HIS PLAYTHING: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance (Voodoo Devils MC)

by Zoey Parker

  “Aw, come on, Harry!” Bax called out, grinning.

  Harry whirled around again, furious. “I should have known. When David said he wasn't gonna tell me who was running this con, I should have known that meant it was you, and I should have shut it down right then. But no, instead I end up dragging my ass from LA all the way out here to fucking alligator country, just to find out it's you...”

  “Yeah, but you're here now, right? So okay, fine, it's me. You may as well stick around and find out what the score is.”

  “Why bother?” Harry asked. “All I'll hear is the part where I'm supposed to get giddy about how much cash is involved and how easy it's supposed to be. I won't hear about what happens later, when you figure out a way to get a bigger piece for yourself and change the plan without telling the rest of us.”

  “Harry, that hurts me,” Bax replied with a smirk. “It really does. That only happened, what, one time?”

  “Three times.”

  “That second thing doesn't count. And besides, I still made sure you got paid, right? So okay, maybe I didn't let you in on every tiny detail as we went along, but you still got taken care of in the end. Come on, sit down, have a drink. You'll love this, I promise.”

  “This is already off to a hell of a start,” Tommy grumbled.

  “So first of all, some introductions are in order,” Bax continued. He knew that if he gave Harry a chance to walk out, some of the others might decide to follow and then he'd really be screwed. Better to steamroll them with his pitch at the outset, before they had a chance to think for themselves too much.

  He gestured to Skull. “This is Skull, the president and co-founder of The Voodoo Devils MC, who will henceforth be known as 'The Aggrieved Party.'”

  “Nice to meet you,” Skull said.

  “Skull, this is David Choi. We've worked together on dozens of cons, and he's one of the sharpest operators in the business.” Bax pointed to Harry. “Harrison Hanlon III, or Hollywood Harry to his friends. He does makeup and special effects for movies.” He pointed to the short woman. “Millicent Katz, known in the biz as Chillie Millie. One of the most talented chemists in the country, maybe even the world...”

  “I'm not a straw, Bax,” Millie said flatly. “Don't suck up.”

  “...and this strapping lad is Mule,” Bax finished, jerking a thumb at the morbidly-obese young man.

  “What's his job?” Tommy asked.

  Mule cracked his knuckles slowly. “I'm the muscle.”

  Skull looked around at the burly bikers surrounding them. “You brought muscle? No offense, Bax, but ain't that kind of like bringing sand to the beach?”

  Bax shook his head. “We can't use your guys for that part, or Altamura might recognize them. Besides, don't worry—I've got something in mind for them, too. Everyone's got a part to play, trust me.”

  “Speaking of trusting you,” said Harry, “I still haven't heard one good reason why I shouldn't tell you to kiss my black ass.”

  “Because the last five flicks you worked on were low-budget horror crap that probably paid you peanuts,” Bax answered. “I'm offering you a chance to get a six-figure payout. You really want to stand there and tell me you can afford to just walk away?”

  Harry's jaw clenched, the muscles in his cheeks twitching ominously. Slowly, he went to the bar and sat down on a stool. “Five minutes. Talk.”

  “Okay,” Bax began, “so excluding the professional confidence men—excuse me, and ladies—in the room, who here can tell me what the Spanish Prisoner is?”

  There was silence from Skull and the Devils.

  “I probably should have expected that,” Bax said. “How about this: Who here has gotten one of those scam emails from someone claiming to be a Nigerian prince?”

  Another silence.

  “You're not exactly talking to a point-and-click crowd here, Bax,” Skull said uneasily.

  “Fair enough. I'll make this simple. Basically, the Spanish Prisoner con targets people with money who want more of it. The scam's a classic Pigeon Drop, and it goes all the way back to the 1700s. The hustler tells the mark that he's in contact with someone wealthy and powerful, who's being held captive for a huge ransom. The hustler offers the mark the chance to pay that ransom, in exchange for untold riches upon the prisoner's release.”

  “So where does Altamura's daughter come in?” Skull asked.

  “I'll bet I can guess that one,” Millie chimed in dryly. “Traditionally, the Spanish Prisoner works best when it's accompanied by a sweetener—usually, the hustler has some gorgeous young girl who pretends to be the prisoner's concerned daughter, and she seduces the mark into paying.”

  “Only this time, the script is flipped and you're the gorgeous young girl, right, Bax?” Tommy asked. “You've gotta be kidding me. Altamura's a wiseguy, he's spent his whole life expecting people to fuck him over and take what's his. He'll never go for it.”

  “That's where you come in, Tommy,” Bax said evenly.

  Over the next hour, Bax carefully outlined his plan.

  By the time he'd finished, there wasn't a single person in the room—Harry included—who wasn't completely convinced that it would work.

  Chapter 5

  Bax

  Frank Sinatra crooned his greatest hits on a docked iPod in the corner of the hotel room. Tommy carefully squeezed the black dye into Bax's hair layer by layer as Bax shifted in his chair uncomfortably.

  The room was on the fourth floor of The Carondelet Hotel, one of New Orleans' most expensive guest houses. Skull and the others had balked at the price, but Bax had assured them that it was important to keep up appearances—he couldn't convince anyone he was the heir to a Mafia empire if he was holed up in some cheap shitbox.

  “You need to fucking relax,” Tommy said. “If you keep fidgeting like that, you're gonna end up wearing this stuff as war paint.”

  “If you want to help me relax, you can start by switching off this easy listening horseshit and putting on some actual music. Maybe Nine Inch Nails, or a little Zeppelin, at least...”

  Tommy shook his head briskly. “Nope. From now on, you're on a strict diet of Sinatra, Dean Martin, Tony Bennett, and Louie Prima. You're gonna listen to them over and over, and you're gonna memorize the lyrics to all of their songs in case one of them comes on the radio and you need to sing along. Trust me, it happens more often than you might think.”

  “Bullshit. The guy's daughter is, what, in her early twenties? You really think she's going to care if I'm into all this dusty old shit? She probably hates it.”

  “Yeah, but the daughter isn't the one you're really trying to seduce, is she, smart guy? Don Altamura's the only one you need to worry about making a good impression on. Whether his daughter likes you or hates you isn't going to have any bearing on his decision to marry you off to her.”

  “Still, it'll be easier if she likes me,” Bax observed quietly.

  Tommy stopped putting dye in Bax's hair, eyeing him warily. “Hey. You're not actually gonna try to fuck her or anything like that, are you?”

  Bax rolled his eyes. “Pffft. Of course not.”

  “Bax. Look at me.”

  Bax sighed, turning to look at Tommy.

  “You do not fuck this girl. Understand? You take her out if Altamura wants you to, you play it like a total gentleman, maybe you even try to be a little charming. But if you get a real shot at taking her to bed, you think of the money that's at stake here and you keep your dick in your pants. You come back to this motel, you jerk off, dial a 900 number, hire a hooker, do whatever you gotta do to get it out of your system. Because if you somehow manage to blow this score with your usual Casanova crap, everyone involved—including me—is gonna want to see you strung up by your fucking balls.”

  “Message received, okay? Now finish up my hair.” Bax studied the shiny surfaces of his fingernails. “I still don't see why I had to get a goddamn manicure. It's kind of girly, isn't it?”

  “Not to guys like Altamura. To them, it's a
status symbol. It's what separates them from the bookies, chumps, and leg-breakers. Hold still, I need to do your eyebrows so they match up.”

  Bax chuckled. “You want to do my pubes too, while you're at it? You know, for consistency?”

  “You can't even stop being a prick for five minutes, can you?” Tommy carefully brushed the dye into Bax's eyebrows. “And by the way, you'd better remember to shave about twice a day. You start to get any blonde stubble, and it's game over. Now let's go over Italian swear words.”

  Bax groaned. “And English ones won't work, because...?”

  “Because wiseguys don't use them, and if you can't understand what they're saying when they curse in Italian, they'll think you're an undercover Fed and chainsaw your head off. So: You want to call some guy an idiot?”

  “Coglione.”

  “And what's the literal meaning?”

  Bax thought for a moment. He'd been studying for two days, and he was usually a fast learner, but he wasn't used to memorizing things in other languages. “Testicle.”

  “Good, good. So if you want to say, 'Don't break my balls,' that would be...?”

  “Um...'Non mi rompere i coglioni.'”

  “Okay, not bad. If you want to call someone a queer?”

  “Finocchio.”

  “Half a queer?”

  Bax smiled. “Mezzafinocchio.”

  “Stick it up your ass?”

  “No thanks, I don't swing that way,” Bax chortled.

  “Bax, I swear to fucking God, if you go in there and don't take this seriously—”

  “Vaffanculo, okay? Christ, loosen up.”

  “Okay,” Tommy said. “Not bad. You should work on your accent a little, though. You're still making it sound more Spanish than Italian. Watch a few more gangster flicks tonight. Just the ones on the list I gave you, though—any other ones you watch won't teach you shit. And remember, the hand gestures need to go with it if you want to seem authentic.”

  “But other than that?”

  Tommy put the bottle of dye aside, admiring his handiwork. “Other than that, I'd say it's about time for me to make the call.”

  Bax picked up Tommy's cell phone and handed it to him. “Go for it.”

  Tommy stared at the phone for a long moment. “Fuck. This is it, isn't it? Later, when I'm down on my knees in the fucking swamp with some wiseguy's gun pressing against my ear, this is gonna be the exact moment I look back on and think, 'I didn't have to betray everything I swore an oath for. I could've just walked away instead.' And it'll be too fucking late.”

  “Tommy, when you're lying on your own private beach somewhere with a Mai Tai in your hand and a big-titted girl's lips wrapped around your cock, this is going to be the moment you look back on and think, 'God bless Bax for making sure I never have to take orders from arrogant shitheads like Parrino ever again.' And then you're gonna finish your drink and blow your load all over the chick's face, and it's going to be beautiful and Hallmark's gonna write a card about it. Now stop clutching your fucking pearls and make the call.”

  Tommy closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and dialed the number.

  Chapter 6

  Stef

  Stef walked down the steps, heading for the kitchen. Her stomach was grumbling, and the worst part was that she knew it still would be, no matter what she chose to eat. None of the food her mother approved of—seeds, hardboiled egg whites, salads with no dressing—was actually filling, and trying to sneak a mouthful or two of unapproved food would be futile. Her mother watched the contents of the fridge and the pantry like a hawk, and whenever there was less of anything than there should be, she made sure Stef was punished for it. The few times Stef had tried to smuggle in snacks, Gracie immediately found them and confiscated them. Sometimes she even ate them herself in front of Stef, just to torture her.

  Stef hated always feeling hungry.

  As she passed the door to her father's private study, she heard the phone ring twice. Her mother answered, exchanged a few quiet words with the caller, and called out, “Benny, it's for you!”

  The door to the study opened slightly, and Benny's voice emanated from it. “Did they say who it is, or am I supposed to guess?”

  Stef rolled her eyes. They'd installed a state-of-the-art intercom system a few years before, but her parents still insisted on yelling to each other from across the house like something out of a damn sitcom.

  “Tommy Quarters from Dallas,” her mother hollered. “He says he's Old Man Parrino's consigliere.”

  “Tommy who?” her father shouted. “Old Man what? Who are these people?”

  “I don't know, but he says you know him, and he says he wants to talk to you. Are you going to pick up the phone or not?”

  “Fine, fine, I'll take the call in here,” Benny snapped. He stepped away from the door, but left it ajar instead of closing it like he usually did when a call came in for him.

  Stef stood in the downstairs hall for a moment, thinking about how the open door gave her a rare chance to listen in on the conversation. Benny frequently took calls from other gangsters in his study, and he usually put them on speakerphone so he could pace as he talked. Stef had never cared about his business or anything associated with it, so she generally wasn't interested in eavesdropping.

  But she also knew that this call might be about her—another hopeful matchmaker from another rotten crime family, trying to arrange a marriage between her and yet another self-important punk. If she listened in, she might have a better idea of what she'd be dealing with on her next date.

  She crept over to the door, keeping her body pressed against the wall to stay out of sight. She felt silly, and she knew that if her mother or father caught her spying, she'd be in big trouble. But she couldn't resist. She was tired of having no knowledge of—or control over—her own life.

  Stef heard her father clear his throat and hit the button on his desk phone. “This is Benny Altamura. Who am I speaking with, please?”

  A voice answered, sounding stilted and formal. “Don Altamura, it is truly an honor to speak with you. Thank you for taking my call. I hope I have not disturbed you. I'm not sure if you remember me—we met briefly at the thing in Vegas a couple of years ago. My name is Thomas Quattrocchi, and I have the privilege of acting as advisor to the Parrino family in Dallas.”

  Good lord, Stef thought. This guy sure isn't big on brevity.

  “And why are you calling me, Mr. Quattrocchi? Surely, if your boss has business to discuss with me, he can speak with me himself. Unless, of course, he feels that I'm unworthy of his time, in which case—”

  “I can assure you, Don Altamura, my employer has the utmost respect for you. However, the matter I'm contacting you about...well, it doesn't actually involve Mr. Parrino. It's an unrelated matter, one in which I've been asked to act as a sort of go-between between you and another party.”

  “And I can assure you, sir,” Benny countered testily, “that nothing robs me of the inclination to trust my fellow man more than vague nonsense and murky phrases like 'another party.' If you're trying to conduct some kind of business behind your boss' back, that doesn't sound like anything I'd want to be involved in.”

  “My deepest apologies, Don Altamura,” Thomas said quickly. “I feel I've done a poor job of stating my intentions. If I seem as though I'm being furtive in this matter, I'm sorry. I promise you that nothing about this situation is untoward or inappropriate, or counter to my employer's interests in any way. It's simply that there are certain factors which demand a high degree of discretion. Actually, that's the reason I've been asked to contact you specifically. The, uh, other interested party has heard of your impeccable code of ethics, and feels that you alone can be trusted to protect his interests in this delicate matter.”

  Stef smiled. Whoever this person was, he clearly knew the right way to approach Benny—by appealing to his vanity and his self-image as a “man of principle.” It seemed like this call wasn't about setting her up with anyone, but she figured s
he may as well hear the rest of it.

  She heard her father sigh, then chuckle wearily. “All right, Mr. Quattrocchi. You got me to ante up, and you've gotten me to see your raise. Well done. But now I think it's time for you to show your cards, don't you? And please, resist the urge to start every sentence with 'Don Altamura.' Your respect is noted. There's no need to gild the lily, so to speak.”

  “Unfortunately, as I've said, this is a matter of tremendous secrecy. And since men in our position often find our lines of communication...compromised, shall we say, by certain government agencies, I believe it would be best for us to go over the details in person. Are you available for a meeting tomorrow evening? I can make myself available at your convenience, naturally, as can the interested party.”