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 Betrayed: Road to Carnage Series
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidences either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as
real in any way. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2024 by Nicholas Bella
First Edition
DS
Edited by Heidi Ryan
Published by Dark Desires Publishing LLC
Book Cover Design by Nicholas Bella
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the expressed written permission of the author. Exceptions are in
the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
 Contents

Loyalty. Family. Power.

Order of Books in Series
Dedication
Series Warning
VIP Dedication
The VIP Members
The Road Thus Far
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9.
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Dragon and Richie's Last Night Together Teaser
About the Author
Other Books By Nick
 Order of Books in Series

Man of Carnage – Prequel

Outlawed – Book 1
Vengeance – Book 2
Enforced – Book 3
Retaliation – Book 4
Payback – Book 5
Betrayed – Book 6
Punished – Book 7 (Coming Soon)
The Debt – VIP Novella (The Side Story of Antonio and Giovanni)
 This labor of love and creativity is dedicated to all my beautiful readers. Thank you for your support always.
Thank you to my amazing editor, Heidi Ryan for chasing down those annoying ass gremlins. I love you so much.
Thank you, Lindsay Crook, my awesome PA. Much love.
With all of my heart,
Nick.
 Series Warning

This MC series will have harsh language, dark themes, graphic violence, adult situations, sexual, etc, that may be too
extreme for sensitive readers. You see, it’s going to go hard, give your emotions a pounding, then it’s going to ease up, stroke
your nerves lovingly, before claiming you, like a power top working over a hungry bottom.
 VIP Dedication

Thank you so much for your generosity and loyalty. Without your support, I wouldn't be able to do what I do.
With all my love,
Nicholas.
 Chapter One

Montgomery William-Price

M ONTGOMERY WAITED PATIENTLY IN the waiting room for Richie to join him. He wasn't alone, as other inmates were
also getting visits from friends and family. There were several looks his way, but he ignored the attention. For one thing,
he was used to getting it. For another, he didn't care. It'd been over a month since the last time he had a chance to visit his best
friend, and he'd been quite busy. Problems with the family business and just family in general had been weighing on him. But
the bit of great news he had to tell his friend had his spirit uplifted. He checked his watch once more, and when he heard the
door open, he looked up. Smiling, he rose to greet Richie, who looked different every time he'd seen him. He looked more
defined in his muscles. A result of working out, he was sure.
The two men hugged, then released each other before settling down. “Damn, Zach, you look good, mate,” Monty said, his
upper-crust British accent as crisp as his suit. He used Richie's nickname, the one he'd been calling him since they were
children. He ran his blue eyes over Richie from head to toe, taking in the full account of his friend's appearance.
Richie smiled. “Thanks. Been working out a little. But hey, you look great too. No three-piece suit today?”
Monty chuckled. He was dressed in what he considered casual wear. Slacks, button-up shirt, and blazer. Still extremely
stylish. His blond hair was combed back to tame his unruly curls. “It's my day off, family business has been keeping me
occupied. Sorry that I couldn't visit last month.”
Richie waved dismissively. Sure, he had become accustomed to getting those precious visits from Monty, but he understood.
Besides, he'd received several visits from the members of the Lords of Chaos, including Dasan and Dragon's other brothers
and sisters. “Don't worry about it. I know that shit happens.”
Monty nodded and sighed as he looked around. “How is it going in here?”
Richie shrugged. “Not bad. I mean, as you know, I'm still prospecting for the Lords. Got to meet a few of them and they are
an intimidating bunch. I mean, I got a taste of them from Dragon, Dopey, and TT. But meeting Ace, Maverick, Burger, Sofia, and
Gina was an experience, to say the least. No one sibling is the same.” He laughed and shook his head. “I also met the club
president and his old lady. Better known as Dragon's Mom and Dad. Dasan was scary as hell and now that I think about it, so
was his wife, Liliana. But she still welcomed me with open arms. I guess Dragon told them how much we mean to each other.”
Monty listened to the updates as they came, happy to see his best friend was in good spirits. He knew that a lot of it was just
Richie's fortitude, but he also knew that falling in love with Dragon and finding friendship with the Lords played a huge part in
why his friend could smile so brightly.
“I'm happy to hear that you're in love,” Montgomery said.
Richie grinned. “Deeply, madly... crazy in love. Oh man, I can't wait for you to meet Dragon. You'll love him.”
“If he can make you this elated, I'm sure I will.”
Richie nodded. “So, tell me about you. What’s going on? Did your family make you get married?”
Montgomery snorted. “They had been pestering me to do so. To marry a nice, rich boy. The son of one of my father's friends,
but more importantly, a business associate. I refused.”
“Why would they try to force you to marry anyway?” Richie asked.
“By tradition. It's old school, but rich people still want their kids to marry other rich people. Someone who can keep the
wealth growing. Hence the reason why our circles consist of people in our status bracket,” Monty said.
Richie sighed and nodded. He wasn't nearly as rich as Monty, which was one of the reasons why Montgomery's family never
really approved of them being friends. He was even told to stay away from Monty when he was fourteen, but Monty wouldn't
have any of it. He defied his parents back then for their friendship and they just had to accept that Richie was a part of Monty's
life even when they didn't like it. He could only imagine how much they hated Monty being his friend knowing he was a
criminal now.
“Of course, it wasn't until recently that I discovered why my parents were trying to marry me off. The business is in a bit of a
predicament. We've had some bad investments on my father's part that has the company in jeopardy. Now, I'm just trying to
figure out how to cut costs to keep us afloat. We may have to claim bankruptcy,” Monty said, and his lips thinned in a line that
was just shy of a frown.
Richie's eyes bulged and his mouth dropped open. “Holy fuck,” he gasped. He leaned forward to whisper. “What are you
going to do?”
“I'm going to enjoy my time with my best friend, then I'm going to relieve some stress later tonight at Scarlet Letter. The last
thing I want to think about is the family business. It's been consuming my every waking moment for the past three months. My
father had wanted to marry me off before any reputable families got wind of our financial woes. When I refused, I inadvertently
ruined any chance of saving our company through a corporate merger with a wealthier family. Needless to say, I'm not my
family's favorite person right now.”
“Fuck them,” Richie snapped. “They fucked up and then want to put the weight of their poor choices all on your shoulders.
It's not your responsibility.”
“I bear some responsibility, though. This is also my company. I'm the sole heir and it was mine to inherit, Zach,” Monty said.
“I just need a night where I don't have to think about it.”
Richie wanted to ask so many more questions, like what would he do if they did go under? Would he lose everything? But he
saw the sadness in Monty's blue eyes and decided to curb his curiosity. “So, you're going to the Scarlet Letter tonight?” he
asked, changing the subject to one he knew would put a smile on his friend's face.
Monty nodded. “I must after the week I've had.”
“So, have you found a sexy sub boy there yet?” Richie asked, then gave his friend a lecherous grin.
Monty chuckled softly and shook his head. “Not yet. I'm very particular. I prefer to watch and on occasion, I may do a
scene.” He thought about his last few visits to the club and sighed. “There is this one boy, though.”
Richie's eyebrows arched inquisitively. “Oh? Who?”
“A brat who goes by the name, Ren. One who has boldly approached me, demanding that I become his Dom. I find him
utterly annoying. I can tell he's spoiled and used to getting his way. A sub like that is more challenging than I'd like trying to
break him in. He turns me off,” Monty said, a sneer on his lips.
“Ahh, I see. Yeah, he does seem like an asshole.”
Monty nodded because that was his opinion as well. “He doesn't know his place.”
Richie laughed. “Whoa, check you out. A motherfucker has to 'know their place' to get into your pants, I see.”
Monty scoffed. “I see this place has taught you such colorful language.”
Richie smiled and nodded. “Yeah, I'll admit, it's rubbed off on me a little. My boyfriend has a sewer mouth that drives me
wild in so many ways.”
“I can tell,” Monty said.
Richie chuckled. “In any case, maybe that's why he's seeking a big, bad, sexy Dom to tame him.”
“His kind...” Monty trailed off, then shook his head. “Even if I were interested in him, I'm not the type of Dom that he can
handle.”
“Is he cute?” Richie asked.
Monty chuckled. “He's...” His words trailed off.
“I'm waiting,” Richie prodded teasingly.
Monty huffed. “Fine. He's bloody beautiful. He's arrogant enough to know it as well.”
“Well, I'm sure he knows he's caught your eye.”
“My ire is more like it.”
Richie laughed. “I'm sure he'll find his way.”
Monty waved his hand dismissively. “Enough about Ren. I've got great news to tell you, my friend.”
Richie leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Oh? What's that?”
Monty's grin widened. “You're getting out of here in a few weeks.”
Richie's eyes bulged. “What?” he blurted a bit too loudly, then looked around nervously at the eyes that were on him. He
gave them a bashful smile, then returned his attention to Monty. “What are you talking about?” he asked in a lower voice.
“I wanted to be able to tell you face-to-face. A few weeks back, I met a judge through a friend of a friend—you know how it
goes,” Monty said with a shrug.
Richie nodded and stayed quiet, waiting for the rest of the tale.
Monty continued, “Anyway, this judge has certain needs that I'm well versed in and wanted me personally. He asked for me
by my Dom name. At first, I turned him down. Not really into doing favors or private house calls, but he offered to pay me.
Well, you know my situation, I'm not really in the place to be choosy.” He sighed. “Which hurts my pride more than you know.”
“Oh, I know. But do go on,” Richie said.
“Anyway, I agreed. It was his first time subbing and of course, I held to his level of discretion. But instead of accepting his
payment, I asked for a favor of my own. Asked him to pull some strings to get you released early and just accept the time
served and your good behavior. So, he assured me that you'll be out of here within the next two weeks,” Monty informed him.
 Richie reached over the table with all of the enthusiasm he felt and grabbed Monty, hugging him hard enough to cut off
Monty's air supply as he thanked him repeatedly.
“Lack... of... oxygen becoming... an issue,” Monty said through struggling pants.
“Oh shit,” Richie gasped, then released him. “I'm sorry.”
“It's okay. That smile on your face was worth the bruising.”
Beaming, Richie gushed. “You're the best friend anyone could ask for.”
“You're my brother, Zach. I'd do anything for you,” Monty said, a wide smile on his face as well.
“I can't believe I'll be free soon,” Richie said.
Monty nodded. “Freedom is what you deserve. You shouldn't have been in here in the first place, at least not this long. It was
a first-time offense, minor drug charges.”
“Yeah, I know. The only thing that makes me a little sad that I'm leaving is that I'll be leaving Dragon sooner,” Richie said.
“I'm sure he'll be happy for you, though, right?”
Richie nodded. “Oh yeah, he doesn't want me in prison, but while I'm here, we can be together.”
“And you'll be waiting for him when he's out.”
“Oh, hell yeah, I'm not going anywhere. I'll also visit him until he's free. Twice a month.” Richie sat there buzzing with
excitement at the fact he’d be a free man in a matter of weeks. That was truly the best news he'd had in a long time. “Man, I
don't know how to thank you, Monty.”
Montgomery leaned over and patted his shoulder. “You don't have to thank me. Just hang in there until you're free, then we
can go out and celebrate like two best mates should.”
“It's a date, for sure,” Richie said.
The two men talked more until it was time to go. After their hug, they parted, and Monty climbed into his everyday car,
which was an Audi A5 45 S line Cabriolet. He'd never drive his Bugatti or Lambo to the prison. He turned up the tunes,
anything to drown out the troubles plaguing him. He wanted to fuck on this night and he knew the sub that he wanted to do a
scene with. And it for damn sure wasn't that brat, Ren.
 Chapter Two

Ren Mujin

“I WON'T BE LONG,” Ren Mujin told his bodyguard, Sakura, as he climbed out the back of the black Bentley Flying Spur
Mulliner. His Chinese accent wasn't very thick as he'd moved to America when he was a kid with his parents. Greenwich,
Connecticut, to be exact.
“Sir, you know that I have strict orders from your father to never leave your side. If anything happens to you and we're stuck
out here, your father will not approve,” Sakura Ishii stated as he climbed out of the passenger seat and adjusted his suit. He'd
left his gun and knives in the car, as it was illegal to bring any weapons inside the Scarlet Letter. No matter, he was a weapon,
trained by the best in hand-to-hand combat.
“Nothing will happen to me. You can't have any violence in this place. I'll be fine,” Ren argued with a frown. “I've been
taking care of myself for the past year before you joined my security team. I don't need all of this...” He paused to motion with
agitation to Sakura. “Extra.”
The moment the Castiello family and the Lords ran the Mancinis out of Chicago and took over the drug trade for the entire
south side, his father raised the security across the board. That meant he wasn't allowed to go anywhere without a shadow and
it annoyed him to no end.
Ren turned to strut off when his bodyguard grabbed his arm, stopping him. “Let me go!”
“As always, I will accompany you,” Sakura said.
Ren snatched his arm away with a sneer. “You cramp my style.”
Sakura cocked his eyebrow as if to say that he didn't care if he cramped Ren's style. He refused to be punished by Ren's
parents for not doing his job. “Too bad.”
Ren huffed and crossed his arms over his slender, black, fishnet-covered chest. “I don't need you in there scaring people
away.”
Sakura scoffed. “And here I was under the impression that you were patronizing this place because you were looking for a
real man.”
Ren smacked his lips. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“If my presence scares them, then they aren't worthy to begin with.” Sakura looked off toward the other members of his team
and nodded. Those guards took positions by the vehicles. He turned back to Ren. “Don't worry, I'll stay far enough away from
you so you can have your privacy.”
“My illusion of privacy. What if I get lucky? You're going to watch me fuck?” Ren asked in his cheeky, bold manner.
Sakura released a deep breath before answering. “I know how to avert my gaze, Sir.”
Ren huffed and pouted, because he didn't like that his father had insisted on his bodyguard never leaving his side. He'd been
embarrassed the last time he'd gone to Scarlet Letter when the Dom he'd been chasing for a month rejected him. Before that,
he'd been rejected without anyone knowing it. But now he had eyes on him and he didn't like it. He also didn't like being told
no. Not one. Fucking. Bit.
Just who in the hell did Master Ellis think he was? Ren frowned at everything that was infuriating him at the moment. His
bodyguard staring him down and practically daring him to refuse made him want to scream in defiance. Then there was the fact
that he hoped Master Ellis was there so he could make his move again, but feared being turned down. This time, he wouldn't
accept no for an answer. His father was a powerful man and Ren, like his dad, was used to getting his way.
Ren rolled his pretty, brown eyes. “Fine, but keep your distance.”
Sakura nodded and Ren turned sharply before walking off toward the famous shiny red door with the Letters “S and L”
engraved in the metal. The two bodyguards standing outside eyed him as he approached. Like the last time, he showed them his
membership button and Sakura did the same. The guards nodded and let them inside.
The location was fancy with chandeliers hanging from high ceilings, and stained-glass windows with artistic designs.
Polished dark wood floors that reflected the overhead lights. Black and red leather seating in the lounge where several
members were relaxing and chatting.
Ren walked over to the bar with the polished black marble top and gold veining. He sat down on one of the black stools and
perused the area. As promised, Sakura stood in the darkest corner, his gaze as sharp as a hawk as he monitored the patrons.
Ren looked around for a particular man but didn't see him in the lounge. Could he be watching a public scene like he
normally did? He looked at the bartender who approached him. “Appletini,” he ordered. Though he was underaged, he wasn't
worried. The forged ID he used to get membership was made by the best in the business.
As he expected, the bartender got to making the drink and once it was done, Ren took a sip, approved, then paid with a tip.
Next, he walked through the halls with the decorative mirrors lining the walls into the open scene room. Sakura was at his side,
but when Ren tossed him an annoyed look, he fell back a few steps.
Upon entering the main Courtroom, Ren was greeted with a scene taking place. A Dom had his sub in the middle of the room,
naked and his arms suspended above his head by chains attached with cuffs on his wrists. The Dom was spanking his sub with
a cane, each strike leaving a red welt on pale flesh. The sub was whimpering and his eyes were wet with tears, but he didn't
ask for the spanking to stop. It seemed to Ren that the sub was enjoying it. The sub's cock wasn't fully engorged, but it was
getting there and dripping precum. Several members were watching and admiring while others were either engaged in sex or
conversation.
Turning from that show, Ren sipped his drink as he did a quick scan of the room, looking for Master Ellis. He spotted the
blond god of sex watching the show on display. Ren's gaze grew more heated as he took in Master Ellis' outfit. Jesus Christ,
he'd never seen the man look that fucking good! Normally, the Dom would wear a casual suit; a stylish shirt, a jacket, and
slacks. But tonight, he was wearing a purple satin tie and a purple and black corset vest that hugged all of his masculine curves.
His shoes were polished as always and his black leather pants exposed the erection he was working with. Ren damn near
dropped the glass he'd been holding. The look in Master Ellis' eyes was pure predatory. He wasn't here to just watch. No, not
tonight. He was here to partake and Ren wanted to be the sub dropping to his knees before the Dom.
Ren noticed that his weren’t the only pair of eyes drinking in the sheer magnificence that was Master Ellis. Every time he'd
come to Scarlet Letter, the Dom was accosted by not only subs, but also other Doms who wanted a taste of the man. But Master
Ellis was a picky one, Ren thought. Of course, he was. A man like him didn't just give his cock or time to just anyone. And to
Ren, no one was ever worthy of the Dom. No one but him. Boldly, Ren walked toward Master Ellis but paused and scowled
when a pretty sub with a studded collar and leather shorts approached the Dom first. The sub dropped to his knees, head
bowed, ready to serve.
Oh, this just won't do, Ren thought. He continued his pursuit, shoving the other man out of his way. The sub had to brace
himself before he fell completely to the floor.
“Hey, what the fuck!” the man fussed as he glared up at Ren.
Ren turned to him, rolled his eyes, then waved his hand flippantly. The irate sub was of no concern to him. “Just making sure
Master Ellis isn't wasting his time.”
“I was speaking to him first,” the man shot back as he leaped to his feet.
Ren turned to him. “And now you're not. Begone,” he snapped.
Master Ellis raised a hand, stopping the two men from arguing over him. “Troy, meet me in room three,” he said.
Troy smiled, then tossed Ren a smirk as if to say, I won, bitch.
Ren snarled because how dare that bastard! Rage boiled inside him like a tea kettle heating right before the whistle blew. He
wanted to punch the other man in his pretty face, but didn't want to be kicked out. He took a chance with the shove, but violence
was not tolerated. Instead, he huffed and returned his attention to Master Ellis.
“I was hoping to see you tonight, Master,” Ren purred, then bit his lip seductively. He knew how to seduce men… then again,
those were men. Master Ellis was a sex dream made flesh.
Master Ellis, better known as Monty to his best friend, sighed as he uncrossed his legs. “I believe I made myself perfectly
clear the last time we crossed paths. I'm not interested in you.”
“That's only because you're being stubborn. Come on, take me to room 3 instead. You should see the things I can do with my
tongue.” Ren leaned over, then stuck his tongue out, making it move in the motion of waves flowing in the ocean.
Montgomery arched an eyebrow at that, because, yes... it was impressive. He could only imagine how good the boy's tongue
would feel on his cock, but he wasn't in the mood to humor the brat. “Are you done?”
Ren whined, straightened, then stomped his foot. “Awww, come on. I'm prettier than all of these other guys in here. And you
know it.” He pointed at Monty, then put his hand on his hip. “I've had so many Doms want me, but I've turned them down
because only one is worthy. You should be grateful I hold you in such high regard.” He took another sip of his drink.
Monty stared at him in silence… long enough to make Ren feel the weight of his intense gaze.
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” Ren asked. His own eyes averted nervously as he fidgeted with the stem of his
wine glass.
“Do you know why I don't like you?” Monty asked.
Ren turned back to him and scoffed. “You don't like me?” he asked as if the notion was unfathomable.
 Monty nodded. “No, I don't. I don't like your attitude. I don't like your arrogance. I don't like how you don't know your
place.”
Ren snorted. “You're a Dom, why don't you make me behave, then.” He stuck his tongue out in a cheeky grin.
Monty sighed as he rose, towering over the boy by seven inches at six-two. Ren's eyes took a long drink of the man before
him that made his mouth water. Yes, he loved that corset on Master Ellis. Not many men, in his opinion, could pull that outfit
off, but this man owned it. He needed him to wear that all of the time. He couldn't wait to have Master Ellis' cock inside of him
and in his fantasies, the man would be fully dressed. Well, not all of the time. He dreamed about him naked, too.
“Move,” Monty said.
Ren took a step forward, almost so that their bodies were touching. He craned his head back to look up at the man looking
down at him. “Take me tonight instead.”
Monty grabbed Ren's angular, smooth chin between his finger and thumb. “Let this be the last time you approach me, boy.
You're not ready for a Dom, let alone, one of my caliber.”
Ren slapped his hand away and stepped back. “I know what I want.”
“This is the lesson I will teach you, then. You can't always get what you want,” Monty said, and then he stepped away from
Ren, leaving the public scene.
Ren's vision was as red as his cheeks as he watched the tapered back of the man of his jerk-off sessions getting further away.
He was so enraged his entire body shook. Once again, he’d been rejected, but what angered him more than anything was being
talked down to. Being told that he wasn't good enough. Bullshit, he always got his fucking way! He downed the rest of his drink
in a few gulps and then placed the glass on the table so hard it almost shattered. He'd had enough of the Scarlet-Fucking-Letter
for the night. Before leaving, he stopped and looked at the closed door to private room three. He wanted to kick the door down
if only to ruin the mood Master Ellis was having with that twink. But doing so would get him banned from the club. So, he held
his fiery temper in check and just stormed out with Sakura a few steps behind.
Inside the car, driving home, his mind raced with thoughts of revenge, and then he thought about how to get his way. No man
was ever out of his reach, let alone Master Ellis.
“Sakura.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Find out everything you can on that motherfucker! I have a lesson of my own I want to teach him,” Ren said as he glared out
the window.
“Yes, sir.”
Soon, you'll be mine, Master Ellis, Ren thought, and that made his frown morph into something even more sinister.
 Chapter Three

Ajay Khanna

“A HHHH FUUCK,” AJAY MOANED as the tip of Tiny Tim's tongue swirled around his hole before plunging inside. He
let loose a breathy sigh, then took TT's cock down his throat just the way he knew TT loved it.
“Ngh,” TT grunted from the pleasure of the hot mouth working his cock.
Ajay pulled back and swirled his tongue around the head, then kissed it. TT had woken him up early before the siren went off
to get in a little “early bird special” as he called it. His body hummed with pleasure and it was becoming more difficult to
resist the full allure of TT. Every time they were intimate, he was losing his reserve. He yearned to feel Tiny Tim's cock inside
of him. He longed to feel the heat of TT's spunk as it filled him to the brim. He craved every inch of the man. He wanted what
he wasn't supposed to want. He took TT back into his mouth, sucking him with slow movements just the way he'd learned the
biker loved it. The two pleasured each other until their intense climaxes rocked them to their core. He swallowed the hot, salty
load that squirted into his mouth, savoring the most intimate essence of his man. Ajay enjoyed the way Tim shook during his
orgasm until the last drop. Afterward, they lay on the bed, panting and looking up at the top bunk.
“When are you going to let me get in that sweet ass of yours I just ate, baby?” TT asked.
“You keep eating it like that, soon,” Ajay joked, then he climbed off the bed and walked over to the sink to wet a washcloth.
Returning to the bed, he wiped off his drying spunk from TT's tattooed, muscular chest. He admired the ink that adorned his
man's powerful body. Ajay never thought he'd ever be into a man with this much body art, but here he was.
TT sat up and looked at him. “Are you still scared of it being painful?”
Ajay smiled at him, then tossed the washcloth into the sink. “That's a small part of it.”
TT's brows creased as his lips turned downward. “What do you mean? What else is holding you back?”
Ajay began to get dressed in his T-shirt and underwear. What he was going to wear to take a shower. “I'm just not ready to go
the full distance yet.” He walked over to TT, who was still sitting on the bed. He leaned down, kissing him, tongue and all. TT
grabbed both of his ass cheeks, giving them firm squeezes while their lips remained locked. When Ajay pulled back, he smiled.
“You're my first real relationship. I just need it to be the right time.”
When Tiny Tim told Ajay that he could wait, that he could take all the time he needed, he hadn't expected it to go this long.
He’d never had to wait months to have sex. But he was a man of his word. He'd said he'd wait until Ajay was ready, so that
was what he was going to do. He slapped the ass he dreamed of every night. “Well, I'm not going anywhere, baby. You're
mine.”
Words Ajay needed to hear. He smiled and kissed him again before stepping back to give TT room to rise. TT dressed in the
same shorts and t-shirt combo and both men went to shower. After doing their morning routine, they joined Richie and Dragon
in the mess hall for breakfast.
“Keep your eyes out,” Dragon warned when they sat down.
“For what?” TT asked.
“You don't feel that vibe?” Dragon asked TT.
The giant man looked around to see if he could sense what Dragon had, and he did. He turned to face Dragon again and took
a bite of his breakfast. “Yeah, I peeped that shit.”
“What?” Ajay asked.
“Motherfuckers keep taking sly-ass, grimy glances our way,” Dragon said and continued to eat his food.
“What do you think is going on?” Richie asked.
“Whatever it is, we'll find out today,” TT said.
“Act normal,” Dragon instructed, then smiled at TT. “So, you two still playing footsie, or have you stepped into the big
leagues?”
Richie slapped Dragon's biceps. “Mind your own damn business. Why are you worried about their sex life?”
“Tell 'em, Richie. Mind your nosy ass business,” TT added.
Another random document with
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woman could have worn the helmet and shot the arrow, could have
led troops to attack, ruled with indomitable justice barbarian hordes
and lain under a shield noseless in a church, or made a green grass
mound on some primeval hillside, that woman was Millicent Bruton.
Debarred by her sex and some truancy, too, of the logical faculty
(she found it impossible to write a letter to the Times), she had the
thought of Empire always at hand, and had acquired from her
association with that armoured goddess her ramrod bearing, her
robustness of demeanour, so that one could not figure her even in
death parted from the earth or roaming territories over which, in
some spiritual shape, the Union Jack had ceased to fly. To be not
English even among the dead—no, no! Impossible!
But was it Lady Bruton (whom she used to know)? Was it Peter
Walsh grown grey? Lady Rosseter asked herself (who had been
Sally Seton). It was old Miss Parry certainly—the old aunt who used
to be so cross when she stayed at Bourton. Never should she forget
running along the passage naked, and being sent for by Miss Parry!
And Clarissa! oh Clarissa! Sally caught her by the arm.
Clarissa stopped beside them.
“But I can’t stay,” she said. “I shall come later. Wait,” she said,
looking at Peter and Sally. They must wait, she meant, until all these
people had gone.
“I shall come back,” she said, looking at her old friends, Sally and
Peter, who were shaking hands, and Sally, remembering the past no
doubt, was laughing.
But her voice was wrung of its old ravishing richness; her eyes not
aglow as they used to be, when she smoked cigars, when she ran
down the passage to fetch her sponge bag, without a stitch of
clothing on her, and Ellen Atkins asked, What if the gentlemen had
met her? But everybody forgave her. She stole a chicken from the
larder because she was hungry in the night; she smoked cigars in
her bedroom; she left a priceless book in the punt. But everybody
adored her (except perhaps Papa). It was her warmth; her vitality—
she would paint, she would write. Old women in the village never to
this day forgot to ask after “your friend in the red cloak who seemed
so bright.” She accused Hugh Whitbread, of all people (and there he
was, her old friend Hugh, talking to the Portuguese Ambassador), of
kissing her in the smoking-room to punish her for saying that women
should have votes. Vulgar men did, she said. And Clarissa
remembered having to persuade her not to denounce him at family
prayers—which she was capable of doing with her daring, her
recklessness, her melodramatic love of being the centre of
everything and creating scenes, and it was bound, Clarissa used to
think, to end in some awful tragedy; her death; her martyrdom;
instead of which she had married, quite unexpectedly, a bald man
with a large buttonhole who owned, it was said, cotton mills at
Manchester. And she had five boys!
She and Peter had settled down together. They were talking: it
seemed so familiar—that they should be talking. They would discuss
the past. With the two of them (more even than with Richard) she
shared her past; the garden; the trees; old Joseph Breitkopf singing
Brahms without any voice; the drawing-room wall-paper; the smell of
the mats. A part of this Sally must always be; Peter must always be.
But she must leave them. There were the Bradshaws, whom she
disliked. She must go up to Lady Bradshaw (in grey and silver,
balancing like a sea-lion at the edge of its tank, barking for
invitations, Duchesses, the typical successful man’s wife), she must
go up to Lady Bradshaw and say....
But Lady Bradshaw anticipated her.
“We are shockingly late, dear Mrs. Dalloway, we hardly dared to
come in,” she said.
And Sir William, who looked very distinguished, with his grey hair
and blue eyes, said yes; they had not been able to resist the
temptation. He was talking to Richard about that Bill probably, which
they wanted to get through the Commons. Why did the sight of him,
talking to Richard, curl her up? He looked what he was, a great
doctor. A man absolutely at the head of his profession, very
powerful, rather worn. For think what cases came before him—
people in the uttermost depths of misery; people on the verge of
insanity; husbands and wives. He had to decide questions of
appalling difficulty. Yet—what she felt was, one wouldn’t like Sir
William to see one unhappy. No; not that man.
“How is your son at Eton?” she asked Lady Bradshaw.
He had just missed his eleven, said Lady Bradshaw, because of the
mumps. His father minded even more than he did, she thought
“being,” she said, “nothing but a great boy himself.”
Clarissa looked at Sir William, talking to Richard. He did not look like
a boy—not in the least like a boy. She had once gone with some one
to ask his advice. He had been perfectly right; extremely sensible.
But Heavens—what a relief to get out to the street again! There was
some poor wretch sobbing, she remembered, in the waiting-room.
But she did not know what it was—about Sir William; what exactly
she disliked. Only Richard agreed with her, “didn’t like his taste,
didn’t like his smell.” But he was extraordinarily able. They were
talking about this Bill. Some case, Sir William was mentioning,
lowering his voice. It had its bearing upon what he was saying about
the deferred effects of shell shock. There must be some provision in
the Bill.
Sinking her voice, drawing Mrs. Dalloway into the shelter of a
common femininity, a common pride in the illustrious qualities of
husbands and their sad tendency to overwork, Lady Bradshaw (poor
goose—one didn’t dislike her) murmured how, “just as we were
starting, my husband was called up on the telephone, a very sad
case. A young man (that is what Sir William is telling Mr. Dalloway)
had killed himself. He had been in the army.” Oh! thought Clarissa, in
the middle of my party, here’s death, she thought.
She went on, into the little room where the Prime Minister had gone
with Lady Bruton. Perhaps there was somebody there. But there was
nobody. The chairs still kept the impress of the Prime Minister and
Lady Bruton, she turned deferentially, he sitting four-square,
authoritatively. They had been talking about India. There was
nobody. The party’s splendour fell to the floor, so strange it was to
come in alone in her finery.
What business had the Bradshaws to talk of death at her party? A
young man had killed himself. And they talked of it at her party—the
Bradshaws talked of death. He had killed himself—but how? Always
her body went through it first, when she was told, suddenly, of an
accident; her dress flamed, her body burnt. He had thrown himself
from a window. Up had flashed the ground; through him, blundering,
bruising, went the rusty spikes. There he lay with a thud, thud, thud
in his brain, and then a suffocation of blackness. So she saw it. But
why had he done it? And the Bradshaws talked of it at her party!
She had once thrown a shilling into the Serpentine, never anything
more. But he had flung it away. They went on living (she would have
to go back; the rooms were still crowded; people kept on coming).
They (all day she had been thinking of Bourton, of Peter, of Sally),
they would grow old. A thing there was that mattered; a thing,
wreathed about with chatter, defaced, obscured in her own life, let
drop every day in corruption, lies, chatter. This he had preserved.
Death was defiance. Death was an attempt to communicate; people
feeling the impossibility of reaching the centre which, mystically,
evaded them; closeness drew apart; rapture faded, one was alone.
There was an embrace in death.
But this young man who had killed himself—had he plunged holding
his treasure? “If it were now to die, ’twere now to be most happy,”
she had said to herself once, coming down in white.
Or there were the poets and thinkers. Suppose he had had that
passion, and had gone to Sir William Bradshaw, a great doctor yet to
her obscurely evil, without sex or lust, extremely polite to women, but
capable of some indescribable outrage—forcing your soul, that was
it—if this young man had gone to him, and Sir William had
impressed him, like that, with his power, might he not then have said
(indeed she felt it now), Life is made intolerable; they make life
intolerable, men like that?
Then (she had felt it only this morning) there was the terror; the
overwhelming incapacity, one’s parents giving it into one’s hands,
this life, to be lived to the end, to be walked with serenely; there was
in the depths of her heart an awful fear. Even now, quite often if
Richard had not been there reading the Times, so that she could
crouch like a bird and gradually revive, send roaring up that
immeasurable delight, rubbing stick to stick, one thing with another,
she must have perished. But that young man had killed himself.
Somehow it was her disaster—her disgrace. It was her punishment
to see sink and disappear here a man, there a woman, in this
profound darkness, and she forced to stand here in her evening
dress. She had schemed; she had pilfered. She was never wholly
admirable. She had wanted success. Lady Bexborough and the rest
of it. And once she had walked on the terrace at Bourton.
It was due to Richard; she had never been so happy. Nothing could
be slow enough; nothing last too long. No pleasure could equal, she
thought, straightening the chairs, pushing in one book on the shelf,
this having done with the triumphs of youth, lost herself in the
process of living, to find it, with a shock of delight, as the sun rose,
as the day sank. Many a time had she gone, at Bourton when they
were all talking, to look at the sky; or seen it between people’s
shoulders at dinner; seen it in London when she could not sleep.
She walked to the window.
It held, foolish as the idea was, something of her own in it, this
country sky, this sky above Westminster. She parted the curtains;
she looked. Oh, but how surprising!—in the room opposite the old
lady stared straight at her! She was going to bed. And the sky. It will
be a solemn sky, she had thought, it will be a dusky sky, turning
away its cheek in beauty. But there it was—ashen pale, raced over
quickly by tapering vast clouds. It was new to her. The wind must
have risen. She was going to bed, in the room opposite. It was
fascinating to watch her, moving about, that old lady, crossing the
room, coming to the window. Could she see her? It was fascinating,
with people still laughing and shouting in the drawing-room, to watch
that old woman, quite quietly, going to bed. She pulled the blind now.
The clock began striking. The young man had killed himself; but she
did not pity him; with the clock striking the hour, one, two, three, she
did not pity him, with all this going on. There! the old lady had put out
her light! the whole house was dark now with this going on, she
repeated, and the words came to her, Fear no more the heat of the
sun. She must go back to them. But what an extraordinary night! She
felt somehow very like him—the young man who had killed himself.
She felt glad that he had done it; thrown it away. The clock was
striking. The leaden circles dissolved in the air. He made her feel the
beauty; made her feel the fun. But she must go back. She must
assemble. She must find Sally and Peter. And she came in from the
little room.
“But where is Clarissa?” said Peter. He was sitting on the sofa with
Sally. (After all these years he really could not call her “Lady
Rosseter.”) “Where’s the woman gone to?” he asked. “Where’s
Clarissa?”
Sally supposed, and so did Peter for the matter of that, that there
were people of importance, politicians, whom neither of them knew
unless by sight in the picture papers, whom Clarissa had to be nice
to, had to talk to. She was with them. Yet there was Richard
Dalloway not in the Cabinet. He hadn’t been a success, Sally
supposed? For herself, she scarcely ever read the papers. She
sometimes saw his name mentioned. But then—well, she lived a
very solitary life, in the wilds, Clarissa would say, among great
merchants, great manufacturers, men, after all, who did things. She
had done things too!
“I have five sons!” she told him.
Lord, Lord, what a change had come over her! the softness of
motherhood; its egotism too. Last time they met, Peter remembered,
had been among the cauliflowers in the moonlight, the leaves “like
rough bronze” she had said, with her literary turn; and she had
picked a rose. She had marched him up and down that awful night,
after the scene by the fountain; he was to catch the midnight train.
Heavens, he had wept!
That was his old trick, opening a pocket-knife, thought Sally, always
opening and shutting a knife when he got excited. They had been
very, very intimate, she and Peter Walsh, when he was in love with
Clarissa, and there was that dreadful, ridiculous scene over Richard
Dalloway at lunch. She had called Richard “Wickham.” Why not call
Richard “Wickham”? Clarissa had flared up! and indeed they had
never seen each other since, she and Clarissa, not more than half a
dozen times perhaps in the last ten years. And Peter Walsh had
gone off to India, and she had heard vaguely that he had made an
unhappy marriage, and she didn’t know whether he had any
children, and she couldn’t ask him, for he had changed. He was
rather shrivelled-looking, but kinder, she felt, and she had a real
affection for him, for he was connected with her youth, and she still
had a little Emily Brontë he had given her, and he was to write,
surely? In those days he was to write.
“Have you written?” she asked him, spreading her hand, her firm and
shapely hand, on her knee in a way he recalled.
“Not a word!” said Peter Walsh, and she laughed.
She was still attractive, still a personage, Sally Seton. But who was
this Rosseter? He wore two camellias on his wedding day—that was
all Peter knew of him. “They have myriads of servants, miles of
conservatories,” Clarissa wrote; something like that. Sally owned it
with a shout of laughter.
“Yes, I have ten thousand a year”—whether before the tax was paid
or after, she couldn’t remember, for her husband, “whom you must
meet,” she said, “whom you would like,” she said, did all that for her.
And Sally used to be in rags and tatters. She had pawned her
grandmother’s ring which Marie Antoinette had given her great-
grandfather to come to Bourton.
Oh yes, Sally remembered; she had it still, a ruby ring which Marie
Antoinette had given her great-grandfather. She never had a penny
to her name in those days, and going to Bourton always meant some
frightful pinch. But going to Bourton had meant so much to her—had
kept her sane, she believed, so unhappy had she been at home. But
that was all a thing of the past—all over now, she said. And Mr. Parry
was dead; and Miss Parry was still alive. Never had he had such a
shock in his life! said Peter. He had been quite certain she was dead.
And the marriage had been, Sally supposed, a success? And that
very handsome, very self-possessed young woman was Elizabeth,
over there, by the curtains, in red.
(She was like a poplar, she was like a river, she was like a hyacinth,
Willie Titcomb was thinking. Oh how much nicer to be in the country
and do what she liked! She could hear her poor dog howling,
Elizabeth was certain.) She was not a bit like Clarissa, Peter Walsh
said.
“Oh, Clarissa!” said Sally.
What Sally felt was simply this. She had owed Clarissa an enormous
amount. They had been friends, not acquaintances, friends, and she
still saw Clarissa all in white going about the house with her hands
full of flowers—to this day tobacco plants made her think of Bourton.
But—did Peter understand?—she lacked something. Lacked what
was it? She had charm; she had extraordinary charm. But to be frank
(and she felt that Peter was an old friend, a real friend—did absence
matter? did distance matter? She had often wanted to write to him,
but torn it up, yet felt he understood, for people understand without
things being said, as one realises growing old, and old she was, had
been that afternoon to see her sons at Eton, where they had the
mumps), to be quite frank then, how could Clarissa have done it?—
married Richard Dalloway? a sportsman, a man who cared only for
dogs. Literally, when he came into the room he smelt of the stables.
And then all this? She waved her hand.
Hugh Whitbread it was, strolling past in his white waistcoat, dim, fat,
blind, past everything he looked, except self-esteem and comfort.
“He’s not going to recognise us,” said Sally, and really she hadn’t the
courage—so that was Hugh! the admirable Hugh!
“And what does he do?” she asked Peter.
He blacked the King’s boots or counted bottles at Windsor, Peter told
her. Peter kept his sharp tongue still! But Sally must be frank, Peter
said. That kiss now, Hugh’s.
On the lips, she assured him, in the smoking-room one evening. She
went straight to Clarissa in a rage. Hugh didn’t do such things!
Clarissa said, the admirable Hugh! Hugh’s socks were without
exception the most beautiful she had ever seen—and now his
evening dress. Perfect! And had he children?
“Everybody in the room has six sons at Eton,” Peter told her, except
himself. He, thank God, had none. No sons, no daughters, no wife.
Well, he didn’t seem to mind, said Sally. He looked younger, she
thought, than any of them.
But it had been a silly thing to do, in many ways, Peter said, to marry
like that; “a perfect goose she was,” he said, but, he said, “we had a
splendid time of it,” but how could that be? Sally wondered; what did
he mean? and how odd it was to know him and yet not know a single
thing that had happened to him. And did he say it out of pride? Very
likely, for after all it must be galling for him (though he was an oddity,
a sort of sprite, not at all an ordinary man), it must be lonely at his
age to have no home, nowhere to go to. But he must stay with them
for weeks and weeks. Of course he would; he would love to stay with
them, and that was how it came out. All these years the Dalloways
had never been once. Time after time they had asked them. Clarissa
(for it was Clarissa of course) would not come. For, said Sally,
Clarissa was at heart a snob—one had to admit it, a snob. And it
was that that was between them, she was convinced. Clarissa
thought she had married beneath her, her husband being—she was
proud of it—a miner’s son. Every penny they had he had earned. As
a little boy (her voice trembled) he had carried great sacks.
(And so she would go on, Peter felt, hour after hour; the miner’s son;
people thought she had married beneath her; her five sons; and
what was the other thing—plants, hydrangeas, syringas, very, very
rare hibiscus lilies that never grow north of the Suez Canal, but she,
with one gardener in a suburb near Manchester, had beds of them,
positively beds! Now all that Clarissa had escaped, unmaternal as
she was.)
A snob was she? Yes, in many ways. Where was she, all this time? It
was getting late.
“Yet,” said Sally, “when I heard Clarissa was giving a party, I felt I
couldn’t not come—must see her again (and I’m staying in Victoria
Street, practically next door). So I just came without an invitation.
But,” she whispered, “tell me, do. Who is this?”
It was Mrs. Hilbery, looking for the door. For how late it was getting!
And, she murmured, as the night grew later, as people went, one
found old friends; quiet nooks and corners; and the loveliest views.
Did they know, she asked, that they were surrounded by an
enchanted garden? Lights and trees and wonderful gleaming lakes
and the sky. Just a few fairy lamps, Clarissa Dalloway had said, in
the back garden! But she was a magician! It was a park.... And she
didn’t know their names, but friends she knew they were, friends
without names, songs without words, always the best. But there
were so many doors, such unexpected places, she could not find her
way.
“Old Mrs. Hilbery,” said Peter; but who was that? that lady standing
by the curtain all the evening, without speaking? He knew her face;
connected her with Bourton. Surely she used to cut up underclothes
at the large table in the window? Davidson, was that her name?
“Oh, that is Ellie Henderson,” said Sally. Clarissa was really very
hard on her. She was a cousin, very poor. Clarissa was hard on
people.
She was rather, said Peter. Yet, said Sally, in her emotional way, with
a rush of that enthusiasm which Peter used to love her for, yet
dreaded a little now, so effusive she might become—how generous
to her friends Clarissa was! and what a rare quality one found it, and
how sometimes at night or on Christmas Day, when she counted up
her blessings, she put that friendship first. They were young; that
was it. Clarissa was pure-hearted; that was it. Peter would think her
sentimental. So she was. For she had come to feel that it was the
only thing worth saying—what one felt. Cleverness was silly. One
must say simply what one felt.
“But I do not know,” said Peter Walsh, “what I feel.”
Poor Peter, thought Sally. Why did not Clarissa come and talk to
them? That was what he was longing for. She knew it. All the time he
was thinking only of Clarissa, and was fidgeting with his knife.
He had not found life simple, Peter said. His relations with Clarissa
had not been simple. It had spoilt his life, he said. (They had been so
intimate—he and Sally Seton, it was absurd not to say it.) One could
not be in love twice, he said. And what could she say? Still, it is
better to have loved (but he would think her sentimental—he used to
be so sharp). He must come and stay with them in Manchester. That
is all very true, he said. All very true. He would love to come and stay
with them, directly he had done what he had to do in London.
And Clarissa had cared for him more than she had ever cared for
Richard. Sally was positive of that.
“No, no, no!” said Peter (Sally should not have said that—she went
too far). That good fellow—there he was at the end of the room,
holding forth, the same as ever, dear old Richard. Who was he
talking to? Sally asked, that very distinguished-looking man? Living
in the wilds as she did, she had an insatiable curiosity to know who
people were. But Peter did not know. He did not like his looks, he
said, probably a Cabinet Minister. Of them all, Richard seemed to
him the best, he said—the most disinterested.
“But what has he done?” Sally asked. Public work, she supposed.
And were they happy together? Sally asked (she herself was
extremely happy); for, she admitted, she knew nothing about them,
only jumped to conclusions, as one does, for what can one know
even of the people one lives with every day? she asked. Are we not
all prisoners? She had read a wonderful play about a man who
scratched on the wall of his cell, and she had felt that was true of life
—one scratched on the wall. Despairing of human relationships
(people were so difficult), she often went into her garden and got
from her flowers a peace which men and women never gave her. But
no; he did not like cabbages; he preferred human beings, Peter said.
Indeed, the young are beautiful, Sally said, watching Elizabeth cross
the room. How unlike Clarissa at her age! Could he make anything of
her? She would not open her lips. Not much, not yet, Peter admitted.
She was like a lily, Sally said, a lily by the side of a pool. But Peter
did not agree that we know nothing. We know everything, he said; at
least he did.
But these two, Sally whispered, these two coming now (and really
she must go, if Clarissa did not come soon), this distinguished-
looking man and his rather common-looking wife who had been
talking to Richard—what could one know about people like that?
“That they’re damnable humbugs,” said Peter, looking at them
casually. He made Sally laugh.
But Sir William Bradshaw stopped at the door to look at a picture. He
looked in the corner for the engraver’s name. His wife looked too. Sir
William Bradshaw was so interested in art.
When one was young, said Peter, one was too much excited to know
people. Now that one was old, fifty-two to be precise (Sally was fifty-
five, in body, she said, but her heart was like a girl’s of twenty); now
that one was mature then, said Peter, one could watch, one could
understand, and one did not lose the power of feeling, he said. No,
that is true, said Sally. She felt more deeply, more passionately,
every year. It increased, he said, alas, perhaps, but one should be
glad of it—it went on increasing in his experience. There was some
one in India. He would like to tell Sally about her. He would like Sally
to know her. She was married, he said. She had two small children.
They must all come to Manchester, said Sally—he must promise
before they left.
There’s Elizabeth, he said, she feels not half what we feel, not yet.
But, said Sally, watching Elizabeth go to her father, one can see they
are devoted to each other. She could feel it by the way Elizabeth
went to her father.
For her father had been looking at her, as he stood talking to the
Bradshaws, and he had thought to himself, Who is that lovely girl?
And suddenly he realised that it was his Elizabeth, and he had not
recognised her, she looked so lovely in her pink frock! Elizabeth had
felt him looking at her as she talked to Willie Titcomb. So she went to
him and they stood together, now that the party was almost over,
looking at the people going, and the rooms getting emptier and
emptier, with things scattered on the floor. Even Ellie Henderson was
going, nearly last of all, though no one had spoken to her, but she
had wanted to see everything, to tell Edith. And Richard and
Elizabeth were rather glad it was over, but Richard was proud of his
daughter. And he had not meant to tell her, but he could not help
telling her. He had looked at her, he said, and he had wondered,
Who is that lovely girl? and it was his daughter! That did make her
happy. But her poor dog was howling.
“Richard has improved. You are right,” said Sally. “I shall go and talk
to him. I shall say good-night. What does the brain matter,” said Lady
Rosseter, getting up, “compared with the heart?”
“I will come,” said Peter, but he sat on for a moment. What is this
terror? what is this ecstasy? he thought to himself. What is it that fills
me with extraordinary excitement?
It is Clarissa, he said.
For there she was.

THE END
 Transcriber’s note
Minor punctuation errors have been changed
without notice. Inconsistencies in hyphenation have
been standardized. The following printer errors have
been changed.
CHANGED FROM TO
“word poetry of “word of poetry
Page 159:
herself” herself”
“lent a little “leant a little
Page 248:
forward” forward”
All other inconsistencies are as in the original.
 *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MRS.
DALLOWAY ***

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