Brent Sinatra: All of Me (23 page)

“We can’t,” Brent said.
 
“Not yet.”

“Why the hell not?”

“It’s complicated, Dad.”

“What’s complicated about it?”

“Because the man in that motel, the dead man, happens to be
the Lieutenant Governor of Massachusetts.”

Charles was floored.

“And when the press gets wind of this, it’s going to be
wild.
 
I’ll put guards at their room here
at the Inn, and I’ll have my men follow her should she get out.
 
But for right now, we have to tread very
lightly, Dad.
 
I’ve got to clear Marcus
before any court of law will grant me custody of him.
 
If Denise is involved in some way, I’ve got
to prove it.”

“But Marcus didn’t kill that man,” Charles insisted.

“I know he didn’t.
 
But
before we drove over here, Marcus said out of his own mouth that he did
it.
 
Marcus said he killed that man.
 
I’ve got to disprove that before I do
anything else.
 
It’s complicated,
Pop.
 
This shit is real.”

And Charles, blown away, sat down too.

 
It was nightfall by
the time Makayla heard Brent’s truck on her driveway.
 
She was in her living room, with her feet up
and her back against the armrest, reviewing a small stack of files.
 
She text him earlier, to see how he was
doing, but he didn’t text her back.
 
Which wasn’t all that unusual for Brent.
 
When he was on a case, or involved in some controversy, he was all in.

But that didn’t mean she was all in with him.
 
She was still concerned.
 
She had to tell her boss that she didn’t have
enough to press charges against Marcus yet, which was the duty of the D.A.,
when she knew a confession was always enough.
 
But she didn’t even mention the confession.
 
All because of her relationship with
Brent.
 
She even asked to recuse herself
altogether from the case, since the child involved might be her boyfriend’s
child, but the D.A. again refused.
 
“This
is Jericho,” Ira told her.
 
“You will
have to recuse yourself from every single case if we allow personal
relationships to be a determining factor.
 
Just do your job,” he added, “and you’ll be
fine.”

She didn’t do her job.
 
She wasn’t fine.

The doorbell rang once, and then Brent used his key.
 
Because her townhouse was small, she saw him
immediately when he walked in.
 
And he
looked drained.

“Hey,” she said as he walked toward her.

“I got your text,” he said.

She waited for him to explain why he didn’t answer it when he
got it, but that wasn’t Brent’s style either.

He leaned down and kissed her on the lips.
 
His plan was to give her a peck and sit down.
 
He was that tired.
 
But when smelled her sweet fragrance, when he
tasted her, when he thought about how much he needed her right now, he found
himself lingering in his kiss.
 
And it
changed.
 
It became so good to him that
he sat down on the edge of the sofa, placed his arms around her, and gave her a
long, enduring kiss that moved from her lips.
 
He lifted her blouse and her bra, and began kissing her breasts.

“I missed you,” he said, when he finally came back up for
air.

“I missed you too,” Makayla said, as his passion became hers
too.
 
She looked into his eyes.
 
She could see the pain, the anguish, the hurt
there.
 
“Rough day?” she asked.

“Rough day,” he agreed.
 
He looked down, at her bare breasts again, and then back into her
face.
 
“I miss you,” he said again, and
began kissing her all over again.
 
But
this time was even more passionate than the first time, and she knew then that
it was a matter, not of if, but of when.
 
She knew it was coming.

And it came.
 
Immediately.
 
He began removing
the files from her lap and sitting them on the coffee table, and then he stood
up and held out his hand.
 
They walked,
hand in hand, to her bedroom.

And when he laid across the bed, with his feet dangling down,
she knelt down in front of him, unzipped his pants, and eased it out.

Brent felt the warmth of her hand around his rod as soon as
she touched it.
 
And when her tongue
began licking in that oh-so-soft way she mastered, he began to throb.

He laid there, so completely relaxed, as she administered the
kind of relief he desperately needed.
 
She licked and sucked and took him in full, and he fell under the spell
of her tenderness and her expertise.
 
Until her licking and sucking and swallowing became too tender, and too
expert, and he was about to cum in her mouth.

He pulled her on top of him, put his cock inside of her, and
finished the job.
 
But he wasn’t
rough.
 
He kept it slow and
wonderful.
 
Makayla laid on top of him,
and felt his dick expand inside of her until it was too big, and too hard, and
could barely move.
 
That was the best
time.
 
That was when they reached their
nirvana.
 
Because Brent held her, and she
held him, and they laid there in that state of almost-cum without cumming.
 
It was the feeling of having it all, but more
kept coming.

Brent kept pushing into her against that tight resistance he
loved, as he groaned his appreciation for her wet, the softness of her
pussy.
 
All the worries of the day, all
the revelations and devastations that were sure to face them on days to come,
evaporated like mere condensation as he made long, passionate love to her.

And when they came, it wasn’t that earth shattering cum that
caused them both to strain it out.
 
It
was a tender cum.
 
The kind that only
happened when it wasn’t about cumming, but being together, arm in arm, in their
own little world.

But that didn’t mean it wasn’t intense.
 
It was.
 
Because it was a long cum.
 
Because Brent was able to continue to push into her, and she was able to
continue to take him in, for a long time.

By the time it was all over, both their hearts were racing
with not only pleasure, but joy.
 
They
had each other.
 
And that, they realized,
was going to be more than enough.

After sex, after that pleasure principle enveloped them in a
kind of protective assurance, Makayla got off of him and they laid side by side
for a long time.
 
She had so much to ask
him, but he was still breathing so heavily that she waited.
 
It was nearly a ten minute wait.
 
She knew he was ready to talk because he
pulled her into his arms.

She turned onto her side, and looked at him.
 
“How did it go at the Inn?” she asked.

“Rough, like everything else.
 
But Denise did admit it.”

“Admit what?”

Brent looked at Makayla.
 
“That Marcus is my son.”

Makayla leaned up.
 
“She admitted it?
 
Really?”

“She did.”

“Wow.”
 
She laid back
down.
 
“You have to be feeling some kind
of angry right now.”

“Yeah.
 
I do.
 
Mom and Dad does too.
 
Dad slapped her.”

Makayla frowned.
 
“He
slapped her?
 
He slapped Denise?”

Brent nodded.
 
Makayla
smiled.
 
“Are you serious?
 
Why?”

“Because she didn’t tell us.
 
Because he had a grandson in this world going by another man’s
name.
 
Dad was pissed.”

“And so he should be.
 
You should be too.”

“I am, but I’m not thinking about Denise.
 
My entire focus has to be on my son.
 
And how to get him out of this legal jeopardy
he may be in.
 
Because when this is over,
I’m going to fight to the death for custody.”

Makayla didn’t say anything.
 
Brent looked at her.
 
“I know you
didn’t sign up to be anybody’s stepmother, but I have to have my son.”

Makayla nodded.
 
“I
wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Brent.
 
And you’re right.
 
I didn’t plan
to be somebody’s stepmother.
 
But you
didn’t plan to be anybody’s father either.
 
If you can deal with it, I can too.”

Brent smiled and pulled her closer, kissing her on her
forehead.

“How’s Marcus holding up?”

“He’s okay.
 
Still not
saying much.”

“Except confessing to a murder.”

“Right,” Brent said.
 
“Which makes you wonder why.”

Makayla looked at him.
 
“What do you mean?”

“I couldn’t get that kid to tell me his name, but all Denise
had to do was ask him if he hurt his so-called daddy, and he’s singing like a
canary.”

“She’s his mother, Brent.
 
Of course he’ll talk to her.”

But Brent wasn’t buying it.
 
“Something’s off,” he said.
 
“It
sounded as if that boy had been coached into confessing to that murder.
 
It didn’t sound genuine.”

“Or,” Makayla said, treading carefully, “you can’t bring
yourself to believe he would confess to a murder.”

“I know that’s how it sounds.
 
But that’s not how it is.
 
Marcus
didn’t kill that man.
 
I’m certain of
it.”

Makayla considered him.
 
“Then if he didn’t, who did?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“And why were they in Jericho?”

“I don’t know that either.”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“He was abusive.”

Makayla looked at him.
 
“To Marcus?”

“To Denise.
 
She showed
me her bruises.
 
I asked if he ever
abused Marcus, but she claimed he didn’t.
 
Not ever.”

“Let’s hope that’s true.”
 
Then Makayla thought of something.
 
“Brent,” she asked, “you think it’s her?”

“What about her?”

“You think she could be the one?”

“What one?
 
I’m not
following you.”

“Since that man, her husband, had been abusing her according
to her, could she have coached Marcus into confessing to murder?
 
Is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s what I’m wondering,” Brent said.

“You think she could have killed her own husband, and wanted
her son to take the fall?”

“I know it’s a leap, but it is how I feel.
 
Denise is a lot of things, but I don’t think
she’s that far gone.
 
I don’t think she
would do that to her own child.”
 

“It’s been over ten years since you last saw her, right?
 
Unless there’s something you aren’t telling
me.”

“It’s been at least ten years, yes.”

“People change, Brent.
 
If she had been as abused as she claimed, maybe she had murder on her
mind.
 
Maybe she hated him just that
much.
 
Maybe it had come to this.”

Brent’s cell phone began to ring.
 
“I don’t know, Mal.
 
She would have to be some kind of psychotic
to use her own son that way.”
 
He grabbed
his phone from the nightstand.
 
“I sure
hope we’re wrong.”
 
He looked at the
Caller ID.

“Who is it?” she asked him.

“My dad.”
 
He
answered.
 
“What’s up?”

“Turn on the television,” Charles ordered.

“Turn on the TV,” Brent said to Makayla.
 
Makayla grabbed the remote and turned on her
bedroom TV.
 

“Which channel?” she asked.

“Dad, which channel?”

“Three.”

They turned on channel three.
 
A reporter was standing outside of the Jericho Inn.
 
“And we just, moments ago,” the reporter
said, “gotten confirmation from a well-connected source.”
 
The camera panned out and another man
appeared on the screen.
 
“For our viewers
who probably do not know,” the reporter said, “this is famed journalist Jock
Ambers of the Boston Times.
 
Jock, what
can you tell us about this incredible situation?”
 
The reporter shoved his hand-held microphone
into Jock’s face.

“I can tell you that it is confirmed,” Jock said.
 
“The Lt. Governor was found murdered in a
room at the Super Fin motel right here in Jericho, and his young son has
confessed to the crime.”

Brent, thunderstruck, sat up in bed.
 
So did Makayla, completely unaware of her
naked upper body.
 
“How could they know
about that confession?” she asked.

But Brent was too stunned to speak.

“How were you able to confirm this remarkable information?”
the reporter asked Jock.