Page 18 of Into the Blue (Shades of Vengeance #1)

Blue sits in a chair similar to mine and begins working on his project.

He’s efficient as he uses a nail to slice the brown tobacco leaf in half to empty it of the shredded tobacco.

A few minutes later, he’s broken down the sticky green clumps of weed from the jar.

It has a blue-ish hue to it and there’s white fluff sticking to his fingertips as he sprinkles it inside the leaf by small pinches of his index and thumb.

Finally, he sets the white filter in one end and licks the edge of the leaf as he rolls it closed.

The blunt is tight and plump.

He sets it on the edge of the tray and repeats the same actions for the second. It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes and he’s ready to go. I didn’t think that there could be anything sexy about rolling a blunt but here I am—practically drooling.

I smoke, sure. I know about selling weed, procuring it, distributing it, the local laws of many states if caught doing any of the aforementioned things… But this? Oh, I shouldn’t have seen him do this.

He makes rolling blunts look like a craft. A skill or art form that should be awarded. Maybe it is. I’ve only seen it as a means and not a medium.

Setting the tray down, he puts one blunt behind his ear and lights the other. He takes an inhale in, holding it for a moment and then blows it out. I press my thighs together. This shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

“When did you start smoking?” I take the offered blunt and puff shallowly, aware of my sore ribs. Instantly, tingles of ease settle through my bloodstream .

“It’s crazy people think that because my Pa sold the shit, I was like nine years old with a blunt hangin’ out of my mouth.” He takes the blunt back and his eyes watch me, gauging my reaction.

I didn’t think that, but it’s hard to tell what kind of exposure he would have had. It’s not like there were history books about these crime families. All I know is from word of mouth.

“I didn’t take my first inhale until I was eighteen. He figured if I could get a Marlboro then I could at least puff somethin’ better.” There’s a tightness around his eyes as he tells this anecdote about his dad.

“You looked up to him,” I state though it could easily be a question.

He doesn’t confirm but instead conveys, “He was human. He was raised in a different generation. He had ambitions that were bigger than anybody around him could grasp. He achieved them. He gave that drive to me. So, I took it.”

He took the drive and that much is clear with all he’s done since his dad stepped down. He didn’t just become King with that step. It took time and effort to build this empire further. “What didn’t you take?”

“Wish I hadn’t taken how he treated my Ma. He didn’t fight for her or keep her safe. His eye was glued to the money and everythin’ else fell to the side. Even me and my lil’ bro. But he saw us as his legacy, so neglectin’ that was bad business. Nothin’ a Dupont hates more than bad business.”

He doesn’t light the other blunt like I expect.

Long limbs unfold to his massive frame and I feel small under the man but also under that honesty. He is as much a product as I am. His father shaped Blue and set him on the path he wanted for him.

I wonder if Blue wanted this life or if he just took it. I don’t ask.

He tosses the filter into a bucket and turns off the fan in the window. By the time he’s back over to me, I hold my hand out for him to pull me out of the chair. He pops a stick of gum into his mouth and instead of having to take it from his lips, he hands me a piece, as well.

Blue helps me to the hallway again and we reach a spacious kitchen with the same dark wood as the rest of the house with matte black appliances. It’s so much like a cave in this place.

A very luxurious cave with cherry wood and hidden corners.

He helps me sit at a bar stool in the kitchen that overlooks the stove and sink on the opposite side. My observations of him are slow because of whatever we smoked, but I’m no less aware that he’s getting things to cook.

He’s… feeding me.

I expect some kind of munchie meal or stereotypical stoner food like instant ramen and grilled cheese but by the look of the ingredients—it won’t be that.

He pulls a large knife from a wooden block on the counter and expertly filets a chicken breast into thin cutlets before seasoning them and setting it aside.

He methodically portions then rinses some rice and presses a button on a rice cooker before coming back to the first counter and cleaning it.

Whatever this meal is, it beats the frozen junk I’ve been settling for by a mile.

He chops some vegetables and I watch in fascination.

If watching him roll a blunt was sexy, then this is basically pornographic.

As mundane as it is, I’ve never been on the receiving end of something like this. Yes, my mom cooked for me. But, my dating life is virtually nonexistent because of my job. Kinda hard to balance both when either expects to be the only one .

I know what he can do with a knife and all of it turns me on like a horny little cat, apparently. He definitely has activated some kind of knife kink for me because, “me next,” is poised on my lips. I don’t get the chance to embarrass myself because he is the one to break the silence between us.

“How did you become a…” he pauses, bent over with a tray in his hand.

I get a glimpse of the writhing tattoos over his strong back as the t-shirt rises up a bit and I try not to bite my cracked lip.

“A dancer? Always a story there.” He’s back to cleaning the counter, now that he’s put the vegetables in the oven, but I want to go back to the mystery tattoos I’ve yet to see.

How is it that I still haven’t seen this man naked?

A few moments pass where I try to think of how to answer this question.

It’s not complicated, but I find myself wanting to be honest even though I know I can’t be fully.

“I guess, I’m following the family business, too.

My mom danced and I grew up around it to an extent.

I knew all the other women who worked in her club.

My best friend is the daughter of a dancer.

It was just normal to me though I know how people see us—judge us.

My mom never glamorized the life or let me see it as anything other than it was.

She taught me to dream big and I am. My story doesn’t end with me dancing at Off Topz. ” There. All of that is true.

Liezel has been my friend and support as we both navigated life as young girls who had seen too many things, too young.

Our moms weren’t saints, but they kept us fed, clothed, and off the pole until we were old enough to make our own decisions.

We could have done anything else, but community is hard to find and even harder to leave.

And every single one of those ladies were family to me.

That’s why it hurts so badly to lose members.

I miss my girls, but I’m here for a much bigger reason.

The chicken sizzles in a pan and he tends to them before asking, “Where does it end?”

“I don’t know yet.” I rub my chin, realizing that I must look like death with no makeup covering my swollen and sore eyes. Why had I not thought to do any kind of primping in all this time? Shit .

“Maybe I could help you with that,” he hedges. I fight back a smirk because even looking like the thing that got caught in a lawn mower, I still played my role perfectly.

You already are, more than you could ever know.