by Rose, Emery
Dmitri leveled him with a look. “That’s not your concern. My house, my fucking guest list.”
I knew for a fact that he didn’t own the house in the Hamptons, but he’d paid an obscene amount of cash to rent it.
“Angel, how would you like to come to the Hamptons with Kosta?” Dmitri asked magnanimously. “Cater to his needs?”
Fuck. Just what I didn’t need.
She licked her lips and smiled at me. “Yes, I would like that.”
What a clusterfuck. I’d have to handle her with care.
“Thought you might,” Dmitri said. His ice-blue eyes met mine. “I always look out for my friends.”
10
Deacon
On Thursday afternoon, I sat in my parked car, the black-tinted windows hiding my identity, and thanked the gods in heaven that Atlas Motors’ garage door was open as I watched Keira from across the street. Coveralls weren’t supposed to be sexy, but I could see every curve of her body through the canvas. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her sweet ass within my line of sight. Add to that the fact that she was beating the panels of a sweet as fuck Plymouth ‘Cuda and I was harder than Thor’s hammer.
Tate came into the bay blocking my view of Keira. Move aside, Tate. No such luck. He stayed firmly planted in front of her and instead of the sweet curve of her ass, I got a graying-brown ponytail and grease-stained coveralls with a dirty rag hanging out of the back pocket. I roughed my hand over my face and groaned. When I looked over at the garage again, Tate had disappeared, and Keira was staring directly at me.
She held up her index finger, asking me to wait a minute and I moved my Escalade to a spot down the street that wasn’t visible from the garage. Five minutes later, she sauntered up the street in a tiny pair of shorts, a loose tank top, and black high-tops. I leaned over to push the passenger door open and she slipped inside, closing the door and fastening her seatbelt. She smelled like oranges and told me it was from the hand soap they used at the garage.
“What are you doing, lurking outside the garage?” she asked.
“Checking out Tate. He’s like a fine wine. Gets better with age.”
She laughed. “I’m on my lunch break. So how about I buy you some lunch?”
“How about I buy you some lunch. What are you hungry for?”
“A milkshake.”
I pulled away from the curb and blasted the air con. She fiddled with the stereo, surfing through the stations until she stopped at G-Eazy’s “Him & I” and cranked up the volume. Feet propped on the dash, she sang along to the chorus.
“I’ll be the Bonnie to your Clyde.”
“You keep forgetting I’m a cop.”
“So do you, Kosta.” Proving that she saw a lot and knew me better than the short amount of time we’d spent together would suggest.
We got chocolate shakes and fries from the drive-thru. While I drove, she fed me fries and talked about her new restoration job—the 1972 Plymouth Barracuda that she and Tate had bought at an auction. Her face and voice were animated, her passion for the project obvious.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t reciprocate by telling her what I was doing with my days and nights. Last night I’d helped Dmitri and Leon move product to a different stash house, one I’d conveniently found for them. Sergei and Viktor were on lookout and reported back that the cops had come to raid the first stash house, just as I’d warned them. Right now, I walked on water. But one wrong move, one stupid slip, and the whole operation could be jeopardized. Four days in the Hamptons, playing the role of Konstantin Nikolevsky, wasn’t my idea of a relaxing vacation. Plus, I had to deal with Angel. And tomorrow was Friday.
“Hey,” Keira said, calling my attention to her, having sensed that I was distracted. “Are you okay?”
I reached for her left hand and entwined our fingers, shooting her a smile. “It’s all good.”
She looked down at our joined hands. It was such a couple thing to do and I’d done it without thinking. We ended up in Bushwick and she pointed out Connor’s graffiti pieces to me as we drove past them. I already knew they were his and that his tag name was Triste. I pulled into a parking spot across the street from Ava’s wall. Connor had graffitied it when Ava had lavender hair; it was blowing back from her face as if it had been caught in a breeze. She was holding a heart in her hands, a perfect depiction of how love probably felt, the beating organ ripped from your chest and held in the hands of the person powerful enough to either crush it or breathe life into it.
“That’s my favorite one,” Keira said. “That and the one he did down in Miami. It was a hand coming out of the ocean.” She sounded sad and pensive and I knew the story behind it. Connor had gone down to Miami right after he got out of rehab. A recovering addict, newly clean and sober, Keira’s father had fucked him over. Back in November, when Connor had confided in me about all the shit he’d been through, I told him he was one of the strongest and best men I’d ever known. I hoped he believed me because I meant it. I felt the same way about both Vincent brothers and even though they hadn’t been raised together, Keira was a lot like them. Stronger and more resilient than she knew.
“How are Connor and Ava doing?” I asked. I remembered them in high school, always together. And then Connor’s drug-fueled years that nearly cost him his life.
“They’re doing great,” she said with a smile.
I was glad to hear that. They deserved to be happy. She turned her attention to me, and I dragged my eyes away from the artwork and to her face. I’ve been with beautiful women before, but from the first moment I laid eyes on her, I knew that every other woman paled in comparison. Her beauty was breathtaking and required no effort on her part. The kind of beauty that people write songs and poetry about.
“I’m going away for a few days,” I said.
I caught the disappointment on her face. Just a slight downturn of her lips, but I saw it and it made me happy.
“I guess it would be a waste of breath to ask where you’re going.”
I remained silent just as she’d expected.
She stuffed the last few fries into her mouth and licked the salt off her fingers before she angled her body toward me.
I wrapped my hand around the back of her neck and pulled her close for a kiss. She tasted like salty fries and chocolate shake and the minty lip balm she wore that made my lips tingle. She climbed over the gearbox and straddled me, her hands cupping my face as she peppered soft closed-mouth kisses on my face, my closed eyelids, the corners of my mouth. Everywhere except my lips. I moved the seat back as far as it would go so the steering wheel wouldn’t dig into her back and tugged off the elastic holding her hair up. It cascaded down her back, framing her perfect face.
She pushed down my athletic shorts and freed me from my boxer briefs, wrapping her hand around the base.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice hoarse.
“Giving you something to remember me by,” she said, staring at my cock in her hand.
“Think you can handle it?” I asked.
“I’m up for a challenge.” She wrapped her lips around the tip, and I tried to restrain myself from thrusting my hips and fucking her mouth like I wanted to do. A curtain of hair covered her face and I gathered it in one hand, holding it back in a makeshift ponytail so I could see her face. She took her time, running her tongue along the underside. Slowly, softly, agonizingly. She palmed my balls and gave them a gentle squeeze as if testing to see how much pressure she should exert. I needed it harder and I needed more.
I wrapped my hand over hers. “Squeeze.”
She tightened her grip and flattened her tongue, running it up the length of me. Watching me from underneath her thick eyelashes, she circled the head with the tip of her pink tongue then flicked it over my slit. This was fucking torture. I groaned and she laughed and in the next instant, she deep-throated me, taking it all at once, my tip hitting the back of her throat, her eyes tearing up, but she didn’t stop. She sucked me hard, her pouty lips wrapp
ed around my cock, her tongue circling my shaft and it was hands-down the sexiest thing anyone had ever done with my dick. Because it was her, the girl who could overthink a kiss but play chicken with my SUV and give the world her proverbial middle finger. I thrust my hips, fucking her mouth and she took it all, dismissing any notions that she was inexperienced in the art of giving blow jobs.
Holy hell. She kept up a steady rhythm, her cheeks hollowed, her tongue and mouth and hand bringing me to the brink of something so explosive I felt it from the base of my spine to the top of my head.
I didn’t think about all the reasons why we shouldn’t be doing this in my parked car. I didn’t think about anything at all except for her hot, wet mouth that was tight as a fist and the way she watched my face, knowing the power was all hers.
My balls tightened and I warned her that I was going to come. She hummed in agreement and the vibration sent me over the edge as she ripped the orgasm from me, her eyelids at half-mast as if she’d been the one to have an orgasm and not me. I watched her throat bob up and down as she swallowed and then she ran her tongue over her lips as if she wanted to capture every drop. She wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me hard, her tongue darting into my mouth so I could taste myself on her which was kind of weird but strangely erotic, her kisses wet and frantic as she ground her body against me.
I slipped my hand inside her shorts and slid two fingers inside her, rubbing her clit with my thumb, my fingers reaching and curling and hitting a spot that made her cry out. She bucked against my hand, trying to get more friction, her head flung back as she held my shoulders to support herself. It only took a few seconds before her muscles convulsed around my fingers and her scream echoed off the walls of my car.
She rested her head on my shoulder, her face pressed against the crook of my neck, her soft breath on my skin. It was the softer, sweeter side of Keira.
She stayed like that, still and quiet for a few minutes, our bodies slick with sweat and scented with sex and I ran my hand through her hair the way I knew she liked it. When I’d been away from her, I had thought about her hair and her body and her face. But I’d thought about a lot of other things too. The sadness in her eyes the day we sat in the church. How odd it had been that she’d chosen a Russian Orthodox cathedral, one I’d visited many times over the years. I had thought about the night it snowed, and we’d walked along the East River, the snowflakes gathering on her eyelashes, her face tipped up to the sky, her face lit up with joy as she caught snowflakes on her tongue. Later, I’d taken her back to Eden and Killian’s loft and kissed her. I knew it was goodbye, that I was going UC, but she hadn’t known. Which had been a dick move.
“We need to go, babe,” I didn’t want to interrupt the moment, but I had to get going and she needed to go back to work. She peeled her body off mine and climbed back into her own seat.
On the way back to Atlas Motors, I got a call from Dmitri but ignored it. Two seconds later, Leon’s number appeared on the screen.
I silenced the call. Most likely, they were checking to make sure I was on my way with my Ukrainian pole dancer in tow.
“Aren’t you going to get that?” Keira asked.
I shook my head. “I’ll call back after I drop you off.”
“You’re leading a double life,” she said quietly.
I glanced at her, the irony not lost on me. She had wanted an honest life away from her father and had ended up with someone who couldn’t tell her the details of his day-to-day. “Yeah, I am.”
“I kind of like it like this. It feels forbidden.”
Figures she would find that exciting, just like having a guy break into her apartment. “What happens when my assignment ends? Will you kick my ass out the door?”
“You’ll have a boot print on your ass.”
“Ouch. I love the pain you give.”
She laughed. “You’re crazy.”
“So are you.”
I pulled over a block away from Atlas Motors and left the car running. Without the A/C it was like a sauna in here.
“Thanks for lunch.” She reached for the door handle, ready to leave.
“Keira.” Her amber eyes met mine, eyebrows raised in question. “Stay away from the street racing tomorrow night.”
Keira settled back into her seat and sighed. “Is that the only reason you stopped by?”
“I wanted to see you,” I answered honestly. “And I wanted to get your phone number.”
“You already have my phone number.”
“It’s in my other phone.” Which was at the precinct with my badge, ID, and gun. I reached across her and pulled a burner phone out of the glove compartment. I had so many phones it was sometimes hard to keep them straight. “What’s your number?” I asked, my thumb poised over the keypad.
I entered her number and called it but didn’t hear a ringtone. I raised my brows, waiting for an explanation. “Giving out fake numbers now?”
“Oh, please. And you call yourself a detective,” she scoffed. “Do you see a cell phone hiding in these short pockets? My cell phone is at the garage. Or at home. I’m not great at remembering to bring it.”
“How will my tracking device work if you don’t have your phone on you?”
She grinned. “It’ll work perfectly. You’ll always think I’m at home.”
“I’ll have to move the tracking device to your car.”
She rolled her eyes. I’d do no such thing. I wasn’t trying to control her or track her every move. “I love your wild streak. But I love the hair on that pretty head more.” Her eyes widened. Had I just used the L word? Guess I had. “I want you to be safe and with the way you drive, that’s a crapshoot.”
“I made plans with Ava and Connor tomorrow night. Not that I need to report my whereabouts to you,” she added.
I grinned.
She ignored my grin and hopped out of the car, slamming the door shut with far more force than necessary. Which was how she did just about everything. I doubted that she’d ever done anything half-assed or taken the easy way out in her life. I leaned back against the headrest and watched her walk away, with the sun on her back. Before she crossed the street, she turned and blew me a kiss, knowing I was still watching and that I could see her, but she couldn’t see me. I smiled as I pulled away, and wished I was taking her for a long weekend in the Hamptons.
* * *
Angel was waiting for me on the street corner of a rundown neighborhood in Jamaica, Queens, a small duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She was wearing a dark purple dress, matching lipstick, and six-inch heels, not exactly the kind of outfit one wore for a weekend of sun and surf. She climbed into my SUV, bringing the scent of cheap, flowery perfume with her, and tossed her small bag in the footwell, primly folding her hands in her lap.
She didn’t look overly excited about taking a weekend trip to the Hamptons. That should make this easier.
But first, I wanted to know what her deal was so we would sit in my parked car until this was settled.
“Why do you need that job so badly?” I asked, trying not to sound like an investigative detective.
She didn’t answer. Just kept staring straight ahead, wringing her hands in her lap, her purple lips pursed. Underneath all the makeup, she had a pretty face and I suspected she was young but trying to look older. Early twenties if I had to guess.
“Why do you want to know?” she asked finally, cracking under the pressure of sitting in a vehicle with a virtual stranger who was content to wait until hell froze over for an answer to the question.
“We need to get a few things straight, but first I need to know why you need the money.”
She shook her head and I saw the fear in her eyes.
“Why do you need the money, Angel?” I looked for track marks on her arms. There were none.
“I have a daughter. She is four years old.”
Fuck.
“She is so smart,” she said with a mother’s pride, her lips curving into a smile. “Perfect En
glish.”
“Where’s your daughter now?” I looked over at the houses lining the dirty, gritty street in the kind of neighborhood where hope went to die. I suspected she lived in the yellow house with the brown door, fenced in behind a rusty white wrought-iron fence, a pink plastic toy car parked on a scrubby patch of brown grass. White lace curtains hung in the window and for some reason, those curtains made me sad as fuck. I scrubbed my hand over my face to erase the memories of white lace curtains and a brown sofa that reeked of death.
“She is with the neighbor. She watches her when I work. She’s a good woman,” she hastened to add.
“Do you have any pictures of your daughter?” I asked, partly because I wanted to verify her story before I put myself on the line, but another part of me was curious. Photos revealed a lot.
“Yes. So many.” She scrolled through her phone and handed it to me. I scrolled through a few photos of Angel’s daughter. White-blond hair and a heart-shaped face with doe eyes. Yep. Angel’s daughter. The girl looked happy and well-cared for, her clothes clean and her hair combed. I stopped at a photo of her blowing out her four birthday candles and wondered if she’d made a wish and what it was. I hoped it would come true. I handed Angel’s phone back to her. It was none of my business and I knew I should stay out of it but forgotten memories surfaced and the cop in me couldn’t let this rest. My savior complex, maybe. Sometimes it was a curse to give a shit.
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel while she watched me anxiously. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No. You didn’t do anything wrong.” I wanted to tell her to toughen up. The world would chew her up and spit her out. It was survival of the fittest out there. But I didn’t tell her that because she probably already knew that. “I want you to find another job.”