by Celia Aaron
“Don’t you have a guest room?”
“I do, but you aren’t staying in it.” He tucked his right hand behind his head and stared at me. “I’m not going to fuck you…” His brows drew together, then he continued, “I mean, not unless you ask nicely. I just need to know you’re close, that you’re safe. That’s all this is.” As if to prove it, he yanked the blanket up and tucked his left hand behind his head. His inked chest was on display, but the blanket covered his stomach and lower.
I swallowed hard. “I haven’t slept with anyone in a long time.”
His nostrils flared as he glanced down my body before returning to my face. “Why not?”
“I don’t mean sex.” I hadn’t done that either, but that wasn’t what I was trying to say. “I have night terrors sometimes, and they can get bad. Sometimes I wake up screaming. And that tends to be a problem.”
I pulled the hem of my t-shirt lower, though the thing swam around me like a muumuu.
“Doesn’t matter. Get in.”
Was this really happening? “I don’t think …”
His voice hardened. “Either you get in or I drag you in. Those are your choices.”
I clutched the comforter, balling the edge in my hand. He wasn’t going to back down, and I knew if I didn’t comply, he’d make good on his threat. I sat and slid my legs under the covers. Lying on my side at the very edge of the bed, I kept my back to him.
He sighed, the sound deep and masculine. “What do you dream about?”
“What?”
“You said you have night terrors. What scares you so bad in your dreams?”
Brandon’s ghost, a cruel smile forever etched on his face, flitted around the rooms of my mind. I never spoke about Brandon for fear that simply naming him out loud would conjure him back from the grave. Instead, I lied. “Nothing specific.”
“Right.” Sarcasm dripped from that one word like wax from a candle.
“When are you going to let me go?” I traced my finger along the edge of my pillow case.
“Once I’m sure no one will come gunning for you again.”
“Why did they come gunning in the first place? Why me? Why won’t you tell me the reason?” Why did you choose me?
“Nothing specific.”
Asshole. “How long do you think it’ll take?”
“As long as it takes.” The bed shifted again, and I could feel him at my back. His nearness spurred a wave of goose bumps across my skin. “I need to see some people, but it’ll have to wait for tomorrow. It’s almost midnight.” His voice was closer, his body heat warming me. “Get some sleep.”
“I don’t know if I can.” I closed my eyes and saw the cinder block basement.
“You can.” His nearness comforted me far more than it should have.
“I …” I took a breath and stopped myself from giving sound to my thought.
“What?”
“I don’t know if I can trust you.”
A click sounded from his side of the bed, and the lamp light faded into a comfortable darkness. His voice softened, the words almost a whisper. “You can.”
A few more inches and I’d have it. His chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm, his dark hair falling across his forehead in the low light from the rising sun. I maneuvered closer, my body almost touching his, but not quite. Sliding my hand farther beneath his pillow, the tips of my fingers made contact with the cold steel of his gun.
He turned his face toward me, his eyes still closed. I bit my lip and froze. His breaths continued, and he didn’t wake. He looked younger, the lines next to his eyes fading and the contentment of sleep painting him in strokes of relaxation. Even with the stubble and the slightly crooked nose from who knew how many breaks, he was stunning. The kind of man who got what he wanted, or who he wanted, whatever the case may be.
I curled my fingers around the butt of the gun and drew it toward me a millimeter at a time. It was almost out from under the pillow when his eyes flicked open.
A strangled sound erupted from my throat as he flipped me over and pinned me. The gun stayed on the mattress as he wrestled both of my wrists onto my pillow with ease. His hard body crushed my soft one, his face only inches from mine as he glared down at me.
“What was the plan, Charlie? Get the gun, figure out how to use it, then shoot me in my sleep?” His voice was rough, as if sandpaper lined his throat.
“I just want to go.” I flexed my arms, but he didn’t release me.
“You’ll go when I say you can go.” He squeezed my wrists.
I surged up and arched my back to try and buck him off. It didn’t work. He slid his knee between my thighs. My nipples hardened from pressing against his chest, and something purred to life inside me. A sensation I hadn’t felt in years—desire. What was he doing to me?
He leaned closer until his lips were only a breath away from mine. “Go for my gun again, and I’ll cuff you to the bed.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I wouldn’t?” He smirked. “Try me.”
“Asshole.” Who was I, and what did I do with Charlie?
“No argument here.” The smirk intensified. “Are you going to be good?”
“Get off.” I tried to yank my wrists free. They didn’t budge.
“Just tell me”—he leaned closer, the tip of his nose brushing against mine—“you’re going to be good.”
I couldn’t breathe, and not just because his hard chest pinned me to the bed. His scent, the notes of heat in his voice, the thick erection that pressed against my thigh. I should have been frightened. Instead, a thrill raced through my body.
“Go to hell.” My backbone, the one I thought Brandon had beaten out of me, came roaring back to life.
His eyebrows rose. “Tough talk from a florist.”
“Give me a pair of pruning shears and we’ll just see who’s the real badass.” Did I just say that to a killer?
“That so?” He moved his thigh higher until he made contact with my hot core. He groaned and closed his eyes.
I bit my lip. “Yes. Get off me.”
“Not until you promise to stop being stupid.” He pressed his thigh harder against me.
The urge to grind on him to ease the buzzing in my clit almost overwhelmed me. “If you’d let me go, you wouldn’t have to worry about it.”
“I’m not letting you go.” He shook his head, the dark strands feathering across his forehead. “Not until I know it’s safe.”
“You keep saying that, but you still haven’t told me why I’m even in this mess!” My voice hissed on the last word.
“I think you know.” He glanced to my lips.
I licked them, and his eyes followed the movement. “Why don’t you just tell me?”
He moved his thigh against my core, massaging me slowly as I tried to fight my arousal. “I think you know, but you want to hear it from me.”
“I know that you watch me from your car a few nights a week.” I narrowed my eyes and spat, “Like a stalker.”
“Yeah.” He didn’t seem put off by my assessment.
“So why do you do that?”
“Charlie.” He released one wrist and ran his fingers through my hair. His eyes remained locked with mine, as if we were having a silent conversation that went far deeper than our verbal back and forth. He trailed his fingertips down my neck, leaving goose bumps in their wake. “Why wouldn’t I do that?” His mouth hovered close to mine. All I had to do was lean up the slightest bit and there would be contact. The steady pressure of his thigh was driving me mad with need. It was as if he’d released the floodgates on the desires I’d bottled up over the past few years. I had to get away, to end this moment, to stop myself from spiraling out of control. I did none of those things.
He seemed to sense me melting, because he grazed his lips against mine. A light touch that set me on fire, just as the smallest spark could start a raging inferno.
He scooped his hand beneath my neck, taking a possessive hold as his lips st
rayed across mine again, the soft touch at odds with the heat in his eyes, the tension in his body.
I rocked my hips gently, desperate for some sort of relief from the throb that took hold between my thighs.
He groaned. “Goddamn.” The word wasn’t angry, but more like he was giving in. Letting go. His fingers tightened around my neck.
My lips parted on a soft sigh, and I let go too, allowing myself to want something I hadn’t wanted in a long time.
His phone rang, vibrating on the dresser.
He pulled back, then hesitated as if he wanted to stay in the moment. It was a losing battle. The phone didn’t stop, its ring growing in volume, the hum of the vibration incessant.
“Fuck.” He released me and rolled off the bed.
The sun peeked around the edges of his gray curtains, sending vertical lines of warm yellow light across the room. The wings on his back flickered with his movements, giving the illusion that they were real, simply molded to his skin at the moment.
He tapped the screen and held the phone to his ear. “Yeah? Hang on a minute.” He walked back to the bed, swiped the gun from beneath his pillow, then left, closing the door behind him.
10
Conrad
I scrubbed a hand down my jaw as I turned off the interstate. I’d left Charlie in Nate’s care, though I’d warned him not to lay a finger on her. She’d wanted to know where I was going, even asked to go with me. I smiled as I remembered the way she’d looked up at me. One minute, she’d wanted to kill me in cold blood with my own gun; the next, she was asking why she had to stay behind. A real piece of work.
The road gave way to a golf course on the left. It was too cold for the rich assholes to be out buzzing along in their golf carts, though the greens still looked immaculate. I took a sip of black coffee from my travel cup and continued down the road, the houses growing larger as I went.
Vince Stanton didn’t live in the city. He had a place downtown in Society Hill where he’d take his side pieces, but his main residence was out in the wealthy suburb of Bryn Mawr.
I skirted the golf course before turning down a long private drive. Brown grass expanded on either side, the turf covered with mature trees and landscaping that melted into thicker brush closer to the property’s edges. Most trees were wired with surveillance. Vince took pride in knowing whenever he had guests—wanted or otherwise.
I slowed as I approached the Tudor mansion. It rose three stories high and had several wings. A roundabout sat out front, the letter “S” done in staggered plantings in the center. I pulled around and parked along the side near the five-car garage.
The morning had dawned cold and sunny, the snow from the previous night settling in grassy spots and on parked cars. I buttoned my suit coat as I strode up the front steps. The dark brown door opened in front of me, and Mark, one of Vince’s cousins, waved me inside.
“Connie, how’s it going, man?”
I grunted a noncommittal reply. “You?”
“Can’t complain.” He cut his eyes toward Vince’s office. “I surely can’t.” He ran his thumb down the inside of his suspender, the movement full of nerves and worry.
I removed my sunglasses and stowed them in my inner coat pocket. My fingertips brushed against the butt of my gun. Reassurance in the form of cold steel. My gut told me something was off, though I shook Mark’s hand as if nothing were amiss. I could drop him in two seconds should the need arise. All the same, I didn’t like the vibe in the house—the calm air, the quiet, the sweat mustache coating Mark’s upper lip.
“He’s waiting for you.” Mark closed the heavy front door with a thud.
I took a step, and he moved to walk behind me. Not a chance.
“Go ahead. I’ll follow.” I jerked my chin toward the office.
“What?” He gave me a strained smile. “Don’t trust me?”
I didn’t return his smile or answer his dumb question. Instead, I analyzed every twitch of his fingers and the fear in his eyes. Not good.
“Fine. Jeez.” He walked ahead of me, his cheap shoes slapping against the foyer’s marble floor.
My fingers itched for my gun, but I held off. Best to get the lay of the land before making a move I’d regret. I couldn’t just think about myself. Charlie was wrapped up in this bullshit now. If shit went south, I’d need to get her out of town.
I hadn’t been given a reason for this meeting, but I could guess. Word travels fast, especially when it involved power players in the underground. I had to clear everything I did on Lerner with Vince. And if Berty survived, I’d need to get the order to take him out for good.
Vince puffed on a cigar as I walked in, the acrid smell wafting through the air in wisps of smoke. I never liked cigars. They smelled like shit and screamed “trying too hard.”
“If it isn’t my favorite hired gun!” He kicked his feet up on his desk.
Vince was a smaller man, under six feet tall with wiry limbs and a small pot belly. His graying hair had abandoned the front half of his head, and he kept the sides neatly trimmed. At fifty-five, he had the swagger of a younger man and a will of iron. He’d needed it to serve as Serge Genoa’s right hand man for over two decades.
Serge had been known for his cruelty and flair for brutality. I’d taken plenty of jobs from him, spilled enough blood to pave my way to hell in crimson. And then I’d punched his ticket at the behest of his number two guy—Vince. It was the only way Vince would ever take the helm. Serge was sixty, and well on his way to living to a ripe old age. For Vince to get his chance, Serge had to go. Problem was, if you kill the boss, you can’t be the boss. That’s where I came in.
“Have a seat.” Vince motioned to the leather chairs in front of his desk. “We have something to discuss.”
The room had dark paneled walls, the kind that courthouses and the newly rich loved. Rugs covered most of the hardwood floors, and several paintings of Vince’s family looked down at us with halfhearted smiles.
Mark took a seat on a sofa to the left near a wide fireplace.
I pulled a leather wingback to the side so I could see Vince, Mark, and the door. “Morning.” I sat and studied Vince as he puffed away on his cigar.
He grinned. “You still in the habit of rearranging furniture?”
“Occupational hazard.” I rested my hands along the arms of the chair, the light brown leather like butter under my fingertips. “A guy like me can’t afford to get sloppy.”
“Well said.” He stubbed out the cigar. “Wendy and the kids are out of town. Only time I get to smoke in the house, so I make the most of it.”
I nodded. I didn’t get paid to talk.
“Down to business, like always. I respect you for that.” He leaned back in his chair, his feet still up. His right shoe needed to be re-soled. “Well, here it is. I heard you ran into a little trouble last night. Geno tried to take you down?”
I glowered. “That didn’t go so well for Geno.”
“And I’m glad. Good riddance.” He laced his hands together over his stomach, giving his potbelly the look of maternity. “I also heard about the mess on Lerner.”
I nodded.
“You took out half a dozen guys—all of whom were loyal to Serge and the old way of doing things. That was good work, but there’s only one problem.” He pinched his brows together, as if his next words bothered him. “I didn’t order you to take them out.”
I didn’t respond. The other shoe would fall whether or not I spoke. I braced myself for it and kept my face emotionless.
He swung his feet to the floor and leaned forward on his elbows. “I also know that you shot Berty. Nearly killed him.”
Nearly? Fuck. “That’s right.”
“And all this was over a woman?” He laughed, the sound like a dead weight, and leaned back. “It’s always over a woman, isn’t it? Nothing like a beautiful woman to throw a wrench in the works. Empires can rise and fall over one slick cunt, can’t they?”
“Sure can,” Mark chimed in.
The only cleanup I had left was to put a bullet in Berty’s skull. “You give the order, and it’s done.”
He smiled without warmth. “I’m glad you’re so amenable.”
Killing Berty was at the top of my fucking Christmas list. “I’ll have it done today.”
“Hang on just a moment, Con.” Vince’s voice carried a chill that made my hackles rise. “I want to be clear on this contract. I want the girl from the flower shop dead and buried before sundown.”
My mind spun, but I kept my voice even. “What? She has nothing to do with anything. Berty—”
“Is my number two man.” He waved his hand through the air as if sweeping aside a wisp of smoke. “He played at being the next boss for a moment, but we’ve had a talk, and he’s ready to calm down and join my team. The winning team. In order for all this to work, the bitch from the flower shop has to disappear. If she goes to the police about Berty, well…” He pursed his lips. “We simply can’t have that.”
My blood boiled when he called Charlie a bitch. My 9 mm demanded I do something about it. “Why keep Berty on?”
“That’s none of your concern. Berty however, told me of your affection for the woman. Is this going to be a problem?” His tone darkened.
My mind raced a mile a minute. Things were supposed to be simple. I got an order, I followed that order, and I collected my blood money. Easy. But this was different.
I rose and took the few steps to Vince’s desk, then leaned over it. He winced, though he tried to recover by tightening his jaw. It didn’t work. I saw the fear in him, could feel it like a thin film of grit in the air. He was right to be afraid.
“If this is the way you’re going to play it…” I let the uncertainty hover in the air.