by Pam Godwin
As Ricky dozed with her, Martin warmed a can of broth on the portable stove and indulged in the pleasure of watching them.
Ricky’s long, hard body fit possessively around her petite form. His black hair made hers look brown where it caressed its way down her back, reaching toward her firm ass.
There was a caginess about her, too much hesitation in her movements and caution in her eyes. Even as she slept, she exhaled a whimper and squirmed uncomfortably. She wasn’t used to being handled so intimately.
After spending an entire night with her, he’d gained a lot of insight into her personality and circumstances.
Her tattoos gave her a bold, edgy look that stood out against her bronze skin, but she hadn’t sleeved her arms to honor a memory or express her individuality. Last night, she said it was her armor, to look the part of a hardened prisoner.
Beneath the artwork lurked a sweet, modest woman, one who shied away from attention and avoided chaos and drama. Hours of unguarded, drunken conversation had revealed a gentle soul. She adored children, teared up when she laughed, and dreamed of a simple, quiet life.
She was in the most violent prison in the nation, right here, only feet away, but it was so easy to see her in a classroom wearing a conservative dress, her hair gathered in a low bun, and pink lipstick on her beautiful, patient smile.
She didn’t belong here.
She did, however, look perfect in Ricky’s arms.
If she let him, Ricky would treat her like a queen.
Like Martin, Ricky had been sexually trained by Van. Whoever was lucky enough to share Ricky’s bed reaped the benefits of that training. And his expertise was only one of his strengths.
Ricky was, quite simply, the most selfless and dependable person Martin had ever met.
He trusted Ricky with his life. Those brown eyes were his home, and whenever they rested on him, he never felt more whole, more peaceful, or more healthy.
But there was something else there, too. A physical attraction that compelled him to stare too long, too hungrily. Seeing Ricky and Tula together only magnified his desire, doubled the temptation.
A deeply buried need pricked at the edges of his awareness, taunting him with what-ifs.
What if he gave in and finally tasted Ricky’s lips? What if he put his hands all over Tula’s delectable body? What if he buried his damn nightmares and joined them in bed?
It was only a matter of time before Ricky stripped Tula down to her skin and charmed his way between her legs. The thought hardened Martin’s cock and made his blood run hot.
When he imagined them in the throes of passion, he was right there with them, commanding their movements, devouring the union of their sinful bodies, and taking himself in hand, stroking, groaning, and coating their flesh with his come.
Ricky’s hard lines against her delicate curves, his muscled arms holding her carefully, protectively, and their expressions soft with sleep—they were painfully beautiful and mesmerizing in their stillness, like a sculptured masterpiece of the gods.
His attraction to them was visceral, but his desire went deeper. What he felt was the start of a much-needed inhale that pulled through his senses and sank into his chest. It was a starved breath that turned into a hypnotic hum as it hit his blood and fed his soul.
He could watch them forever—sleeping, talking, and Christ, he ached to watch them fuck.
Damn if that didn’t make him feel like a predator.
It made him feel like Jeff.
Jeff and his heavy fists, ruthless demands, and his taking, forcing, breaking…
His stomach hardened, killing the warmth in his groin.
If he had to do it again, he would. He would pick up that hammer and bash the motherfucker’s skull over and over and over.
He scrubbed his hands down his face and looked up.
Ricky’s gaze met his, catching and holding. He tucked Tula tight against his chest and ran his nose through her hair. Without looking away, he skimmed a hand down the back of her leg and tangled the other in her hair.
His brown eyes glimmered, teasing.
Come here, they said. I dare you.
Martin squinted sternly, his voice low. “Hungry?”
“Always.”
“Dinner.” He held up the warmed can of broth.
A groan vibrated from the beauty in Ricky’s arms. “I feel like death.”
Ricky grazed his lips along her slender neck. “If death looked as good as you, suicide would be all the rage.”
“Oh, God, stop.” She pushed against his chest and rolled to her back. “I need a shower.”
He and Ricky tensed.
Privacy didn’t exist in the communal showers. How did she wash without getting assaulted? Is that where Garra came in? Did he clear out the bathroom while she showered?
“Where’s Garra?” Martin shifted down the mattress, erasing the distance to hold out the broth to her.
“I relieved him from his job.” She sipped from the can and handed it back.
“Why?”
“I wanted to talk to you, get to know you. I couldn’t do that with him breathing down my neck.”
He detected truthfulness in her words, but not the whole truth.
“You gave up your protection.” He bent toward her, propping his forearm on his leg. “You think that was wise?”
Her face reddened. “I came here last night, hoping for friendship. Showing up with a guard doesn’t exactly engender good will. Was I naive to think I don’t need protection from you?”
“Yes. Extremely naive.” Ricky gripped her arm when she started to pull away. “You know nothing about us. We could’ve hurt you.”
“But you didn’t.” She yanked her arm free. “I trusted my gut, and it didn’t steer me wrong.”
He met Ricky’s eyes over her head. She preferred their protection over Garra’s, and they both knew why.
“How many times did Garra rape you?” The question burned like venom from his throat.
“Just the one time.” She struggled to look up, but after a moment, she summoned enough courage to meet his gaze. “I’m tired of being alone.”
They were leaving in three months. Where did that leave her?
Here. Alone. For three more years.
“You’re safe with us.” Ricky touched her chin, guiding her face to his. “But I’ll be honest. The prospect of you showering in a bathroom full of hard dicks is horrifying. We can only fend off so many men.”
“Oh, I…” She picked at a frayed hole in her jeans. “I always shower between three and four in the morning, when everyone’s asleep.”
Martin nodded, impressed with her adaptability. “We have a few hours to wait. How do you feel?”
“Better. I haven’t been that wasted since college.” Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t know whether to be mad that you got me drunk or thankful you stuck around to clean up the puke.” She slumped back on the bed. “How many secrets did you wheedle out of me?”
“Only your dirtiest, darkest ones.” Ricky leaned his back against the wall and lifted her denim-clad legs to rest across his lap.
“I’m serious. What did I tell you?”
He appreciated her directness and couldn’t think of a reason to lie to her. “You described your first few weeks in Jaulaso, how your relationship with Hector came to be, and why he made Garra your personal guard. You asked Hector to castrate him? That was a risky move.”
“I was desperate.” She stared down at her lap and bit her lip.
“We know you have three years left on your sentence.” He waited for her to look up. Then he let his eyes convey his sincerity. “You’re serving time for a crime we know you didn’t commit.”
“None of that is a secret.” She shrugged.
“You told us you lost your little sister.” Ricky traced a finger along her calf.
“Oh.” Her shoulders hunched forward. “I vaguely remember her crying last night. I dream about her sometimes and wake up thinking she’s here. As a
child. It’s fucked up.”
“What happened to her?”
“Wish I knew. The morning I was arrested, Vera called me. She was in trouble again…”
She talked through the events that led to her arrest, her sister’s possible connection to the cartel, the mistaken identity, and how the military tortured and framed her for drug smuggling.
“I’ve kept in touch with the detectives at the Ciudad Hueca police department.” She hooked an arm around her waist. “There have been no leads, no body, nothing. She just…vanished.”
Ricky gave him a knowing look.
Yeah, they knew a guy. Cole Hartman had a specialized skill set and a military background that connected him with a lot of unsavory people. He located Camila’s missing sister and rescued Kate when she was abducted. If anyone could find Vera Gomez, it was Cole Hartman.
But they couldn’t contact him. Not until they were released.
Matias Restrepo had warned them that all cell phones in Jaulaso were strictly controlled by La Rocha Cartel. The inmates tracked transmissions and monitored every phone call.
Cole Hartman was tied in with Restrepo Cartel, a sworn enemy of La Rocha. Calling him from any phone would expose their loyalties.
“Hector’s looking for her.” She folded her hands on her lap.
“Is that right?” He cocked his head, unable to decipher her stony expression. “What else does Hector do for you?”
“What does that mean?”
“Does he touch you?”
“No!” She gasped. “Never. He’s not like that.”
Something was off about their relationship. Why would Hector treat her so kindly? What did he gain from it?
“Does he talk to you about his human trafficking operation?” Ricky asked.
“Oh, my God.” She sat ramrod straight, her eyes igniting with fire. “You did say that last night. I thought I dreamed it.” Her hands balled into fists. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s true, Tula.” Ricky reached for her.
She jumped back and scrambled off the bed.
“He’s kidnapping women and children in the U.S.” Martin moved to the edge of the mattress, prepared to grab her if she went for the door. “He smuggles them across the border and sells them as slaves. Thousands of children.”
“He wouldn’t do that.” She snatched the toothbrush he’d brought from her cell and moved to the sink. “I sit in all his meetings. I would’ve heard them discussing it.” She tackled her teeth in a frenzy, scrubbing and spitting. “I was just like you before I met him. His reputation terrified me, but I was wrong about him. He’s a good man.”
“By good man, you mean nine levels of vicious, terror-reigning, mass-murdering tyranny.”
“No.” She spat into the sink.
“He’s a cartel boss.”
“That’s a job title, not a character trait.”
Hard to argue that. Matias Restrepo actively hunted down and decimated slave operations across Latin America, and he was the leader of the biggest cartel in Colombia.
Hector La Rocha, however, did nothing of the sort.
Their vigilante group, the Freedom Fighters, had been collecting evidence against him for years. But he couldn’t share that with her without revealing his connections.
“Are you procesados?” She leaned a hip against the sink and crossed her arms. “Or sentenciados?”
Under the Mexican Constitution, pretrial defendants whose cases were still in process—procesados—were to be housed separately from prisoners who were serving sentences—sentenciados.
The same Constitution prohibited the blending of male and female prisoners in the same facility.
Jaulaso was one of several cartel-controlled prisons that gave the Constitution the middle finger.
“We’re still in process.” He glanced at Ricky and returned to her. “Why?”
“You’ll be charged within four months. That’s the law. And they’ll do it without your presence in court, even if you have a good attorney.”
“Is that what happened to you?” Ricky stroked his jaw, his attention fully engaged.
“Yeah.”
They didn’t need an attorney. They had the Mexican government and a resourceful cartel boss on their side.
“How do you want to do your time?” She ran a hand through her hair. “Do you want the welcoming committee to extort a pound of flesh from your bodies every day? Or do you want to be one of the guys in the welcoming committee?”
“I think,” Ricky said, “I’ll just pass my time making macaroni necklaces for my eight kiddos at home.”
Her mouth dropped open.
“Ricky.” Martin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Neither of us has kids, nor do we have any desire to be involved in cartel politics and disputes.” He met her eyes. “That’s what you’re suggesting, yeah? You want us to work for La Rocha?”
“You either work for them or against them.”
“Did Hector send you to us with that sales pitch?” He glared at her. “Or are you just looking out for us as a friend?”
Her spine straightened. “Hector doesn’t trust you, and it sounds like that goes both ways. Look…” She lowered onto the bed beside him, her expression open and pleading. “I don’t condone the violence, and if I could quietly do my time and stay away from all of it, I would. But that’s not an option in Jaulaso. Trust me on this.”
He trusted her motivations, but she wasn’t telling them everything.
“What does he know about us?” Ricky clenched his teeth.
“Nothing. That’s the problem.” She rolled her bottom lip between her fingers. “Why were your identities wiped?”
Ah, so Hector La Rocha had them investigated.
He and Ricky didn’t have living relatives and were never reported as missing persons. They were, however, responsible for the murders of some very bad people—rapists, slave traders, and over the last two years, they’d taken out several big players in La Rocha Cartel.
It was paramount that Hector didn’t discover the latter.
They could’ve entered the prison system with fake identities, but that wouldn’t have stopped a skilled investigator from linking them to their real names. So they took the safest route and had Cole Hartman erase them from existence. Good thing, too.
“We have enemies from a previous life.” The rehearsed lie rolled off Ricky’s tongue. “That’s none of Hector’s business.”
She blew out a heavy sigh. “I’m trying to protect you.”
“From Hector?” Martin’s neck stiffened.
“From everyone.”
“Tula.” Ricky crooked a finger. “Come here.”
Her throat bounced with a swallow, and she shook her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
The subtle squeeze of her thighs contradicted her words.
If he had to guess, she was attracted to Ricky, but she feared that attraction.
Shifting toward her, he rested his fingers on the back of her neck and guided her gaze to his. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
She cut her eyes to Ricky and back to him. “He’s going to try to kiss me.”
“There’s no trying involved.” Ricky stretched his legs across the bed and reclined against the wall, all lean muscle and confident male.
“And?” He ghosted the backs of his fingers down the curve of her neck, making her shiver.
“We just met yesterday. I don’t know either of you, and I never kiss on the first date.”
Fucking hell, this woman. She was such a precious rarity, so guileless and straightforward. His chest squeezed at the thought of someone as innocent as her being locked up in this hell for five years. It was fucking unfair.
“I held your hair while you puked last night,” Ricky said. “Pretty sure that skips like five dates.”
She didn’t look convinced.
Martin didn’t want to force the issue, but the urgency of a three-month timeline pressed down upon hi
m.
If they couldn’t seal a kiss with this girl, there was no way they would convince her to do anything else, like steal information from Hector.
They needed her trust because right now, she was the only angle they had.
“Tula.” Martin put his face in hers. “Give that man your mouth. Swear to God, it’ll be the best kiss you’ve ever had.”
Her breath hitched. “You know that from experience.”
“I know him.” He didn’t look at Ricky, but those dark eyes burned a trail of heat across his skin.
Her eyes flashed. “You kiss him. If you do it, I will.”
A shifting sensation squeezed a sharp pang near his heart. Nerve endings tingled along his thighs, and the sudden acceleration of his pulse sent a surge of blood to his groin.
As his body revved up, his mind bristled at her words, making his tone sound meaner than he intended. “That’s not how I operate.”
“I knew it. You’re one of those.” She studied her fingernails, baiting him.
“Finish that thought, Tula.”
If she made a homophobic comment, he would bend her over his knee and redden her ass.
“I’ve dated guys like you.” She pushed back her shoulders. “Bossy. Controlling. Always has the last word.”
He laughed in surprise. “Your point?”
“The thought of kissing him doesn’t repulse you. What raises your hackles is someone telling you to do it.”
The accuracy of her words hit him directly in the stomach.
He didn’t take orders from anyone. Never again.
Memories—a year’s worth of sick, brutal memories—unfurled from a desolate place in his mind. He was no different than the son of a bitch he’d killed so brutally.
The pitch-black fantasies he’d kept locked down erupted all at once, spilling from his subconscious in ribbons of depravity.
Restraining, choking, whipping, forcing, using, ripping open, bleeding out, hard and ruthless, unsafe and unwilling, no hole left unpunished—everything Jeff had done to him was exactly what he craved to do to Ricky and Tula.
Violent sex was all he knew, and it aroused him so deeply it terrified him.
A hand rested on his shoulder, warm and familiar. He turned toward Ricky, and their eyes met and held.