Torched: A Dark Bad Boy Romance

by Paula Cox

  “What about his guys? What if they’re waiting for me?”

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t do that, asshole. My men are fucking waiting for me just around the corner.”

  “Your men!” Mack laughs wildly. “It’s a funny thing when you’re smarter than most other motherfuckers. You’re able to stay two steps ahead of them.” The blood drains from Riley’s face as he begins to understand. Mack doesn’t stop there. “And here’s what you didn’t realize, you dumb bastard: while you were busy stalking Anna, I was at work stealing each and every guy. I paid some of them off. The others are now members of the Dragons. Don’t worry, I left you with a few I knew would stay loyal. This guy was one of them, and my men will take care of the rest later tonight, but it looks like you’re left alone—the one last member of the Knights.”

  “Fuck you,” Riley murmurs under his breath, “Just do it. Kill me and get it over with, or are you too much of a pussy to get the job done?”

  “Don’t test me. After the shit you put Anna through, I’d be more than happy to slowly skin you to your bones—”

  “No!” I suddenly shout, an idea coming to me. “Don’t touch him. I want him alive.”

  “What?” Both Riley and Mack respond at the exact same second. This was the last thing they expected me to say.

  “I have bigger plans for him. Just bring him back to the tattoo shop. There’s some equipment there, right?”

  “Yeah… a few were brought in a day or two ago, but I don’t—”

  “Just do it, Mack. We’ll get our revenge.”

  CHAPTER 25

  A few hours later, Roxy finally comes to. Whatever they hit her over the head with managed to make quite the shiner on her forehead. She holds a freezer burned packaged steak over the bruise as she mumbles to herself about needing to get to the makeup shop before work on Monday.

  She looks over at the tattoo seat next to her, nodding up towards me, “What the hell are you going to do there?”

  I put down the ink I’m mixing up in the small clear vials. After a long consideration, I’ve picked a dark black. Pink was my first option, but it fades so easily, especially in places where the skin flakes like the forehead and neck. But this black is top of the line, primo stuff. I was half surprised to see it in the basic kit Mack had ordered through Ian’s friend. This ink should be clear as day for decades at least.

  I hand Roxy a printout from Ian’s email to me. On my way over, I had remembered a poster he had made for his tattoo artists of banned gang symbols and club insignias we were to look out for. At the bottom, he had added that circle with the three lines, but I’m not going to use that one. I had taken that symbol back for something good. Those with that tattoo were survivors and warriors, not dead bodies lying on the floor in Mack’s memories.

  “I don’t understand,” Roxy admits. “You’re just going to tattoo these things onto him? What’s that going to do?”

  Mack sits next to her in one of my guest chairs. He rolls to my side as he explains over the sound of the tattoo gun firing up with my pedal. “There’s a reason why that’s Ian’s banned list of tattoos. Putting the wrong tattoo on the wrong guy could get him killed. Those are symbols of memberships and having multiples make you look disrespectful at best, a traitor at most. So this wannabe thinks he can be a club member and roll with us, he can handle having every Portland club and gang’s logo tattooed onto his face.”

  Roxy laughs loudly as I begin. Carefully, I trace the outline on his oily, red skin. I don’t have much time to get the job done before the drugs we forced him to take wear off and Detective Joey comes to round him up for his confession, but I still turn my music up. It only takes a few moments until I drift away into the work on my latest canvas.

  —-

  Five Months Later

  “Come on, Anna! We’re going to be late. You know how much I fucking hate being late to anything.” Mack yells up at me from the bottom of the stairwell of our new home. I glance down at him as I pass to the second bedroom I’ve converted into my artist study. He looks hot in that black wool suit I’ve picked out for him. It’s a far change from the three pairs of jeans and six dirty shirts sitting in the one dresser I forced him to use when he moved me in here three months ago.

  “I’m coming!” I call back, searching through the pile of papers of my sketches. There are flowers and starscapes painted in watercolors and abstract drawings of people’s faces. Underneath a book of figure drawings—mostly Dragon members who agreed to sit still for more than two minutes so I could sketch them—is the congratulations I’ve been looking for. I tuck it inside my billfold style purse and then head back downstairs.

  “You look fantastic, Anna,” Mack says as he stares at me longingly from the doorway. “If we had time, I’d take you right here and now… I’d slip my hand right up the back of that slit and force down those panties…”

  “Down, boy,” I scold him like the good-natured dog he is. “Your sister would kill us if we showed up to her restaurant re-opening with messy hair and lipstick stains.” Still, I add with a wink, making sure that my hand just casually passes over the seam of his suit pants, “But maybe we can fool around in the parking lot after we’re done. For old times’ sake.”

  “That’s what I like to hear!” he exclaims as he slaps the back side of his hand against my ass. I fix my tight red pencil skirt and then usher him out the door towards the waiting car. It’s been nearly a half of a year since Riley was out on the streets, but I still check behind me and over my shoulder whenever I leave the house. Mack tells me this nervous tick will go away, but as long as he’s living, even if it’s in some high security prison serving five life sentences without a parole, I’ll still be cautious.

  The driver of the limo opens the back door for me, watching me slide on the leather seat to the far end of the passenger side. Mack gives him a brutish look before asking, “You know the plan?” He nods and runs to the driver’s side.

  “Plan? We’re just getting dinner, right?”

  “We’ve got to stop off and take care of some business first. It won’t take long.” He goes silent, his hands fidgeting in his lap. I watch the car speed off towards an unknown destination while occasionally looking back at Mack shifting in his seat, playing with the seat belt, pressing his hands into his pockets. Whatever business he’s planned on handling tonight, it doesn’t look like he’s exactly eager to do it.

  I’ve become used to it, though. While I try to stay out of Dragon business, it’s kind of fallen on me to keep the books, manage the schedule, and communicate with a few of the families and girlfriends in the loop. I even spent yesterday organizing a charity ride in honor of the women who lost their husbands in Riley’s attack. It’s the least I could do considering the boys have opened a third Crazy 9’s Tattoo Parlor for me.

  The limo comes to a stop in front of a large metal gate. The driver walks out and unlocks the padlock with a key from his pocket. He pulls the car forward, and suddenly it dawns on me where we are.

  “I thought we could go see your mom. We haven’t done that in months.” Mack points towards a grave nearest the entryway still muddy and fresh. The attendant told me that grass wouldn’t grow for another year or two, but I spent a few days mixing flower seeds with the dirt in hopes that something would pop up in that space. Walking to the headstone, I see a small bud of flower stubbornly growing in the flattened mound.

  We both hold hands as we stare at the headstone. I’m so overwhelmed with emotions that I’m not sure if I can even talk. Mack rubs at the knuckles of my thumb before clearing his throat, “Hello Ms. Fox. I know I never got to really introduce myself to you, and I’ve only stopped by a few times with your daughter, but I’m here today to ask you a question.”

  I look up at him as he stares straight at the headstone reading, Lana Fox: Beloved mother and inspiration to all.

  He continues as he places his hands in his pocket, “I have had this ring for a few months now. I actually bought it the day after I got your
daughter back, but I finally got the nerve to pick it up recently. It didn’t seem right to not ask your permission before I ask her to marry me. So here I am. I just want to make sure your daughter is safe, loved, and wants for nothing. That’s all I can offer her. I’ll spend the rest of my life giving her everything that I have.”

  “Mack…” My voice trails off, lost in my cries of happiness.

  “If you could just do me a favor and watch out for us, keep us protected, and I’ll do the rest.” He finally turns towards me, getting down on one knee in the muck of the ground. My world melts and spins around me as he says the words, “Anna Fox, will you do me the honor—”

  I don’t let him finish the question.

  THE END

  SNEAK PEEK OF FILTHY!

  Chapter One

  Roma

  The hitman game is a strange one. One moment, you’re hunting down the American ambassador to Russia. The next, you’re on a yacht off the coast of France searching for that same man’s daughter. Pain in the ass, really, the daughter being missing . . . the security on Greg Fellows’ house is beefed up now like a cow on steroids. As luck would have it (or unluck, depending on how you look at it) Felicity Fellows was recently kidnapped by Russian gangsters, sex-traders, all-around general scumbags. I don’t think about what it says about me that I blend in with these scumbags so well.

  I stand in the massive ballroom, the ceiling so high it’s difficult to believe that we’re really below deck. I imagine the bottom of the yacht brushing the floor of the ocean, scraping up the starfish and whatever-the-hell-else. I lean back against the wall, watching with killer’s eyes.

  Part of my business is watching people, and these people provide ample opportunity for reading. There’s the fat man—fat men, really. There are about twenty of them and though they’re all different in age and occupation and histories, in this environment they’re all the same. They gawp at the lingerie-clad women who circulate the ballroom serving drinks. Their fat fingers rub together and their sweaty jowls tremble at the sight of them. And then there are the lean men, the self-respecting men, who stand straight-backed and stern-lipped as though they’re above it all, when in fact they’re just as captivated as their fat friends. And then there are the in-betweens, the men who don’t know whether to be disgusted or exhilarated. There are no women except for the servers which move like cattle between groups of men.

  I’m looking for Felicity Fellows, bright blonde hair and sparkling green eyes, tall and thin with high cheekbones. She has a penchant for wearing her hair in a high ponytail, I’m told, but I doubt she’ll have much choice about it now. I scan the crowd, flickering my gaze over the faces of the women. If I had a heart, I reckon it would break a little at the sight of these dead-eyed women. They don’t seem dead-eyed. No, they’ve been trained well. They smile at their captors and giggle and make all the right noises. But when you’ve killed people, you get to know something about what dead eyes are. And these women are dead in the eyes. There’s nothing behind them but the faint glimmer that maybe, one day, they’ll be free. Well, I won’t be able to make that happen, except for one lucky lady, if she ever shows herself.

  I’m pondering these not-very-philosophical thoughts when one of the fat men approaches me. He is seedy and he approaches me seedily because the character I am currently playing is a corrupt diplomat. My assumed name is not Roma, but Alexander Smith, an American politician more corrupt than a dying flower.

  The man who approaches me is short with a rotund belly that bulges out of his suit jacket. His forehead glistens under the light of the chandeliers and he licks perspiration from his upper lip. His name is Barinov Yegorovrich, which is about as hard to pronounce as it sounds. He’s drunk as sin and wobbles on his fat feet. I hate the man for no other reason than he looks at me exactly like I am the man I’m pretending to be. Not because of the corruption. I don’t give a damn if people think I’m corrupt. No, but a politician. A lazy, weak, weeping politician.

  “Greetings, Alexander,” he says.

  “Hello,” I grunt. But not as rudely as I would like to. I have to keep up my performance.

  “Look at all these bitches,” he says, his eyes roving over the crowd. “Don’t you like what you see, eh?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say. “This is a real treat.”

  But where is the woman I’m looking for? Where is Felicity Fellows? How am I supposed to take out her dad if she’s missing and his security has gone from a poodle to a German shepherd?

  “A real treat,” the man nods. “Yes, that is the way I would say it, too.”

  I look over Barinov’s shoulder and spot Zherkov, the leader of this merry band. He’s the anomaly of the beloved folk on this boat. He’s neither fat nor thin, neither stern-lipped nor drooping. He’s muscular and holds himself like I hold myself when I’m on a job, which is to say like a man ready to deal massive damage at the first sight of trouble. His arms are at his sides and his hands are clenched into tight fists, which form into hammers ready to smack, pound, crush. His eyebrows are low and his eyes, beads set deep in his head, searching. Mr. Black has told me a bit about Zherkov, enough for me to know he’s been involved in things that’d make war criminals blanch. He navigates through the crowd, stopping here and there to casually slap a woman across the ass, and then stands at the opposite end of the room, smoking a cigar.

  “The auction will start soon.” Barinov grins. “Have you got your eyes on anybody?”

  “Just browsing,” I say. “What about you?”

  He wipes a hand across his forehead; the hand comes away slick and shiny. “Too many to count. I am scared I will be bankrupt by the end of the night. Yes, I will be bankrupt, but my prick will be wet and my balls empty, so there’s that.”

  Worms crawl over my skin at the image his words force into my mind. But I’m not a sentimental man and I don’t show any sign of my reaction on my face.

  “Good for you,” I say, as amiably as I can.

  Then, weaving through the crowd with eyes which are markedly less dead than her colleagues, I see Felicity Fellows. She’s wearing green lingerie to match her eyes. Her breasts are squashed tight in her bra and her underwear leaves very little to the imagination. Her hair is not in a ponytail, but flows around her shoulders. Mr. Black was right about her cheekbones. They are high, giving her a dignified appearance. I am here to save you, my damsel, I think. It’s quite romantic, if you ignore the fact the only reason I’m saving her is to draw her father out of hiding.

  I need to bid on her, but there’s a problem. I only have sixty thousand dollars with which to do so. I know that some of these men will bid more, much more, but Mr. Black wouldn’t give me any more and there’s no way I was dipping into my own funds for this. So I only have sixty thousand and if I’m outbid, I’m screwed.

  I know what I have to do. I have to be seen with her. I have to make the other men notice me with her and let her be.

  Barinov is prattling on but I barely hear him. When he is done, I hold my hand up as politely as a killer-cum-politician can. “Excuse me,” I say. “I need to have a word with Zherkov.”

  “You are a braver man than I, that is for certain, eh?” Barinov squirms away and joins another group.

  I walk across the ballroom, keeping Felicity in the corner of my eye. To anyone else—anyone who hadn’t spent most of their twenty-eight years scanning crowds and people—Felicity would look just the same as the other women. But I see a fight in her eyes and I know they have yet to break her yet. I don’t know if that will work for or against me.

  Zherkov looks up as I approach. “Ah,” the owner of the yacht grins, “the politician.”

  I incline my head. “The lord of the castle.”

  Zherkov watches me for a long moment and two men from a neighboring huddle look up with terrified expressions. Nobody, it is accepted, talks to Zherkov with anything but the utmost respect, fear, and deference. But I know men like Zherkov and I know that the only way to win their respect and talk
to them man to man is to be unafraid.

  I see his hand twitch. He’s thinking about swinging at me. That’d be bad. I’d have to kill him—easily done, but inconvenient—and then fight off his cronies and save Felicity in the midst of the mayhem. That part would be decidedly less easy.

  Then a smile spreads across his face.

  “You are a brave man, my American friend!” Zherkov cackles, clapping his hands together. He takes a long drag on his cigar. Smoke rolls out of his mouth and nose and shrouds his face. “Yes, a very brave man. What is it the Spanish say? I believe they have a word for it. Ah, yes, cojones. You have very big cojones, Mr. American.”

  “Sometimes I can’t walk for them.” I smile.

  Zherkov throws his head back and laughs. “Yes, they are so big!” He wipes a tear from his eye. His bloodshot eye, I note. Almost everybody aboard this ship is under the influence of some drug or other. Weed, pills, coke, and good old alcohol. “Did you come here to make jokes or do you have something to say?”