by Webster, K
“Pennsylvania. Do you know how many cities are in Pennsylvania?”
“Gonna skip the caring, child. Are you hurt?”
That’s strange. “Why would I be hurt?”
More wrestling until I get Bea back. “’Cause you got it good from some stranger. Big? Small? Was he a hair puller? Dammit! You hit me again, Mabel, and I’m gonna become an only child.”
I giggle, missing my best friends. “Well, actually… I did have my first kiss.”
What sounds like the phone dropping then shuffling can be heard before Beatrice wins again and breathes heavily through the phone. “Tell. Me. Everything!”
I blush, starting to relive the best and, well, only kiss I’ve ever experienced. I feel shameful gossiping, but a smile stretches across my face. “It was absolutely magic—”
My words are sadly cut short when I look up and catch Luca storming toward me. Wow. That’s a new level of anger I haven’t seen before.
“For the love of God, I’m old. I don’t have time for stalling. Spit it out!”
“It… It was… uh…”
“What. The. Fuck.”
I open and close my mouth to Luca, who’s close enough for me to hear his octave growl. “I just wanted to make a call. I…”
Mabel’s voice grabs my attention. “Honey, you gotta listen to me real quick.” I press the phone to my ear. “Your house. It was burnt to the ground last night.”
My worry of Luca’s anger disappears at her words. “Wait, what?”
“Yeah, honey. We’ve all been worried. They said it was arson. Officer Callahan told me they tried to save what they could, but…” She chokes up. “The house is gone, sweetheart.”
Words. Emotions. Disbelief. It’s all stuck in my throat as I try and comprehend what she just told me. My house. My momma’s house. It’s gone. The memories. Her memories. Gone.
“Frannie, say something.”
“I…I…the yellow dress. Did anyone grab the yellow dress?”
Mabel’s sorrowful sigh gives me the answer I refuse to hear.
“That’s not all. A strange man came in asking about you. Where you were and who you were with.”
“Why would someone want to know where and who I’m with?”
“Not sure. My ignorant sister told them you were off on an adventure getting your thrills.”
“’Cause she is!” Beatrice yells in the background.
I’m still stuck on the information she just shared. My life. The only thing I had that kept me close to my parents. Gone.
I barely fight it when Luca snatches the phone out of my hands and slams it on the receiver. “What the hell are you thinking making a call?”
I want to tell him I was missing home and wanted to hear the voices of people who made me happy. But he goes on his rant, not allowing me a word. “Shit like this could get us killed. You’re not being smart. They could be tracking us.”
They?
At that, I snap out of my mournful daze and roll my eyes. “Oh, give me a break. No one’s trying to kill—”
My argument is cut short when a bullet whizzes past my head, pinging off the payphone behind me.
Luca
Mafia Queen Shakedown
Fuck.
What the actual fuck?
Without thinking, I snag Francis up and run. She’s light tossed over my shoulder and doesn’t fight too much, thank God. Bongo is running after us, scared as shit, his leash dragging behind him.
We’re being shot at.
More importantly, she’s being shot at.
“Who’s trying to kill us?” she shrieks, panic in her tone.
“Not us, sweetheart,” I growl, giving her thigh a quick squeeze. “You.”
“What on Earth? Me? No way! You’re the bad guy here! They’re after you!”
Ignoring her rant—because she has them fucking continuously and I don’t have time for this shit—I toss her into the driver’s side of the car before shoving her the rest of the way in. Bongie jumps in after her and settles in her lap as I start the car.
Ping! Ping!
Bullets hit the side of the mauve boat, sending worry trembling through me. We have to get the hell out of here and away from these people. I peel out of the parking lot without a second glance. Once I’m out on the main road, two SUVs pull out after us.
Fuck.
Who are these people?
Rossi’s men or Mr. Death’s?
Surely Mr. Death wouldn’t be trying to kill us if he wants Francis brought to him unharmed. He goes through great lengths to continually ask for proof of life when it comes to her. There’s no way he’d try and have her killed.
So it has to be Rossi.
But they should be after me, not her, right?
Why in the fuck are they trying to take her out?
Over my dead body.
“They’re getting closer!” she whines. “Why are you driving so slow, Outlaw?”
Ignoring her, I gas it, but the boat just makes a groan of protest. If I’m going to have to be outrunning goons, I’m going to need a better car. A faster one. One a little better at protecting my precious cargo.
Bam!
Something slams against our rear bumper, making Francis fly forward. I’m not quick enough to stop her from banging her head on the dash.
“Owwww,” she whines, her voice high and on the verge of a meltdown.
“Fuck,” I hiss, reaching across her and snagging the seat belt. I pull it over her and Bingo and snap it in place. “Stay down, sweetheart.”
She shoots me a look I can’t decipher, but it’s one that speaks to a part of me deep inside. One that makes me want to protect her. Not because my family depends on it or Mr. Death commands it to be. Because I want to. Because I got her into this mess, and one day I’ll get her out of it.
“Do you know Arlo Rossi?” I ask as I gun it and pass a slow truck, momentarily losing the SUVs.
“Yes!” she exclaims. “Older guy with a gentle voice. Afro. He’s famous!”
I frown at her. Rossi is old as fuck, but he doesn’t have an afro and he sure as hell doesn’t have a gentle voice. I know that from experience.
“Are you sure? How do you know him?”
“Well, I don’t know him personally, but I’m a huge fan. So is Beatrice. In fact, she loves him.” She smiles prettily at me. Why are the crazy ones always hot?
“Elaborate. You’ve been in his casino?”
“Mr. Ross has a casino?”
“Rossi, and yes. In Atlantic City.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s Ross,” she says in exasperation. “And I think you’ve been reading Wikipedia. That site’s wrong, you know. I learned the hard way once when looking up the authenticity of one of the trinkets from my shop. Did you know just anyone can put something on that site and—”
Pop!
The back window shatters and Francis screams.
“He broke Momma’s window! First they burn down my house and now they’re destroying my car? Ohhhh, these monkeys are so going down!”
Biggie the small dog yaps in agreement and then growls.
These two are fierce as fuck…not.
“They tried to burn down your house? Why does Rossi want to ruin your life?” I demand, swerving around an eighteen-wheeler.
“The paintings!” she cries out. “He wants his paintings back!” She whines and looks over her shoulder. “Between us, they’re ugly. I wasn’t trying to be rude!”
What. The. Fuck.
“If his men would stop shooting at us, I could just explain that I sold them to Beatrice for a discounted rate not because I didn’t want them, but because pond scenes aren’t really my thing. You know, Outlaw? Like, the birds are beautiful and all, Chandler agrees, but it just didn’t go with my décor. Now Bea? She loves Mr. Ross’s paintings. They really did go to a good home. He didn’t have to burn down mine!”
Time pauses for a moment as she distracts me. Francis is fucking crazy. The end. And Mr. Death must
be into some really kinky shit if he wants this woman. Here she is rambling about who the fuck knows with her damn dog clearly agreeing with everything she’s saying as though we’re not being shot at by mobsters. As though we can pull over and sort out this misunderstanding. Either she’s crazy or really that sheltered from the world.
Ping!
A bullet bounces off the dashboard just inches from where she was before. Shit! I snag her by the hair and drag her down, her face to my thigh.
“Stay down,” I growl. “Please, Francis. Let me focus.”
Her hand clutches my thigh and the denim grows wet from what feels like tears. Guilt infects me like the fucking plague. Despite being chased by these motherfuckers, all I want to do is comfort her and promise her I’ll keep her safe.
“I’m going to get us out of here,” I vow as I stroke her silky soft hair. “Do you trust me?”
“Do you have a gun?” she fires back at me.
“No.”
“What kind of outlaw doesn’t have a gun?”
Bingieboo yaps as though he’s pissed I don’t have one.
“I’m a fucking con, Francis, not an outlaw.”
She makes a loud huff. “Sorry, dude, but I haven’t read any con books, so I’m no help there. But mafia books? I’m your girl.”
I pat her head. “Mafia, huh?” I’m smiling because only Francis makes someone smile while they’re getting shot at.
“If I were the outlaw, which I’m not because clearly I’m the stunning damsel in distress who gets her clothes torn from her trembling body in the story, I would make the bad guys crash.”
I’m too distracted by the visual of me tearing off her clothes to free her full tits that are all too enticing in her pink dress.
“What?” I ask dumbly.
She tilts her head up to look at me. Fuck, with her in my lap, with her plump lips in a pout, I’m way too fucking distracted. “See if you can make them crash, dummy.”
“Crash dummy?”
“No, you’re the dummy!”
I scowl as I speed up the car. In the rearview mirror, I can see the goons keeping up closely behind. I scan my eyes up ahead. Another eighteen-wheeler is in front of me, but on the horizon, another is barreling our way.
Gunning it, I haul ass to tailgate the big truck in front of me. The SUVs catch up, the first one bumping me in the rear, making us jolt forward.
“Hang on,” I growl, my hand once again stroking her hair.
If I’m going to die, it’ll be doing something enjoyable. Like petting a crazy squirrel.
Veering to the left, I notice the other truck is close. I just need it closer. Closer. Clossssserrrr. Clos—now!
I whip out to the left, slam my foot on the gas, and then fly past the truck. I’m barely swinging to the right and into my lane when the eighteen-wheeler screeches past us.
CRASH!
Crunching metal resounds behind me and I see a tire fly up over the eighteen-wheeler I passed. I speed on past the scene, but then the other SUV makes it around the crash before hauling ass our way.
“One down, one to go,” I tell Francis. “Any more tricks?”
“You could always pull into a police station. Bad guys hate the police station,” she offers.
Bonkers growls in her lap. He doesn’t like that idea.
“Yeah, terrible idea,” I agree with the dog. “How about we try something else?”
The dog yaps in agreement. I give him a little pat on the head.
“Hold on tight,” I warn before slamming on my brakes.
The SUV is going so fast that it has to turn hard to avoid a collision. As it swerves past us, gravity takes over and it starts rolling. I pull off onto the shoulder and watch in awe as the vehicle rolls and rolls and rolls until it stops upside down.
“Stay here,” I order.
“Where are you going?” she cries out, sitting up.
“To get answers. Stay.”
I storm out of the car and jog over to the crash site. When I squat down to look inside the vehicle, one man is dead, but the other is struggling to untangle himself from the seat belt.
“Who sent you?” I demand.
“Fuck you,” the guy says.
“You work for Bob Ross?” Francis barks out, sounding like a tough bitch as she squats beside me.
I glance over at her in shock. Her tits are barely staying inside her pink dress. The first chance we get, I’m making her change. A man on the run needs to focus…and not on what her tits would look like in his mouth.
“I told you to stay in the car,” I growl.
“And you admitted I’m the better outlaw.”
“They’re going to kill you, bitch,” the man growls. “I hope they make it hurt first.”
She gapes at him. “Why does Bob hate me? Is this about Bea?”
“What the fuck?” he utters.
“Oh, don’t play the victim now, buttwipe,” she snips, flinging a handful of dirt into his open window. “I know he sent you. I know he burned down my house.”
“Who the hell is Bob?” he demands.
“I’m the one asking the questions around here,” she yells back. Binky yaps in agreement and then growls like he’s ferocious as fuck. I roll my eyes at them. “Why did Bob Ross send you?”
“Lady,” the guy grumbles. “I don’t know who the hell Bob Ross is.”
“Arlo Rossi,” I snarl, reminding him who truly sent him.
“I’m pretty sure he means Bob,” Francis says in exasperation. “Let me handle the mafia matters, Outlaw. You just sit there and look pretty.”
I snort. “Francis…”
“You send Bob a message,” she screeches, sending more dirt in the guy’s face. “You tell him we’re going to paint birds with your blood! What does he always say? ‘We don’t make mistakes, just happy little accidents.’ You, buddy, are an accident we’re going to paint a bloody bird over!”
Right. So she’s lost her fucking marbles. Again.
“Bob Ross, the famous painter, is dead,” I tell her gently. “He died like thirty years ago.”
She widens her big brown eyes and her plump lips part. “Then who’s this guy?”
I’m about to answer when I get a whiff of gasoline. It’s pooling out of the SUV, growing by the second.
“Francis…” I start when I notice the guy pull out a lighter. “Oh shit.”
Once again, I snag the girl and take off running. Her little fella is right at our feet as I run.
Boom!
We fly forward from the force of the blast and I crash to the dirt, covering Francis with my body. Heat billows from behind us, singeing my clothes and hair. My heart does a flip of relief when I hear the Bingster yapping from up ahead. Looking down, I swipe the dark hair from Francis’s face and check her over. Her brown eyes are wild with fear, but she’s okay.
Not even thinking about it, I brush my lips across hers, thankful she’s still with me.
Apparently, I like crazy.
Enough that I want to protect it. And fucking keep it.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice husky as I pull away.
“I have to say I’m relieved that Bob Ross isn’t trying to kill me. He seemed like such a nice guy.” Her chin wobbles as she says strange words. I’m learning her babbling is a way to deflect from fear and nerves and sadness.
I run my thumb over her chin to stop it from shaking. “Bob’s a good guy. Arlo Rossi is the bad guy trying to kill us. Now what do you say, mafia queen? Want to try and shake down Mr. Death for some answers when we speak to him again?”
Her nostrils flare. “I get to help?”
“I’m no outlaw,” I admit with a crooked grin. “And you’re pretty fucking resourceful. Besides, we need to find out just what you mean to this Mr. Death. He wants you and we need to know why he wants you. He’s clearly an enemy of the Rossi gang, though, which makes him less of an enemy to us. What do you say, partner?”
She rewards me with the most breathtaking smile I
’ve ever seen. A smile that makes my dick twitch. Reluctantly, I stand and help her to her feet. Her dress is dirty and askew, slightly showing me a hint of her rosy pink nipple. Reaching forward, I slip my fingers into the top of her dress and straighten it for her. But not before copping a little feel with my fingertips. Small, hard, perked to attention. A nipple I’d quite like between my teeth. I jerk my hand away from her, trying not to revel in the way her neck turns bright red from my touching her.
“Right,” I grumble. “We need to get to Indianapolis. We’ll make a plan when we get there.”
I look past her at the ball of flames. Fuck, we barely made it through that. It’s long past time for us to start working together. It would seem our lives have been woven together somehow, and I’ll be damned if I keep fighting it.
We’re going to get answers.
And we’re going to do it together.
Francis
Hollywood’s Been Feeding Me Lean Cuisines and Lies
“Okay, my turn. I’m going on a picnic and I’m bringing apples, barbed wire, Chandler, doodie bags, elephant, fake ID, Gone with the Wind book, hot-wired car, instant potato mix, jackknife, a kite, and Lean Cuisines!” I shriek, overly excited that L landed on my turn. If we make it, I’ll be able to bring Richard when I get to the letter R.
Luca’s lips turn sour with disgust. “Lean Cuisines? That shit tastes like dog food.”
I gasp in utter horror. “They most certainly do not! They’re the most delicious little packages of food! Did you know it’s what celebrities eat to stay thin and healthy?”
He certainly knows nothing about Lean Cuisines and it’s obvious he’s never had the macaroni and cheese one. His head tilts just slightly to sneak a peek my way and I begin to blush at how flustered his simple smile makes me. Those lips—I swear those lips kissed me after the explosion, but that’s not right because he’s married.
“You realize all that shit is fake, right?” His brow lifts.
Another gasp. “It is not. I’ve tasted them and they’re—”
“No, the advertisements. Those rich snobs aren’t eating those shit boxes. They get paid to be spokespeople for them.” Confusion washes over me. “Really? Come on… You don’t think those famous people are sitting around eating microwave meals, do you? They’re eating fancy shit like raw fish and kale, if eating at all.”