Ice

by Chelsea Camaron

  Screech is our computer guru, hacker, IT guy, or whatever-the-hell title he chooses to go by. I don’t give a shit what he calls himself as long as he keeps doing what I need him to do. The man is a genius on web searches, hiding information that needs to stay buried, deleting information that needs to not exist, and creating false paper trails when the time calls for it. He is tall, lanky, and socially awkward. His crazy curly brown hair, glasses, and nut hugging skinny jeans he chooses to wear don’t make him the typical Regulator. He is loyal and a borderline genius. I trust him with my life, in his own way. With a few taps on his keyboard, he could ruin someone’s life as they know it.

  I try to give Brooke some space about her friends. I try to be the ‘normal’ dad as much as I can, knowing what I know about people and doing what I do for a living. Seeing the lowest of the low, the scumbags that walk day in and day out, side by side with regular everyday citizens, warps one’s perception of the world and everyone in it. For me, it is a battle not to run checks on every person Brooke comes into contact with. I give her room. I don’t automatically search them, but the second they give me a reason to, I am all over it.

  Girls. They seem to change their friends like they do their damn panties. Madyson is Brooke’s “bestie,” as she says. I don’t give a fuck what she is called. I want to know what her story is. Hell, I want to know her whole family’s story, every last one of them.

  Why is she living with her sister? Why were the girls at the party last night? Does she get good grades? Thousands of questions race through my mind concerning this girl and her influence on my daughter.

  Walking into After Midnight, I am glad for the early afternoon quiet. Brooke is not happy about being grounded, to say the least. In turn, this means a lot of stomping, screaming, and all out noise around my house to show her displeasure.

  “Thought I’d find you here,” a female voice purrs from behind me.

  Turning around, I am faced with Tonya, Tammy, Tanya, something close to that. She is a barfly I have hooked up with a few times. She hasn’t been around lately, though.

  “Well, you got me. Now, what’re you gonna do with me?” I ask with a wink.

  She makes her way over to me and then trails her fingers seductively down my cut and lower. “I’m down for anything, Ice,” she whispers, licking her lips as she cups my dick through my jeans.

  Tanya, or whatever her name is, rolls up on to her toes to lick at my neck. I take a glance at my watch. Although someone could walk in, even if it is too early for the club to open, I should have enough time for a quick fuck before most people start arriving.

  “Then go down,” I command.

  Without a word, Tanya drops to her knees before she unsnaps and unzips my jeans without hesitation. Her soft hands grip my semi-hard cock and stroke gently, stirring it to life.

  Tanya is a curvy girl, with an amazing hourglass figure. Her tits are far more than a mouthful or handful. Her ass is made for slapping, her legs tone like a dancer’s with thighs made to grip. Her long, dark hair flows down her back in waves.

  All thoughts escape me as her velvet soft tongue runs up the length of my shaft. When her lips wrap around my now painfully hard dick, I grab her head and pull her to me, forcing my cock deep down her throat. She freezes, getting her gag reflex under control, before she starts sucking hard, hollowing out her cheeks.

  “That’s right, take it,” I growl.

  She keeps sucking then dragging her teeth gently across my now fully throbbing erection as she pulls her head back. Her tongue swirls around the head before she engulfs me yet again, her lips sliding down the length. Her head bobs up and down in a steady pace as she continues to lick, suck, and stroke me.

  Cupping my balls, she squeezes them, and my body goes tight as I hold her head still and shoot my come down her throat. When I feel her struggle to swallow, I release her head and pull out. My seed spills out of the corner of her mouth, and she reaches up to wipe it as the last drops fall from my cock, shamelessly onto her shirt.

  Stuffing myself back into my jeans, I am about to walk away when her tiny hand reaches up to grab my wrist.

  “What?” I bark out. It should be obvious I am done with her. With our history, she should know I don’t coddle. I don’t cuddle, and I damn sure don’t hold conversations. Right now, I don’t have time, so I won’t be fucking her. Why is she still here, much less trying to talk to me? “I’m done, Tammy. Got shit to do, so you can go.”

  Rising from her knees, my cum still on her shirt, her eyes plead with me, although for what exactly, I am unsure. “I need a job. And my name is Tally.”

  “We fucked a handful of times before, and you’re a good piece of ass. You suck cock like a damn pro. If I hire you, I can’t fuck you.”

  “I need a job, Ice.”

  “So you thought you’d get down on your knees or on your back? There is a job title for that, and it’s not a stripper. Get the fuck outta here and don’t come back.”

  Walking away, I don’t bother to look back, even when I hear the whimpering of her crying behind me. We sell pussy, but the girls we have for that don’t earn that place with their bodies. It is an agreement they have, and it is not one earned by freely giving out the merchandise. Yeah, I am one fucking cold-hearted bastard. Tell me something I don’t already know.

  Morgan

  Pulling up to my parent’s house, I take a deep breath. One day, I will learn to say no. One day, I will not answer their summons. One day, I will be free of their hold.

  Too bad my parents spent so much time drilling their rules into me and not my younger sisters. Madyson is untamed and reckless. She thinks she is invincible, that nothing will touch her. Whereas Mallory is more reserved, emotional, dark, and brooding. I think my youngest sister faces a serious need for attention, or she is dealing with teen depression. She wears all black, all the time. Her eyebrow piercing, her nose piercing, and the one she has above her lip she calls a Monroe piercing were all done by her friend in her bedroom. She is only fourteen; why put holes in your body while so young?

  Getting out of my car, I walk up the curved sidewalk lined with a variety of flowers and Hosta plants. I know, without looking, that the brightly colored garden extends to across the front of the house and around to the back where my mother keeps a large, pristine garden to entertain guests in. The sight of the well-maintained flowers only serves to make me angry since I know she pays the gardener a fortune to keep up the numerous plants. It is money they don’t really have since they are drowning in debt, due to gratuitous spending on an almost lavish lifestyle they can’t afford yet feel like they need. Heck, they can’t afford this gaudy, over-sized house. Will they sell it and move into something more affordable, though? No.

  I pause as I open the six thousand dollar mahogany door with a decorative window. Staring at the Victorian design in the glass, I think about making a run for it. I don’t want to be here, but if I defy their summons, I know my parents will take it out on my sisters. They have it hard enough; I don’t need to make it worse for them.

  Walking in, the nostalgia one should feel when coming home fails to wash over me. While I take my shoes off at the front door, as I have been trained to do, I pause to take in my childhood home.

  Mahogany wood flooring runs throughout the house and is covered here and there in lavish Turkish rugs. To my right is the formal sitting room where an antique settee, chaise, and wingback chair sit facing each other in front of an ornate fireplace. Seeing that stupid chaise brings back bad memories of my mother teaching me how a ‘lady’ lounges on one.

  Ignoring the staircase to my left that would lead me to my sister’s bedrooms, as well as my old room, I move down the front hall. The walls are not covered in family photos or anything else that would showcase a parent’s love for their children. No, instead, there are large oil paintings of foxhunts and carriage rides through old English cities. The few family pictures that are present are staged for one to grab a quick look and move on to somethin
g else.

  The hallway leads me to the living room, which looks much the same as the formal sitting room. Over on the side of the room, I see a new, opulent, antique console table with a white marble top. I don’t want to know how many thousands of dollars that cost my father. What is apparent is that my mother is still living well beyond her means, as if she were married to a cardiac surgeon instead of the family dentist my father is.

  Blowing out a deep breath, I plaster on a fake smile and get ready to face the lion’s den. It is all about appearances. Fake it until you make it back out the door.

  Walking into the formal dining room, I see my father is already seated at the head of the table, reading a newspaper, as my mother sets a large pot roast down. Noticeably absent are both of my sisters, meaning I will be facing my parents alone. Great.

  I politely greet both of them before my father waves me to the chair next to him. Do either of my parents bother to get up and give me a hug or kiss on the cheek? No. God forbid they actually show their children any affection. What would the neighbors think? We wouldn’t want old Mrs. Ackerman telling everyone they coddled their girls.

  Sitting down to dinner, I am still waiting to be informed of why my presence has been requested. They summoned, I came; why can’t we get on with it? Why such a charade?

  “How are you, Morgan?” my slightly balding father asks me, aiming for casual conversation.

  “Fine, sir,” I answer, deciding to keep my answers short to try to get through this evening quicker. However, I must not forget to address them with manners. To fail to do so would end up in a lecture an hour long about how I should always respect my elders.

  “We’ve asked you to come because your cousin, Sarah, is getting married in three weeks. Mallory and Madyson can’t attend, so you must go with us,” my mother informs me.

  Unable to hide the shock on my face, I momentarily sit with my mouth wide open. My sisters choose this moment to enter the room without a greeting. Rather than wait for my brain to catch up and give a reply, my sister, Madyson, wades into the conversation.

  “Seriously, why does Morgan need to go? You could go by yourselves, you know. For whatever reason, you won’t be seen with Mallory or me, but you’ll torture Morgan by making her sit through Sarah’s wedding. Warped. Y’all are completely warped.”

  “We are family, a close family,” my mom annunciates each word. “Weddings are family events. Therefore, we are expected to arrive as a family. I can explain Madyson and Mallory have school commitments and are unable to attend, but we need you there to show we are a cohesive unit, Morgan.”

  “Mallory and I are available to go, but you won’t let us,” Madyson continues her argument that it should be them, not me, attending.

  Quite frankly, I don’t see why any of us need to go the wedding of a cousin we haven’t spoken to in years. However, my parents will never agree with that sentiment. It all boils down to the dog and pony show they demand I put on for our family. It is about appearances, after all. We couldn’t have the rest of the Powell clan thinking our little family unit was anything less than perfect.

  “Look at you!” my dad snaps as he waves his hand at Madyson’s short denim skirt and tank top. “Half the time you prance around like a little whore. Not to mention you act as though you have no respect, whatsoever, for your elders. Your sister is a freak-show. She sulks around the house, listening to that god-awful screeching she calls music while putting more holes in her face. There is no way we are taking either of you to a family event.” His voice is condescending, though rife with authority, to let his middle daughter know this is the end of the conversation. His blunt, nasty summarization of both of my younger sisters is all he needs for both him, and our mother, to justify their heartless attitudes and ridiculous request of me.

  “Where did we go wrong?” he snidely asks his wife.

  “I don’t know… hmmm… maybe spending all your energy making sure Morgan was the perfect child while completely ignoring us,” Madyson quips.

  “Madyson Leigh Powell, that’s enough of your disrespect! If you followed the rules and acted appropriately, you would be able to go with us. Instead, you’re always like a ticking time bomb, waiting to go off or doing something stupid like flashing your rear end in those scraps of fabric you call skirts to men twice your age. We can’t trust you to not make us look bad. We have three girls. At least one of you needs to be with us, and it needs to be Morgan,” my mother states, slamming her fork down to make it clear there will be no further discussion on the topic.

  Madyson starts to chime in again when I put my hand up to stop her. She is fighting a losing battle. It is better for everyone involved if I simply go and get it done with.

  “See, at least one of you is agreeable. Oh, and Morgan, you will need to bring a date. People are beginning to wonder if you have”—she leans in towards me—“deficiencies” —she leans back again—“since you never have a boyfriend. Sarah is younger than you; thus, we need to show everyone you will be the next one to get married.”

  I only nod my head in agreement. Why must everything be about what people see or think?

  Chapter

  4

  Ice

  “Sandoval.”

  “Ice, good to see you handling this trade personally. I have much respect for a man who stays so intimately involved in his business.” His heavy Cuban accent laces each word.

  Lazaro Sandoval stands before me, a true ‘Don.’ The tailor made, gray pinstriped suit covers a pastel pink button down shirt that only further highlights his tan skin, his jet black hair gelled back to perfection. My six foot frame towers over the man, although his short stature does nothing to make his presence any less intimidating. No, this man is contained fury. His venom runs right below the surface, waiting for a reason to be released. He would be as deadly as they come, except I am deadlier. So is every man in my club. He simply hasn’t realized it yet.

  Lazaro Sandoval has earned his title one kill at a time. Each territory he controls has been acquired meticulously, with his very own hands. He doesn’t keep an enforcer on his team. It is his thrill to personally see to ending his opponent when he has been crossed. This is a man who is not afraid to get dirty, not in the least bit.

  “If you want something done right, do it yourself, or so they say,” I state, making sure my voice shows I am far from being intimidated by him. Others may cower in his presence, but to me, he is nothing more than another scumbag I have every intention of burying. I merely have to wait for the right time, gather all my evidence, and worm out the information from him that my boys and I need to know.

  “They would be correct,” Lazaro agrees, a creepy smile spreading across his face. “You know, a man in my position can’t be too safe. A man like me doesn’t get where he’s at by doing business with just any yuma for quick money.”

  “No, a bisñero, such as yourself, can’t do business with any foreigner, as you say. Funny you call me the foreigner here, though. Last time I checked, it’s my country you live in, not your own.” I am possibly pushing my luck here, but this smug fucker needs to remember where he is.

  “Ice,” my name rolls off his tongue in a hiss, “understand that one in my position must learn of their allies and adversaries. A man of my power must also treat my allies as my future enemy.”

  My blood boils as I fight to maintain composure. The man before me easily dishes out threats as if they are compliments.

  “This is a simple business transaction, Sandoval. Certainly you can understand the concept of supply and demand. You have a supply for a product in demand, one in which I wish to purchase. Consider me your frienemy, that’s fine by me, but let’s cut the bullshit and handle business.”

  He laughs at me, rubbing his hands together. “Impatience can be a weakness, Ice. Being too quick for one’s release could cost you relationships, both personally and professionally. A woman wants a man with stamina and endurance. Both are key traits in business and the bedroom. Trusting on
e with a product, as well cut as mine, is much like sharing a woman. A beauty writhing under you makes it hard to control your load. Releasing too soon promises the lady will not return. You are far from a teenage boy unable to control his dick. As a man with much experience and control, with both women and business, I will dispense half of what you have requested. Once my associates on the street confirm you handle your street business with as much discretion as you do your club business, we will renegotiate the terms of our partnership.”

  This smug bastard is pushing my buttons just to fuck with me. He has already scouted every avenue of our businesses. I know because I let the information be fed to him so we could move forward with our deal. At this point, he knows everything there is to be found about the Regulators. It took months to even get a meeting with the man to negotiate any sort of affiliation. He is more than patient, more than thorough, and more than on his game.

  Hammer shifts behind me, feeling my agitation.

  “Time is money, Sandoval. You know this. With such an ego about your blanca, I need a sample before this goes any further. You stand here, changing the terms of our agreement by only releasing half of my order, yet the powder I seek may be nothing more than angel dust.”

  With the sharp raise of his arm, his pointer finger going up, one of his men shifts and turns back to the car from which they exited. We are in a private hangar used by many Cubans who are transporting goods from South Beach back to their communities in small cargo planes. My intel states the hangar is owned by a prominent plastic surgeon in downtown Miami.

  From what we have gathered, Sandoval is not bringing the drugs in via planes, though we haven’t worked out his system yet. It has taken months of build-up along with multiple negotiations and shows of good faith before we could get him to do any business with us. After a few small transactions with his low ranking men and lower cost products, we have finally gotten into larger opportunities.