Gezza snuck down the stairs of the house, where Linda was, his sneakers rustling on the hardwood, the Playbook throbbing with heat through the canvas.
The bedroom door was closed behind him, her lavender smell on his skin, her moaning in his head. Mike's mom, done. Who's next?
His ribs were sore to the beating in the alley, and his jaw was aching, but his grin remained smug, and his heart was racing with triumph.
The house was dark, the lamp was dim, the candles of jasmine were low. He pushed the front door open, creaking on its hinges, and stepped out, the cold night breeze rushing upon his sweaty hoodie.
There was the buzz of streetlights, the chirping of crickets, and the sidewalk crunching of his ragged laces.
He strolled off to the home of his mom, peeleing paint, sinking porch, sneakers squashing his grass.
His keys were clattering, shaking fingers, clicking lock as he slipped inside, gasping shallowly.
Gotta keep moving. Fifteen girls, my harem. The runes of the Playbook flashed through his mind and the 15 was red.
"Gerald?" The voice of his mom came in with its clean and anxious cut. She was in the doorway of the kitchen, with a damp apron, smeared with tomato sauce, frizzled gray hair, and a wooden spoon.
Her eyes narrowed and she saw the bruise on his jaw, his hoodie ripped at the shoulder.
"Wanna talk? Yesterday you came home looking like you got jumped!" Brows tightened, her step was nearer, her spoon in motion. "Before that you came in like the devil after you, what's happening?."
The jaw of Gezza set, hands clasped around the strap of his rucksack, keys sinking in his palm. Always nosy. "Nothin, Ma," he grumbled lowly, moving past her, his sneakers pounding up the staircase in the basement.
He banged his door, with squeaking hinges, and threw his backpack on the couch, springs making a groan. "She can't know what am building. Never."
He sank into his gaming chair, and the bruise on his ribs, gave a pang as he bent. The desk lamp shone and his swimsuit posters were in the shadows with their lines dimmed in comparison with Linda.
Fifteen girls. Gotta be smart now. He pulled the Playbook out of his bag where its leather was burning his fingers, and its red runes glimmered.
The pages rustled and the list, Elena Martinez, Mia Elizabeth Larson, Tara Larson, Linda Maci, was open, and blank spaces awaited.
A blank sheet of paper glowed, the figure 15 written, beating like the heart. Unite a strong harem. Not just banging 'em.
He massaged his bristly hair, and tapped his pencil upon the board, and his fingers were covered with ink. Lust ain't enough.
They need roles, like a team. His thoughts were mad with the images of the predatory curves of Elena, coy grin of Mia, defiant tattoo of Tara, shy moans of Linda.
They belong to me, but the book would like more. United, like a family? He grinned, and sat back, his chair squeaking. My own crew, loyal to me.
Fuck Mike and his goons. He swiped through his phone, contacts blazing--number of the sneaky mailbox peek of Elena, number of apartment of Mia and Tara, number of kitchen notepad of Linda. Not one-time. They're still hooked.
He took a crumpled notebook, scratched some positions. Need strength, brains, power. His eyes narrowed, remembering of a name in a news report: Sergeant Riley Kane, a girl soldier, nails like a man, spotted at a local meeting of veterans. Blonde hair, blue eyes, dog tags shining.
He grinned She'd be my enforcer. He wrote Riley Kane, pages of the Playbook waving, ink in them, simmering, and fading. Got her name. She's next.
Now need someone with power and cash cause am broke,
He picked his laptop and typed in the search -Richest women in— the he remembered
Victoria Blake, an old businesswoman that he had to work at his previous place of employment, constantly in slick blazers, with tight-bun hair, clicking heels, her voice sharp as a razor cutting through conferences.
She would my bank, fund my harem. He was writing Victoria Blake, the Playbook throbbing, ink glittering.
His smile broadened, and his fingers were drumming, and the bruise on his jaw ached. Strong soldier, smart boss. Perfect start.
He moved back, squeaky chair, plotted. Most likely Riley is at the VA gym, weight lifting. At some downtown office Victoria, yelling.
Flipping through his phone, his fingers found the number of Riley on a flyer about an event of veterans and Victoria on an old work email. Gotta play it smooth. Linda was a victim of delivery scam.
He fantasized about the muscled thighs of Riley, and the lips of Victoria, as they curled, both put under the spell of what he had to offer, their eyes like Linda hungry.
Family, huh? They'll live for me. The warmth of the Playbook stinging his chest, chilling him, his breath stopping. Fuck off, book. I'm doing your mission.
He paced pasted his desk- no more messy with empty cans of energy drinks, and stale bag of nachos.
High school flashed--the mouth of Mia with her scowl, fists in his gut, laughing. No more loser. I'm building an empire.
Riley first, then Victoria. They'll bow to me. He grinned in a sleazy way, his eyes bright, and cold is a thing that does not concern him. His voice was low, and his fingers were reaching into the bag, "Harem mine," he muttered, preparing to attack.