And I don't want Havok to see me like that. I guess when it inevitably happens, I'll try to convince him I caught the flu, but I bet he'll see right through me.
Sighing, I pop the pill into my mouth and roll it around on my tongue. It's bitter and medicine-like. When I was a little girl, the taste of pills made me gag. They'd stick in my throat when I'd try to swallow them. I don't have that problem anymore. But I still taste them for some reason, every time, even though the taste is disgusting.
I grab the straw of the CamelBak, stick it in my mouth, and suck. A flood of purified water enters my mouth and washes the pill down. Instantly, I feel better, my anxiety melting away.
I'm not so worried to be here any more. Not so worried about what'll happen at my old apartment, when the landlord enters it and reports the both of us missing. Not so worried about what'll become of me.
The worst part is, there's no way the chemicals have hit my bloodstream yet. And that's the true sign of an addict. Getting a fix just from the ritual.
I wiggle around on the bed, getting comfortable. I take the sweater off my legs, and stretch out on the bed. I'm not cold anymore.
My mind wanders. I think about Havok, my mind escaping into a dreamlike state.
There's definitely something sketchy happening. Sketchy beyond him killing Brock and keeping me here. He's hiding something much more than that.
I think he's part of the Russian mob. That's got to be it. I've always tried to steer clear of those guys, but it's not exactly a secret that the Bratva runs this town.
I'll figure it out. Find the truth. Somehow.
He's not all bad, though. Hell, maybe he's not even a little bit bad. He doesn't hit me. Isn't cruel. Has his shit together. In this beautiful home that's a world away from my old, shitty apartment.
This isn't how I dreamed my life would go, or how I wanted things to happen with Havok, but stripping at the club was a dead end. Maybe, just maybe, once I'm detoxed and he lets me go—if that's actually his plan—I can start fresh. I'll just have to avoid falling back into the stripping life. Fast, easy cash is so hard to resist.
No matter how weird this situation is, no matter how frustrated he makes me, I can't help feeling like I'm growing closer to him, emotionally. There's a good man inside there. There's chaos and pain inside, but not evil.
As I slip deeper into my high, I absent-mindedly slip a hand below the waistband of my sweatpants. I press my fingers over my cotton underwear. Wetness seeps through them.
That's what Havok does to me, and I can't help it.
I press harder against my panties, feeling the hard nub between my legs. My eyelids droop farther shut, and I put all my focus into rubbing harder. A tingle, a deep urge radiates out from my clit, filling my body with warmth and need.
I know the way Havok looks at me. I know what it means. But for some reason, when any other man would take advantage of me, he doesn't. He doesn't even take me when I throw myself at him.
I need some release. But I'm slipping.
Exhausted, I give up on touching myself. I cross my hands over my chest and tuck my head against a pillow. A deep, chemical sleep takes me away. The only thing I dream of is Havok.
22
Havok
My phone rings, buzzing urgently on the nightstand, pulling me out of my slumber.
I dreamt that Penny slept in my bed last night. I almost couldn't fall asleep, my cock was so hard, but when I finally did, she owned my dreams.
I snatch my phone and answer the call. "This better be good."
It's Luka. "Havok," he says, "We got a situation at the White Bear."
I sit up sharply, adrenaline wiping the sleep out of my eyes. "I can be there in fifteen."
"Alright. Hurry." He ends the call.
I swing my legs out of bed, dressing myself as fast as I can, pulling on jeans and boots and lashing my gun belt to my waist.
Before I leave, I crack the guest room door, and peer in at Penny. She's still sleeping peacefully. I hate leaving her here alone. She should be safe, but that's what I thought about Irina when those thugs broke in to my house in Moscow and raped her over and over.
"I'll be back," I whisper. "I promise."
When I arrive at the White Bear, I instantly see something is wrong. Luka and Valentin stand outside the building, peering in through the barred front windows. We never stand around outside. It just attracts unwanted attention.
"What's going on?" I say, approaching them.
"Look," says Luka.
I cup my hands over the glass to block out the sun's reflection, and what I see makes my heart pound in my chest. The store is closed even though it's business hours. Inside, Igor stands in the middle of the room. And Petrov kneels in front of Igor, blindfolded, his hands bound behind his back.
"Damn," I shout, smacking my palm against the metal bars. This has to be by Grigory's orders. I fucking know it. Petrov wasn't getting the job done anymore, and now he's being replaced. By Igor.
Inside, Igor laughs. He's got something shiny in his hands.
A knife.
I should think this over, react with caution, but there's no time. My instincts take over. "Stand back," I tell Luka and Valentin. I reach under my jacket and draw my pistol, checking that the silencer is on tight. Sighting Igor's head through the glass, I raise my gun. Right through the window, and into his skull. That's the way this has to happen.
But Igor reacts faster than I can shoot. He kneels down behind Petrov, using his body as a shield. He raises his knife—fuck, it looks like a serrated bowie knife—and drives it into the side of Petrov's neck.
"Fuck," I shout, banging on the metal bars. Igor withdraws the knife from Petrov's throat. He must've punctured his jugular, because an honest-to-God fountain of blood surges out of his neck, covering an entire shelf of imported Russian groceries. Petrov's body falls to the ground, and Igor scurries into the back of the store, out of sight, before I can come to terms with what I've just witnessed.
Luka and Valentin curse in Russian under their breaths. "Come on," I say. "The back exit."
Thank God it's early in the morning and there's hardly anyone else on the street. We're making a fucking scene.
I run around the building, through the side alley, and around to the back door. Luka and Valentin trail behind me. The door is locked, so I grab my pistol again and put two quick shots into the wood. The lock breaks with a loud snap, and I push the door open.
Igor stands there, blood dripping from his knife. Petrov's lifeless body lays on the floor.
"You motherfucker," I say. "Now you pay for this." I train my gun right on his chest. But I look down at Petrov and swallow hard. We had our differences, but he was a good soldier. "Tell me why," I say, my voice nearly choking up.
"Drop the gun," says Igor.
Instead, I tighten my finger around the trigger. "I'm gonna play in your blood when you're dead." I squeeze harder.
"I'm in charge now," says Igor. "Grigory's orders. You put so much as a scratch on me, and none of you will live to see the sunset."
Fuck. If I put a slug in this scumbag, Grigory will send henchmen from all around the east coast. They'll fucking slaughter me, and they'll find Penny.
I can't fucking risk it.
Luka steps next to me, reaches out, and pushes my gun arm down. "Patience, friend," he says, giving a death glare to Igor.
This changes everything. I have to lie low, grit my teeth and cooperate with Igor, until I find a way to get out of this mess.
I lower my gun.
"Leave," says Igor. "I'll have new orders soon. In the meantime, the hit against Guatemala is still on. Get it done. You're either on board, or you're dead."
He's right. This is how changes of leadership go. You either prove your loyalty to new leaders, or they get rid of you.
And right now, I'm skating on thin ice.
23
Penny
Havok seems distracted the next few days, detached. We barely speak, and
he's in and out of the house every night. Where he's finding time for sleep, I don't know. I feel like he's getting ready for something.
But I've got my own problems. I've only got a couple pills left.
The withdrawal is going to be brutal. I thought about trying to score a refill somehow. But it would all depend on Havok. And I know what he'd think about drug use. He doesn't even drink. He's not going to help me. I have to face this alone, and be strong when it happens.
So I'm on the precipice, the edge of a cliff that's about to drop off, and all I can do is wait for the inevitable fall.
The next Saturday morning, I've made waffles for the both of us, and we sit together at his table, the bright weekend sunlight pouring through the window. This place almost feels like home now, which scares me. But honestly, even as a prisoner without a release date, I'm better off here than in my old apartment with Brock.
I take a bite of crispy waffle and savor the taste for a moment. The batter is light and fluffy, and it contains just a hint of vanilla.
"I'm going out tonight," he says, cutting off a segment of waffle with his fork. "Not sure when I'll be back."
The bluish morning light hits his cheek through the window. His skin looks so smooth, so youthful. His face is covered in thick stubble. My eyes dart over it, as I imagine what it would feel like to kiss those lips, to feel his rough face brush against my smooth skin.
Snap out of it, I think to myself. If anything was going to happen, it would've happened already. I'm only here because he likes me enough not to turn me into a puddle in the alley.
"Okay," I say quietly. "Be careful."
He gives me a strange gaze. "There's nothing to worry about," he says, but I don't believe him. He's going to be in danger, I can just tell.
I poke at my waffle more, but I'm not hungry anymore.
24
Havok
Tonight, I need laser focus. I'm doing this hit against the Guatemalan and I can't fuck it up. But I just can't get Penny off my mind. The way her body looked at breakfast today. The dark outlines of her nipples through the fabric of her t-shirt, calling to me, making my dick hard for her.
Fuck. I don't think I can hold back much longer. One night, very soon, I think I'm going to lose this internal battle and I'm going to slip into her room at night. And we're going to release this burning sexual tension that's been building between us for years.
It's going to be fucking bad. But it's going to feel so unbelievably good.
I pull up to the Guatemala Grill, the restaurant where I'll find my target tonight. It's on the water out in Bayside, where a festive mood fills the air. Strings of multicolored lights hang around the restaurant's patio, reflecting off the windows and glasses on the tables. The patio buzzes with activity; people eating, drinking, and laughing. Just another Saturday night for the restaurant.
But for Jorge Gonzalez, the owner, it's going to be his last Saturday night ever.
I park my car on the street and kill the engines and lights. I reach into the pockets of my suit jacket and withdraw two black leather gloves, which I pull on. Then I grab my garrote from the passenger seat.
Me, I'm an old-fashioned gun-and-bullets kind of guy, but Igor specifically requested a garrote for this job. And what Igor wants, Igor gets.
For now.
I wind up the wire and clench it tightly in one leather-clad fist. Then I exit my car and walk into the restaurant.
The lobby features traditional decorations, and the sound of a live band dances in from the dining room. I can barely move around with all the people waiting to be seated.
The hostess, a young Guatemalan girl with thick, shimmering hair, greets me. She gives me a warm smile, twirling the ends of her hair in her fingertips. My eyes pass over the cleavage revealed by her dress, but I feel nothing. Not a stir. The only woman on my mind is Penny.
"Just one tonight?"
"Yes. The bar, please."
She smiles and seats me right off the main dining area. I take a seat between a pencil-pusher goodie-boy type and an old cougar. I scan the room while I order a Sprite, looking for Jorge.
Usually, it's only my life on the line, but now it's Penny's too. If I don't come home, she'll stay there handcuffed to the bed until someone else finds her.
And that could be a fate worse than death.
Finally I see Jorge. He's wide, almost as wide as he is tall. And he's walking from table to table, schmoozing customers. He takes this business seriously. I wouldn't be surprised if the restaurant makes him more cash than the gun-running ring does.
He should've stuck to the restaurant business.
After he makes his rounds, I see him heading for the back door, a pack of cigarettes clutched in his hand. Luckies. Ironic.
I throw down a tip and leave my drink at the bar. I weave my way through the dining room, following Jorge toward the back exit. I wait until he's exited, then step out after him a moment later.
He stands out back, next to a concrete loading dock. The night is black, and clouds hide the stars in the sky. The only sound is the hoot of a distant, invisible owl.
Jorge is alone, and he cocks an eyebrow at me, looking wary.
"Hey," I say, "Got a smoke?"
My accent must tip him off that I'm Bratva, because he reacts fast. He drops the packet of cigarettes and jams a fist into his pocket. When he withdraws it, he's holding a pocket gun.
Fuck. He got the drop on me.
I dash forward, opening my palm to swipe at the gun. The garrote falls from my grip, glinting in the moonlight as it drops to the ground. Jorge's eyes track it, and they bulge, as my intentions are confirmed.
"You Russian piece of shit," he growls, leveling the gun at my chest.
I reach out and slap at it, knocking his hand down just as he pulls the trigger. The gun goes off with a deafening bang, and a hot, sharp pain pierces my thigh.
Fuck. This just got messy. I have to finish the job and get the hell out of here.
I grab his wrist, my leg searing in pain. I slam it against the restaurant's brick wall, and the gun flies out of his hand, clattering against the asphalt. Pain radiates through my torso and I double over, giving him an opportunity to strike back. He throws his weight against me, knocking us both to the ground, me pinned beneath him.
Fuck. I struggle, reaching for the gun, all my nerves screaming in protest. He's no match for me strength-wise, but he must weigh five hundred pounds. I can barely move beneath him.
"The hitman dies tonight, eh, Ruskie?" he grunts. He puts his forearm against my throat, and suddenly I can't breathe anymore. Even in the moonlight, I can see his face, red and bulging.
But I'm not going to let this happen. With all my remaining strength, I lunge for the gun, and I feel its comforting metal against my palm. I jam the barrel into Jorge's side, and his eyes bulge with surprise.
Then I pull the trigger over and over, shots ringing out, until I feel warm blood pouring out of his body, coating me with red. A minute later, his breathing stops. I have to get out of here. I shove his heavy as fuck, rotten corpse off of me, then strip my bloody suit off and ball it up under my arm. I eye the backdoor nervously, but no one comes out.
I run back to my car, naked except for my boxers and shoes, my leg bleeding. I tear away into the night.
25
Penny
"Holy shit," I say.
Havok stands in the guest room doorway, wearing only a pair of boxer briefs. It's the first time I've seen him like this. He'd be fucking hot as hell right now, with those ridged abs, corded arms, and broad shoulders. Except for one thing.
He's bleeding. A lot.
"I need your help," he says wearily.
"Oh my God," I say. "Okay. Let me up." I have so many questions, but I suppress them for now.
He hobbles out of the room, leaving a trail of blood. When he returns, he's holding the handcuff keys. He frees me.
"Come on," he says, wincing. He leads us to the shower in my bathroom, not b
othering to trek to the master bath. He starts the shower, then in one swift motion, slides his boxers down without any shame and gets in.
My lips part, as I stare in disbelief. His cock is huge and beautiful. It's thick, and so long even though he's soft. I feel wet between my legs, and I have to remind myself that this is a medical situation. I almost feel guilty for having these thoughts when he's injured like this.
He positions himself so the water hits the wound on his leg, cleaning it out. Fresh and clotted blood runs down his leg, and the bathtub looks like a fucking murder scene. He grimaces hard, and I can only imagine how much pain he's in.
"Come here," he says. "Lost a lot of blood. Can't keep weight on this leg. Need you to clean this before I get a damn infection."
I try to compose myself, but I'm totally overwhelmed by the situation.
"Is that... a gunshot wound?"
He grunts.
"Oh my god," I say. "It is." Suddenly, I feel scared. Really scared.
He grunts again. "No questions right now. Just do as I say."
I swallow hard. "Okay."
"Get the peroxide from the medicine cabinet."
I open the mirrored cabinet above the sink and see a large brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide. I grab it.
"Pour it on."
I step toward the shower and unscrew the cap. For some reason, I put one hand on his thigh as I pour the peroxide. As I do, it bubbles against the wound, and Havok's face contorts in pain.
Something else happens, though. His cock twitches, responding to my touch against his thigh. I just stare. I don't know what's wrong with me. I shouldn't be so turned on right now, but this situation is just so… primal.
"S-sorry," I mumble.
He doesn't acknowledge it. "Get a clean sponge."
Havok: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Page 8