Two Hitmen: A Double Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Lawless Book 1)

by Alice May Ball

  The other cop came smartly out of the car and asked Liam to remove the keys and hand them to him. He too kept a hand on his gun.

  Courtenay looked at the first cop but she couldn’t read anything through the shades. “Mrs Cullen?” the cop said, “It is Mrs Cullen, isn’t it? Mrs Courtenay Cullen?” Courtenay looked blankly back at him. She felt cold as the blood drained from her face and neck.

  “We need you to answer some questions about your husband.”

  Epilogue

  The mirror in the bathroom block was just metal, you couldn’t really see your face in the smeary shine. Not that I wanted to be reminded how I was looking. For once I had managed to get some time in there alone to shower and brush my hair. Leaning over the sink I peered hard into the wavy, distorted image.

  My face seemed blotchy and I moved from side to side, pulling the skin on my cheek as I tried to figure out which parts of what I saw were me and which were stains and marks on the steel surface. The bloodshot reflection of my eye was unmistakeable, though. That was me.

  The memory of the prosecutor bounced in my mind. His voice rolled around in my head like the villain’s echoey cackle in a horror movie. Whatever I did to try and make it go away, the picture of him popped right back up. The used car dealer from hell. His grin was smooth as he told me, “Let me lay out your options for you, Mrs Cullen.”

  A cold shudder trickled down my spine as I tried not to remember it. A soft clunk behind me made me freeze. It was the door closing. In the hazy reflection, when I looked up I saw the shape of a figure behind me. Big and broad in silhouette. I couldn’t make out the face or any clear signs of who it was. The size and shape were enough, though. I knew.

  THERE’S MORE!

  I really hope that you enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  There’s a super-secret epilogue – you knew that there would be right?

  Right at the back of this book is a link.

  Go to the CONTENTS and scroll ALL THE WAY to the END

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  BONUS STORIES

  Filthy Royal Stepbrother

  Lord Chatterton of Wimbush is Roger O’Cock’s father and a terrible man. He’s my father, too, more’s the pity. Yes, I am his daughter, to my everlasting regret and for more reasons than I can say.

  Of course, he didn’t tell me any of what follows, or warn me about any of the things that were bound to happen to me. Things that I needed to know then and as my circumstances inevitably changed. I didn’t find out until it was all way too late for me.

  Lord Chatterton for instance, despises his son and heir because he believes him to be, in fact, a bastard. The spawn of his mother’s torrid affair with the gardener and handyman.

  “Far too damned handy, by a damned long way!” Father roared, “Got every damned one of the servant girls pregnant. There was a rumor that the housekeeper Mrs Bustley’s second child was by him. He was caught in the kitchen during dinner one evening with Mrs. Humpforth the cook, spreadeagled on the pantry table as he thrust his seed into her. During dinner, damnit. The soup was ruined and nobody could face the trifle.”

  “It is to my certain knowledge, because I found my lady, bent over on the backseat of the Daimler with Hardforth royally pummeling her fat arse. She groaned and shouted in the most disgusting manner, and when she saw me, she said, ‘God, it’s good to get filled by a real man. Hardforth is like a tree-trunk. Not like your knobbly little royal twig. She reached back and spread her buttocks wide and she looked right in my face as she howled and red-faced Hardforth pumped her full of his steaming, filthy, peasant batter.”

  But he hates Roger even more because, bastard or not, he is legally Lord Chatterton’s first-born son. The Lord divorced his wife. “When I saw Clarissa getting reamed in that disgusting fashion, I resolved immediately to have her ejected from the household, to divorce the trollop and cut her off without a penny. Knew I had to wait the nine months, though. We’d been trying for a son for three years. Only reason I married the harpy in the first place.

  “Need to have a damned son and heir, first family duty, even if it is a sickening little bastard like Roger. But, while I made my plans to be rid of Clarissa, I remembered her face in the back of the Daimler and thought to myself, ‘When duty is done and I’ve got the son and heir secure, I wonder if then I might like to have a ripe, gorgeous, fat little harlot for myself. And that’s when I found your mother. I was in a filthy dive in Las Vegas, and there she was dancing at tables. As well as on them and, quite gratifyingly, underneath them, too.

  “First sight of the big ruby signet ring, she gobbled my lordly lance down like a professional sword-swallower. I thought, ‘hey-ho! What have we here?’ She showed me a jelly-roll, begged me for a pearl necklace. Took it straight up the tradesman’s entrance on our first night. And almost every night thereafter. Filthy little slut your mother is, but my God, she could pump, suck, and fuck for her country. And she loves it.”

  “The O’Cocks have had the title, and Wimbush, of course, the house and park, since the fourteenth century. My great, great, great eighteen times great grandfather, Roger Percivant O’Cock, had the title bestowed upon him by Prince Albert the Porcine. According to family legend it was for supplying him with the pick of the autumn fruit-seller girls from the Wimbush estate. Prince Albert enjoyed ripe young flesh in great abundance and the old sire, my ancestor, was only too keen to oblige his Royal Highness.”

  It would have made a good deal of difference to me and to the progress of my young and, relatively speaking, innocent life, had I known that story and its implications somewhat sooner.

  He calls Mother fat because Lord Wimbush himself is a horribly enlarged stick insect. Thin as a rake, wiry and gaunt. A long, thin face with piercing, droopy gray eyes and a shock of white hair. Mother has a figure that would be way better than average for any woman half her age. And, it’s true, more than anything else, she does like to bump and grind, as much, as often and with as many panting partners participant as possible.

  She is not indiscriminate, she has very specific tastes and requirements for her men, but she seems able to find an astonishing number of candidates to meet her exacting standards.

  I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard her through a closed door telling an unsuspecting plumber or delivery boy what he has to show her. How to perform the tests. Father wouldn’t pass any of them, obviously.

  I asked Mother about that once. She said, “I give a by for royalty or great wealth.”

  But I digress.

  The first time I saw Roger was that day at school, when I was only just sixteen and he was eighteen. An unusual way for us to meet, seeing as he was my brother, or half brother, supposedly, but there it was.

  “Hey, Sister!” His cut-glass English boarding school vowels rang like a bell through the room. As I looked up, I felt the eyes of everyone in the whole lunchroom turn on me.

  He was in the center of the noise at the big table with a couple of sketchy buddies. A thick cloud of girls clustered, chattered, squabbled and giggled all around him. His strawberry blond curls bobbed above the throng, like a Michelangelo rising out of a scene in some twisted horror version of Glee.

  Chairs scraped and rattled when his watery gray eyes swung their beams over to the corner where I sat, peeling the saran wrap from the little sandwiches that Mother had made for me.

  It was status, a thing of pride, if kids from the higher grades even deigned to acknowledge your existence. It just was not that common. Didn’t even matter if they were relatives. And he wasn’t. Well he was, technically. Or supposed to be, it all got a bit complicated but at that time he was a total stranger to me.

  The fact that it was him calling me should have made it extra cool for me. It was his first day at the school and everybody was already crazy around him.
The boys all looked up to him like he was a rockstar, and all the girls were elbowing each other out of the way, desperate to fall under his wheels and as soon as humanly possible.

  “Come over here, Sis,” he called, “Come and look at this little skank for me.” He looked around the girls in the group, “That’s right, isn’t it? ‘Skank’ is the correct term for a young harlot, I believe.” The way that he drew the vowels out of the word ‘harlot,’ he made them uncurl and stretch in the air. It rang like an ancient and forbidden curse.

  I knew that they were all looking at me, thinking, ‘how can this British toff have that frump for a sister?’ Except they would probably be saying something a whole lot worse than ‘frump.’ I can’t think about it. Even now.

  I wanted to be at the center of his attention though, just like everybody did, and I had no idea who he was. Still I kept him waiting while I finished my sandwich. Somehow I knew that was the way. Then I padded over to the edge of the heaving mass around the table.

  All the girls, all older than me with their on-trend hair and makeup, they all squinted down their noses and took an extra second or two to get out of the way. Making a point. The point being to show him, ‘I wouldn’t make way for this dumpy brat, I’m only doing it to show respect to you.’

  They were pathetic, and they made me sick.

  When I got near enough to the table to see, he stood behind Alix Mayburn, one of the fashion-plate cheerleaders. Teased and pampered peroxide-blonde hair and butterscotch skin, she had on way more jewelry and makeup than the rules allowed.

  A thin golden rope chain rose and fell on the tops of her breasts. Her shirt was open to the bottom of her cleavage.

  “See these thick red lips?” he held her jaw, moved her face from side to side and said, “I thought I might fuck her, Sis.” Right from that moment and for all the time we were at school together, he never once called me by my name when anyone could hear.

  “She’s got good enough tits, look…” his hand slid slowly down along her throat, then into her shirt and her eyes rolled as she sighed. All the girls around rolled their hips and clenched their asses. Their scent was like a cloud.

  Her face and body folded as he squeezed her breast, “and her ass is suh-weet.” As he took his hand up her skirt, her mouth drooped and her tongue lolled, soft, limp and wet.

  She turned her head and her eyes pleaded up at him. He wasn’t looking, because his focus was still on me. “Only, I want her to suck my cock first, and I need her to get it all the way down her throat. She says she can do it, but look at those lips.” He lifted an eyebrow, “You think she can do it?” My panties were soaked so bad by this point, I’d have given anything just to get them off.

  “Hey, I think your sis might want in on the action, too.” Gutbucket raised his nose to make a show of sniffing the air and he craned his neck down in a big, theatrical gesture to sniff at me.

  He pulled a face and grinned as he said, “Eeew, gross!” and they all laughed. Gutbucket said, “I’ll fuck her for you. Just to do you the solid, y’know?”

  All the fun drained out of his face, and his eyes popped as my stepbrother’s arm whipped out and his hand clamped on Gutbucket’s throat.

  “You don’t so much as look at her,” he hissed, loud enough for everyone to hear. “You don’t get within breathing distance of her, get me?”

  I had never seen eyes blaze like that before, or felt a tremble of rage like the one in his voice. He spoke in a low snarl through his clenched teeth. My throat was tight and my heart thumped.

  I heard one of the cheerleaders mutter, “Well, who’d want to?” and they all doubled over in giggles.

  The next time I saw him was that night at home. I knew that what I felt was wrong, although I probably wasn’t even old enough to know why. Was it wrong then, if I didn’t know? I never really got why it was all supposed to be so dreadfully wrong anyway. It was all way too complicated for me.

  I’d heard about him from Mother and father. Lord Chatterton told me since I was tiny, probably since the day I was born, all about my brother back in England. He was in a fee-paying boarding school there, called Cricket or something like it.

  I sat on the top of the stairs in our old house and he came in the door. He stood at the bottom of the stairs looked so much older than me that he was like another kind of species.

  I was kind of scared. I knew that Lord Chatterton, the asshat called him ‘Baz,’ but I didn’t know why, of course I didn’t. It would be years before I found out.

  Standing in the pool of light at the bottom of the stairs with his shaggy, curly blond hair, he looked angelic. At least, he had, until he turned to look up at me and I saw his eyes and his cunning smile. I felt like my insides melted and splashed out of me, and cascaded down the steps.

  It was then that I realized he could see straight up my skirt. I knew that I should move, to close my legs or pull my skirt tighter. It was kinda hard not to. But it gave me a dark sensation, a thrill that I had never experienced before that moment. It was something I have never forgotten. It was so very wrong. And I wanted it, again and again.

  As his eyes lingered on the bottoms of my thighs, I could almost feel them, like he was touching me, just by looking. I knew that I needed to press my thighs tighter together and to sweep my plaid skirt tight underneath them.

  That wasn’t what I did, though. As I felt the caress of his gaze sneak higher up my legs, farther up my skirt, I let my thighs part. Just a little. Just enough. His stare scraped like a fluttering touch up even more. I felt he wanted to get all the way up. Up to the very tops of my thighs.

  I let my legs slowly part and his eyes widened and glowed as they came to probe and hold on the soaking, hot fabric of my knickers. The air in all my body had come to life. I panted hard and my chest pressed out.

  My hard nipples were sore and an unbearable ache began between my legs as I saw the effect that the sight of my knickers had on the swelling, lengthening, hardening flesh inside the front of his bluejeans.

  Father was in the kitchen. I overheard him telling Mother, “His mother was a cruel and callous bitch and I hope the school has knocked every part of her out of him.” His eyes blazed at me and his lips drew back.

  His blond curls bobbed as he came slowly up the stairs. An electric tingle ran from my stomach down into my panties as he came nearer. That tingle I had only felt a couple of times before. Times when something good somehow felt really bad, or when something bad felt really, really good. Now it made the whole of my body jolt.

  He muttered in that whisper of his, said that his Mother was the better part of him. That she knew what she wanted and how to get it. And that he knew that, too. As it slipped out under his breath, he told me that he cursed his father, our father, for depriving him of his mother for almost the whole of his life.

  As I heard him, I cursed our father too, but for a different reason. This manboy, this vision, was the only boy I had ever wanted. I sensed that he wanted me, too. Not only to leer up my skirt, which I was happy for him to do, whenever and however often he wanted to, but more. I knew that he wanted much more. As I did.

  And our father had made it so that he was the one, the only boy I could never have. Not without the most dire of consequences.

  That first night he was in our our home he shared my room. There wasn’t another room spare, although he could have slept on the couch in the living room. But he didn’t want that. I didn’t want him to do that, either.

  We all ate dinner together, with father at the head of the table, just like we always did. The only difference was that, this time, I was able to spend the whole of dinner gazing at the most beautiful boy I had ever, ever seen.

  Father was talking about the new house. “Should have got us moved in before the boy came, of course. Damned inconvenient. Blasted contractors. Can’t get the staff for love nor money.”

  I saw a strange expression light up Mother’s face at that moment, but it passed quickly and she was obviously keen to
hide it from Father. Father was looking at Roger. “Settling in at the school alright? Not what you’re used to, obviously. Much for the better I’m sure.”

  Roger’s voice was hard, “Cheaper is what you mean, isn’t it?” he stared hard at his father and Lord Chatterton stared hard back at him. It was like watching a bull and a young stag locking horns. “Although why you care what anything costs,” Roger said, “with all of your money, beats me.”

  Between my legs I throbbed and buzzed like a tugboat.

  “What number are you in line to the throne?” Roger taunted father.

  “Not something a chap thinks about,” father lied, “About a hundred and thirty seven.”

  “So!” said Roger triumphantly, “You do think about it.”