by Pam Godwin
But there were too many men who outweighed him. He was overpowered.
The moment he felt greasy fingers separate his buttocks and expose his anus, he knew it was over.
Countless hands prevented him from moving. Sweltering breaths pommeled his neck and back.
He closed his eyes and tried to squeeze his glutes together, fighting the vise of fingers between his buttocks.
The stab of hard flesh pressed against his opening.
No, no, no.
He dug deep and summoned another surge of strength. If he could…just…pull…his legs free—
A gunshot rang out, reverberating in his ears and ricocheting through his chest.
Stunned silence gripped the stairwell for a millisecond. Then chaos broke loose.
The men around him flew to their feet, and the weight on his back tumbled off. The grizzly man’s head landed next to his, and he came face to face with a bullet hole. Right through the temple.
His heartbeat convulsed, thudding slowly, thickly through his veins before speeding up and losing control.
“Don’t fucking move,” Tula screamed.
She stood above him, eyes wild as she waved a gun at the crowd.
Oh, God. Oh, fuck. What had she done?
She shot one of them. She fucking killed a cartel soldier in front of his army.
Weapons appeared in every hand, all of them aimed at her.
He yanked up his pants as he rose in front of her, blocking her body from the Uzis trained in her direction.
She hadn’t thought this through. There wasn’t a man in this stairwell who would let her walk away after interfering in their business and killing one of their own.
He pressed in and circled his arms around her back, unable to shield her from all sides. He didn’t obstruct her ability to fire her gun, but she would only get off one round before they were both dead.
His pulse thundered. Then it redoubled as Martin appeared behind her, with his chest against her back.
With a grimace, Martin blinked through the pools of crimson in his eyes. Blood gushed from everywhere, coating his hair, face, mouth, and chest. Fucking hell, he looked horrible.
But he was alive. For now.
The prisoners stood in a stand-off with their fingers all over the fucking triggers. As soon as the first shot fired, every gun would go off. It only took one dumbass to sneeze or twitch, and the entire stairwell would light up like fireworks.
He met Martin’s blood-drenched eyes, and his heart sank with dread. They weren’t going to survive this.
“Lower your weapons,” someone said calmly in Spanish.
Ricky turned his neck toward the unfamiliar voice.
The sea of inmates parted on the stairs, and Hector La Rocha stood at the bottom, staring up at the crowd.
Then one by one, every gun descended, dropping out of view and tucking into waistbands, including Tula’s.
Heads bowed in respect, and tense silence crept in.
Garra leaned against the wall behind Hector, his posture deceptively casual. Ricky didn’t miss the small gun tucked in the curl of his fingers. Or the bandage taped across his broken nose.
Hector clasped his hands behind his back and swept his gaze over his soldiers.
He reminded Ricky of Fred Rogers from Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. It wasn’t just the thin cardigan, buttoned-down shirt, silver-streaked black hair, and warm expression. There was a gentle frailness about him, a sense of unruffled patience in his demeanor.
Was it a ruse? Or was the cartel boss just old and tired?
“You.” Hector looked at one of the inmates on the stairs as if randomly calling him out. “Tell me why guns were aimed at Petula.”
“She shot Trog, boss.” The man pointed at the dead body. “This wasn’t her business and—”
“It is her business,” Hector said softly. “Trog has been stealing cocaine from my supplies, and I told Petula to deal with it.”
A wave of exhales rippled through the room.
Was that true? Ricky didn’t think so.
Hector La Rocha hadn’t interfered to save Martin or Ricky. Hell, he wouldn’t even look at them. They refused to join him, and that made them the enemy.
No, Hector had come here for Tula, to protect her and keep her safe.
“Get rid of this and move along.” Hector gestured at the dead man.
A whirlwind of motion erupted around him. Within seconds, Trog’s body was dragged away, and every prisoner vacated the stairwell.
Garra pushed away from the wall to leave, but Hector didn’t move.
Tula gripped Ricky’s bicep as she wriggled out from between him and Martin. Her gaze went to Hector, and they stared at each for an eternity.
Whatever passed between them didn’t end with a word, an expression, or a nod. Hector simply turned away and vanished around the corner with Garra on his heels.
She spun toward Martin and Ricky and gave them both a quick once-over. Her features looked molded in plastic, unmoving and lifeless, as if she’d sent her emotions far below the surface.
“Can you walk?” she asked Martin.
“Yeah.”
“Follow me.” She headed down toward the ground floor.
Where was she going? Their cell was upstairs.
Ricky lunged after her and grasped her arm, yanking her around. “Wrong way. We need to get Martin—”
Martin swayed, and his knees started to buckle.
“Shit.” Ricky caught him before he fell down the stairs.
Two-hundred pounds of muscle and dead weight strained Ricky’s exhausted, battered body as he leaned Martin against the wall.
Her expressionless mask cracked, releasing a well of tears in her eyes. She quickly wiped it away and pushed back her shoulders.
“I need to…” She coughed to clear her trembling in her voice. “I need to get you both into the showers, wash off the blood and the—”
Her gaze slipped to Ricky’s backside and darted away.
“Hey.” He held Martin against the wall with one hand and used the other to guide her face to his. “He didn’t rape me.”
Her eyes widened in disbelief. “He didn’t?”
“No, baby. You put that bullet in his head just in time.”
Her hand dropped to the railing, bracing her upper body as she sucked in gulps of air.
Beside him, Martin let his head fall back against the wall.
“I thought…” She raked her fingers through her hair and composed herself. “God, that’s such a relief.” Her eyes flitted to Martin. “I need to get you under the water. Really we all need showers since we’ll be holed up in your room until you’re healed.”
“We can’t fend off another attack right now.”
“No one will bother us in the bathroom.”
“You don’t know that.” Martin slurred past swollen lips.
“After what just happened…” She rubbed her head and whispered under her breath, “Hector never gets involved in fights. By defending me the way he did, he just established my position in the cartel.”
“What does that mean?” Ricky asked.
“No one will mess with me for a while. Maybe not ever. And lucky for you, whenever you’re with me, no one will fuck with you, either.”
Ricky looked at Martin, and his friend gave a stiff nod.
Two hours later, Tula trudged to the sink in their private cell and rinsed out a bloody towel. Her neck ached from bending over, and exhaustion weighed down her bones.
She’d done what she could for the gruesome gash on Martin’s head. It had bled so damn much—through his shower, during the walk back to his cell, and the entire thirty minutes it took her to stitch it closed.
His skull had been slammed into a concrete wall. At least, that was what he thought had happened. He was struggling to focus. Hell, he was doing well enough to stay conscious.
Given his dilated pupils and staggering gait through the halls, she worried he had a concussion. Didn’t th
at mean he needed to stay awake? Or was that a myth? She wasn’t taking any chances.
She’d cleaned and stitched the laceration on his head the best she could. She didn’t know what else to do. It would leave a thick scar along his hairline, but at least the bleeding had stopped.
It could’ve been worse.
Her mind rewound the scene in the stairwell, shoving her in and out of horrifying moments. She’d watched a dozen men beat Martin into a bloody pulp and listened to Ricky’s agonized grunts as he fought off violent, raping men. She’d wanted to die right then and there and take every single one of those bastards with her.
A torrent of grief rose through her chest and seared the back of her throat. She gripped the edge of the sink and tried to choke down the emotion, but she couldn’t. She’d been holding it in for hours.
What if she hadn’t been able to bribe the men on the stairs to let her pass? What if she’d missed and shot Ricky in the head instead?
Her terror had been so all-consuming it had rattled her grip on the gun as she pulled the trigger.
“I could’ve missed.” A sob tore from her throat, and she clapped a hand over her mouth, knowing better than to cry in this unforgiving place.
“Tula.” Ricky’s arms surrounded her, and his shirtless chest blanketed her in heat. “What’s wrong?”
“I could’ve shot you.”
“You didn’t.” He lifted her, cradling her body against him as he sat on the bed. “You had perfect aim.”
Only because she’d been standing three feet away. A blind person would’ve hit that target.
“I don’t cry.” She wiped the back of her hand across her damp cheeks and pulled herself together. “Not since I’ve been here. I hate that I feel so weak right now.”
“You cried the night you were drunk, and you’re anything but weak. You saved my ass. Literally.”
More tears hit her eyes, and she buried her face in the warm, smooth skin on his shoulder. “I can’t believe I drunk-cried.”
“You were so beautiful that night.” He lifted her chin with a knuckle and kissed the wetness on her cheeks. “Just like now.”
She melted against him, forehead to forehead, nose to nose. “Thank you.”
“Thank you for helping us.” Another kiss. “How did you get past the men at the bottom of the stairs?”
“I traded my gun.”
“You what?” He jerked back and swept his hands around her waistband, searching in disbelief. “You used it when you shot Trog.”
“That was the deal I made. If they let me by with it, they could have it after the fight. They came to the bathroom when you were helping Martin into the shower.” She shrugged stiffly. “I passed it off to them when you weren’t looking.”
“Goddammit, Tula.” His nostrils flared. “I wish you hadn’t done that.”
It wasn’t ideal. Weapons were the most valuable commodity in Jaulaso, and a gun was worth a lot more than the price of a toll. Hector had given her that pistol two years ago, and even though he had an arsenal in his cell, she wouldn’t ask for another one.
She was already indebted to him up to her eyeballs. After he lied for her in the stairwell, she owed him more than her life. Now she owed him the lives of Martin and Ricky. She would never be able to settle that debt.
“Rumor is you’re good with a knife.” Ricky squinted at her. “Where is this knife they speak of?”
“I exchanged it a week ago.”
“For what?”
He was going to be angry. It was already bubbling in those milk-chocolate eyes as he anticipated her response.
She blew out a breath and patted the cotton pants on his legs beneath her.
“You traded your knife for our clothes?” The cords in his neck went taut, and his jaw turned to granite.
Yep, he was pissed.
She had no weapons left, but after the boon Hector had given her today, maybe she wouldn’t need any.
“Yes, your clothes,” she said. “And your razor, toothbrush, blankets… It bought all the supplies I didn’t already have.” She shoved at his chest. “You’re welcome.”
He pulled her close and ran his nose through her hair. “Thank you.”
With a satisfied sigh, she peered over his shoulder to check on Martin.
He lay on his side, breathing evenly, the swollen skin around his closed eyes already darkening with bruises. He always looked so badass after a fight, all banged up on the surface while his intimidating fuck-off demeanor still vibrated underneath. Even with his eyes closed, she would think twice before creeping up on him.
Wait. Was he asleep?
“Martin!”
“I’m awake.” He rolled to his back and hissed in pain. “Are you wet?”
“What?” She flinched.
“He’s asking about your clothes.” Ricky twisted to glance at Martin behind him. “She’s soaked.”
That sounded so dirty her belly fluttered with heat.
The three of them had showered together. With the guys naked and the bathroom in constant use by other inmates, she’d left on her bra and undies.
The whole ordeal had lasted less than three minutes. There had been nothing tantalizing about scrubbing blood out of Martin’s hair while he knelt beneath the spray of water and fought to remain conscious.
She’d kept her eyes above their waists, and as far as she knew, they hadn’t stolen glances at her half-naked body. They’d been too busy trying to get through the shower as quickly as possible without an altercation.
The inmates who had passed in and out of the bathroom had stared menacingly and made threatening comments. Nothing unusual about that. But no one had bothered them.
After the shower, she’d hurriedly yanked on her clothes over soggy underwear and had been itchy and wet ever since.
“Take off your clothes and get into bed.” Martin’s head lolled toward her.
Despite the injuries that crisscrossed his face, his eyes glinted with unbending authority.
She sucked in a breath.
Normally, when she needed to dress or use the toilet, they stepped into the hall and gave her privacy. Asking them to do that now would be ridiculous, and honestly, she should’ve dropped the timid act days ago.
How many prisoners shared a bed with a woman for seven nights without molesting or attacking her while she slept?
She’d bet her life that Martin and Ricky were the only two in Jaulaso. They respected her modesty and had been nothing but patient with her.
Maybe she didn’t trust their accusations against Hector, but she one-hundred-percent trusted them with her body.
“If I lie down with you…” She crawled off Ricky’s lap and knelt beside Martin, inspecting his eyes. Still dilated. “You can’t fall asleep.”
“You’ll keep me awake.” He lifted the blanket beside him in invitation.
What an invitation. Beneath the covers, he wore only a tight pair of black briefs. The sight of his chiseled body and all its divinity drove her insane.
When her gaze returned to his, he used his tongue to trail an unspoken command across his lips.
Come here and taste.
Her body reacted.
Heated.
Throbbed.
Liquefied.
Movement sounded behind her. Then the light bulb went dark, leaving only the dancing flame of the candle.
She turned, and holy shit, if there was ever a time to swoon, this was it.
Her eyes feasted on Ricky’s masculinity, indulging in every inch of his sharply honed anatomy.
He’d stripped to his boxers, revealing a body that was sculpted so flawlessly not even Michelangelo could recreate it.
Her brain stopped working as she drank in the shadowscape of his square-cut jawline, the thick column of his neck, and every beckoning ridge and valley that shaped his torso.
Six feet of ripped muscle towered over her. Not a pinch of fat or a single imperfection. She knew those bulging biceps delivered bone-crushing str
ikes. His powerful legs carried two-hundred pounds of strength.
And the hard outline in his underwear told her how badly he wanted her.
Little tight pulses gathered between her legs. Her thighs quivered, and her inner muscles clenched with empty spasms, aching for penetration, needing him and Martin, both at the same time.
Good God, she had to physically shake herself out of a building orgasm.
“You can close your mouth,” Ricky rasped.
She snapped her jaw shut and dropped from her knees to her hip on the bed. “Not fair.”
“What’s not fair?” He sat beside her and played with the ends of her hair.
“You. Him.” She peered at Martin. “You look like models, fight like Gladiators, kiss like porn stars—”
“Porn stars?” Ricky arched a dark eyebrow.
“I don’t know. That’s what I see when I replay it in my head.”
He trapped a smile between his teeth. “Continue. Please.”
Why not? She was on a roll.
“You have all the confidence, none of the fat, and you smell like the best sex I’ve never had.” She flopped back on the mattress beside Martin and stared at a patch of mildew in the ceiling. “I feel like a whimpering virgin around you guys because I… I’ve never…”
Ricky stretched out beside her, sandwiching her in between him and Martin. “You’ve never…?”
“I’ve never been with someone like you. Either of you. I’ve certainly never dated more than one man at a time, and the ones I’ve been with… They were nice, normal, average. Average bodies. Average jobs. Average conversations.”
“They sound horribly boring,” Ricky said. “Bet they were average in bed, too.”
“I was okay with that.” She closed her eyes. “I wanted normal and quiet. I loved my average life.”
“And now?”
She wanted a life. With them in it. She wanted them so badly it scared her. “You’re way out of my league.”
Their silence vibrated against her, prompting her to open her eyes.
“Bullshit.” Ricky glowered down at her, his dark, beautiful expression twisting in outrage. “Have you looked in the fucking mirror?”
She didn’t have a complex about the way she looked. She had a small chest, but it never bothered her. Two years of poor nutrition had eaten away her figure and dulled the shine from her hair, but she was still pretty.