“You…you…?” I’m too flabbergasted to even repeat the words that came out of his mouth or believe my husband took a life-changing test he didn’t study for before he was even done with his second year of classes.
But he seems to get the gist of what I’m trying to ask. “Well, you were scheduled to work all week. And your parents took Lil’ Curt with them to visit your brother. Figured why not?”
I open my mouth to tell him all the reasons why not. But then I remember who we are. Family 300, all the way, through and through.
“Okay,” I say on a sigh. “This is okay. Whatever happens it’s okay. We’re going to be okay.”
Woods rubs the back of his neck with a chagrined smile. “I’m glad you feel that way, Doc, because…I got a 267.”
I’m pretty sure even the people on the bottom floor of the hospital can hear my happy scream all the way on the top.
Just in case you’re not a subscriber to the Miserable Medical Student Times, 267 is pretty much the best score you can get without possible match residencies flagging you for maybe being too academically advanced to work well with patients.
This score, along with the notoriety our award-winning show has brought him, means when it comes time to be matched with a residency program, he’ll have a very good chance of getting into one right here with me in Seattle.
In any case, a few minutes after his announcement, I find myself owing Shonda Rhimes yet another apology letter.
I never knew or heard of anyone having sex in the call rooms at UWV/Mercy, but as for the hospital I work in? Well, let’s just say it definitely has something in common with the fictional Seattle Grace other than a city.
The rest of my lunch hour is spent underneath Woods in the on-call room. Receiving tender kisses as he roughly drags his hips into mine.
“You want this?” he asks me. “You glad I made you my wife? You and me going to do this happy ending thing to the day we die, Doc?”
Without waiting for an answer, he takes me to paradise with one last grinding thrust, then pulses his hips inside me as I scream into his shoulder, ferrying me through my climax before picking up the pace and finding his own release.
He’s still so crazy. So much wilder than any reality show.
Because I know for certain my answer to all his questions is and will always be yes.
Girl, girl, gurrrrrrl!
Dude, I don’t even know what to say here. Anitra and Woods are my most surprising couple yet. Our hero was pretty straight forward about who he really was when he presented for this story, but can you believe Anitra kept her reality show life a secret from me until the very last rough draft minute??? What a minx! And, oh man, what a ride. I’m a true believer in the healing power of love, and I hope this couple proves that.
I also super hope you enjoyed their story and didn’t get too much whiplash from all those twists in turns. I’m thinking I might have to go see a chiropractor before I start the next book! But if you’re well enough, please consider posting a review, so others might find this story, too. And if you liked this story, check out the other books in the 50 Loving State series!
So much love,
Theodora Taylor
HIS TO OWN
Part One
To my fascinating neighbors,
Thanks for the story!
HIS TO OWN
The only thing more shocking than getting sold by my boyfriend? Who he sold me to...
JUNE: Over the years with Razo, I've learned to keep my mouth shut. Learned not to fight back. Learned that talking only makes it bad…fighting only makes it worse. I shut down my feelings long ago. Because it’s the only way to survive.
But then Razo sells me…
…to a dangerous biker with zero morals and a sick upbringing. A psycho who makes me feel like I have a flock of ravens inside my stomach. He never hesitates to remind me: I belong to him now.
And he'll do just about anything to keep me.
Crazy. Psycho. Killer.
MASON: I know I'm crazy. I know I'm scary. And I definitely know I don't got no business buying some girl off a gang leader I'm supposed to be selling guns to. Fact is, her kind and my kind…we ain't never supposed to mix.
See, I know all this. But I don't care.
She belongs to me now. Don’t matter how I got her, only that I'm keepin' her. And no matter what it takes, I'm going to make her mine in all the ways that count.
Nobody and nothing is going to keep us apart.
One
MASON
I want to keep in touch with you. Don’t you want to keep in touch with me? If so, sign up for the Theodora Taylor newsletter!
Fuck if he isn’t going to have to end this deal with a body count. Mason silently tallies the number of Hijos de la Muertes standing in front of him, while pretending to listen to their leader’s ridiculous “request.” How they’d like fifteen more glocks added to their order. On the house, of course. Blah, blah, no fucking way, blah.
Mason’s got plenty of time to run diagnostics on the situation. The head guy likes to talk. A real pompous ass. He ain’t wearing a shirt—maybe because it’s summer. But more likely because the front of his torso is entirely covered in what has to be thousands of dollars’ worth of quality ink. Beneath two beautifully rendered tattoos of ornate Mexican cartel revolvers, the boss man’s pecs stay puffed up like he’s part rooster.
Mason knows the soon-to-be-dead fuck’s name is Razo. Not because he introduces himself proper or anything like that, but because the asshole’s name is inked clear across his stomach in large, ornate script: RAZO. And Mason has to admit it looks pretty slick beneath the huge HIJOS DE LA MUERTES etched along the guy’s collar bone. Every single bit of his front torso, including his arms, have been turned into a living canvas. Mason spots a few less skillful tattoos buried under the quality stuff, but he can see that somewhere down the line, Razo got real smart about his body art. Hooked himself up with a talented visionary. A real artist…nothing like the washed out old man Mason knows back at the SFK clubhouse, the one who inks new members with the official SFK seal.
Given that Razo is a full foot shorter than Mason, he’s sure the little bitch shows up shirtless to every deal. After all, the tats make him look more bad ass in every way. Tougher, bigger, more powerful. Like the overlord of a serious Mexican drug cartel rather than the leader of a small-time Latino street gang. The intimidating ink combined with the handle of the GAT sticking prominently out of Razo’s pants have most definitely convinced other sellers to give him what he wanted.
But not tonight. Because now this beaner prick is dealing with Mason Fairgood.
“Sorry, hombre. Southern Freedom Knights don’t do nothing on the house,” Mason answers when Razo’s finally done flapping his lips. And he doesn’t bother to sugarcoat his words with a friendly tone, like his cousin D might have done. No, Mason’s voice is flatter than all those miles of highway he traveled to get here from Tennessee.
The Hijos de la Muertes have holed up in what the SFK often refer to as a roach town. The brown roaches move in, and the whites move out. Ceding their pretty properties to beaner scum in favor of new and improved—and as yet un-infested—suburbs. What was once a nice neighborhood is now completely occupied by Razo’s crew. Their distinctive graffiti tags cover every street sign, dividing wall, fire hydrant, and sidewalk. Damn shame.
But there are only three guys standing behind Razo. Likely his most trusted and strongest gang members. Not that it really matters. Nobody beats Mason in a fight. Not even hardened street cholos like these. No, the odds aren’t fair for Razo and his men. They might look tough but Mason knows these inner city gangs don’t weapon train for shit. No mandatory time spent in target practice. No game hunting in the woods. Just time spent shooting at each other in brief street skirmishes, like something out of a lame-ass video game, using illegal weapons provided by the SFK and other distributors.
The thought of these pussies referring to themselves as “sol
diers” turns Mason’s stomach. But whatever, at least it gives him the advantage in close situations like these. He supposes he ought to be grateful that these low-rent assholes lack basic shooting and hunting skills, even as more and more of them sprout up across the country. More gangs equal more business opportunities. And more target practice for Mason.
The only Hijos he really has to worry about are the five or six guys milling around on the front porch of the house Razo exited to do this deal with Mason. There could also be a few men hidden in the surrounding cul-de-sac.
And if any them actually have something with a sight on it, well…hello bullet straight to the head. Even a kid could hit a moving target with that kind of set up.
“You Knights don’t do nothing on the house?” Razo asks. “That ain’t what I heard, man. I heard your cuz gave the Lightning Bolts in Little Rock a couple of AKs. Like as a bonus and shit.”
Mason shrugs. “My cousin and I handle things different.”
Unspoken: Also, I’m white and you ain’t. Which means no extras as far as any business deals go. The truth is, the SFK board doesn’t exactly like to advertise that they do business with buyers who don’t—how to put it—match their preferred client profile.
But the SFK likes money, and thanks to the growing heroin problem across the Midwest and Deep South, these fucking beaner gangs are flush with cash. Too much to just leave on the table.
So the SFK board decided to strategically split off the gun sales. They sent Dixon, Mason’s pretty boy cousin—who also happens to be the gang’s prez—to make deals with preferred customers (read: white gangs). And they sent Mason, the enforcer, to run all the beaner deals. Well, at least that was the original plan. Until D up and disappeared a few months back. Ever since, Mason’s had to handle both sides of the coin for the SFKs.
But that’s a whole ‘nother shit show. So to Razo, all Mason says is, “You’re dealing with me now. Not my cousin.”
He doesn’t notice the hand-rolled cigarette Razo’s smoking until the shorter man puts it to his lips. He takes a long, thoughtful drag before pointing out, “This is a big order, bolillo.” Razo nods towards the suitcase of money one of his men handed Mason a few minutes ago. “Fifteen more glocks. It’s the least you can do, in my opinion.”
Bolillo. White bread. Mason works hard not to let the slur throw him off his game. After all, he knows a thing or two about slurs.
“Well, you know what they say about opinions,” he responds. Like any creature raised to kill and maim, Mason lacks a certain finesse.
“You sure about that, man?” Razo asks, his voice pleasant as the cheerful picket fences surrounding the perimeter of each house in the cul-de-sac. He casually rests his cigarette hand on the butt of the piece sticking out of his waistband. The gun is even more ostentatious than his tattoos: gold plated with a pearl grip, featuring a huge honking silver cross. Pretty as a girl, but lethal beneath the sexy exterior. A clear message to Mason that Razo doesn’t give a flying fuck what anyone says about opinions, and if Mason knew what was good for him, he’ll give Razo what he wants.
Mason suppresses a smile. He almost has to give the guy some respect. Razo’s balls are a thousand times bigger than most of the two-bit dipshits Mason usually deals with. And he clearly knows how to read a situation.
See, Mason always does these secret side deals alone. To protect the fragile egos of the Kool-Aid drinkers among the ranks of the SFK who might take issue with the fact that some of the funds in their “race war” hope chest come from selling guns to non-white clientele.
Razo, like Mason, had clearly run his own diagnostic: Mason was one guy to Razo’s four (and that didn’t include his men on the porch, or any other gang bangers he might have hidden throughout the cul-de-sac). So as far as he was concerned, Mason would either give him what he wanted to get out alive, or Razo and his boys would take out a major player in one of the nation’s top white supremacist organizations. Either way, it would give the little cholo something to brag about over tacos at the next gang banger potluck.
It would actually be a pretty solid plan if Razo was dealing with anyone other than Mason Fairgood. So even as Mason grudgingly gives the gang leader his due, he’s working out exactly how to eliminate this motherfucker in the best way possible. Point blank? Too fast. Maybe snatch that pretty gun Razo was so casually threatening him with and use it to shoot the three beaners lined up behind him. Then use Razo as a human shield to stave off any fire that came from the houses. Yeah, that sounds like a plan—
KABLOOM!!!
The echo of a projectile hitting the conversion van he drove here in reverberates across the cul-de-sac. No, not a projectile…a soccer ball, he realizes, when a raggedy orb rolls past him as he runs toward his van.
What the hell!? What they do, shoot the damn thing out of a cannon? His van’s still rocking from the impact.
And when he yanks open the back doors, his heart freezes at what he sees.
His baby. The sweet baby he’d brought along for the trip, lying on her side.
Imploding deal all but forgotten, he pulls his poor motorcycle out of the van and sets it carefully on the sidewalk. “You okay, baby?” he asks the lovingly restored chopper as he checks it everywhere for damage.
Only after he’s sure she’s okay, does he turn his attention back to the street. Was it a distraction? Maybe this is all a set-up, designed to confuse him. Bracing himself to get jumped he pulls out one of his Colt M1911s. Not nearly as fancy as Razo’s piece, but it’ll do the trick, he decides, scanning the darkened cul-de-sac for the motherfucker who’d dared kick a ball into his van.
“Oh, man, is that your bike?!?!””
Mason stops, his eyes narrowing when he spots a kid standing there, the same worn soccer ball that hit his van tucked under his thin arm. The boy is small and scrawny as fuck. Nine, maybe ten at the most. Darker than Razo, possibly mixed with something other than Mexican. Black maybe. Some kind of kin to Razo? Maybe a son? Nephew? Whoever he is, the kid is goggling Mason’s bike so wide-eyed, he’s completely failed to notice the gun Mason’s aiming at him.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing out here, kid?” Mason demands.
The boy finally looks up from the bike, finally sees the gun in Mason’s hand.
“I was just…I was just…” he says, taking a big, nervous step back.
“You were just what?” Mason asks, cutting off the kid’s sudden case of the stutters. “Looking to get killed?”
The sound of running footsteps startles him, and Mason realizes maybe this is all a set-up, designed to distract him so the beaners could get the jump on him from behind.
Mason aims, preparing to shoot first and ask questions later. But then his vision is completely filled with the figure of a girl.
But not a little girl. Not with those curves. This is a young woman, he realizes, his finger freezing on the trigger.
She’s darker than the boy, with a wider nose—a black woman. Which is strange, because he usually don’t see blacks, like at all, on these runs. But aside from the color of her skin, she looks exactly as you’d expect a girl living in a cholo neighborhood to look: tight white tank top that barely contains her large breasts, and a pair of fringed denim shorts that cover her thick hips, but leave the bottom of her ass exposed. She’s even wearing an L.A. Dodgers cap over her long straight black hair. All she’s missing is the chola teardrop tattoo next to her eye…
Definitely beaner girlfriend material. Maybe even Razo’s woman. She looks like someone he’d want. Arresting and different.
She’s parked herself in front of Mason’s gun, and doesn’t seem to be thinking about moving, even though her eyes are wide and terrified beneath the wide blue brim of her Dodgers cap.
And she stays put as the kid behind her says, “Sir, sir…please put away the gun. She didn’t do nothing to you.”
Mason Fairgood doesn’t take orders from anybody, especially colored kids.
But he re-holsters his
gun, even as he spits out, “That ghetto monkey of yours just kicked his fucking soccer ball into my bike.”
His eyes flicker over to his baby, and then back to the girl. She visibly swallows, but still says nothing.
“You hear what I’m saying?” he asks.
No answer. Just more standing there like she don’t exactly trust him to keep his gun out of sight.
“You retarded?” he finally asks.
“No, sir, she ain’t retarded. She just don’t talk much,” the boy answers from behind her. His young voice is perfectly friendly as he asks, “Did I hurt your bike? Because if I did, I apologize. But if I didn’t…”
Mason squints at the kid. “You still need to apologize. Do you know how much work went into that bike? Me and my cousin built it from the ground up. That’s a 50K custom job right there. Bike’s worth three of you—”
The woman startles the shit out of him with a sudden movement. She turns her head, and shakes it at the boy over her shoulder.
“She don’t agree with you about that bike being worth more than my life,” the kid translates, before asking, “Did you really build it yourself? How long did it take?”
What the hell is this kid’s damage? Still no apology, and now he has the nerve to ask questions. But despite himself, Mason answers, “Few months. Hammered out all the body panels, mixed the paint. Even skinned and tanned one of our old cows to make the seat.”
“Whoa!” the boy says, stepping around the woman, and moving toward the bike as if drawn by a magnet.
More sudden movement from the girl. This time, she grabs the kid by the back of his shirt, drawing him to his original position behind her.
The Very Bad Fairgoods - Their Ruthless Bad Boys Page 48