by J. D. Mason
He walked away from that fool, leaving him with something to chew on. The Frank Rosses of the world were incidentals. Most of the time, Jordan barely knew they existed. But this one had gotten up in his face. He’d called Jordan to the center of the ring, and thrown the first punch. Either Lonnie had given him one hell of a pep talk or a big bite of that delicious ass of hers, because he was definitely not thinking with the head on his shoulders.
Just a Hustler in Spite of Myself
Edgar was old enough to be her grandfather, and Bridgette, his wife, was a cokehead, slave to his money and his will. He sipped on brandy, and sat at the foot of their bed, with his shirt unbuttoned, and the soft puddle of what used to be his cock lying limp in his lap as he watched another man fuck his young wife.
“You watching, Daddy?” she purred, bracing herself on all fours while the other man drove a dick as long as Edgar’s arm into the pink, soft, sweet folds of what he knew was the best pussy in the whole state of Texas.
Her eyes rolled in the back of her head, Bridgette raked her moist tongue across her pretty pink lips, and she moaned.
“I’m watching, sugar,” he said enviously. “Make it good.”
He loved them young, not jail-bait young, but Edgar had a thing for firm, ripe tits, a plump, springy ass, tight enough that you could bounce a quarter off of it. But as much as he loved these things, the best he could do was to taste them, to kiss them. He couldn’t get hard anymore. And on those rare times that he did, Edgar’s meager erection would fall apart as soon as the thought of putting it inside a woman threatened to become real.
He didn’t even know this man’s name. He was a valet. A damn valet, and she decided that she wanted him. So, Edgar let her bring him home, but only if he could watch. The tall, slender man was even younger than she was, with an athletic build, smooth, dark skin, and enviable skills. As he pushed into her from behind, he leaned over her, cupped the two teardrop-shaped orbs hanging from her chest, and rolled pink nipples between his thumb and index finger until they sprung to life and grew right in front of Edgar’s eyes, like magic.
Bridgette’s tousled blond hair cascaded over her face, but she still managed to peek through the strands and gaze deep into Edgar’s eyes with hypnotic brown eyes. The other man reached up and slipped a long finger in between her beautiful lips, which she eagerly wrapped around it, and made love to it with her tongue.
“Yesssss,” she hissed, as he drove into her, with long, slow, even strokes.
Edgar sipped on his brandy, and savored the kissing sounds that their bodies made together. Her moans were like music to his ears, and before long, Bridgette forgot all about her husband watching her. Her lover’s moans mixed with hers, and there were times when Edgar was so caught up in the moment that he heard the sound of his own voice erupting from deep in the back of his throat, escaping into the air and mixing with theirs.
This was the price he paid for loving young women. Age wasn’t kind and didn’t give a damn how much money he had. But she gave a damn. Edgar let her spend his money like there was no end to it, and in return, she would be another man’s porn star, another man’s whore and slut. But Edgar—he could watch. Neither of the young people noticed when he exited the room. Edgar quietly left them to their pleasures, and took his brandy with him downstairs to the living room. An hour later, he heard the front door open and close. Bridgette had no doubt been fucked into a stupor and was fast asleep and reeking of the smell of that sonofabitch who’d just left.
* * *
Lonnie Adebayo knew who he was. Every fiber in his body screamed that to him the moment their eyes met in that restaurant earlier that day. It wasn’t just a casual glance across the room. The expression on her face, the way she held that look of hers to his, had said it all. But how did she know him? And what was it that she thought she knew about him? Of course, he’d felt silly for getting so shaken by this. After all, who was Edgar Beckman except an impotent old man and retired lawyer? He was no one, and Miss Adebayo had better figure that out, rather than waste any of her precious talents for fact-finding on him.
The ringing of his phone annoyed him. Whoever was calling was calling so late that it was disrespectful. He glanced at the number, and rolled his eyes. “Yes, Jordan.”
Edgar didn’t bother trying to hide the irritability in his voice, but Jordan glossed over it. “Frank Ross asked me to meet him today.”
Edgar rubbed sleep burning his eyes. “And did you?” he asked, unconcerned.
“I did.”
“And?”
“And it’s just like I thought. He’s a nobody, trying to get something to make him somebody.”
“So, there you have it,” Edger said with a sigh.
“I warned him to walk away.”
“Do you think that he will?”
“I don’t think he’s bright enough to.”
“And you’re calling me this late because…?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Edgar. Were you busy fucking the brains out of that young wife of yours?” he asked sarcastically.
“Little pricks grow into big pricks, I see,” Edgar said coldly.
“Frank Ross mentioned something about going to the press.”
“Let him go,” he said hoarsely. It was late, and Edgar was tired, and nursing a decent buzz and wounded ego.
“The last thing I need right now is any kind of controversy in the middle of this Anton takeover. Maybe he won’t make a ripple in the media, but then again, what if he does?”
“You said yourself that he’s a nobody, Jordan. Mr. Nobody comes out of nowhere and claims to have the same sperm donor as you, who happens to be someone else besides Gatewood, so what? They’ll think he’s a crackpot.”
“But it’ll still be news, crackpot or not.”
“So, what are you asking, son?” he asked irritably.
Jordan was getting a little too used to asking for favors from Edgar. He was a big boy now, old enough to handle his own shit. Jordan was taking liberties where favors had once been the norm, and Edgar was beginning to tire from it.
“I need you to find me something that’ll shut him up.”
“Why do you need me for that? Can’t you find something on him yourself?”
Jordan was silent on the other end of the phone for several beats before finally responding. “You make it sound like I’m overstepping my bounds, taking advantage of a friendship.”
“Yes. I’d say so.”
“But isn’t that what this friendship is built on, Edgar? You scratch my back, and…”
There it was. Edgar had made mistakes with Jordan. He’d gotten too close, shared too much, let his guard down, thinking that that boy would always be beholden to a sense of loyalty and respect to Edgar by virtue of the friendship he’d had with his father, and because Edgar had been there for all of them, after Julian’s death.
“I can’t believe you’re going there,” he said hesitantly.
“I can’t believe you’re making me go there.”
Edgar paused, rubbed his eyes again, and finished the brandy in his glass in one gulp. “What do you want, Jordan?”
“Nothing hard, Edgar. Frank Ross looked like a man with a lot on his mind. He claimed that he didn’t come to me because of Lonnie, which means that something else drove him to me. I need to know what that is.”
“And what if it’s nothing more than pure and simple greed?” Edgar asked, rubbing his burning eyes.
“I’ve seen greedy. This man was desperate.”
Jordan had resources. He could’ve hired a private detective to find dirt on this Ross fellow. Jordan was flexing, reminding Edgar who had the bigger muscles, and tonight, maybe because of the booze, or maybe it was watching his wife get her rocks off with Mandingo—he hated Jordan for it.
“I’ll see what I can find,” Edgar said wearily. Jordan hung up first, without so much as a thank you.
His bedroom smelled like sex. Edgar didn’t have to actually smell it to know it. He dragged his h
eavy, tired, dangerously-close-to-eighty-year-old body up the stairs, and went down the hall opposite of where Bridgette slept. He was too old for all of this, his life. Edgar was too old for a thirty-year-old wife, and for getting mixed up with the likes of Miss Adebayo, who was proving to be much more of a factor than he ever thought she could be. And he was far too old to be Jordan Gatewood’s errand boy.
Don’t Wanna Be Your Girlfriend
“It was a freak accident, really,” Phillip explained in that British, pompous demeanor of his. Leaning back on the sofa at the loft after lunch, he crossed his sockless ankle over his knee, and explained to Lonnie how he’d managed to find a will that no one even knew existed. “A friend of mine is just naturally curious,” he continued.
Lonnie, wearing sweats and an oversized T-shirt, sat next to him with her legs crossed.
“The topic of Julian and Desi and all that nonsense came up in the course of casual conversation. She found it fascinating, the whole bit about her going to prison for murdering him, and that his son, who now ran the company, wasn’t really his son.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Confounded by the gossip,” he said, frowning. “I don’t know, but a few weeks later, he gave me a call.”
Lonnie sat up. “He? I thought you said it was a woman?”
Phillip raised a brow. “Did I? Of course I didn’t.”
Lonnie wasn’t a fool. She’d made her living on details. Phillip had distinctly said “she” when he first mentioned his friend, which indicated to her that he was making up this story of how he came by this will on the spot. “Go on.”
“Anyway, she called a few weeks later, with some fascinating news about a discovery he’d made pertaining to Sir Julian’s will. There were two probate records of the document recorded on two different dates. Curious,” he said, intensely, reminding her of Sherlock Holmes or somebody. “So, she dug a little deeper, one thing led to another, and here you have it.” He motioned to the will lying on her coffee table.
“Can I keep it?”
He smiled and patted her cheek. “Dear Lonnie,” he said, smiling. “Of course. Why do you think I flew all the way out here?”
Lonnie bit down on her bottom lip before asking the million-dollar question. “How do you know it’s real?”
Phillip looked at the document on the table, and shrugged. “How do you know it’s not?”
* * *
Lonnie had taken the elevator down to the lobby on her way out, and she saw Jordan leaning against his car parked out front on the other side of the secured door. How the hell did he know where she lived? She stopped. The thought raced across her mind to run back upstairs and hide in her apartment, but she quickly dismissed it. It was broad daylight. The concierge was posted a safe distance inside the door, and thanks to Phillip, Lonnie had more ammunition against Jordan Gatewood than she knew what to do with.
She walked out and stopped a few feet in front of him.
“I’d ask you to take a ride with me, but I know I’d just be wasting my breath,” he said.
“I guess I should’ve known that you’d find me eventually,” she said.
He paused and considered her for a few moments before finally answering her. “This whole thing is getting ridiculous, Lonnie. You’ve got to know that,” he said earnestly. “Frank Ross is a joke. He’s a damn puppy dog afraid of his own damn shadow, and you’ve got no business dragging him into our mess.”
Lonnie rolled her eyes. “First of all, I didn’t drag him into anything. I asked him if he wanted to come along for the ride, and left it up to him.”
“And that’s your big plan?” Jordan asked, amused. “You came back here, to face me, waving Ross’s black ass in front of my face like I’m supposed to snarl and foam at the mouth and trip like some rabid dog?” He laughed. “He doesn’t scare me and neither does this weak scheme of yours, Lonnie. I mean, honestly, I expected more.”
More. Lonnie had a ticking time bomb in her purse. She had the truth that had been kept hidden all these years. Lonnie felt a smile start to creep across her lips. Jordan obviously didn’t like the looks of it.
“I’ll tell you what I told him. Walk away, honey.” Jordan’s tone dripped with sincerity. His eyes bled the stuff. “I don’t have time for this. Frank doesn’t have the stomach for it, and you—” He shook his head, and looked away.
“Now that’s a threat of enormous proportions if I ever heard one,” Lonnie spoke up and said.
“I didn’t come here to threaten you. Baby, I have no intentions of ever hurting you again. I went too far, Lonnie, I know, but when I saw that you were alive—Getting back at me isn’t worth putting your life on hold for. You have always been and are still a gorgeous woman, and there’s something more important waiting for you out there than this bullshit you and I are entangled in.”
Lonnie took a fearless step toward him. “No, you did not just say that.” She pushed her hair back from the scarred side of her face, and tucked it behind her ear. “Don’t you dare turn away,” she warned, catching him averting his gaze. “Eighty-five percent of my vision is gone in this eye,” she angrily explained. “Six teeth in my mouth aren’t mine, Jordan. I have a metal rod in my hip, and chances are I couldn’t have a baby even if I wanted one. So don’t you dare stand there looking like you’ve just walked off from a cover shoot with GQ magazine and tell me that I need to forget what happened and get on with the joyous life that’s waiting for me! Not when I still wake up in the middle of the night, just in time to see your big-ass foot coming out of nowhere and landing on my face. Any chance I had of finding true love was left on the floor of that house that night! There is no happy ending here for me, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you squeak by and get to ride off into the sunset like a hero after the shit you did to me!” Lonnie was crying. God! When did she start crying?
Jordan moved so fast she didn’t have time to react. He wrapped one strong arm around her waist, and pulled her in to his chest, grabbed hold of her chin, pulled her face to his, and pressed his lips hard against hers.
“Feel that! Remember that!” he said passionately, holding on tightly to her despite her struggles. “That’s what we lost, Lonnie! That’s what we both lost! I wanted you then, and if I knew you’d take me now, I’d—”
Lonnie pushed away from him in disgust, spat, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Jordan turned, quickly climbed into his car, and peeled off from the curb with squealing tires.
“Are you alright, Miss?” the concierge asked, concerned, rushing from inside the building.
Lonnie was shaken, but she nodded. “Yes, I’m fine,” she said, breathless and trembling.
“Are you sure? I can call the police.”
She shook her head. No, the police wouldn’t know what to do with this. She didn’t know what to do with it. This was some low-down-dirty-funky shit right here. “It’s alright,” she said, still stunned by the fact that he’d not only put his hands on her, but his mouth. “I’m fine. Thank you,” she said, starting to walk away.
The smell of him made her sick to her stomach. Lonnie’s head was spinning from physical contact with Jordan. She made it to the parking garage, stumbled against her car, and drank in buckets of air to calm the wave of nausea washing over her. Without thinking, she raked her tongue across her lips, and she tasted Jordan. Lonnie closed her eyes, and released a sound akin to a whimper, and a moan. He tasted the same. Jesus! He tasted just like she’d remembered, and Lonnie cursed herself for the rush of emotion coursing through her.
Gimme Some. Some. Some.
Frank didn’t need this shit now. He was back in Paris, but the last person he expected to see show up in the middle of the night at his door was Colette, eyes wide, bloodshot, and looking like they were going to pop out of her head. Her short, black cropped hair was wild on her head.
“I need to sleep, Frank,” she said frantically. Colette paced back and forth in his small living room like a caged animal. “I can’t sleep, baby
. I don’t know—my nerves. My nerves are shot, and that place is just getting to me. It’s like I always think they’re watching me or talking about me behind my back, like they know, Frank.” Tears flooded her eyes. “Oh, God! Please don’t let them know!” Colette covered her eyes with her hands. “Please! Please! Please!”
He went to her, and pulled her over to the sofa to sit next to him. “What the fuck are you doing, baby?”
She was high, and if she wasn’t high, that wasn’t good either. Colette was falling apart, literally before his eyes, and Frank was feeling the pressure of her pulling him apart too. They’d never been like this before. Frank and Colette were cops, and even a non cop had more cool than either one of them had.
“You shouldn’t have come,” he blurted out. “You shouldn’t be here.”
She looked at him like he was crazy. “You can’t tell me that. I’m here because I need you right now, Frank. You’ve got me sitting back in Cotton on a fire pit, all by myself, waiting for them to find out what we did and drop the shit load of bad news all over my ass.”
He was tired. Frank was already stressed, and her being here was making him start to come apart. Frank was starting to accept the truth about Colette. He’d always known it, but he’d always felt responsible, even protective of her in some strange way. But looking at her now, he knew that if it weren’t for her, he wouldn’t be in this mess. If she hadn’t agreed to meet those men at the river—if she hadn’t shot first—he would still have his life. It wasn’t much, but it was his, and he’d be where he should’ve been, back home in Cotton, driving his squad car, protecting and serving, and—