SLACK: A Day in the Life of Ford Aston (Rook and Ronin Spin-off) Read online

  Contents

  SLACK

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue - New Year's Eve

  End of Book Shit

  SLACK

  A Day in the Life of Ford Aston

  By J. A. Huss

  Find me at

  New Adult Addiction

  I Am Just Julie

  Cover design by J. A. Huss

  Copyright © 2013 by J. A. Huss

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-978-1-936413-33-1

  Other books by J.A. Huss

  Clutch (I Am Just Junco, Book One)

  Fledge (I Am Just Junco, Book Two)

  Flight (I Am Just Junco, Book Three)

  Range (I Am Just Junco, Book Four)

  The Magpie Bridge (A Tier Novella, Book 4.5)

  TRAGIC: Rook and Ronin, #1

  Losing Francesca

  MANIC: Rook and Ronin, #2

  PANIC: Rook and Ronin, #3

  Return (I Am Just Junco, Book Five)

  SLACK: A Day in the life of Ford Aston

  (Rook and Ronin Spin-off)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Ford Aston is not too picky about what he wants out of Christmas. He’s not into this holiday—like at all. He doesn’t do presents, or family dinners, or parties, or church.

  He does pets. And he’s got one lined up for Christmas Eve. In fact, it’s the highlight of his day. And if he can get through drop-in visits, nosy twelve year olds, an inappropriate conversation with his best friend’s girlfriend, dinner with a family that’s not his, and a party at his mother’s house—well, he might just get home in time to enjoy himself with a stranger and make it all OK.

  SLACK: A Day in the Life of Ford Aston, is a prequel to TAUT: The Ford Book, and can be read as a standalone novella.

  Chapter One

  I cross Park Avenue at a full run and head down Stout where it intersects with Broadway. My breathing is not even heavy. It’s difficult to get a decent run in this flat city without the Coors Field steps to challenge me.

  My building looms in front of me, contributing to the Denver skyline. This pre-dawn run is the only peace I’ll get today, so I might as well try and enjoy what’s left of it. I pick up my pace and run harder, desperately trying for the endorphin rush, but there’s just not enough distance. Not enough incline. Not enough time.

  I slow as I cross the street and then walk up to the doorman. He welcomes me back with small talk and gratitude for the Christmas tip I authorized via my personal accountant. I ignore his thank yous and get in the elevator, then key in the code to the penthouse so the doors will close.

  I count the floors as they ding. Too many. But it allows me to feel removed from society so I don’t hold it against the condo. The doors open right into my space, but it’s not the actual condo. It’s a hallway that has a pet mat—which at this moment has a kneeling and naked pet on top of it—a closet, and a poinsettia plant that someone who is not me, put there.

  Most likely it was my mother, and most likely it was her subtle way of reminding me that midnight mass is tonight. I have no idea why she bothers. I never go. I haven’t gone to church since I graduated high school. As a Jesuit student I was required to attend mass and take theology, but that was the very first change I made in my adult life. No more church. I’m not a believer. It’s been almost eight years, so the fact that my mother continues to ask me to attend midnight mass with her every Christmas Eve I’m in town, is just annoying.

  I shake it off because she does her best, I guess. I’m weird. Her only child is probably a huge disappointment. She probably figures she’ll never get a wedding out of me. She’ll never have grandkids.

  It’s gotta sting.

  “Stay here, pet. I’ll be back later.”

  The girl on the pet mat says nothing, which is mandatory. I do not want to hear them speak. At all. Not one word. Some moaning, some squealing, small whimpering and tears during punishments—all that is fine. But if they talk, they are asked to leave.

  I enter the condo and take it in. It never did feel like home because nothing in this condo is mine. The only thing I feel a connection to is the view outside. The furniture is white with black accents, the walls are a light gray that looks a little too pink for my taste, and there’s floor to ceiling windows visible from the front door as you walk in. The penthouse terrace faces west so I have an unobstructed view of the mountains.

  I close the door and walk quickly to the shower, wash off, and then pull on a pair of jeans and make my way back to the kitchen. I press the button on the machine and it spits the one-cup instabrew out into a mug. I take it, and a bowl of cut strawberries, over to the dining table and swipe my finger across the tablet so I can read the Wall Street Journal after I finish with the pet.

  I walk back over to the door, open it, and then bend down and whisper in the pet’s ear. “Count to ten, come in, shut the door behind you, and then crawl to the table.” I walk back over to the table and take my seat. Her ten seconds are up and she stands, walks through the door, closes it softly behind her, then drops to her knees and crawls across the hard stone tiles.

  She never once looks at me.

  Another rule.

  Her hair is long and blonde. It hangs down and brushes against the floor as she crawls. When she reaches me, I open my legs and pat my thigh. She rests her cheek on my leg and assumes the position.

  The position is kneeling, legs open, head straight, hands on her thighs. My pat is a command she knows, so that’s why she rests her head on my leg. She’s been here about two dozen times. I have no idea what her name is, how old she is—other than legal age—where she lives, what she does, what this means to her, or why she does it.

  And I could care less about any of that personal stuff. My assistant in LA sets the pets up for me, and much of the time I have no knowledge about the particulars, beyond fucking them, of course. Occasionally I take one out to eat or to a function that requires a date, but not often. I prefer to do almost everything alone.

  “Are you hungry?”

  She nods.

  I pick up a small piece of cut strawberry from the bowl in the center of the table. “Open.”

  She lifts her head slightly and opens her mouth. I place the wet fruit on her tongue and she closes her mouth and chews slowly, then licks her lips to get a drop of juice.

  I like that. I’m hard already. This girl is a fair submissive. She made a few minor mistakes when she first came, but over the past couple months she’s learned fast. She takes the punishments, she likes it in the ass, and she comes for me on command.

  She’s good.

  Good enough, anyway.

  She’s about as far away from my type there is. Because my type is Rook. Dark hair, dark eyes—I make allowances for Rook’s blue eyes because they are striking. Much too beautiful to dismiss as a fault.

  But the pets are never dark. The pets are always light. Blonde or red. It’s a requirement.

  “More?” I ask.

  She nods again and I detect a small smile forming on her lips as I pluck another strawberry piece from the bowl, and place it on her tongue. She moans
this time and I wonder how real that is. Does she enjoy this?

  “Stand up,” I command. She obeys immediately and I slip my fingers between her legs. She’s very wet. “Good girl,” I tell her in a low voice. Her skin prickles, like I just gave her the chills. I open my palm and flatten it against her sex, then push two fingers inside her. This makes her moan again.

  “Kneel, please.”

  She does, and my fingertips slip out of her pussy and drag her wetness up her stomach and across her breasts as she moves. She’s got her head down so I tip her chin up with my finger, still slick with her juices, and then press it against her lips. She opens and licks, then wraps her lips around my finger and gently sucks—her tongue caressing it seductively. I slouch back in the hard dining room chair and unbutton my jeans. “Proceed.”

  She leans in and grabs the zipper with her teeth, chancing a quick look up to see if I’m pleased.

  I give her nothing, so she looks back down at her task. Once the zipper is down she leans back and waits. The first time she did this, she made the mistake of touching me. Her palms flattened against my thighs and she got a swift smack on the ass with the riding crop, hard enough to make her yelp.

  “You’re a good pet,” I praise her for not repeating that mistake.

  She sighs with satisfaction as I grab my dick and free it from the jeans. “Begin,” I whisper.

  She’s eager and a moment later her hot breath is teasing me as her face moves slowly towards her goal. Her lips part and then her tongue darts out and licks my tip. Her whole mouth opens up and she descends on me, the combination of her warmth, wetness, and desire makes my balls tighten and my shaft stretch. My left hand clamps down on her head while my right hand slides across her throat. She hesitates slightly. I’ve never touched her throat before and I’ve got her wondering, no doubt.

  Breath play is not something I do and if she read her contract carefully, she’d know that. But she remains stiff until I remove that hand. I force her down on my cock, a punishment for disappointing me, and then try that throat again. She stiffens and then gags because she’s lost her concentration. I ease up on her head and let her pull back, but she dives back in before I have a chance to dismiss her.

  This one catches on quick.

  I’ve dismissed her before. The first two times she came over. Once for gagging and once for talking. Since then she’s held the gag reflex in check, and she never again uttered a word.

  Like I said, quick learner.

  “I don’t like the gagging, pet.” She opens her mouth further and devourers my cock, burying it into her throat. I reach down and palm her neck again, feeling for the muscle strain as I force her to take more. She breathes through her nose, my hard thickness blocking her airway, and then I explode into her, the semen bursting out as I press my hand against her throat. She swallows… once, twice.

  I let go of her head and she withdraws. Licking her lips and eyes cast down. “Look up,” I command.

  She lifts her head, but her eyes do not meet my gaze. She’s not allowed to do that either. I stare at her for a few moments. Her make-up is smeared down her cheeks from the tears.

  “Sit in my lap.”

  She stands, sniffling a little, and perches herself on my thighs. I reach around and play with her clit and this makes her forget her tears and begin to moan. “I’m going to leave you frustrated today. Would you like that?”

  She nods out a yes.

  “Good. If you want to come back later tonight, I’ll be here at ten.”

  This is not customary. I rarely make dates. Pam, my assistant does almost all the scheduling. The pet turns her head to the side, almost like she’s about to ask me something. But then she faces forward again and keeps her mouth shut.

  “You were a good pet today. If you come back tonight I’ll show you how much I appreciate your obedience.” I push her up and smack her behind. “Go.”

  Her ass sways slightly as she walks. Not in a flaunting way—she knows better than to tease me. I spanked her for that the last time she was here. No, this is just her natural sexy gate. She is sexy, I conclude. Even though her cheeks are not red with my hand prints, I like the view from behind.

  “Ten,” I remind her. “Unless you have plans for tonight?”

  She stops at the door, probably stunned that I asked her a question. She shakes her head no, and then she takes a deep breath. Uncertain. Wondering if I took that as a no, I’m not coming. Or no, I have no plans.

  “You have plans?” I ask to clarify.

  She shakes her head no.

  “I’m surprised, really. You’re pretty.”

  Why does she do this? Why does she participate in this… this… this totally fucked up arrangement? And it’s not the submissive thing that makes me wonder. Lots of women enjoy being submissive. That’s not weird. What’s weird is that she allows me to treat her like she’s worthless. I’ve never understood this.

  I love it, don’t get me wrong. I love that there are women who will put aside their own needs and submit to my whims. Not speak to me, not touch me with their hands—and still pleasure me sexually. But what could she possibly get out of it? More often than not I pay no attention to them. I’ve left this pet sitting on the mat outside the door for hours. Twice. And once I never even showed up. I have no idea how long she stayed waiting because I couldn’t even be bothered to check the security footage to find out.

  I am the first to admit that my rules are unreasonable. My behavior is atrocious. My indifference is derogatory. But if the pets don’t care, why should I?

  She contemplates my statement, probably wondering if she’s supposed to actually address it. But she decides correctly that I really do not give a fuck, and she exits quietly.

  I tuck my dick back into my pants and reach for my coffee and take a sip.

  What a productive morning.

  I grin widely.

  The coffee’s still hot, I ran, I got a blowjob, and I’m ready for whatever the fuck this stupid Christmas Eve decides to throw at me.

  Life could be worse.

  Chapter Two

  My phone rings and I glance over at the screen. “Fuck.” I pick it up and swipe my fingers. “What’s up?”

  “I need a small, you available?”

  He sounds paranoid and this means I can mess with his head, so I take a loud slurping sip of coffee and swallow. “I have a date tonight. Will we be finished by ten?”

  “Shut the fuck up and come get me, you freak. I’m at DIA, west terminal, parking garage level two, behind a blue station wagon, near the south elevators. Do the call and I’ll come out when you get here.”

  “Merc, I swear, if you complicate my life today, I’ll be—” I get the three quick beeps on my phone that tells me the line went dead. I hope he hung up on me and didn’t get caught in whatever scheme he’s involved in this time.

  Goddammit.

  I walk to the bedroom and pull on a white t-shirt. I wanted to wear a suit today but Merc will be looking like a vagrant, and a suit would make us stand out. So this is it. I open the patio door and check the temperature, it’s still mild. Not as warm as it was when I was running this morning, the cold front is getting closer. But still forties, easy.

  I grab my leather jacket and stuff my keys and phone into the pockets. There’s a small bag sitting on the pet mat and I bend down and pick it up. What the hell? She’s leaving me things? I open it up and I’m accosted with the scent of homemade cookies. I take one out and bite, chewing as I wait for the elevator. They’re pretty good. When the ding comes and the doors open, I toss the bag back down on the pet mat and leave it for later.

  Someone gets on a few floors below. Woman with a dog. She nods and I’m just about to turn my head and ignore her when Rook comes to mind. I smile and dog lady starts chatting about the weather.

  “Yes,” I say, agreeing with her about the coming snow.

  See, this is why I ignore people. They talk to you if you acknowledge them. But Rook is friendly, so m
aybe she likes friendly guys? Ronin is friendly. And Spencer even more so. So I figure if I want Rook to like me, then I should try to emulate the other people in her life whom she likes. Ronin is her number one and Spencer is not far behind. She’s always smiling with Spencer. He makes her laugh. Ronin makes her blush.

  And me? I make her uncomfortable.

  The elevator doors open and I nod at the chatty dog woman as she gets off. “Nice talking to you,” I say amicably. She sets her dog down and hurries off, calling out a good day to me as she goes.

  Well, that wasn’t so bad.

  The doors close and I descend to the parking garage and then make my way over to the Bronco, Rook still on my mind. I sigh as I picture her with Ronin. Why? Why him? Of all people? I like Ronin these days, he’s not a bad guy. But why does he always get the fucking girl?

  I met Ronin on his first day of high school. Spencer and I grew up together—he lived across the street from us, in fact. We both went to St. Margaret’s for elementary and middle school, so Spencer graduating up to the Catholic high school was something I looked forward to. Since I had my truck, I picked him up on his first day of ninth grade. Ronin came along as part of the package. I’m two years older than them, so I was already in high school when Spence and Ronin were putting the Team together back at St. Margaret’s.

  Spencer got in the front seat, looking like a fucking linebacker for the Broncos—that’s how big he was at fifteen, and Ronin got in the back, looking like a fucking Calvin Klein underwear model.

  He was too young for that kind of modeling back then, but I know for a fact he did jeans and sportswear. His life was bizarre. And not in a bad way, but bizarre in a way that makes people jealous. He never spent the entire school year in actual school. And our high school was pretty strict about attendance, but did Ronin Flynn have to abide by the rules?

  No.

  Antoine fucking Chaput stepped in and glossed it all over so Ronin could leave every month or so for a few days to go shoot in New York or LA for his own work, or just travel with Antoine and Elise for Chaput Photography. The girls went wild over him. Our school was co-ed, but the boys and girls were separated for classes, and the only time we got to mix was during lunch or at afterhours events.