“I know,” I acknowledge. “People think I’m crazy.”
“What’s on your mind?” he asks, keeping his pace with me. Not bad for a beat up ex-military guy with some age on me. That’s not an insult, but a truth—boys play hard and wear their bodies out. “Because it’s not the case.”
“Depends, are we on the record?”
“You and I?” He chuckles. “We’re never on the record.”
“I did something I may regret,” I somberly confide. “And I’m not sure how to fix it.”
“Did you hurt someone?”
“Nah,” I say, grabbing the ball and rolling on my side. “I let a group of power players say some shit about someone I love and I didn’t say anything.”
He goes silent for a long minute. “You are really bothered by this…”
“Ya,” I say. “I’m a fucking hothead most of the time, but I fucking froze. And you know me, Bianchi, I do not freeze up, ever. I mean, I was like a bullet jammed in the barrel. There was no quick recovery. I was locked.”
He curls his hand at me. I toss him my ball and he starts some crisscross tosses that make my ass look like a poon. “I wish I had a third ball. You have to figure out why you froze.”
“What do you mean?”
“You need to go in your head and figure out what caused the bullet from getting out of the barrel. You got mad enough to get it up out of the chamber, but why couldn’t you fire?”
“Are you asking if there is a flaw?”
He catches both balls at the same time and looks at me. “I’m saying—and do not get mad at me—were you stunned from the kickback of their words or did you not react because you agreed with whatever was said?”
“I don’t want to rip her apart just to get at her business—either way—professionally or sexually.” He cocks his head at me. “And I didn’t appreciate them talking about my temple like that.”
“Ahh, it was a sexual slur,” he guesses, returning to his ball acrobatics. “Those can be difficult. You’re young.”
“I can’t jam up like that again.”
“Then react like you want to and accept the fall out,” he informs. “You can’t be the nice guy and the wise guy.” He winks.
I take a deep breath. “I have to decide where I stand.”
“Exactly,” he says, going into some double time shit. “And don’t lose your balance. Draw your lines. Make them known. And decide right now—beforehand—what crimes deserve a warning and which one earns a trip to the parking lot.”
“They just made her sound like a fucking airhead whose best qualities are T&A.”
“Guys can be cruel.”
“That’s your advice?”
“No, my advice is to be crueler when it comes to the woman you love.”
“Then I’m going to be a bloodthirsty homicidal cutthroat.”
He stops playing and tosses my balls to me. I catch them without looking. “That’s a scary ability.”
“You’re not the first one to say that.”
I spent most of the summer running between Boston and Washington, keeping shit floating at RE and working the Natalie Blum case, respectively.
At the motel, the people next door were trouble, sold bangs and bad drugs. I knew because I got high with them almost every night. And I should mention, I endured our resident neighbors fucking at all hours. The female howled like a dying animal when she came, and the male always groped her in public. This was their mating ritual, but you couldn’t have paid me enough to stick my dick in that ho. I was certain she was full of diseases.
Thankfully, Randy wasn’t there most of the time. The photo slideshows I made of my hot geisha doll worked just fine. Just fine indeed.
Whatever it took.
Remember, I’m the perverse son, spewing hard and fast, not giving a fuck where it splats, as long as it comes out.
I was trying to be good…I think they call it faithful…monogamous…or some shit word I don’t know…to Emily.
God, please help me.
The Blum Case wasn’t The Bordertown Murders, but a thorny side shoot off the main root.
Let me explain.
After examining a handful of the girls’ houses, they found videotapes—old-fashioned, nineties-era go down to corner store and rent for a night or three—only these tapes weren’t cartoons or great movies, but hardcore porn and snuff films.
We followed the trail leading back to a deceased man named Dr. Martin Blum and his warped version of family love. It wasn’t just bleak but pitch black. The only one not involved in the basement business was Natalie Blum and that was because she was the star of the show.
Our tactical team, including Zoe and Randy, busted the brother and sent him over to Sibyl headquarters in upstate New York.
Have I mentioned how much I hate sex trafficking cases?
Yes, I am good at dissecting them—but fuck.
The problem with all of it is Red and Handcock are both cut from the same cloth. And my argument is that somehow, they’re connected, whether via cheap transactions in pedo vans or the dark and seedy underground, Gray Market.
My gut told me it all hooked in together.
I figured with my luck—Red and Handcock were only the opening acts for a very bad run.
Randy was right about one thing—the Natalie Blum case started the change in my thinking. So much so I sent Swain to Japan to keep an eye on my girl. Part of my paranoia stems from the fact it is now August. And I am less than five months away from marrying Emily. My personal ticking time bomb.
God, help me.
My mainframe sizzles from overheating, and I start thinking about how to defend my Queen, but know I’m pretty much pointless. A gun with no bullet. A man with no bang. A dick with no spunk.
Oh, yeah. I forgot.
Deacon ran off with my girl.
And Jaid sent me pictures of them in Italy.
Gotta love a real bitch who has your back.
So, I haven’t talked to Iris or Deacon in months.
I’m losing my shit.
God, help.
I fuck my fiancée and ignore the mafia. If I can’t defend it, why would I even bother? That’s the thing about my computer—after assessing risk/reward, if I don’t think I can win, then I won’t even try.
Because I hate losing.
Despite how everyone was proud of my meeting with The Commission, I felt like a real fucking douche canoe for not defending Iris. I’d been beating myself up about it for months, even though I didn’t think we mattered anymore. Maybe if I would have staked my claim and drawn the lines (not snow on the glass) then Deacon wouldn’t have crossed it.
And then, I get the phone call to come home for Alex & Bleu’s engagement party. It’s a random-throw-together-pool-party-barbecue thing Mierne is having at her house.
Apparently, Bleu is best friends with Mierne.
The unstable sometimes make poor choices.
Help.
I fly into Austin. I go shopping with Trudy, who parted ways with Pico. I buy some new clothes, including a swimsuit because I do not own one of those. We drive by some shop that does 4x4 mods. Now, I have a sweet two-door, glittering black Jeep with purple accents to go play in.
Don’t ask.
I’m a junkie.
“How many cars do you have now?” Dom asks as I pull up at the house. The party is in full swing because I was busy debating if I wanted to show up in my swimsuit or jeans. I opted for jeans.
They ain’t getting this unless they payin’.
Why I’m acting like Deacon is beyond me—I miss his ass between wanting to kill him.
What would I have to do to have Cruz handcuff me?
Bend me over and pitch…pitch…pitch.
I shouldn’t have these thoughts about a reckless asshole who ran off with my girl, but I do.
“Too many,” I say, sticking a piece of gum in my mouth. I pull out a smoke on our way back to the pool. Dom flicks his lighter. “How is Ashley?”
“That’s a bad topic.”
“Still together?”
“Yeah.”
“… Is Cruz?”
“He’s here.”
I stop dead in my tracks. “Fuck!”
“No,” Dom reprimands. “You need to deal with this shit. Nowala, Pretty Boy.”
“Do you know what happened?”
“I know, Deacon says not a goddamned thing.”
I sigh, unable to tell my Master to fuck off. “He needs to stay away from me.”
“He will,” Dom promises. “No shit.”
“I’m getting married to a beautiful girl in a few months, and I don’t need it getting fucked up by Iris and Deacon’s bullshit.”
Dom stops. “Have you considered for a half a second that maybe Jaid lied or just didn’t tell you the whole truth?”
“She would never lie to me.”
There is a phrase with that sentiment—famous last words.
Unfortunately, I hate the guy that made me eat mine.
I am trained for this.
But fuck if it ain’t hard some days.
59
Just a Cowboy Banquet for a Hard-Up Italian Boy
Alex and Bleu’s engagement party is the hottest ticket in town and far more entertaining than pre-season football. In my shades, ball cap, and jeans, I make myself sparse in the corner with Anna.
I have no desire to pay any attention to the dirty biker boy gone cop in his tight black swim trunks lounging on the chair with the hip crowd. I will just stay over here, where it is safe. No one will say anything to me with Anna by my side.
Yes, I’m using Old Poppa’s mistress as my human shield.
He would be so proud of me.
We talk about the wedding and the case in Washington while downing beers and tequila shots. Note, we are drinking, not just me. For pushing eighty, Anna is a party girl in her little pink polka dot bikini and wide brim hat.
Yep, this babe here…she is my date.
Things are great until Mierne, in a billowy, dark blue dress, showing way too much cleavage (calm down there, beast) parks her ever expanding rump in the chair.
I guess old habits are hard to break.
That said, I prefer Mierne with some curves. She was way too thin when we pulled her out of the cabin in Tennessee. Do not go there with the bony puss.
Iris wasn’t—at all.
Mierne pours a round of tequila shots when the lovely little lady on my right loudly says, “So, will Raine and Merritt be here for Christmas?”
Oh. Fuck. Me.
Now, it may not be a big deal, but I really didn’t want anyone to know, especially Mierne with those sympathetic bedroom eyes and Brit accent drawing my ass into her lair. I only told Anna because… Well, I’m a sucker for a bitch in a bikini. And truthfully, she is getting older. I don’t know when our last conversation will be, and this matters—her knowing Luca’s grandson is going to be okay.
“I’m hopeful,” I passively dismiss as we take the shot. And I take two more to segue the discussion away from my daughter in a far off land to Bleu’s upcoming nuptials. They are getting married on New Year’s Eve.
Our plans are to get married on Christmas, go for a five-day honeymoon in some little romantic Bed & Breakfast in Canada, and fly from there to Austin, so we make Alex and Bleu’s shindig.
I polish off the last shot when I notice Deacon getting up. He’s bulked up some, still lean, but his chest and arms are pumped. Maybe I’m just seeing shit. His messy hair flops forward as he goes to the gate and meets up with Allie. They kiss. I mean Cruz-fucking-tongue-lashing.
I need a break.
Is there a pause button on life?
Better yet, a rewind?
I excuse myself from Anna’s table and meander off through the gate to the back of the property up against the lake. I walk down the hill in the grass to sit near the edge and smoke a cigarette. No one can see me with the pool sectioned off by a wooden fence, but because the house sits up on a hill, it still has a great view of the water.
“Hey,” Jaid says, bounding down the steps in a floral sundress. “I wanted to come see you.”
“How long have you been here?” I gaze up at her smile.
“I just came by to give Alex and Bleu a present.”
“You want to sit?” I pull off my shirt and set it on the ground. She lowers onto her bottom, and we hug. She lays her head on my bicep and gives it a squeeze. “How have you been?”
“Working a lot.”
“Same,” I say, chain smoking. “You want one?”
“Nah,” she says. “How long are you here?”
“I’m leaving in the morning,” I answer, taking a drag. “Will you be coming up for my wedding?”
“Of course, I wouldn’t miss it!” Jaid boasts, excitedly. “My baby sister is getting married to the greatest guy ever!”
I glance back to see Amber in a red dress. She stops, five steps down, and gives me an eerie glare before walking away. “Fuck! I guess I pissed her off.”
“It’s not you,” Jaid casually mentions. “It’s me.”
“Hey, I wanted to ask you about those pictures you sent of Iris and Deacon in Italy…”
Distracted, she digs through her purse. “Yeah?”
“Are you sure they hooked up?”
“You saw the pictures Sal,” she implores with her hands deep in the bag. “I had one of our local agents on their ass as soon as we knew they landed. They checked into the hotel as Mr. and Mrs. Cruz.”
I didn’t know that.
My fists draw into tight weapons.
“I just wanted to make sure they weren’t altered.”
“Those were originals,” she confirms, handing me the phone. “And so is this.”
“What the hell—I haven’t seen this since…”
“You got back from England in 2015… You gave it to Ainsley… And she’s had it all this time but forgot about it until she was going through her things.”
On the plane, I tossed my phone and a pair of headphones to Ainsley. The girl was too damn pure to hear any of this crap going on between Madeline and I. We were heatedly debating what to do with Nina Kasai. She was a rat who helped my sisters enact a plan, leaving my cousin Maria with a gunshot wound in the hospital.
Madeline wanted to keep her for questioning.
I disagreed and left a gun on the table after Nina’s interrogation.
And she left the plane in a body bag.
People make bad choices.
And bad shit happens.
“Oh, my fucking God… this is like three years old…”
“Yeah,” she replies, giving my lips a quick kiss and standing up. “You’re going to need to charge it. Bye, Phoenix.”
I give the phone an obtuse glare.
“Hey, Pretty!” She spins and smiles at me. “Thanks, Ghost.”
“Anytime.” She waves and winks. “Be good.”
Holding the phone, I watch the sun sink into the horizon and know it’s already tomorrow on the other side of the world. I’ve lost so many days chasing the girl I can never catch up to. I’m the sun chasing the moon. And we won’t ever meet up.
She is the water.
And I am the fire.
The love was bound to break.
And it did with one divisive tempest.
With the dusky pink sky building up with an ominous gray purple hue, I get up and put the antiquated device in my back pocket. And tuck my shirt in the ass of my pants as I climb the stairs to the pool party in full swing.
The music booms with a deep tantric beat. To be honest, it’s fucking music, which is why everyone is coupled up and grinding on one another. I sneak in the gate and grab the half full tequila bottle off the table Anna was at. I hope she got home okay.
Alex and Bleu look happy, and I know that is going to be me—eventually. I’m anxious for December because Em and I have issues. Namely, our entire relationship is based out of my father’s threat—marry her and I won’t k
ill Iris.
Cool. Okay.
That ruins my whole life.
I look around for Jaid, hoping maybe to find some easy pussy, but all I see is Amber grinning like she’s up to something. I smile. Nope, not going there. And then I notice a shadowy figure in the upstairs loft of Mierne’s garage.
Bird’s eye views are great, aren’t they Jack?
In one instant, I believe Jack and Mierne are still together, no matter what anyone says. But I’m not in the mood to deal with Jack Kerris or the bullshit that would ensue—mostly because I’m on really fucking thin ice with The Unholy—and don’t know if I would have the necessary backup. I sort of lost my shit all over Dom and Nico when I sped out to the private airstrip in Sugargrove after Deacon and Iris took off.
“What the fuck did you do?”
“It’s for the best, Boston!”
“No!” I roared, pulling my hair and crouching to the ground. “No!!!” I cried so hard. “You let her go with Cruz!”
“Yeah, I did,” Dom yelled, unrelentingly in his love for me—even if it hurt. “Because he’ll fucking take care of her like you would.”
… And that was my biggest fear.
I decide to leave the boisterous party and pass by Deacon coming around the corner of the house. I accidentally bump into his shoulder.
He strafes away. “What in the hell is your problem, Nero?”
I back up. “What the fuck did you say to me?”
Never one to back down from a fight, Deacon steps forward and bumps my chest. “I said what the fuck is your problem, daego?”
And that is all it took.
I swing with my brand new hands for the first time in years, but Deacon is a fucking punk, dodging and barreling me into the ground. We collide and tumble amidst a stream of bromance profanities. I am pretty sure I called him the motherfucking milk man. He rebounded with something about Italians slurping raw fish, and I grabbed his junk and said—since you’re applying to guard the fish, you should be a damn eunuch, Saint.
He is on top of me; I am on top of him.
Back and forth.
And the crowd builds around us.
Every Minute I Love You (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 3) Page 50