I lowered my hands into my lap and grinned, satisfied my little fit was over. “I’ve never been down there, but I’d sure like to one day.”
“You are...” His mouth twisted into a smirk and he shook his head lightly. “Fucking gorgeous.”
Excuse me?
I wasn’t sure if he actually said what I thought I heard, or if the caffeine-induced state of delirium I was slipping into had my mind playing tricks on me. “Excuse me?”
“Sorry, but I’m blunt.”
I really wanted to hear him say it again. “What did you say?”
“Sorry, but I’m blunt?”
“No, before that.”
“Before that? I said you were gorgeous.”
I felt like I did in fifth grade when Salvadore Tarrucci passed me my first note in class. When I opened it, will you be my girlfriend stared back at me, causing my heart to go aflutter and my mind to fill with a combination of pride and self-confidence.
Michael was making me feel like I was in fifth grade again. My face felt like it was on fire. A tingling sensation ran from my pussy to my nipples. The six months of abstinence was apparent.
I crossed my legs nervously and grinned. “Thank you.”
It seemed too good to be true. A well-dressed handsome investor who was protective of me and wanted to retire on a remote island south of Mexico. And, it just so happened that he thought I was gorgeous and he wasn’t afraid to say so. He was a far cry from the men I was used to, the majority of which made profit from their criminal activities and shady behavior.
“So, other than kick guys in the nuts, what do you do?” he asked.
“Huh?” I was still wallowing in the compliment. He had just gone from a handsome ass-kicker to irresistibly adorable.
He tilted his head toward my computer. “What do you do?”
I wrinkled my nose. “With what?”
He coughed out a laugh. “Are you flustered? I guess I could have waited until I left to tell you that, but when you did that thing with your hair, it was just, I don’t know. You looked gorgeous.”
I was far from a teenager, and although prior to meeting him I would have described myself as confident, mature and fairly established in life, he was making me feel like a little girl again.
And I liked it.
“Sorry, I might have got all starry-eyed there for a minute.” I fanned my hand in front of my face. “So, you asked what I do?”
“You know,” he said. “For work.”
I did nothing. It sounded terrible to admit, but since my twenty-first birthday, I received an annual allotment from my trust fund. My family was wealthy, therefore, I was wealthy. I didn’t work, and if I hinted at getting a job, my father would throw a fit.
“I uhhm. I. Well...” I murmured.
I felt terrible for telling him my last name was Wilson, and decided to keep my little white lies limited to that and just one more. I couldn’t dare tell him the truth about my being rich and not having an actual job. I sighed heavily in anticipation of telling him a lie.
“I’m in the shoe business,” I blurted. “I inherited a store on Long Island. I kind of run it from here.”
Jesus, Terra. Where the fuck did that come from?
I had no idea where the response came from, other than I loved shoes and everything about shoe shopping. And, although it was a lie, it wasn’t. I was in the shoe business. The business of buying them.
He offered a slight smirk. “Shoes, huh?”
I narrowed my eyes. Maybe I wasn’t convincing enough. “Yeah, why?”
“Nothing.”
“You had a shitty grin on your face.”
“It wasn’t shitty. It was just a smile. Like, that’s nice. Nothing more than that. I was just thinking, shoes. It explains the red bottom you dropped at the door the other day.”
I found it hard to believe he knew what a red bottom was. “You noticed.”
“I tend to.”
I sat with my lips pursed and a slight grin on my face and stared. I felt tremendous comfort in his presence. It was a nice change to talk to someone without having them sending a text message or updating their Facebook status every ten minutes. I also liked it that he was observant, protective and didn’t hesitate to step in when Vincent was trying to drag me away against my will. Considering how we met, I decided to pry a little further.
“So, what did you think I did?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m sure you thought something,” I said. “You seem like an observant person.”
“You really want to know?”
I didn’t see the harm in it. I shrugged. “Sure.”
“Actually, I was wondering what your father did.”
What? My mouth went dry. “Why uhhm. Huh?”
“You told your ex you’d have your father cut him into little pieces and toss him in the Missouri River. So I wondered what he did for a living.” He reached for his coffee and cocked an eyebrow playfully. “Obviously not shoes.”
If my father found out what Vincent had done to me, he would cut him up and toss him in the Missouri River. I’d painted myself into a corner with my lies, so I had to continue. “He’s not crazy protective of me or anything, but he’d be really protective of me if he thought someone was abusing me.”
“As he should be.”
I decided to change the subject back to me, or at least attempt it. “So what did you think I did? We were talking about that. Your sixth sense or whatever.”
“My guess was a trust-fund baby, or something similar,” he said. “You’re obviously wealthy.”
Holy shit.
I stared back at him. I took slight exception to what he said. Well, as much as I could, considering it was all true. “Oh really? Based on what?”
He leaned forward and locked eyes with me. “Well, you drive a Mercedes S550 Coupe. The shoe you lost by the door the other day was a Louboutin, and you’re sitting in Starbucks shopping at NET-A-PORTER on a Wednesday night. You’re single—or at least you do a damned good job of acting like it—and you’re wearing, oh, I’d say that’s about a one-and-three-quarter carat diamond on your wedding finger.”
I nervously covered my ring with my right hand and stared back at him in shock. Or maybe I was impressed. Whichever it was, I sat in my seat and glared at him with wide eyes and an open mouth.
He leaned away from the table and gestured toward my lap. “My guess is it’s to keep guys from trying to hit on you.”
I continued my openmouthed stare.
He paused and cocked an eyebrow. “How am I doing so far?”
Wow.
“How...” I shook my head in disbelief. “How’d you know what I drove?”
“You drove off in it the other day, remember?”
He was right. About everything. In spite of his observations, he still felt I was worthy of his time, and I appreciated it. With him driving a $100,000 BMW and dressing the way he did, it was obvious he wasn’t after me for my money, and I sure wasn’t after him for his.
I was after him for other reasons. And it appeared the list was growing.
“My dad bought me the ring. He said it would keep the creeps away. And, you were right about everything. That’s crazy that you caught all that.”
“I stay pretty conscious of my surroundings. Sometimes I think it keeps me from living a normal life,” he said.
“How so?”
“I develop opinions based on what I think, and not necessarily what I know to be fact. As far as I’m concerned, if I believe it, it is fact. So, I walk into a room, survey the people and the situation, and then make decisions based on what I see. Some might call it arrogance. I say it’s confidence. There’s only a hair that separates the two, you know.”
He
was becoming more interesting with each passing minute.
The woman in me needed to know more. “So, what decisions or opinions or whatever did you make based on what you’ve seen with me? The other day when we met, and tonight?”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m positive.”
“Remember, I’m blunt.”
There was nothing he could say to scare me. I wanted to hear it, even if he was direct in his response. “I’m a big girl,” I assured him.
He smiled.
I relaxed and waited for him to express his opinion.
“First. Let me say this. I’ve never had much interest in being in a relationship. With anyone. In combat, it’s believed having a woman in your life will cause you to lose focus, and that lack of focus will get you killed. I realize I’m not in combat, but old habits die hard.”
My heart sank. I swallowed what little self-pride I had developed over the course of our conversation and slumped in my seat.
He studied me for a short moment, then grinned a guilty grin. “But. After I saw you the other day, I couldn’t get you out of my mind. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t. That night I drove back here hoping to see you. Then, I did the same thing the next few mornings. Hell, tonight I came here hoping to find you. There was something about you. I didn’t know what it was for sure at first, but I decided it was because you were an adventurous little bitch. And I liked thinking that. That’s what I thought on the day we met.”
He locked eyes with me, leaned against the edge of the table, and moved so close that I could taste his breath. “Tonight? Tonight I decided I want to devote a portion of the time and effort needed to eventually earn the right to watch you get dressed in the morning. And when that time comes—when I’ve finally earned that right—I want to sit back and enjoy watching you pull your panties over your thighs and up on your hips until you get them situated just right. Then, I want to watch you wrap your bra around your perfectly shaped breasts and reach around to clasp it while you’re watching me watch you.”
I may or may not have licked my lips. The temperature instantly rose thirty degrees. I pressed my knees together. It made matters worse.
I blinked.
He drew a shallow breath.
“And then I want to watch you button your shirt, pull your pants over those long legs of yours, and reach down for your heels. And then, Terra-I’m-sexy-as-absolute-fuck-Wilson, after you put on your heels...”
My mouth was dry, my throat was tight, and my pussy was a soaking-wet mess. I fought to swallow and attempted to speak.
Nothing happened.
I wagged my knees back and forth and nodded. It did little to resolve the pussy issue.
“...I want to get up, slowly walk up to you, and take everything right back off.”
I was a horny mess. He had me so turned on that I couldn’t do anything but beg for more. I really needed him to tell me what was next. Still positioned so close I could feel his breath on my face, I gazed into his hypnotic eyes and parted my lips slightly.
“Why?” The word puffed past my lips in an almost silent whisper.
His mouth twisted into a smirk. “Because if I’ve earned the right to do all of that, I’ve damned sure earned the right to stick my tongue in your little wet pussy. The bottom line? I want you to come in my mouth. I want to taste you, Terra Wilson. And tonight? Tonight I decided I’ll do what I have to do to make that happen.”
He leaned back and calmly took a sip of his coffee. He looked different. His short dark brown hair, strong jaw, and piercing blue eyes gave him a more menacing look than before. I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth and swallowed hard.
I was really beginning to like this guy.
“You decided all that, tonight?”
“I did.”
My face went flush. “You want...you want to uhhm...you want to earn that right?”
“I do.”
Well, Michael Tripp, I’m afraid you’re closer than you think.
Chapter Four
Michael
The unfamiliar footsteps approaching could have been anyone. Considering Cap’s recent issue with who I suspected was the mob, I stood, slipped my pistol into my waistband and anxiously waited. In less than thirty seconds, they made their appearance.
One wore a 1980s-style dark blue zip-up tracksuit complete with white stripes along the arms and legs, and the other a dark gray pinstriped suit. They were undoubtedly two of Agrioli’s thugs.
The brawn and the brains.
The one wearing the tracksuit was a few inches taller than his companion, standing roughly six feet tall. The white wifebeater he wore underneath the unzipped jacket made his massive chest apparent, but the rather large stomach hanging over his waistband told me he liked pasta much more than working out at the gym. His dark hair was greased back and pressed flat against his scalp. His sagging cheeks and multiple chins led me to believe he was in his late forties or early fifties.
I nodded toward Tracksuit as I walked around the corner of my desk. “I thought Adidas quit making that tracksuit in the 1980s. Where’d you get that thing? eBay?”
Tracksuit glanced at his partner, apparently seeking approval to launch a comeback to my snide remark. Pinstripe cocked his head to the side and shrugged. While they continued to exchange glances, I looked for signs of either of them carrying a weapon.
Pinstripe met my gaze. His black hair had flecks of gray that didn’t seem to match his age, which I guessed at thirty. “Mr. Tripp, we’re associates of Mr. Agrioli’s. The aforementioned Mr. Agrioli would like to set up a meeting regarding a shipment of military rifles. It’s been brought to his attention you’ll be receiving these pretty soon, and he’d like to form a partnership before they’re shipped out to the end user.”
My response was immediate. “Sorry, you fellas must have stumbled into the wrong office. This is Don’t Tripp, LLC. We’re a solutions-based company that specializes in resolving problems with uneven walking surfaces.”
Pinstripe chuckled. His shoulders did the up-and-down thing again. Convinced it was more of a nervous twitch than an actual shrug, I shook my head and impatiently waited for his response.
Tracksuit reached inside his jacket. I reacted in accordance with my military training and ten years of combat experience.
I pulled the pistol from my waistband and leveled it at his head. “Keep those hands where I can see them or I’ll drop both you motherfuckers where you stand.”
My eyes darted back and forth between them. I was in survival mode. “I’m not fucking around, if either of you two pricks move, it’ll be the last time you do.”
Pinstripe’s eyes grew wide and his hands slowly raised to chest height. Tracksuit’s hands followed.
“You fuckin’ kiddin’ me? This is a peaceful meeting, neither of us are armed,” Pinstripe explained, clearly irritated by my reaction. “And, you’re kinda quick with your hands to be a sidewalk repairman.”
I tossed my head toward Tracksuit. “He reached for something.”
Tracksuit pinched the chest of his jacket between his thumb and index finger and lifted it slowly, exposing the waistband of his pants. Pinstripe was correct, it appeared he wasn’t armed. I lowered the pistol. It didn’t matter if they were armed or not. I had far more experience at killing people than they did, there was no doubt about it. If either of them reached for a weapon, they’d be shipped back to Agrioli in a steel drum.
“I’m an arms dealer, and you know it. And I’m not looking to add a fucking partner. So, tell Agrioli I’m flattered, but no thanks.”
It bothered me that Agrioli was aware of the AR-15 rifles I was scheduled to receive. For him to find out anything about my operation would mean
he either had my office wiretapped or one of my employees was an Agrioli snitch.
Both possibilities made my asshole pucker.
Pinstripe shrugged. “He’ll be sorry to hear that.”
I glared back at him. “Sorry to hear it, huh? You know, what it gets down to from here on out is who’s got the bigger dick. Him or me? So tell Agrioli I’m—” I paused and cleared my throat. “No, I’ll fucking tell him myself.”
Pinstripe shrugged. Again. “I need to give Mr. Agrioli a response.”
I shrugged in response. Not because of a lack of certainty, but because I’m naturally an asshole when pushed into a corner. “I gave you my response. Tell Agrioli I’ll be in touch.”
Pinstripe glanced at Tracksuit. Tracksuit shrugged and grinned. I wondered if he was able to speak. Pinstripe raised his index finger. “I need to get a business card.”
“Just make it slow.”
He reached into his jacket and after a few seconds of digging, produced a business card.
“Drop it on the floor. And you fellas can let yourself out, can’t you?”
Pinstripe dropped the card at his feet, shrugged and nodded. Tracksuit grinned. Together, they turned away and walked through the door. I watched them get into a black Cadillac and wondered if either of the men were Cap’s victim from the gas station. Quickly I decided not, as neither of them were covered in bruises. It was possible, I guessed, that all Agrioli’s men drove Cadillacs. After they drove away I retrieved the business card and sat down at my desk.
Having the mafia involved in my business in any manner wouldn’t end well, at least not for me. I wasn’t Italian, and they were greedy. Inevitably, the partnership would end. And, when Italian mafia business partnerships ended, it always included someone dying. The deaths, however, were never on the side of the mob.
I gazed down at the business card.
Anthony Agrioli.
I lifted the receiver from my desk phone and pressed the telephone number into the keypad.
“Anthony Agrioli’s office,” the receptionist said in a nasal tone.
My mind filled with visions of a twenty-something blonde sitting at a desk in a tight skirt, painting her nails and popping her gum while she waited on the next phone call to come in.
The Gun Runner (Mafia Made) Page 3