“My eyes!”
Sophie scuttled off Grant and looked over to find a short, dark-haired man peeking at them through his fingers.
“Oh, shit,” Grant said, then hopped to his feet. “What’re you doing here, Roger?”
Sophie’s eyes almost popped out of their sockets. Rog? Where had all that hair come from?
“Helping you with your goddamn wedding!” Roger hollered. “I thought I’d show the wedding planner around. But it appears you’ve skipped ahead to baby-making in the fucking yacht yard!” When he lowered his hands, Sophie realized she was shirtless. One arm crossed her chest as the other lunged for her sweater, and Grant shimmied into his jeans.
“Where’s my shirt?” he whispered.
“It’s on the fucking deck below, numbnuts!” Roger answered. “That was my first clue some kinky shit was going on up here.”
Grant brushed past him to the stairs. “Did you consider knocking, sir?”
“On my own fucking ship? Yeah, like I’d knock.”
Now that she’d restored her clothing, Sophie regained the ability to speak. “You look fantastic, Rog! I hear you have a woman in your life?” She twisted her hair up into a messy bun.
The distraction seemed to work—Roger turned away from where Grant had gone and looked at her. His nose lifted a bit as he adopted an air of superiority. “Ana’s her name. I’m bringing her to the wedding. That is, if you’re not too ballooned up preggers to walk down the aisle by June.”
“It’s called birth control, Rog.”
His hand shot up in front of his chest. “Spare me the gory details, Taylor.”
A fully dressed McSailor returned to the bridge. “Sorry about that, sir.” He stuffed his hands in his jean pockets. “It was my fault. It’s just we don’t get to see each other much right now.”
“Why the hell not?”
“It’s too dangerous,” he explained. “I don’t want to blow my cover or lead the Russian Mafia anywhere near her.”
Roger’s expression softened. “Oh. Yeah, that would be tough. I know I don’t like to go too long without seeing Ana.” He circled the bridge, appearing to check if everything was in place. “So, Madsen…got a monster case of blue balls, eh?”
She laughed. The old Rog had returned.
“Helloooo?” A lilting female voice drifted up from below.
She peered down. “That’s Cheri, the wedding planner. Rog, will you help show her around your ship?”
“That’s why I’m here.” He glared at Grant. “Just make sure to keep it in your pants this time, sex addict.”
“That’ll be up to Sophie, sir.” He draped his arm across her shoulders. “You think you can keep your hands off me for the duration of the tour?”
“Absolutely not!”
He grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
18. Converge
“DOT!” BEN SNICKERED when the white fluff-ball attacked him, furiously licking chlorine off his face as he held her aloft. When her tongue swooped in his ear, he recoiled. “That’s gross.” He sat back on the sofa and settled her into his lap as he blocked her attempts to deliver another wet willy. Her little paws pressed against his thighs while she hopped and wriggled in his arms. “Chill, Dotbot!”
Finally she seemed to tire, and he loosened his hold on her tiny ribcage. She sniffed a couple of times, nose up in the air, then circled his lap twice and collapsed. “About time you let me do my homework,” he grumbled as he scratched her ears. He wasn’t sure, but when her mouth curled up, it looked like she was smiling at him.
He extracted his psychology textbook from his backpack and arranged it so he could read without disturbing Princess Dot, whose even breaths sounded like she’d already entered dreamland. I wish I could fall asleep so easily. He began reading about behavior modification. His eyes drifted to the Psychology and You sidebar question:
What’s been your experience with positive reinforcement, negative reinforcement, and punishment today?
He knew all about punishment—he was still grounded for two more days. At least he wasn’t alone anymore, though. Dot’s black eyes blinked sleepily as he petted her. Then her head popped up, and she growled at the front door.
“What is it, Dot?”
She leaped off his lap just as there was a knock at the door. He pushed himself to his feet. “Coming!” Pausing at the door, he asked, “Who is it?”
“Chicagoland Pizza.”
A smile stretched on his face. Uncle Grant rewarding him with a pizza: the very definition of positive reinforcement. He opened the door to see a tall dude maybe a little older than him with acne pockmarks covering his face. The tantalizing aroma of pizza wafted into the apartment. But his smile faded when he noticed a blond man behind the pizza guy, off to his left.
“Hallo, Ben,” Hans said with a sneer.
Dot went wild with high-pitched barks as she rushed out to Hans’s feet and seized the hem of his jeans. Hans laughed as her head veered right and left, tugging.
“Dot!” Ben admonished.
When Hans reached down to try to scoop her up, Dot hightailed it back into the apartment, and Ben watched her disappear around the corner. He turned back with a questioning look, but Hans just shrugged.
“What’re you doing here?”
“Is that a way to talk to a man who just ordered you pizza?” Hans asked.
“You didn’t order it,” Ben said. How’d this tool think he could get by with a lie like that? “My uncle did.”
“Ah.” Hans smiled as he stepped closer. “Then I will pay for it.”
“My uncle already paid.” Ben looked at the pizza guy. “Right?”
The dude took a moment to respond. “Uh, yeah.” He gave Hans a lazy smile. “You could pay me too, though.”
Ben smirked. “Nice try.” He didn’t want to be in any sort of debt to Hans. “Can I just have my pizza?”
The raspy scratch of Velcro pulling open unleashed the large pizza box, and Ben accepted the warm cardboard with a grin. “My uncle already tipped you, right?”
Pizza boy gave a reluctant nod.
“After I have a word with the pizza delivery man,” Hans told Ben, “I’ll be right in.”
Ben backed into the apartment and kicked the door shut. Like hell you will, Himmler. The deadbolt slid in place with a satisfying click. He slid the pizza box onto the kitchen counter and felt a wave of relief. There must be some way to keep that creep out of his apartment. He’d have to make up an excuse like his mom didn’t allow visitors when she wasn’t home or some sort of bullshit.
He hunted for his dog. “Polka Dot?” She was hiding under his bed—her favorite spot. She’d tucked herself into the far corner, just beyond his reach, and he sighed as he picked himself up off the floor. “I know just what’ll lure you out, baby girl.”
He returned to the kitchen, opened the pizza box, and grabbed a scalding hot slice of pepperoni. “Shit!” He flung the meat down before it burned off his fingerprints. After he blew on it for a few seconds, he picked it up again and went back into his bedroom. “Yummy pepperoni, Dottie.” Dropping to his belly, he held it out for her to sniff. It only took a second before she zoomed out from under the bed to chow down the greasy goodness.
Sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, Ben cradled her in his arms and felt her little body tremble. “Smart girl.” He kissed the crown of her head. “I think Hans is creepy too. C’mon, let’s get some more pepperoni.”
***
“Who ordered the pizza?” Ricker demanded as he crowded Zitboy’s personal space in the dim hallway of the apartment building.
“Dude, I don’t know.”
Ricker’s hands itched to slap the little shit. “You have no idea?”
Zitboy shrugged. “They never tell us nothing. Just where to deliver.”
Ricker reached into his pocket and waved a twenty-dollar bill in front of the boy’s face, Zitboy suddenly seemed more attentive. “You don’t remember anything about who ordered
pizza to this address?”
“Um…oh…yeah. When Stan sent me out, first he gave me this other address. Then he was all, ‘Wait, that’s, like, where the order came from, not where it’s, like, going.’”
Zitboy lunged for the twenty, but Ricker yanked it away. “Not good enough. I need the first address.”
“Dude, I don’t know!” Zitboy pouted. “It was on Michigan Avenue or something.”
“I need an address.”
“Why do you care so much, German dude?”
Ricker began to pocket his money when Zitboy said, “Wait! It was, um, like, nine-twenty North Michigan?”
“You sure?” Ricker asked.
“Yeah.” Zitboy nodded. He held his palm up. “I’ll take my twenty.”
The bill did not reappear, but Ricker leaned in and hissed, “Get the fuck out of here, now.” His eyes must have communicated his I-Will-Fuck-You-Up intent because the boy swiveled and took off in seconds. Ricker closed his eyes as he breathed in his success. His first break.
He knocked on the apartment door. “Ben?” When there was no answer, he said, “I cannot stay. Something came up.”
“Okay!” came his reply through the door. He sounded thrilled.
Ricker scowled as he hustled down the stairs. “I got you the fucking dog, ungrateful little Mafia prince.”
Twenty minutes later, Ricker weaved through shoppers and sightseers on Michigan Avenue to arrive at the address Pimpleboy had told him. A hotel? A fucking hotel? That little shit had scammed him with the wrong address—good thing he hadn’t given him the twenty. He stood with hands on hips, staring up at the high rise, when something hit his foot. He looked down to see a black Tumi suitcase almost roll over his foot before he stepped back quickly.
“So sorry,” a man said in a crisp English accent. The taxi he’d just exited pulled away. Ricker took one look at the slight man’s blushing cheeks and fell in love.
“No problem,” he said. “It is my fault, truly.” He gestured above. “I was admiring the hotel’s architecture.”
The man gave a polite smile. “Oh, yes. Don’t you love the neoclassical style of the White City?”
Ricker had no idea what the fuck the man was talking about, but with that pretty accent he would go along with anything. “Yes. It is…nice.” He knew most Germans hated the English, but how could he hate this fine specimen of flesh?
“Have you tried an architectural tour, then?”
Ricker found himself staring at those fine pink lips, and he forced himself to look into the man’s eyes. “I have been…away. But I hear good things about the tours.”
The man checked his watch. “Well, I best check in or I shall miss tea.” His arm pointed toward the revolving door. “Are you going in?”
“After you.” Ricker grinned. He followed the man to the front desk with his eyes glued on his small, tight derriere.
“May I help you, sir?” A voice jarred him out of his lustful reverie. Ricker glanced up to find a brunette smiling in his direction as Jude Law checked in with another front desk staff member.
He stepped forward and kept his voice low. “Yah. I seek a place to stay for my mother when she is in town for a visit.” Which would be never, considering the alcoholic bitch had disowned him after his first stint in prison. “What can your hotel offer?”
“We’re a four-star hotel,” she said as she unfolded a brochure on the counter. “Our soundproofed rooms feature pillow-soft mattresses, and the Tribune named our spa the best in Chicago. Does your mother enjoy live music?”
How the hell do I know? Ricker nodded.
“Our cocktail lounge, Capone’s Spirits, features live old-Chicago music six nights a week. Ladies love the singer, Mick Saylor.” She pointed to a cardboard poster sitting on an easel. “There he is.”
Crystal blue eyes stopped his heart. Madsen? Singing? Here? And why the fuck was he calling himself Saylor?
“Sir? Are you all right?”
Ricker coughed and hoped his woody wasn’t too obvious. “Is he singing tonight?”
The woman glanced at her watch. “He starts in twenty-five minutes.”
His second break. Madsen must have ordered the boy’s pizza from a hotel phone. “Thank you.” He smiled, showing all his teeth.
“You’re welcome, sir. Would you like to make a reservation for your mother?”
“I will call. Later. The lounge—is this way?” He pointed to the right, beyond the poster with Mr. Fuck-Me Eyes.
“Yes, sir.”
Ricker thought for a moment. “And the gift store?”
“Our gift shop is in the same direction, on your left.”
The blood pooling in his crotch was almost painful at this point. “Excellent.” He was about to head to victory when he heard the Englishman speak.
“A pleasure to meet you.”
Ricker turned to his left and shook the man’s extended hand. “You too, my good chap.” The lad’s smile intrigued Ricker. “I will be at Capone’s Spirits if you would like to join me later.”
“Sounds brilliant.”
As Ricker watched that perky ass head to the elevators with his bag in tow, his heart pounded with excitement. This was turning into a good evening. A very good evening.
***
The black Chicago Bulls cap shadowed his face and hopefully hid his blond hair. Ricker found a table far enough from the stage to avoid detection by Madsen. Oh, sorry—Saylor. What the fuck? Too bad the stage was empty, but there was an excited buzz throughout the growing crowd. Bobby Darin sang “Mack the Knife” on the speakers, and Ricker wondered if anyone in the lounge knew the German origins of the song. Probably not.
A cocktail waitress came to his table, and he barked out his drink order. His cash advance from Enzo had dwindled with alarming speed, and the price of drinks at a nice joint like this wasn’t helping. But he felt like celebrating now that Enzo’s son was in his grasp. And soon he’d have too much cash to count. He hoped Enzo would call him from prison tomorrow so he could share the good news.
Easing back in his chair, he noted couples at most of the nearby tables. Dummkopfs. When would they learn that monogamy never worked? His American father—at least he’d been smart enough not to hang around after he’d stuck his dick in his mother and knocked her up.
Every fucking night his mother had whined about his father leaving her, and her bitching had been even worse when she was drunk. But the dumbest thing she’d done was keep searching for a man to marry her. She’d been a looker once, before the booze turned her skin saggy and tired, and she’d always been able to hook some loser for a few months at a time. Though when the john would start feeling trapped—or realize Ricker would fight off his attempts to beat or rape him—he’d always leave. Every time. And Ricker would be left to deal with his mother’s endless complaining, hollering in her scratchy smoker voice about men being the scum of the earth.
He shook his head. That’s why he’d come to America…land of opportunity. Land of fresh starts. Land of the free. Too bad he’d spent most of his stay behind bars.
When two more couples walked in, Ricker watched the host guide them to a primo table near the stage. One of the chicks looked like a brunette Kate Moss—yeah, he’d do her—but why was she with that older, barrel-chested guy? What could he possibly offer? The other couple was a black-haired guy with a blond woman in a red dress—at least Black Hair was slightly younger and more attractive. As Black Hair held out a chair for Blondie, he scanned the bar with a shrewd and steady gaze. His eyes met Ricker’s, and Ricker immediately looked down. Fuck! He needed to be more careful.
Patting his left coat pocket, he took out his phone and pretended to respond to a text. By the time he looked back at Black Hair, all four were seated at the table. The older man spoke to the waitress in a way that made him take notice. Her tray visibly shook in the crook of her arm. He sat up. Who was this gray-haired man, and why was his buddy scanning the room like a fucking SS agent?
“Sorry t
his took so long,” Ricker’s waitress said as she set an amaretto sour on his table. She also set down the leather wallet containing the check.
“I want to start a tab,” Ricker said. It would be easy to drink and dash in a swanky place like this.
“Sorry, sir, we only run tabs for patrons we know.”
He grunted and opened the wallet to reveal the exorbitant bill. As he fished out some money from his pocket, he glanced at the table of interest and watched the waitress set down four shot glasses and a bottle of vodka. No leather wallet.
“I guess they are well-known patrons?” He cocked his head toward the group without looking their direction.
“Yes. They’re big fans of Mr. Saylor.”
Ricker felt vibrations in his cock. “Really. Who are they…do you know?”
“All I know is they’re Russian and very rude. One of them screamed at poor Alice for messing up an order once. Yet our manager keeps making her serve them.” She shook her head. “I’m just glad I don’t have to.” She scooped up the bill. “Would you like change?”
“You keep it.”
“Thank you. We’re busy tonight, but I’ll be back to check on you later.”
And I will be gone. Once he’d tailed Madsen home, he’d pursue other locales, where the beer, sex, and domination were free. Time to drop in on his little Cuban amigo. But then he remembered Jude Lawless he’d met in the lobby. So many men, so little time.
As soon as Madsen stepped on stage, though, all thoughts of other men vanished. God, he’s beautiful. Madsen still possessed shining blue eyes, smooth olive skin, and buzzed black hair. But he’d filled out a bit since prison, making him more man than boy, and he swaggered up to the microphone with poise and confidence Ricker had never seen.
Madsen seized the mic as a nondescript brown-haired man joined him on stage and slid onto the piano bench. A woman seated two tables away from Ricker whooped, drawing Madsen’s eyes to the upper tier of the seating area. Ricker slumped in his chair and tugged the bill of his ball cap down to his nose as his cock strained in the opposite direction. Other chicks echoed her catcalls and elicited a shy grin from the man on stage. Ricker closed his eyes and swallowed, trying to wrestle back control of himself.
On Best Behavior (C3) Page 23