Page 9 of Heartfelt Pain (Ruling Love #3)

Ren

S unday afternoon, I’ve got a facial sheet mask on and I’m painting my toenails when I get a text from Roma.

I’m not sure why I still have his number. Did I not block him? I mean, sure I knew I’d still be dealing with the bratva, but I swear I blocked him.

His name taunts me as I stare down at my phone. The nail polish brush hovers in the air. Some TV movie plays and my back digs into the coffee table. I keep debating about picking up one of the twenty romance books still scattered across the rug.

I finish painting my toenails. Then I sip from a can of Dr Pepper. My phone stays where it is—on top of a fuzzy blanket that ended up on the floor next to me.

I crack two minutes later.

Roma: I want to come.

I scroll through old messages. The person in those texts is wildly different from the woman I am today.

And I’m stunned that after a silent stretch of years, this is the first text Roma decides to send.

I woke up this morning after a long lie-in.

Sunday is my only true day of rest, and by that I mean, I sleep in, have a few hours to myself, and then use most of the evening to get ready for the upcoming week.

I pick out outfits and scan my schedule so I’m prepared. Call Bennie and ask him questions.

Procrastination used to be my game. But time is money. I consistently meet my business goals because I put the time in. It sounds simple, but when you work hours upon hours, you will accomplish your dreams.

It’s cliché, but true. And I wish I’d understood that sooner.

Something else that helped me get to where I am? Not having a boyfriend. It’s amazing what you can accomplish when your time isn’t monopolized by a useless man.

And I’ve done everything the past few hours to keep it that way.

I came in the backseat of a taxi cab last night. I don’t have time to analyze or feel shame for that bit of voyeurism.

I’m not sure how I feel about the fact that I jerked Roma off last night. I’ve actively avoided the memory all day. Especially, the part where I confidently told him he wasn’t allowed to come.

It was a momentary haze. The chapter is now over.

But Roma’s message stares up at me.

Did he really not come? I mean, sure, I told him not to, but my expectations for men following orders are low.

His message openly states his desire. And if I’m being honest it’s kind of hot.

Ren: No.

I throw my phone on the couch and force myself up. The can of Dr Pepper leaves a water ring on the coffee table. I pick up not only the one I’m drinking from, but the ones I’ve left sitting around throughout the week.

I see videos of people online using Sundays for total resets. They throw in laundry, wipe off their countertops, and run the vacuum. I should probably do that. I don’t.

But I do water the tiny pots of plants on the window ledge over my sink and feel successful. Jane propagated some of the plants at Fujimori’s for me and I’ve done my best not to disappoint her.

When I wander back to the couch, there’s a new message.

Roma: Hellcat please

And just like that, he’s pissed me off again.

Ren: Call me that one more time and you’ll never come again because you won’t have a dick.

His reply comes surprisingly quickly.

Roma: Will you be the one cutting it off?

I frown at the question but don’t have time to respond.

Roma: Or will you hire out for the task?

Ren: Does it look like I have time to go around cutting off dicks?

Roma: I thought out of courtesy, you’d take the time.

Ren: Courtesy? What kind of courtesy would you like when your dick’s being cut off?

Roma: I think if you’re going to cut off your lover’s dick, you should at least have the courtesy to take the time to do it yourself.

Ren: First of all we’re not fucking lovers.

Ren: Secondly, I’m too busy.

Ren: But don’t worry, I’ll make sure I hire someone gentle.

The message feed goes quiet and I take a deep breath. Was that fun? Am I having fun texting Roma?

God, I should’ve gotten an exorcism years ago. Because something is wrong with me for even speaking to this man again.

Yet, as soon as my screen lights up again, I’m grabbing for the phone.

Roma: You weren’t gentle last night.

Smug satisfaction unfurls in my chest.

Ren: No I wasn’t.

Roma: You didn’t let me come.

Ren: You weren’t a good boy.

We’re sliding into some sort of new territory. Roma from the past sent flirty, silly texts. I’d get videos of dogs and inspirational quotes. I’m fairly certain he used to scroll through Pinterest for cute date ideas.

This Roma is to the point.

Roma: I didn’t come last night which makes me a good boy. Ren, I’m fucking begging you.

I bite down on my lip.

Ren: Begging me for what?

Roma: Please.

I suck in a gasp when a photo pops up.

Ren: God, your dick is gross.

I mean cocks in general are hardly good-looking. But I swallow as something stirs in my belly. His cock is rock hard, and I imagine my fingers trailing up a prominent purple vein. I know every inch of that dick and I’m not sure if I should feel proud or disgusted at the fact.

Because I hate Roman Zimin. It’s what’s defined my life for the past few years.

Yet here I am staring at a picture of his cock. That he sent me.

Why the fuck am I getting unsolicited dick pics from Roma?

Ren: Good boys don’t send pictures of their cocks without asking first.

Ren: I’ll tell you when I want a picture.

Roma: It’s photo proof of me dying over here.

Ren: RIP

I snort at my own joke, falling back onto the couch. I prop my feet up on the wall, stretching out however I want because this is my house.

Roma: I made you come last night

Ren: I’ve had better from my vibrator.

Roma: You’re being mean.

The sad little emoji is pure Roma. Images of pouty faces flood my memory. It’s deceiving, though, thinking Roma is a puppy dog.

Roma: Ren please

My feet wiggle against the wall. There shouldn’t even be a debate. I need to block his number and move the fuck on.

Ren: Sorry about your sad dick.

I throw the phone on the end of the couch, swearing that will be the end of it. But seconds later I tear my shirt off.

It’s my house and sitting around naked is no big deal. It’s a lazy Sunday. Why would I be wearing a bra in the first place?

My phone is back in my hand. There’s no way in hell I’m stupid enough to send off a naked photo with my face in it.

But after a few adjustments, I snap an image of my bare shoulder. It’s clear I’m not wearing anything. My hair fans out and there’s the curve of my neck, but my face remains off-camera.

He used to claim my nipples all the time. He’d tug and tear at them. He enjoyed it when I cried out and the memory of the pain brings a wetness to my thighs.

Until I encountered sex with Roma, all my liaisons were vanilla. I’m talking missionary style in dark bedrooms. The only true rebellious encounter came during my sophomore year in college when I gave car sex a try.

Last night I didn’t care who saw me. I wanted to humiliate Roma. I wanted the cab driver to pity the poor man with his cock out.

I’d never asked nor taken so much control. I used to happily comply with whatever Roma demanded. He bent me backward, my body strumming for him.

Roma sends me another text.

Roma: You don’t look very sad. Let me see all of you.

Ren: Nope

Roma: Please

Ren: Tell me what else you’ve done today to be a good boy.

The only cutesy name I used with Roma was the unoriginal babe. It’s embarrassing to think of how giddy I felt when I called him that. I can see now, how clearly, I wanted a boyfriend back then.

Dots appear and disappear. Like he’s not sure what to type.

Roma: I haven’t come since you told me not to. I had to pretend like the cab driver last night didn’t feel sorry for me. I’ve stopped myself jerking off three times.

Ren: I want you to send me a video.

His response is immediate.

Roma: Okay

Ren: You with your hand around yourself. Jerk yourself off. But you don’t get to come.

He sends me five different types of sad emojis. But then minutes later I receive a video.

The camera is lowered so I don’t see his face, but I know his body. My pussy throbs as I watch him pump himself. His movements are painful but I don’t feel sad.

Ren: I’m impressed. It’s so clear you need to come.

Roma: Babe, please.

I wrinkle my nose.

Ren: No pet names.

Roma: Okay sorry.

I enjoy the apology. I’m not sure what kind of kink that is, but it’s got me biting my lower lip.

Ren: Thanks for the video. You might not get to come, but I’ll certainly have fun.

I add a winking emoji.

Roma: When do I get to come?

A response doesn’t come to me right away. Part of me wants to tell him never, but I’m not that cruel. But I’m not sure what I want to do.

I could tell him to jerk off and send me the video of him coming. It’d be a nice little ending to this bit of sexting.

Roma texts again.

Roma: I’ll meet you at Hartright if you want.

I frown.

Ren: I don’t.

Roma: I only suggested it because I don’t think you’d want me to come over.

He’s 100 percent right about that.

Roma: I’ve been a good boy. I deserve a prize, Ren.

And he thinks his prize should be me. Even if I told him to jerk himself off, he’d want another reward for waiting so long. I’ve walked right into this trap.

Before I can think of a way to walk myself out of said trap my phone rings.

“H-hello?” I clear my voice, sitting up.

Isolde’s thick accent fills my ears. “I’m outside.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” A car horn honks in the background. I’m reminded there’s a whole world outside my quiet apartment. “I was walking around and came down this way. You want to hang out?”

“Okay.” The reply comes automatically, not because I’m desperate for a distraction. If anything, I need to clean myself up a bit before I go down to meet Isolde. She does this, just showing up. I don’t think she likes being alone in her apartment and something in her voice has me reacting.

“Give me a sec,” I tell her. “Unless you want to come in.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” she says. “I’m going to get a coffee. You want something?”

“Yes, please. Oh, and a chocolate croissant!” The cafe across the street is my favorite thing about living in this building.

We don’t discuss payment. Our love language is buying each other little treats and there’s no running tally.

Rushing to the bathroom, I hop into a pair of jeans. Wearing sneakers will forever remind me of my best friend Len. I grab a lightweight coat, unsure of what spring weather I might encounter.

Isolde presents me with an iced vanilla latte and my pastry.

“Thank you.” It hits me then that I didn’t eat lunch. “What have you been up to?”

We follow a stream of people. Sunday evening is settling over the city. People enjoy the final few hours before they’re smothered by the corporate work week.

Swerving around a lady holding a giant shopping bag, I ask, “You going to tell me what happened last night?”

She waggles her brows. “Are you?”

Her smirk deepens when my face flushes. If only she knew why I’m really embarrassed. I let her think I got naughty with some random person. I can’t imagine the judgment I’d receive if I told her the truth. That I hooked up with Roma of all people.

Isolde is a gem. She’s loving and loyal. Deep down I know she’d take the time to listen and offer advice. She met me after I’d already transformed into the Ren Callahan everyone knows and fears.

After a night of drinking saki at Fujimori’s I told her the entire story. How Roma’s dad, Lev, sent him to catfish me. How he wanted Cliff, my cousin to take over the business. How I ended up shooting my cousin when I found out he’d worked with the Zimins to fuck me over.

She knows I hate Roma. It needs to stay like that.

“I’m really sorry.” Isolde’s accent drags the syllables down. Her apology is sincere. “I didn’t want to leave you hanging. ”

I lick chocolate off my lips. “Tyler called us codependent.”

She blinks. “Oh, he was there.”

“Did you see the Ghost last night?”

She shakes her head before lifting her latte to her mouth. “Nah.”

Humming under my breath, I decide to hold my questions back. The truth is, I have a lot of contacts in this city. But the Ghost avoids most society. My only connection to the man is Isolde and even then it’s tenuous.

“So where are we headed?” I ask. Isolde will go for walks with nothing in mind. “Oh, let’s go in there.”

It’s a cute little stationery shop. I come back out with a bag full of pens and notebooks.

“Can we go in there?” Isolde asks next, pointing to a bookstore. “I need to get next month’s book.”

Isolde faithfully reads every book club pick. I pick up the correct book only because I follow her into the store.

“Where do you want to go now?” I ask as we exit.

The sky darkens and I know I should go home and get ready for the week. There’s something about walking around the city with your best friend, though. I can’t remember the last time I went shopping. I have a stylist who sends pieces over to me and my groceries get delivered.

An hour later, Isolde walks me back home.

“You want to come up?” I offer.

She pauses right outside my building. “You never want people to come up.”

That is true. My place is embarrassingly messy. But the past few hours, I’ve done the talking. Isolde listened and added her own opinions, but there were no little tangents. She likes to listen to NPR podcasts and usually tells me all sorts of fascinating stories.

It’s like she’s got the Sunday blues. Her hands remain in her hoodie pockets, the bag from the bookstore dangling from her wrist. Her blue eyes studied her shoes while we walked.

“I can offer you three different types of soda.”

My chest loosens when her smile finally reaches her eyes. “Abe won’t like that.”

Abe can suck a dick with his constant nagging about my dietary habits.

“Come on lets go,” I tell her.

Harry, the doorman, opens the door for us. We go up fifteen flights before the elevator doors open.

“It always dark like this?” Isolde asks, peeking out. She does this all the time. She’s got to act like the man, walking closest to the street and making sure I’m safe. I’m honored, but I can take care of myself.

“The light’s burnt out.” I noticed it last night but I am surprised maintenance hasn’t fixed it yet.

One second, I’m pulling my keys out, as I step out of the elevator. And the next I hear the unmistakable click of a safety being drawn back.