by Roxie Noir
“Dylan, please,” the blond says, her hands out in front of her.
I’m already out of my seat and heading toward this asshole. My brass knuckles are heavy in my pocket but I’m not gonna need them.
Guys like this go down easy.
“Who the fuck are you?” he says, looking me up and down. “Fuck off, you cholo motherfuck—”
I hit him right in the nose, the crunch of cartilage satisfying under my knuckles.
He reels backward, stumbling. Blood spurts out and onto his ugly shirt, and for a second he just looks confused.
Then he looks mad again, and I swear to god his face turns purple.
I do my best not to smile, but I don’t think it works. This guy might go to a boxing gym once a week, but I grew up in the roughest neighborhood in East L.A.
He doesn’t stand a fucking chance.
“Motherfucker!” he shouts and charges toward me, coming in heavy with a wide right hook.
I dodge. When he swings past me he throws himself off balance, just enough for me to come in close and hit him as hard as I can in the solar plexus, right beneath his rib cage.
He goes over like a domino. The whole thing took maybe thirty seconds.
I hope I haven’t killed him or something, but I’m not quite concerned enough to check. I look at the knuckles on my right hand, flexing them.
Bruised, but I missed his teeth. I’m not bleeding.
At last the guy heaves a breath. He sounds like a goddamn dying fish, and security closes in around him.
“Are you okay?” the blond asks breathlessly.
Her fingertips brush the back of my knuckles as she presses her body against me.
Right, I think. The girls.
Nothing turns a woman on quite like beating up her ex. This kind of woman, at least.
“That’s why they call him the Scorpion,” the brunette says, keeping her voice low. She’s on my other side, and I can feel her heat on my body.
“He’s fast and lethal,” the brunette goes on, one pert nipple sliding along my bicep. I look down at them, and the erection I lost during the fight comes back in full force.
The blond looks at me, and this time her uncertainty is real. She wasn’t sure I was the Scorpion, and she’s really not sure that her friend was supposed to say it out loud.
I’m dangerous, after all.
“I’m fine,” I say.
I slide my hands down their bodies until I’ve got one cupping each ass, and I give them a slight squeeze.
“Now, where were we?”
A couple of the guys are looking my way, making sure that I’m good, but they see that I’ve got two girls, shrug, and look away again.
Just another night out with the Scorpion.
The girls exchange glances, and then the brunette folds herself into my semi-private booth, tugging me and the blond with her.
“I think we were here,” the blond says.
I’ve got one kneeling on either side of me, and they kiss again. I reach up and pull their tops down, watching their tits bounce out.
They’re either drunk or horny enough that they don’t care this is happening in semi-public. I reach up and squeeze the full, round globes.
Definitely fake, but that just makes me harder. I like the kind of woman who’ll get surgery just to turn me on a little more.
One of them moans with a high-pitched whimper, and then they uncouple, both looking at me, their lips swollen and heavy.
The blond pushes her face close to mine, biting her lip.
“There’s something I want to do,” she whispers.
“What might that be?” I ask, my voice low and gravelly.
I lace my hands behind my head and don’t even bother to look at her face, just her perky fake tits.
She slithers to the floor, until she’s kneeling, tits still out. Then she runs the palm of her hand over my erection.
A surprised look crosses her face, and she’s not faking this one either.
It’s a wait, seriously? look.
An I’m not totally sure I’m prepared for this look.
Let’s just say I’m used to seeing it by now. After all, there’s another reason I’ve got my nickname.
A scorpion’s got a big appendage that packs a hell of a wallop.
Still sitting next to me, the brunette reaches over and caresses my clothed cock as well, her eyes hungry.
I lean back a little, grinning. This night’s going even better than I anticipated.
Then, out of nowhere: my fucking boss’s voice.
“Alejandro.”
Goddamn it, I think, and close my eyes for a moment, hoping that maybe I’m hearing things.
When I open them both girls are bright red, staring up at Manny.
He’s short and squat. He has the worst fashion sense I’ve ever seen a human have. Right now he’s wearing socks, sandals, plaid shorts, and a Hawaiian shirt that couldn’t be louder if it had a megaphone.
He’s also one of the most dangerous men in Los Angeles.
“Any chance this can wait?” I ask.
“Sorry,” he says, his gaze flicking to the girls and back to me. “I promise it’s important.”
The girls look at each other. Then they pull their dresses back up, and I stand.
“Give me a few minutes,” I growl at them. “Don’t go anywhere.”
I follow Manny toward the office at the back of the club.
“How many kids you got now?” he asks, half-joking.
“Can’t get someone pregnant through the mouth,” I say.
He snorts, unlocking the office door. It’s a nice office, with a wide mahogany desk and a massive one-way mirror, the whole nightclub visible on the other side.
When he shuts the door, the pumping music behind us vanishes to a hum, and he gestures at a leather chair in front of the desk, before collapsing into the matching one behind it.
“You should watch out,” he says. “They got DNA tests and everything these days.”
“I’ve seen Maury,” I say. “I’m not knocking anybody up.”
That gets a faint smile out of him, and then he’s all business.
“I need you to go to a wedding,” he says.
Not what I was expecting.
“A wedding?” I say, frowning.
I’m not really a wedding guy. I mean, I like open bars and horny girls as much as the next guy, but I’ve got a bad habit of getting caught balls-deep in someone else’s girlfriend in the bathroom. That means I’ve also got a bad habit of giving out black eyes.
“They found the accountant’s daughter,” Manny says. “And she’s attending a wedding tomorrow night.”
Well, at least that’s good news. Sort of.
“Accountant still missing?”
Manny just nods, looking tired.
About a year ago, we hired a new accountant, a guy with less morals than money, to do the cartel’s books.
Fast forward, and we hear a rumor that he’s had a change of heart. He’s thinking about spilling everything to the feds, and that would be very, very bad for us. Naturally, we’d like to convince him otherwise.
Then he disappeared before we could find him, so we’re doing the next best thing: taking his daughter until he can be convinced to see reason.
“You need me to take her a message?” I ask.
“I need you to take her,” Manny says.
I stare at him for a couple of seconds.
“I know I promised you,” he says. He flattens his hands on the desk, and I think about how many guns are in that desk. Seven or eight, easy.
“Isn’t this what we’ve got foot soldiers for?” I ask.
I thought I was done with this. I thought I’d been promoted out of just being muscle for the cartel, the guy who they call when they need damage dealt.
“You’re not wrong,” he says, lacing his fingers together. He’s got three massive rings on each hand, and they catch the dim light.
“This is a delicate situation, Alejandro,”
he goes on. He’s the only one besides my mom who ever calls me by my full name.
“This girl’s our last resort. You know we don’t kidnap civilians, at least not in the States, but her dad’s left us no choice. I need someone I can trust doing this for me.”
Flattery will get you everywhere, I think.
“Also, the wedding is at the Beverly Hills Resort,” he says.
My eyebrows go up, and I let out a low whistle. There’s expensive, and then there’s Beverly Hills Resort wedding expensive.
“I need to send someone who can blend in,” he says.
“You need someone who doesn’t look Mexican,” I counter.
Most of the guys are full-blooded Latino, but my dad was white, so I’ve got blue eyes and black hair. I can pass as a well-tanned Caucasian guy most of the time.
“I need someone who doesn’t talk like he drove there from Chavez Heights in his El Camino,” he says, calmly. “And I’ve heard that they’ll be serving some very good Scotch.”
Why the hell am I arguing? I think. When else am I gonna get to go to a million-dollar wedding with top-shelf pussy?
“All right,” I say. “What do I do with the daughter? Hit her on the head and drag her out?”
Manny reaches down and opens a desk drawer. I think he’s smiling a little, but he’s got the best poker face in California.
He places a vial of white powder next to a photograph on top of the desk, and I lean forward to look at them.
“That’s her,” he says. “Tessa Fulbright.”
I don’t say anything for a moment, because I’m just staring at this photo, caught totally off-guard.
Tessa Fulbright is smoking hot.
Like holy shit hot, walk-across-hot-lava-for-a-chance-at-that hot, and she’s not even my type.
The picture was obviously taken from far away, because she’s crossing a street in black pants and a blazer. She’s looking to her left, her auburn hair drifting in front of her face, but I can still tell that she’s got killer green eyes and perfectly plump lips.
“That’s Ned’s daughter? The one who’s an architect?” I ask, mostly thinking about those lips wrapped around my dick while she looks up at me with those big green eyes.
I’ve met Ned, briefly. The girl clearly got her looks from her mother.
Manny just nods, then pushes the vial toward me.
“This’ll knock her out,” he says. “Just get some in her drink. She’ll think she’s too drunk, so you play the gentleman and assist her out of the wedding.”
I give Manny a long, hard look. He fucking knows how I feel about getting women involved in this shit.
“I don’t drug women,” I say.
“This is an emergency, Alejandro,” he says.
He leans forward over the desk, sincerity beaming from his gentle brown eyes.
“I swear I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”
I know perfectly well that it doesn’t make any sense to have some ridiculous sense of chivalry toward women in this business, but I do.
I have to draw the line somewhere, right?
“And I get her to the guy waiting in the SUV?” I say.
“Exactly,” he says. “Then you go back to the wedding and...”
He waves one heavily-ringed hand in the air, and we both know he means get your dick wet.
“Do as you like,” Manny says. “She won’t remember you when she wakes up in a safe house.”
I don’t like it, and something deep inside me is fighting against it.
Why not? I think to myself. What does it matter that she’s a woman?
“If Ned talks, we’re fucked,” Manny says, and I know how right he is.
“Just this once,” I say, reluctantly.
I reach out and take the vial, putting it in my pocket.
“Just this once,” he says solemnly.
That’s why this man is so dangerous: not only does he have an armory the size of a mansion, command a ruthless paramilitary organization, and have a shocking number of cops on his payroll, but he could sell ice to an Eskimo. He’s that convincing.
I look at Tessa’s picture again, trying to memorize every line of her face and every curve of her perfect body. I wonder what she’d look like naked, beneath me on a bed or even on top, riding my cock as her tits bounced.
God, what does she sound like when she comes, does she talk dirty or just moan —
“You’re good?” Manny asks, interrupting my thoughts.
“I’m good,” I say, standing.
For a moment I want to ask if I can take the picture with me — for research — but I know I can’t be found with it.
“You’ve got a tuxedo fitting tomorrow at eight,” he says. “Get some rest before your big day.”
I nod, then walk to the door. As my hand touches the knob, Manny speaks up again.
“Alex,” he says. “Thanks for doing this. We’re really in a bind.”
I turn around and thump one fist against my left pec, just below my collarbone.
Manny does it back.
We’ve got the exact same tattoo in that spot. Everyone in La Carretera does.
I turn and head out the door.
The two girls are still standing by the booth, talking to each other, while the other guys ogle them but don’t approach. They know better.
The girls are still hot and still ready to go, but suddenly I don’t feel like it anymore. It’s almost two in the morning, and this wedding is actually fucking important.
If the accountant goes to the feds, shit’s gonna get ugly, so I should get some sleep.
Tessa Fulbright and her sensible business outfit don’t have a goddamn thing to do with it.
I turn and take the back stairs down to the street, then drive home with the stereo blasting.
2
Tessa
“Eddie,” the bride says, her voice shaking as she speaks into the microphone. “I was falling and you were my parachute. You are my rock, my fortress, my life preserver in troubled waters.”
God, this is cheesy, I think.
I have to look away for a moment, I’m so uncomfortable. I’ve known Karen for years, and I always knew she was one of those hopeless romantics, but this is really over the top.
“I love you like a fat kid loves cake,” the bride goes on, her voice breaking.
I hold my breath.
Did she really just say that?
I try to look around surreptitiously, just to see if anyone else is hearing this, but they’re all staring straight ahead, some of them dabbing at their eyes with tissues. Totally enthralled by a crying girl wearing white.
Shoulders shaking, the bride hands the microphone back to the officiant, and he starts droning on about something else. I shift in my chair yet again, trying to find a position that doesn’t feel like it’s breaking my spine.
No luck. These chairs obviously look a lot better than they feel.
At least it’s almost over, I think, and look around at the other guests. They’re all crying.
Am I an unfeeling monster? I wonder.
Everyone else seems really touched.
“I now pronounce you,” the officiant says.
He takes a dramatic pause.
Come the fuck on, I think.
“Man and wife! You may kiss the bride.”
Eddie grabs Karen in his arms and swings her backwards. She flails, clearly not expecting this, and my hands fly to my mouth involuntarily. Her veil catches on something on the wedding arch and tears off of her head.
Eddie goes into the veil face-first and then shakes his head back and forth, holding Karen in his arms, trying to get the gauzy white fabric off of himself. It’s a long couple of seconds, and then it finally works and he kisses her.
I clap automatically, relieved that this part is finally over.
Karen and Eddie walk back down the aisle, followed by their enormous wedding parties. The veil’s still hanging on the arch like some kind of dead bird.
I feel
weirdly bad for it.
The guests start filtering out, and as they do, I swear to God I can feel someone watching me. I stare straight ahead, holding my clutch with both hands.
It’s just Andrew again, I think. Trying to figure out what he’s going to tell Nick about how I’m doing.
Nick, my most recent ex, isn’t here, but his best friend is, and he’s a grade-A dickbag. He’s the one who convinced Nick that I only wanted him for his money.
Fuck you and your tiny penis, Andrew, I think. I hope you get syphilis and it falls off.
I can still feel him staring.
Finally, I give up and look.
No. I glare.
It’s not Andrew. It is very, very much not Andrew — Andrew is short and scrawny, but the guy staring at me is a good six-foot-plus of man. His eyes meet my death glare and I my heart hitches in my chest. I look away as fast as I can, my pulse racing.
I don’t know what to do. Very hot men don’t stare at me, not ever, and definitely not when they’ve got blue eyes, black hair and a jawline straight out of a black-and-white movie.
I glance to my right, trying to figure out who he’s actually looking at, but it’s a mix of old ladies and kids.
Maybe one of them is his mom or something, I think.
I take a deep breath and look over again. He’s walking into the aisle with the throng, not looking at me anymore.
He can seriously fill out a tux, though. I tend to like my guys in jeans and t-shirts, but I’d be willing to change my ways for that.
Behind me, someone clears her throat and I realize my row is empty, so I quit my perverted staring and join the other guests walking into the reception.
After two glasses of champagne, I feel better. The guy passing trays looked at me funny when I grabbed them both at once, but fuck it. I barely know anyone here besides my ex-boyfriend’s douchebag bestie, what else am I supposed to do?
I sidle up to a conversation with a couple of people whose names I think I might know, and they’re polite enough to act like they recognize me.
Karen and I were freshman roommates in college, and even though we stayed friends after that year was over, we don’t have any other friends in common. Well, except Andrew, who she introduced me to, who introduced me to Nick.
They all went to high school together in Santa Monica, some swanky private school, while I was at public school in Encino. Now I’m at Karen’s half-a-million-dollar wedding.