by Aiden Bates
“You got the keys?” I asked Rusty morosely. I hated being in the passenger seat—especially given the way that Rusty usually drove.
Rusty jingled them in front of my face with pride. “Doctor’s orders—I’m driving. Good thing, too. You always drove like an old lady, anyway.”
As Rusty helped me up out of the wheelchair, Derek slipped into the backseat and slid all the way across. When I got in, he helped me lie down, pulling my head into his lap and smiling down at me.
“You happy?” he asked me softly, running his fingers through my hair. “You doing okay?”
“We survived, didn’t we?” I smiled up at him, relishing the feel of his fingertips against my scalp. “Cleared your name. Have a baby on the way. Hell—if it wasn’t for the rich and powerful people we’re about to take down constantly sending their goons after us…it’d be damn near perfect, don’t you think?”
“Mm. Even with all the goons. Still pretty perfect. You know…” The car jerked forward as Rusty went zooming out of the hospital parking lot, all speed and not a lick of caution. Derek held onto me tight, laughing at the way Rusty took the speed bumps—like the suspension in Ernesto’s car was made of the strongest stuff on earth.
“I know what?” I asked when we finally made it out onto the highway.
Derek blushed, looking away. “I was just thinking when we get back…I might be kind of curious to see that ring you were telling me about…”
“Yeah?” I grinned like an idiot—the luckiest damn idiot in the entire universe. “That…could be arranged.”
31
Derek
It took about a week to get Kaleb walking from room to room back at Harper and Nick’s—although if Kaleb had been given any say in the matter, it would have been much sooner. We’d already made one additional trip to Arlington General since returning to Fort Greene to get a sling for Kaleb’s arm and a new set of stitches put in. His insistence on doing everything for himself was as obnoxious as it was endearing.
Even at his most beaten, broken and bruised, you couldn’t keep a man like Kaleb down for long. His injuries hadn’t caused his interest in the investigation to wane yet. If anything, he was even more determined than ever to pin down every last detail of this conspiracy—because now, it was more than just personal. Twice now, armed gunmen had come after the King boys and their Omegas—not to mention the circumstances surrounding Josh’s murder. We were on the radar of the people who had orchestrated this entire affair in a big way. We had every reason to believe that now more than ever, stopping them was a matter of life and death.
For all of us.
Unfortunately, the two men the police had taken into custody that night at Randy Argent’s house hadn’t talked—at least, as far as we knew. We hadn’t heard anything about Randy either, except for a tip from Ernesto’s Reno contact that suggested he’d been moved. Ernesto figured it was probably the Feds who’d taken him somewhere safe. We could only hope that was the truth.
I came out into the dining room from the kitchen, carrying a massive pot of chili while Nick followed me in with bowls and spoons. As Kaleb caught my eye, I beamed with pride. It was my first official solo cooking endeavor—and in my less-than-expert opinion, it’d turned out pretty good. With a little guidance from Nick and some questionable suggestions from Harper and Rusty, I was finding that cooking didn’t have to be all that difficult. I probably wasn’t going to go trying to open the dark beer that I’d deglazed the pot with using my teeth like Rusty had—or add in any Carolina Reapers like Harper had wanted—but Nick’s seasoning recipe had proved to be too good to fail.
“So. We’ve got a list of congresspeople who’ve been lobbied by Bicroft Pharmaceuticals and who were also supported by AFF,” Harper announced, beaming with pride and wrapping his arm around Nick as he passed.
Harper’s mood seemed to have picked up ever since Kaleb had arrived back from Reno wounded as well, as ridiculous as that was. Normally, I’d raise an eyebrow at how pleased Harper seemed to be that his brother had been injured too, but now I was beginning to suspect that his grumpiness might have had something to do with pride. The King boys were insane like that—fiercely competitive, even when it came to who’d ended up with worse gunshot wounds.
“That’s not all that long of a list,” Rusty said, glancing over the paper Harper had laid out onto the table. Kaleb and I had given him as good of a rundown on the case so far as we could during the ride back—when we weren’t making out in the back seat, anyway. Harper and Nick had filled in the rest as soon as we brought our bags inside. He’d taken to the case quicker than any of us had expected—especially Harper, who was always the first to remind Rusty that just a few months ago, Rusty hadn’t wanted to touch this thing for all the money in the world.
“Six whole names.” Kaleb whistled. “One or all of them could be behind this. Christ—one of them’s even been suspected of murder before.”
“Politicians,” Nick said with an eye roll, setting the table around the King men as I placed the pot in the table’s center. “It’s a wonder that most of them haven’t been charged with murder, given some of the shit they try to pass through congress.”
Kaleb’s comment left Rusty’s brow knitted in thought, though.
“Let me see that again,” he said, grabbing the list up in his hands and reading over it again. “Who’s the murder guy? Brent Rasner?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.” Harper reached for the chili ladle, heaping his bowl to the brim. “This looks great, Derek. Smells incredible, too.”
“I’m not complaining,” Kaleb agreed, shooting me a proud smile. “Thank god for you and your new cooking chops, sunshine. Was pretty sure that if I kept ruining Nick’s and Ernesto’s cookware, they were both going to ban me from their premises for good.”
But Rusty was still staring at the list, the furrow in his brow deepening by the minute. He rubbed his jaw, then placed the paper back down on the table. “Well, shit.”
“Something wrong, Rust?” Kaleb asked.
“Ah, it’s just…I had a close call with Rasner several years back then, I guess.”
Harper snorted. “Didn’t realize Congressman Rasner was into MMA. He try to KO you or something?”
“Jesus—I wish it had been in the ring. But if he’s capable of murder—and I’d believe it—I’m probably lucky I’ve still got my kneecaps and the back of my skull.”
Nick raised an eyebrow. “I guess pissing off powerful public figures is something of a King family trait at this point, huh?”
“Maybe so,” Rusty allowed. “But if we wanted to get some dirt on him…I might have a connection we could leverage.”
“Really?” Kaleb reached across the table to serve himself some chili, looking surprised. “Who’ve you been rubbing elbows with in Rasner’s court, Rust? Call ‘em up. Let’s hear what they’ve got to say.”
“Ah…well, it’s gonna be kinda tough to get them to cooperate, honestly. They’re not exactly a fan of Rasner either, but…”
“Oh, come on, Rusty, who’s your source? We’re all dyin’ over here. Spill.”
Rusty rubbed the back of his neck, looking bashful for the first time since I’d met him. “I, uh, might’ve had a bit of a fling with Rasner’s Omega son, Daniel, a while back. Didn’t exactly go well.”
“Big surprise there,” Harper mumbled under his breath.
“Brent finally ended up running me off and, well, long story short…” Rusty sighed. “I ever mention to any of you that I’ve got a son?”
Kaleb and Harper, both having taken mouthfuls of chili at exactly the wrong time, choked simultaneously.
“You what?” Harper coughed.
“A son?”
“Congressman Rasner’s grandson, actually,” Rusty said, grabbing for the chili ladle and avoiding meeting anyone’s eyes. “So, uh, there’s that.”
Book 3
Heated Passion
Kings Of Fort Greene: Book 3
Aiden Bates
Disclaimer
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are all fictitious for the reader’s pleasure. Any similarities to real people, places, events, living or dead are all coincidental.
This book contains sexually explicit content that is intended for ADULTS ONLY (+18).
1
Rusty
Six was my unlucky number. Always had been. It was the number of fights I’d gotten into before I finally lost one. The number of hearts I’d broken before someone finally broke mine right back. Back home in Fort Greene, a pastor had once told me it was the devil’s number. Being sixteen and without the sense God had promised a goat, I’d gotten it tattooed on my ring finger the next day. Lopsided, an ugly stick and poke. The first of many. But as the years went by, that six had started to feel less like an act of teenage rebellion and more like a curse.
I didn’t have to look down at that tattoo to remember the score. It was on my mind every day, from the moment before sunrise when I first opened my eyes right up until the moment I finished training and fell into bed every night.
I’d wasted six whole years torn apart from the man I should’ve called a husband.
I’d lost six years of my kid’s life that I’d never get back.
But when my brother Josh was murdered, the tides had turned. My past was coming back to bite me in the ass, and one way or another, I was going to have to face it. There was only one way for a man like me to do that—like any other challenge I’d ever been up against, I’d have to take it head on. The only way I knew how.
But first, I’d have to let the memories come back to me.
A drunken tryst in a Vegas hotel.
A one-night-stand that would change my life forever.
I had to let myself think back to six years ago—back when this all began.
“No booze! No booze, no booze, no. Fuckin’. Booze!” Buck O’Neil had hands the size of a baseball catcher’s glove. He used one of them to swat my fingers away the shot of vodka the pretty lady behind the bar had just served me and used the other to wallop me upside the head.
“Aw, Jesus, Buck!” I clapped my hand over my ear, which burned like hellfire where he’d come into contact with it. Buck had been a fighter himself back before a concussion had ended his MMA career. Now, he’d chosen to take me under his wing and my career into those big meaty hands of his as my trainer instead.
“No whining, either.” Buck thumped me between the shoulders for good measure. He hadn’t seen the inside of a ring in six years, but slapping and thwacking was still the only way he knew how to interact with other men. “You gonna pout like that when Jamal Jameson knocks your front teeth out tomorrow?”
“Jamal Jameson ain’t even gonna touch me tomorrow.” I swiveled toward Buck on my bar stool, posing with my fists in front of my face like Rocky before Apollo Creed and giving him a quick, soft one-two in his ever-growing beer gut. “I’m gonna be in and out of that ring before you even have time to check out the ring Omega’s shiny gold spandex-clad ass, fucker.”
“That’s Mister Ass-fucker to you.” Buck took his knocks with a grin, then, while I was distracted by that flash of his gold front tooth, took the opportunity to smack me upside the head again. “You just remember you said that while I’m getting the ring Omega’s number and you’re curled up in the fetal position, beggin’ Jameson to have mercy, Daddy! Please Daddy, no!”
I rolled my eyes. Jameson might’ve had game, but at least at six-foot-five with dreads down to his shoulder blades and skin the color of a rural Alabama midnight, he didn’t look anything like my jarhead dear old dad.
“Jameson’s as straight as they come,” I reminded Buck. “Pretty sure if I call him Daddy his cock and balls’ll recede right back up into his body. Any hits he lands after that, he’ll have to say, ‘No homo,’ after, or else they’ll revoke his gold star hetero card.”
“Oh?” Buck’s left eyebrow twitched deviously. “You think that’d work?”
“Buck, I’m not flirtin’ with the guy to throw him off.” I scoffed at the mere idea of it. Jameson was good, sure, but I was better. I’d been training for this fight all year. I was in the best shape of my life. When I beat him, which I knew I would, it’d be fair and square. No mind games, no fuckin’ around. A clear, clean win for my first qualifying match in the big leagues, which would all but guarantee me a ticket to the octagon.
Basking in the roar of the crowd. Women, Omegas, even Alphas throwing themselves at me, just in the hopes that they might get a piece. Sweat on my brow, a title to my name and some other, lesser bastard’s cheekbone crunching under my fist. The octagon was right where I belonged, which meant I didn’t have to cheat my way there. My fight tomorrow would prove that I could get there on talent and talent alone.
“Well, keep it in mind if he gets you in a corner, anyway.” Buck tapped his temple sagely, never willingly giving up on what he saw as a viable tactic. “Half the fight is in your head, y’know.”
“Says the man with more concussions than he’s got ex-husbands and wives.” I smirked, reaching for my shot again. Ever vigilant, Buck only gave me another smack for trying.
“Seriously, kid. Stay off the sauce tonight. I know you’re trying to drink away your daddy issues, but you need a clear head for tomorrow. Besides…” Buck cocked his head down toward the end of the bar. “You’ve got an Omega checkin’ you out over there. Might help you get your focus, bangin’ one out. Don’t want whiskey dick, do you?”
“It’s vodka,” I pointed out. “And I don’t get whiskey dick.”
Nonetheless, I let my eyes slide down the bartop in the direction Buck had indicated. I hadn’t exactly been planning on taking anyone up to my room tonight, but when the opportunity presented itself… well, there was nothing quite like a good fuck to set my head straight before a fight. Only thing better was taking someone to bed afterward, when my adrenaline was still flooding my system and my heart was thumping out a victory drum in my chest.
I hadn’t really dated since I’d started training for Vegas. Hell, I hadn’t slept with anyone at all since Buck scored this Jameson match for me last month. Had barely even had the energy to even think about picking someone up since we headed out of my hometown of Fort Greene, South Carolina last week. But all things considered, a hook-ups… Mm. Hook-ups weren’t out of the question, especially not in a nice hotel like this. Hook-ups were easy. Casual. Could be a nice way to break up the pace of bustin’ ass in the gym and bustin’ heads in the ring, anyway.
And if someone was checking me out, it couldn’t hurt to at least have a look.
Unfortunately for me, one look was all I needed to know I was batting out of my league.
He wasn’t like the other Omegas I usually picked up in bars and had my wicked way with. I knew that the moment I laid eyes on him. Back in Fort Greene, men like him just didn’t exist. Sure, the occasional out-of-town businessman would blow in from time to time, but they’d undress a man like me with their eyes the moment they got within sight of me. They’d slip their wedding rings into their pockets and tell themselves that I hadn’t seen.
Fort Greene had army grunts and officers, mechanics, bartenders and even strippers, but it sure as hell didn’t have anyone as expensive looking as him. Golden-blond hair, the soft pale color of freshly sliced honeycomb dripping with sweetness. Broad, square shoulders and a jawline that told me he was better suited for Wall Street than he was the Vegas Strip.
But this guy wasn’t a businessman. He didn’t have the briefcase or jacket for it, for one. The lack of a gold chain around his neck or a bowling shir
t on his shoulders told me he wasn’t here in Vegas to gamble, either. He didn’t need to. Everything about his outfit, his presence, the way he carried of himself, was dripping with the suggestion of money. The old kind. The watch on his wrist was a Rolex. The white button-down he wore, tugged perfectly across his broad chest, looked casually expensive. Expertly tailored, but not flashy. He had nothing to prove. He wore a brown leather belt that looked like it was just beggin’ to be pulled off of him. Matching shoes that had probably been handcrafted in some Sicilian monastery by a team of blind monks.
It wasn’t his clothes that got me, though. It was his eyes. Couldn’t tell what color they were, but they were trained on me like a sniper’s rifle across a battlefield. When I looked over at him, we locked gazes immediately.
Any other Omega would’ve at least blushed. Flinched even, maybe. Glanced away. I was a big, cut hunk of muscle and tattoos all the way up to the lipstick print I had inked on the right side of my neck. Everything about my look said, don’t fuck with me—or do, and see how far it gets you.
This guy’s eyes, though, they were unrelenting. He didn’t look away from me. He didn’t even blink. His gaze was a challenge. Want some of this? Come and get it, then.
And when it came to a challenge, I’d never been one to back down. Not once in my life.
“Maybe I’ll, ah…” I started, but Buck was already rising from his bar stool, chuckling and shaking his head.
“I’m gonna head up to my room now, Rust. Behave yourself—you boys have fun.” He clapped me on the back a final time. There was still laughter in his throat as he headed to the elevators, calling a reminder over his shoulder. “And no booze!”