You Are Mine (Bad Boy 9 Novel Collection)

by Amy Faye

  I tip the cup slow, waiting for the phone to ring. Delaying that gratification just one more second, two more seconds, three…

  When it finally passes my lips, it's exactly as I realize that it doesn't feel particularly warm in my hand, and it goes down my throat lukewarm.

  Unsatisfying doesn't begin to describe it. I let out a long breath. No fucking way. No. Fucking. Way.

  I like my coffee hot. Hot enough to burn the whole way down. As it is, it's barely warm. Barely. For an instant, I think about going back inside, getting myself another cup. Having to tell that fucking woman my name again keeps me from doing it.

  Besides, I don't even want to drink this damn stuff, I tell myself. The coffee cup drops convincingly on the top of the garbage, and soon, Spider will no doubt be joining it.

  Chapter Eight

  RYAN

  I can't tell them what happened. I'd be a fool to even think it. There was a moment, however brief, where I thought I might tell them something. Thank God I'd come to my senses soon enough.

  But if I can't involve Logan and Brian in the search, then it means I'm on my own, and if I'm on my own…

  There's someone on the inside. There must be. But how I'm supposed to find him is the rub. For a long minute I consider.

  Is the timing significant? These cops, they can't control themselves. The minute they've got enough, they shoot in.

  But then again, who knows. They were smarter than I'd given them credit for. They'd made moves I didn't expect so far. Maybe they were just playing me. I could go on and on, trying to figure all this shit out, and it means nothing.

  Well, that's just too bad. What could they have gotten ahold of?

  It's not hard to figure it out. It's got something to do with the delivery. It must have. I take a deep breath.

  Los Diablos are going to be trouble if they don't get it. But if I find out those sons of bitches had something to do with my little excursion today, then they're going to have a whole world more trouble.

  If I've got someone on my inside, then they've definitely got someone. I've seen their operation, and there's no chance in hell that those Mexican sons of bitches don't have some Feds sniffing them.

  It would be nice to believe that they are the only ones who have some house cleaning, but I know better. If the Feds think that they know everything I'm doing, then they've got someone on the inside.

  For a long, sickening moment, I can't shake the thought that Brian and Logan might be involved. If they want to get to me, then through my brothers would be an easy way to do it.

  Neither of them showed any signs that there's any possibility of involvement, though. There's simply no way. Not the way that they jumped right up.

  I already know who it is. Something in my head, an itch. A doubt. And that doubt was confirmed when the cops showed up. But I don't want to jump to conclusions.

  Spider has done good work for me, this past year. It'd be a shame to have to put the hurt on him. As I sit, the gun in my hand feels heavy. I already know what to do, now.

  It couldn't have been one of the drivers. Unless they had a constant rotation of guys coming in and leaving, which was possible in a sort of theoretical way.

  It did the one thing that I never like to do, though, which is ascribing mythical powers to the cops. Anyone could be a cop, and it's true. But assuming that everyone's a cop, that's dangerous.

  No, it's much easier to fit the collar on just one man, the one man who went from not knowing to knowing in the span of that afternoon.

  Still, Ryan waited. He put the gun down. Took a deep breath and picked it back up. The phone came out of his pocket easy.

  "Spider? I need you to meet me at the bar."

  Spider's voice sounds bad. He knows I know, but that's part of the fun, isn't it? "Sure, boss. You need me there right this second?"

  "Naw, take your time, man. Pick me up—you know those bite-size ice cream candies? Yeah, Dibs. That's the one. Get me some of those on the way over."

  I click the phone off. Time to thin the herd. I jab a few buttons on my phone. Robin's never looked right to me. He's a squirmy kinda guy.

  He's bad for business, you can't send him anywhere. Spider might be the cop, but people don't look at him and say, 'you're a fuckin' cop!'

  They look at Robin and they don't say it because they already fuckin' left. Bad for business.

  "What's up, boss?"

  "I need you to meet me here."

  "At the bar?"

  "Yeah. Everything okay?"

  Robin pauses a long time. "Sure, boss. I'll be there in five."

  I hang up the phone, tap the gun on the table. Nervous habit. I should have kicked it a long time ago, but I just can't get rid of it. I hear the dull rumble of a bike rolling up.

  Must be Robin. Spider drives one of those big fuckin' one-cylinder Harleys, a sound you can hear the difference in compared to Robin's V-twin.

  The guy looks as shaky now as he ever has. I pour him a beer. The cold glass even looks tempting to me. Shame to waste most of it, but sometimes you waste things.

  He settles in to the bar. I can tell he wants to ask what I called him out for, but he keeps his mouth shut, and I'm not going to tell him until Spider gets here anyways.

  I wish there was some advice I could give the poor schmuck. There's nothing that can be done for him, though. If I told him that some tattoos might help, well, I would be lying, wouldn't I?

  He looks like a square no matter what you do, down to that shitty English bike he drives. Most would have left by now, but Robin can't take a hint, and now it's gone one step too far.

  A few silent minutes pass, the gun still sitting heavy on the ledge behind the bar. I can feel it there, like it's sitting right in my fuckin' lap.

  The low, gravelly sound of Spider's engine pulling up outside tells me that there's only a few minutes more of the quiet. Soon, everything's going to go fuckin' nuts. The least that I can do is wait for those Dibs.

  He comes in, cradling the bright red package in one large hand.

  "Hey, Spider," Robin says, his movements shifty. Maybe I was wrong. Robin could be an informant, or at least he could be an informant, too.

  Spider's low, gravelly voice matches the sound of his engines. "Hey. Everything okay, boss?"

  I keep them both waiting a little longer. "You got those Dibs for me?"

  He tosses them, and I catch the package, still cold, between my hands. I pop the top open, peel the cover back, and pop one into my mouth.

  "That what you wanted?"

  "Perfect," I tell him, smiling. I pour out a third beer, one for each of us. The place isn't lit up, not this time of night. Just the lights around the bar, like a spotlight on the three of us.

  I pop another piece of ice cream into my mouth.

  "Hey, Spider, I know I've been runnin' you a little ragged lately, dealing with so much of the day-to-day stuff."

  I might not have noticed the way he squirms under the attention, if I didn't already know what he was hiding. But as it is, I do notice it.

  "It's fine, boss. I'm just trying to do my part."

  "I know," I tell him. "And that's just the thing. About the day-to-day operations. I just got word, you see. There's a mole. A mole, in our club. Can you believe that shit?"

  Robin's face twists up in confusion, even as Spider's trying to keep his face neutral, trying to hide the heavy swallow of nerves.

  "A mole, boss?"

  "Shut the fuck up, Robin."

  Spider leans in, trying to look like he's not about to get shot.

  "You got any ideas who it could be, boss?"

  "I have a very good idea, man. I have a very good idea."

  I pull the gun out and hand it over to him. "Clean up this mess for me."

  I walk away. This is a test, and like all tests, it has to be taken in private. You check the test after, of course. If he wants to play cop, then he'll fire off the shot into the air, or something.

  If he wants to play with
the big boys, though, he'll have to find the balls to put one right into Robin's chest. That will answer the question for me. Can I use him? Or should I have dealt with it right then and there?

  Chapter Nine

  MAGUIRE

  Beauchamp picks up his phone promptly. It's a surprise, given the sort of man he is. An odd glimpse of a responsible person, underneath the layers of scumbag that he seems to want to show to the world.

  "Who is this?"

  I smile to myself, the idea that I can call this bastard any time I want, and when I say 'jump,' he'll have to say 'how high?'

  "Who do you think it is, baby?"

  I can hear the frustration on his side of the line, even as he doesn't say anything. There's not much he can say, is there? I have him just about dead to rights, and that's how it's going to be from now on.

  "How did you get this number?"

  I can't get this grin off my face. Can't stop myself from feeling a little pleasure at being able to yank his chain.

  "You think we'd hold on to your phone for two hours, and we wouldn't even bother to get your phone number? What do you take us for, Beauchamp? Idiots? We got you."

  "Fine," he says. I can hear the sound of movement in the background. Someone's there with him, and if that puts him in an uncomfortable situation, I'm all that much happier.

  "How's your infiltration going?"

  "I've got a plan, but it's not like it's going to get done all in one day. That ain't how this game works, babe."

  "You'll call me by my name, or not at all."

  "Fine, what's that?"

  "Maguire. That's 'Agent Maguire,' to you."

  "You don't have a first name?"

  "Not one you need to be calling me by."

  "Fine, then, 'Agent' Maguire. Why are you fuckin' on my phone?"

  "I just thought I should be checking up on you."

  There's no reason to get to the real purpose of my call, not too soon or too quickly. Beauchamp still has an important lesson to learn.

  The first lesson in dealing with me, especially when I have the full might of the American government behind me, is that I'm not on his time. He's on my time, and if I want him to wait then he waits.

  The sooner he learns it, the better. I wait a long time before I continue, driving home my lesson without ever needing to explain it.

  "Did you fuckin' need me for something?"

  "Yes, Beauchamp. You need to figure out the routine around here. You report in. To me. Directly."

  "Fine. Where do you want to meet?"

  "That bar of yours was an awfully nice spot. I believe you were just pouring me out a drink when things went so badly for you."

  "It's not a mistake I'll make again. No. You can consider the bar off-limits. Too risky to have you there."

  "Listen here," I purr. "I'll go where I like, and you'll get the place ready for me. You don't want anyone seeing me there? Get them out. I'll be there in fifteen minutes, and I expect a cold beer to be ready for me."

  I hang up the phone before he has a chance to answer, and slip into the car. It's too upscale for the area. I'll stand out. But that never mattered before. I don't care about blowing his cover, not really.

  Because he still has plausible deniability, if they draw a connection between him and the cops. He got picked up earlier that day, and now the lead agent is hassling him.

  No muss, no fuss, and if he can't figure out how to deal with that, then he's not as useful to me as I thought he could be.

  The drive takes two minutes less than I expected. I don't bother taking a lap around, but it wasn't hard to see Hawkins driving away on the hog the government paid for him to buy.

  There's another bike as I pull up, one I don't recognize. Not Hawkins's, and definitely not the old thing that Beauchamp rides. I shrug and keep moving. If he didn't get everyone out, then that's his mistake.

  It's not mine, and that's all there is to it. Well, he can play it how he wants, for now. I'll do what I have to do to keep my pieces in play, but I'm not going to coddle him.

  I push the door open and look around. The place is dimly lit, a handful of tables with chairs upside-down on top. Maybe fifty people could fit in here. It'd be cozy, though.

  The only things lighting up the bar are the neon sign—creatively reading "BAR"—and a single overhead light that shines down on Ryan's face. It gives him an appearance that looks like it's carved out of marble.

  "You said you wanted to see me?"

  "Who's bike is that?"

  "Don't you worry about him. He had to catch a cab home. Too much to drink."

  I put on my best bitch face. What's he going to do—call me on it?

  "I got a call today, from my guy."

  "Oh yeah?"

  "Yeah. We have people up and down your organization." I take a dramatic pause, searching his face for signs of doubt. "And I don't want you going after my guys."

  "Well, it's too late. I already found him. That's his bike outside."

  It isn't, but I make a face as if I'm buying it. "You wouldn't have—"

  "I did."

  I don't know what to do, now. He's calling my bluff, and I can't let him see that I'm not upset by it.

  "You son of a bitch, you think you can get out of this by getting rid of our guy on the inside? You think that's the limit of what we're able to do?"

  "I think you're all talk."

  His expression isn't one that shows any doubt. He's got a poker face to beat them all, but even still… no doubt.

  I unholster my gun, put it on the counter. "You're in this, now. And there ain't no way out, and if you hurt one hair on his head, I swear to Christ, I will—"

  "You should've said something sooner. He's gone."

  I swallow hard. Is that a confession? Can I use that?

  "You god damned idiot. You fucking moron."

  He doesn't respond to my insults. I shouldn't have been making them. It's making me look weak, and I know it, but the way he's looking at me—

  "You just signed your own death sentence, you idiot."

  "I don't think so, 'Agent' Maguire. I think you need me, or you'd have kept me in that cell."

  I grit my teeth. "For now, maybe."

  "So cut the tough-guy act. You're all talk, and you've got nothing going for you. Maybe if you stop pulling this bullshit, I'll play by your rules."

  "Oh, you'll straighten up—"

  Ryan puts his hand on my gun, pushes it away from me a little way down the bar. The easy way he does it is completely natural, completely doubtless. As if he owned me, and there was nothing I could ever have done.

  I can feel a little surge of something that might have been arousal. I love it when I've got a fight on my hands.

  I swallow hard, look him in the face. I have to do something, have to prove I'm still in control. I wind back and take a wide swing at his face.

  He sways back and it swings hard past his nose, and then I can feel his arms grabbing my by my shoulder, pulling me up and over the bar and then he's got control of the situation, and I've got to hope he's not going to use it.

  Chapter Ten

  RYAN

  Every time that I see her, I can't get the thoughts out of my head. Wondering what it must be like. Wondering what it will feel like. I don't have to wonder any more.

  She's right there, and all I have to do is reach out and take her.

  Maguire pulls her fist back in an exaggerated motion. If she wanted to hit me, she should go straighter. Just bang, pop her hand right out and into me. She doesn't. She arcs wide, and I have no trouble dodging.

  I grab her and turn her, pull her over the bar. I can hear her gun clatter to the floor, and with it goes her illusions of control over the situation.

  When I have her on her back, her legs dangling over the far edge of the bar, she's flushed. Her breaths are coming in hard, hot bursts. I can feel the effect that her ragged breathing is having on my body.

  She wants to tell me to get my hands off her. She wa
nts me to let her go. Not because she doesn't want it, because I can see in her eyes that she does.

  She's afraid of not being in control, which is a lucky thing for her. Lucky that I'm here, anyways. Because now she can learn what it's like not to be in control any more.

  I don't take my hands off of her. I'm not going to any time soon, but she needs to be more honest first. More ready to tell the truth about what she feels. I can feel her under my hand, pressing against me.

  I push her down, just hard enough to let her know that she's not getting out. She stops struggling for a moment. I lean down over her.

  "You're not in control," I tell her softly. "Not here. You can go back to your work in a while, and you can control your bulldog when you get there. Not me."

  Her eyes burn with anger. She doesn't like hearing that one bit. That look is how Maguire should always look. Anger suits her. I tell her so and it burns hotter.

  "Get off me!"

  "Not until you realize that you can't control me."

  "Fuck you, I can't."

  "You're not going to admit it, are you?"

  She will, but not out loud. She's not ready yet. I lean down on her harder and press my lips against hers. For an instant I feel her surrender as the kiss brushes against her soft mouth, then the denial kicks in again, hard.

  I pull back away and push down on her ribs, stopping the rebellion in its tracks.

  "You can't lie to me, 'Agent.'"

  "Lie to you about what?"

  "You know what. You want this, don't you?"

  "Fuck you. Get off me."

  She didn't deny it, and I noticed. She can't deny it, because she knows I'll hear the lie in her voice. She doesn't trust herself to be able to say the words. That's smart.

  "Is that really what you want?"

  I let my hand get light on her chest. I let her feel it. Her face is flushed with a mixture of anger and arousal that she can't bring herself to deny.

  Her hand comes up from underneath and slaps me. My hand gets heavy again, pressing her down onto the bar. Her breasts pool on her chest deliciously, but I don't touch them. Don't reach for them. I don't even look at them if I can help it.