Wild Knights

by Blaise Kilgallen

Dammit to hell, Evan thought. Another dead-end.

  Amante might have been the triggerman in his father's murder, but Evan would never hear a confession from his lips. The guy had been six feet under while Evan wasted two days searching for him. Now there was only one man left on the list of suspects his Uncle Tony gave him to scout--Rocco Gardenia's aging father.

  That part wasn't going to be easy.

  As long as he was in town, Evan visited the Medieval Showtime complex. He was next in the rotation to move to Chicago. He had in fact begun his intensive horsemanship lessons and his training and jousting in the Chicago suburb, so his next career move with the show would come full circle. But during the past few weeks, Evan wondered more than once if this was still what he wanted to do. Working as a knight meant moving from city to city on the circuit every couple of months. Soon he'd be leaving again, leaving the only close family member he had: Tony Lupo. He might not get back to New Jersey for a year, and by then ... well, Uncle Tony didn't look good.

  And then there was Carla. The best fuck he ever remembered having on a regular basis. She took his big cock into her so eagerly, without rhyme or reason, whenever he wanted her. If she groaned it was from pleasure, not pain. God, what a couple of fantastic weeks they'd had in town and in Atlantic City. She'd been deprived for 15 years, and maybe she was making up for it. He'd tried to oblige, make her come every time with his mouth, fingers, or cock. Just thinking about her at this minute made his groin muscles tighten. He wanted her every time he was with her; more than once--any way he could. It was absolutely mind-boggling what knots she tied him into with a little twitch of her cute tail and her delicious pussy. He still had some tricks up his sleeve he wanted to try on her.

  Plus, he considered Carla his friend even if they hadn't talked much. He'd been tightlipped about his upbringing and connections in Newark. But he wasn't the kind of guy who spilled his guts or his background details to just anyone, male or female, after a couple of weeks. But that might be changing with Carla. He owed her some information about his upbringing.

  I enjoy her company. And I'm wild for her body, too. I wonder how she feels about me.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Evan had taken a late flight out of O'Hare and flopped into bed after midnight when he got home. The phone rang sometime in the early morning hours, but he pulled a pillow over his head and went back to sleep. Whoever it was, especially if it was that prick, Rocco Gardenia, he could wait.

  On the other end, Carla let the phone ring several times but got no answer. She'd never called Evan before, but after last evening she wanted to tell him his cousin and his nasty friend were looking for him. She had Rocco Gardenia's business card in her hand, ready with his telephone number. She had no idea how close to each other the two men were.

  Carla stuck the card in her purse; she'd try him again from work. Maybe he hadn't gotten back to New Jersey yet. She was anxious to see him, talk to him. And yeah, to make love with him. As she said goodbye to Cleo and left for work, she thought T.G.I.F--thank God, it's Friday. The entire weekend was waiting for her, and surely, Evan should be back in town.

  Carla arrived at work earlier than usual. She had already set up the coffeemaker and lined up the mugs for herself and her assistants when the page at the Spa echoed along the second floor hallway. "Paging Mrs. Moore. Telephone call for Mrs. Moore. Pick up on extension 250."

  Carla hurried to her small office cubicle. "Hullo? This is Carla Moore. How may I help you?"

  "Mrs. Moore this is Rocco G. again. I just called Evan but he hung up on me. Did you tell him I wanted to see him?"

  "I haven't spoken to him." Her tone was crisp and business-like. "Maybe he doesn't want to see you, Mr. Gardenia, but you had better speak with him rather than going through me." She didn't give him a chance to reply. "Please don't call me here. This line is for emergency calls only. Goodbye."

  Good God. It was a wonder she had enough nerve to hang up on him. Her heart was bopping around in her chest like a mouse on a treadmill. She inhaled a long, calming breath; her hands were trembling. She forced herself to simmer down, not wanting the girls to see her visibly upset. Quickly, she pulled out Evan's phone number and dialed. The phone rang and rang. Either he let the machine pick it up, hadn't gotten home, or had already gone out.

  Damn him. I'm scared. Maybe I'll be lucky, and he's on his way over here.

  She crossed her fingers and headed down the hall to see if his car was in the parking lot. It wasn't. By then, her nerves had settled somewhat, and she had time to think more clearly.

  What if the man, Rocco, was a member of a New Jersey mob? What did that have to do with Evan? Evan was better educated than that Rocco person, although she knew he'd never been to college. Surely he wouldn't be mixed up in something shady. But Evan hadn't talked much about himself, his childhood, or his background. They'd been too busy fucking. It dawned on her, that he had been closemouthed.

  Years ago, Carla had read some articles and exposes in the Newark Star Ledger. She remembered stories about members of the so-called "mob" being murdered and dumped in the Jersey meadows along the Hackensack River. None of that interested her when her parents had talked about it. Later on, she'd read about corruption on Newark's city's council, but she hadn't thought too much about that either. Newark was very much like New York. Both cities had layers of underground factions fighting each other for power. She had no interest in politics unless it involved her hometown.

  Now she was worried for Evan--and herself.

  * * * *

  Evan drove to Newark, reaching his uncle's house at lunchtime. He wanted to talk with Tony, report what he had found out. Unfortunately, there was nothing important to tell.

  "Eh, Evan, come in, come in," Angelina welcomed him. "Your uncle, he is feeling chipper today. It's good you came here now. He'll be glad to see you."

  She closed the front door behind Evan and wiped her hands on her apron. She turned saying, "It will take a minute. I'll fix an antipasto just for you. Fresh vegetables from the garden, eh? A little prosciutto, provolone, some salami, some black olives, some sliced mushrooms in garlic and olive oil? You hungry, right? A big goomba like you." She grinned up at him, waving him ahead of her. "Your uncle is sitting in back having his lunch. Go in and talk to him."

  The Yankees ballgame was on the TV when Evan entered. "Uncle? How are you feeling today?"

  Tony, seated in his wheelchair, had a tray over his lap as he faced the big screen. He swiveled his head when Evan came in. "Ah! Evan, sit down. Tell me the news. Did you talk to Postillio?" He clicked the mute button on the remote.

  "I talked with him. He told he didn't shoot my father. Then he threw me out of his house."

  "Bastardo! I hope you told him to fuck himself!"

  "I had a pistol stuck in my back on my way out."

  "Basta! That's just like the old testa di merda!"

  "Yeah. I thought he was a shithead, too, but it didn't do any good. Gianni told me to talk to Luca Amante." Evan shook his head. "When I finally found out where he lived, he was six feet underground. His daughters don't know anything about their father's connections in Newark. I didn't want to hassle them. They looked like nice, ordinary women."

  Tony closed his eyes and shook his head. "Then, it's only one left. Franco Gardenia. Rocco's father must've shot Lorenzo. Il cazza, the cowardly prick!"

  "Yeah. Rocco's been trying to get a hold of me. Probably about you helping him getting re-elected."

  "You tell him, Evan, he wants help, he comes to me, not you. I'll shut him up quick."

  "He's been on the phone to me. I'll let him know what you said, Uncle."

  "Watch your back, Evan. I don't trust anyone from that family, and I don't want you hurt. You've never been a part of this business. I promised your momma to keep you out of it. You're all I've got left of my blood." The old man cackled. "I want somebody to feel bad at my funeral when the time comes."

  "Don't worry, you'll have a good crowd to wake you, Uncle.
But I hope it won't be too soon, okay?" Evan squeezed the old man's arm, thinking he looked much better today than he did the last time he'd been here. "I expect you to dance at my wedding."

  "Wedding? You getting married? Who's the girl?"

  Evan laughed. "I haven't picked her out yet. That's why you have to stick around."

  Angelina bustled in with another tray loaded with a large antipasto, sliced Italian bread, and an opened bottle of beer. "Mange!"

  The housekeeper left, shutting the door behind her. She seemed to realize the men wanted privacy.

  The discussion between Evan and Tony was short and to the point. "He's living with Rocco's family, huh? That makes it a little more difficult for me to talk with him, Uncle. Does he ever go out?"

  "On Thursdays. To play bocce with his old cronies. You'll find him in the North Ward late morning. He's usually there without Rocco. There's a council meeting the second and fourth Thursday of the month. Rocco always attends them, and sometimes they go on for hours."

  "That's next week. Good. I'll be in the park looking for Franco."

  "After you speak with Franco, come here to tell me what you learn."

  "Of course, Uncle."

  Evan left Newark after lunch and headed north to the Lindhurst Medieval Showtime barns to see King Arthur. He wanted to visit with his horse, even though he didn't have to work tonight.

  * * * *

  There was a message on Carla's answering machine when she got home after work on Friday. "Get your dancing shoes on, Carla. I'll pick you up at nine."

  No name, no phone number, but of course, she knew who it was. "Dancing?" she said out loud, clicking the machine off. She hadn't gone dancing in 15 years. She wasn't ready for this teeny-bop stuff. What the hell would one wear to a club nowadays? She'd better ask somebody. Would it sound too crazy if she called Melody?

  "You mean you've got a date, Carla? Whoopee! With who? Tell me."

  "I'd rather not say, Melody, but I do need your help. What should I wear to a nightclub? I mean where there's dancing ... dress up stuff?" Carla bit down on her lower lip, wrapping one finger around the telephone cord unconsciously until she saw what she was doing and stopped.

  Oh God, this is so embarrassing.

  "Okay, boss lady. Do you know where he's taking you? The name of the club?"

  "Nope."

  "Hmm? Let's see."

  Carla heard the silence on the other end of the line.

  "Probably one of the nicer joints in South Hackensack. Anybody your age would most likely head up there. They have a pretty hefty cover, but an older guy wouldn't mind that."

  "Mel-o-deee," Carla whined. "Never mind that. Let him worry about it. I just want to know what to wear."

  "Something real sexy, Carla. The shorter, the tighter, the better."

  Carla stopped speaking.

  I don't own anything like that.

  "Carla? Are you there?"

  "Yes, but..."

  "But what?"

  "I don't have anything like that. Ohh, I'll have to beg off."

  "Don't you dare! Let me think for a minute. What time is he picking you up?"

  "Nine sharp."

  "Then you've got time. Hop down to the Gilded Lily in West Rutherford. Aurora will fix you up with something that will knock his socks off. Tell her I sent you. And oh, Carla?"

  "Yeah!"

  "Buy the sexiest, strappiest shoes you can find to go with the dress. And sheer black pantyhose, you hear? I want to hear all about it on Monday morning. Promise?"

  Carla groaned. "Yeah, yeah. I just hope I don't break my neck prancing around in those high heels." Then she couldn't help herself. She giggled into the mouthpiece.

  "Way to go, girl!" Melody chirped. "I'll see you on Monday. And have fun!"

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Carla didn't believe the reflection in the full-length mirror tacked up on her bedroom door. She had tweezed her brows, lavished on eye shadow, rolled mascara on her eyelashes and purchased a new, dramatic red lipstick. Her blonde hair curled softly on her shoulders. She'd even polished her fingernails and toenails.

  Holy Hannah! Is that femme fatale really me in the mirror?

  She heard a car door slam, and her heart lurched into her throat, blocking her air passages. She gulped and forced the lump down where it belonged.

  Oh God! He's here!

  She straightened her shoulders, calmed herself, picked up her purse, and slowly made her way downstairs to the front door. She peeked through the glass and saw Evan in a black blazer and a pale blue dress shirt, but no tie. Thank God, she had dressed up rather than throwing on a pair of faded jeans.

  She pulled open the door and stood back so he could enter, but he stood there, silent, looking her up and down. His eyes sparkled with appreciation, heat flaring deep in his pupils, burning hot with male lust and admiration. She evaluated the expression on his face, and swallowed a little tentatively. "Aren't you going to come in, Evan?"

  He finally came inside, and she shut the door. The looks he gave her spread warmth all through her.

  She knew Evan was large, but he seemed more so tonight in his dress clothes. Even in her high heels, she still felt tiny next to him.

  "I'm glad to see you again," was her bland opening gambit. "How was your trip?"

  "Er ... my trip? Fine. Oh yeah, fine."

  Her eyebrows shot skyward.

  "Wow! Dammit, lady, you just shook me up. Let me look at you some more." He took her hand and slowly twirled her around. His intense regard was palpable, and recognizable. He stepped back, his ebony eyes glinting. A soft, wolf-like growl rumbled low in his throat. "I don't know, Carla. Are you sure you really want to go dancing, or should we just..."

  The look blazing from his eyes was almost as big a turn-on for her. It certainly boosted her ego sky high.

  "Evan!"

  "Yeah, I guess you're right," he said, backing down. "I want to show you off." He winked. "At least for a little while. Later..."

  Later meant he'll fuck her, thank you, God, she thought. Because dammit all, she was ravenous for him and his lovemaking. It had been an endless week. She found herself getting horny just anticipating what was to come "later." So she closed off the thought and said, "Er ... where are we going, Evan?"

  "I know a little dive over near the river, not too far from the Spa. I think you'll like it, Carla. There's a band, not a DJ. Say goodnight to your pussy and let's go."

  * * * *

  The Captain's Table was situated almost on the water, complete with a long wharf and boats moored to it. "A rich crowd from upriver comes here, Carla," Evan told her. "It's not a dive. You'll see. I wouldn't take you to a lousy club. Not the way you're dressed."

  Carla could smell the night odors blowing across the Hackensack River. The moon was a pale circle pasted in the sky over New York City, its silvery rays carving a path along the wooden dock leading up to the nightclub's entrance.

  Why was it that tonight seemed so more magical than ever before? Was it because they were wearing fancier clothes instead of jeans and T-shirts? Or was it because Evan had looked at her differently at the house?

  She should tell him she was the same 37-year-old Carla under the slinky gloss and high heels. The rather dowdy Carla who normally wore plain blouses and slacks, and squeaked on tile floors with flat, rubber-soled shoes at the Spa. And needed glasses when she read those endless reports. She was the same Carla Moore who was falling in love with him and didn't know enough to stop so she wouldn't get her heart broken.

  Love had never been part of the game. All she'd wanted was a few nights of fucking this beautiful stud to get it out of her system. There was certainly no commitment on his part; he didn't love her, or he would have said so.

  She had compared him to Billy in her mind. But now she was deeply in love with another ... equally young man ... who took her breath away and did things Billy never did to her in his short lifetime.

  Well, if tonight was to be another of her soon-to-be
-ending fantasies, she would enjoy what she could, savor it for as long as it lasted, and send Evan on his way with a goodbye kiss. No silly tears or recriminations. Jessie and Maddy had exhorted her to grab some memories. Little did they know she'd gotten much, much more than they'd suggested.

  Evan opened the Caddy door for her and helped her out. She teetered a little on the uneven gravel parking lot, so he guided her into the entrance with a hand on her elbow, as if she were something precious.

  The inside of the bustling nightclub was dimly lit, tables situated around two outside walls. A polished bar, backed by rows and rows of liquor bottles, was against another wall. A door led to the rear, probably to the restrooms, Carla surmised. The band sat with their instruments on a raised platform; the small dance floor was in the middle of the room. Evan led Carla to a pair of empty seats at the end of the bar.

  "What would you like to drink, Carla?"

  Stupid, she thought. I can't even come up with the name of an "in" drink.

  "I'll stick to wine, Evan, if that's all right. A glass of Chardonnay would be fine. Thank you."

  "I'm not heavy on the liquor, either, Carla. I prefer Bud Light(r)."

  "I've never seen you smoke, Evan. Did you never start? Or did you give it up?"

  What an inane conversation this is turning out to be!

  "Quit years ago. Didn't need it to satisfy my oral gratification."

  She wondered if he was thinking the same thing she was.

  "Glad to see you don't either. It's a nasty habit, okay?"

  Evan gabbed a few minutes with the bartender after he brought their drink order. She figured the men probably knew each other; maybe Evan had been here with someone else. When she glanced over her shoulder, Carla saw the band was returning from break. The small dance floor filled rapidly. The music was slow and dreamy, not the kind of music a young, hip guy would dance to.

  While they sat at the bar, somebody Evan knew came over to them to be introduced. "Raoul, I'd like you to meet Carla Moore. Carla, Raoul is another knight at Showtime although you might not recognize him without his gear on."