it wasn’t your fault; I startled you.”

At his words, Sam relaxed again, and Mike cursed Kyra’s ex-husband. Had he lost his patience with the kid?

He took the paper napkin Kyra was offering and patted the front of the shirt. “I’ll throw it into the washing machine, and it’ll be ready in no time.”

Sam shook her head. “We only do laundry on Wednesdays.”

Mike smirked. “Oh, I got it from a very reliable source that you’re going to start washing clothes twice a week. Isn’t that right, Blondie?” he asked, turning to Kyra, who was now furiously blushing.

She cleared her throat, lowered her eyes. “Right.”

He knew she was remembering last Wednesday. He surely was.

* * * *

He’d tried calling Kyra, but there was no answer. When he arrived, the door was open. He called her but didn’t get any response, so he followed the humming. He found her doing laundry with the earbuds in and music blasting from them. Between the washing machine spinning, the loud music, and her singing, no wonder she hadn’t heard him. They hadn’t made plans for him to come by that morning after Sam left for summer camp, but hell, he couldn’t keep away.

He leaned on the wall and watched her sort clothes while swaying. Man, he was going to start wearing some sort of groin protection around her, if for no other reason than to make it more difficult for his cock to tent his pants.

He hadn’t planned on attacking her, but well, she turned around, smiled at him, and his good intentions flew out the window.

The glint in his eyes must have given him away, for Kyra gasped and took a step backward.

“Mike.”

“I want you. Now.” He stripped her in a flash, his mouth never leaving hers. It was becoming a habit, this irrepressible need to have her, to kiss her. Him dressed, her naked. And it seemed to work for her too. Like all the other times before, she didn’t complain but hugged him, sinking her hands into his hair, already trembling in his arms.

“Sit, baby,” he said, lifting her and placing her on the washing machine.

She jerked at the contact. “Mike!”

He forged on. “Lean back. And open your legs.”

Her nipples were stiff, her breasts shaking with the spinning of the machine. “Too much.” She tried to lift her ass from the surface, but he stopped her.

“No way, baby. Open up. I want to see you before I take you.”

Taking a deep breath, closing her eyes, and throwing her head backward, she parted her legs.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he said, cupping her face. When she did, he moved his hand down between her breasts, over her stomach. “You’re gorgeous. All of you.”

Her pussy was open, and he could see it quivering from the spin cycle. He ran his fingers along her slit and caressed her inner folds. She was damp, probably enough to take him fully, but he was not going to risk hurting her.

Holding her by the backs of her knees, he leaned on her and placed his mouth on her pussy.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” she chanted as he licked her.

He smirked. “No, babe. It’s just me and Mr. Whirlpool here. I’d rather you scream my name, but either one would be correct.”

She choked out a laugh that quickly changed into a ragged moan when he fastened on her clit and sucked.

She grabbed his hair, keeping him against her. He could feel the vibration in her flesh, and she was whimpering, her pussy tightening, fast reaching the no-return point.

He couldn’t wait a second more to have her. He released her clit, silencing her cry of frustration and ignoring her pleas with a rough, deep kiss, while he made quick work of his zipper.

Her chest fell and rose in short heaves. Her eyes were full of sex. “Fuck me, honey,” she let out. “Please.”

He rammed into her, tearing a hoarse groan out of her, her pussy contracting around him. The vibration from the machine on his cock zapped his mind, and he lost any capability he might have had of making this last. He could feel his piercing shaking, the bar pulling at his flesh.

It was hard and fast, him dressed, her stripped naked on top of the spinning machine, screaming into orgasm while he pounded into her, clutching her hips and most likely bruising her. She didn’t complain, though; she dug her nails into his shoulders and gave as good as she got. As the pleasure became so intense, the vibration must have felt unbearable, for she started whimpering in discomfort, and he lifted her off the machine. The spinning cycle slowed down and finally stopped.