Review: Kicking Dreams

Kicking Dreams by L. Duarte
My rating: 1 of 5 stars

1 ⭐- Ugh! Didn't like it or triggers or pet peeve!
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Hero disrespects and abuses psychologically. He has sex with other women practically in her face. Horrible.
He has neither a lovable character. She is a deluded fool who sees the world in pink lenses.

images of him displayed the stereotypical long-legged blonde adorning his side. Which made me feel slightly inferior and insecure now that we were to be married and I would be the one spotted next to him.

He wagered his daughter to a stranger whom he had only met a few times before, at a club for illegal gambling nonetheless.

“I do,” I said, putting the ring Janet, my secretary, had bought for the occasion on Evangeline’s finger.

Her voice faltered as her shaking fingers weakly placed the platinum ring I was not planning to wear on my finger.

In the beauty department, she was average at best.

Even I had standards. I was no child molester. And Evangeline was most definitely a child-bride.

Roughly, he shoved me inside the car.

“Part of my job is to make sure the passengers of The Messenger feel welcomed. Prior to a flight, I stock the fridge with personal favorites. It requires some research, but I find it pleases, ah—um, Mr. Walker.”

“Enjoy your meal,” Jaqueline said with a sugary voice, her eyes lingering a bit too long on Aaron.

“Though I’m your lawful husband, the only time we will interact as such is when I fuck you or when we’re at social events.”

Your childish manner is idiotic enough without you opening your mouth and making a greater fool of yourself.”

I heard Aaron telling Jaqueline to meet him in the bedroom.

From behind me, Aaron ruefully shoved me inside the vehicle.

I liked my women, well, to be grown women, not children. And a child was what Evangeline was.

My friend Google provided me with endless images of Aaron, each picture with a different woman at his side.

Aaron had an eclectic taste for women. There was a diversity of companions, Asian, Hispanic, White, African American, etc.

“Beatriz, this is not the time.” “When is the time, Aaron? When you come to my bed? How dare you go behind my back and get married,” she said with scorn.

Was Beatriz my husband’s mistress? A soap opera couldn’t be any more dramatic.

“This hideous dress makes you look twelve.”

His eyes dripped contempt. And anger, and hatred, and revulsion.

Humiliated and confused, I dashed up the stairs and into the bedroom.

I hadn’t heard from him since the day after I met his family, over six months ago. The word “weird” didn’t begin to cover our relationship.

“Five years for us to remain married. Not for me to stay away from my family,” I protested. “A deal is a deal,” he said as way of ending the conversation.

“I am glad you are not as slow and dull as you appear.” And as if he hadn’t just threatened me, he swiveled the tumbler with unnerving casualness, the ice crackling against the glass.

“Not happening,” he finally said. His fingers wrapped around my wrist removing my hand from his face.

He grabbed my hand and brought it close to his face, examining the angry red marks that were certainly going to turn into bruises.

“You think too highly of yourself. You don’t have the power to affect me, or upset me.”

“Newsflash for you, making you moan was just a way to lift some of the boredom of having to put up with your naïve and childish ways.”

His voice husky and seductive, traveled through the opened door and reached me. “Half an hour. Don’t be tardy.” A throaty laugh roared from his throat. “Of course, I will have my wicked way with you,” he said.

With the lamp from the nightstand casting a dim light, shadows enveloped the room. I heard a moan. A female moan. My eyes snapped to my bed. I had not known pain… real, wretched pain until that moment. Aaron sat at the edge of the bed, with Beatriz standing in between his thighs. With his arms wrapped around her, he glanced my way, his gaze meeting mine.

“Would you like to join us, or you just want to watch?” His voice was sluggish, and his lips curled up in a menacing smile.

Never before had I called Beatriz—or any other woman to my home. Beatriz lived in one of the suites of Hayden, the hotel I owned. I had always sought her there. Never at my home.

“I’ve been your sex slave for two years now, Aaron.” She attempted to squirm out of my hands.

I recalled the pain in her eyes when she saw me with Beatriz.

Aaron wrapped his hand around my elbow with a grip vice and in silence, dragged me to the elevator.

“It’s a tad too late, Aaron. I’m no longer interested in being friends with you. I’ll honor our five-year agreement. And then, I hope to God never to see you again.”

My plan was simple. After crowning her with jewelry, I would take her to Maestros for a romantic dinner. Paparazzi would, of course, witness every moment of the encounter. And by tomorrow pictures of Beatriz and me would blast the front page of every tabloid of the city.

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