STARSTRUCK: A Dark Bad Boy Romance (The Destroyers MC)

by Zoey Parker

  Tommy's eyes blazed with anger. “I'm fucking serious, Bax. Don't you dare bring that up.”

  Bax shrugged. “Well, I certainly wasn't ever planning to tell anyone, out of respect for our relationship. But now you're telling me I was wrong about how close we are, so...”

  Tommy stood up, kicking the trash can next to his desk. It hit the opposite wall hard, and the cheap plastic split down the side. “You're a real piece of garbage, you know that, Bax?”

  “Hey, I walked in here offering you more money than you've ever seen in your life, and a chance to stop shining Parrino's shoes and picking up his dry cleaning. You're the one who wanted to play it like a hard-on, so here we are. Now come on—take a few deep breaths, pick up the phone, tell Parrino something came up and you have to leave town for a while, and let your old pal Baxie make you into the richest motherfucker you know. How about it?”

  Tommy banged his forehead against his desk, letting out a sound that was somewhere between a roar of fury and a groan of acceptance. Then he raised his head again, rubbing his eyes and looking at Bax.

  “That suit's gotta go,” he said. “And you're gonna need more than just hair dye and contacts to pass as a paisan. Your vocabulary, your whaddayacallit—inflection, shit, even the way you stand still. We're gonna have to work on all of it if this menefreghista plan is gonna have a snowball's chance in hell.”

  “Tommy,” Bax assured him, “consider me clay in the hands of a master sculptor.”

  Chapter 4

  Bax

  “Are we getting close?” Tommy yelled in Bax's ear for the ninth time that afternoon, his arms tightening around Bax's waist.

  Bax winced at the noise and the pressure on his midsection. Even though he knew the odds of this scam working without Tommy's help were slim to none, he was still giving serious thought to simply dumping Tommy off the back of the bike and riding off without him, given how much bitching and moaning he'd already had to put up with.

  “I'll tell you when we're close,” Bax said. “Until then, keep your mouth shut and quit squirming around back there.”

  “My fucking pants are riding up on me,” Tommy whined.

  “I warned you not to wear a suit on a motorcycle.”

  “But all I got are suits! Damn, this shit's uncomfortable. And this dumb-looking helmet's gonna fuck up my hair.”

  “So take it off.”

  “I can't!” Tommy shrieked. “You're riding this thing like some kind of maniac!”

  “So have fucked-up hair, then.”

  Bax took a deep breath. He tried to ignore Tommy, focusing on the warm breeze on his face and the lush green swamps of Louisiana on either side of the road. He loved cruising on his bike, and he hated knowing that he'd have to stay off it for a few weeks while they conned Altamura. He consoled himself with the thought that if the scam went the way it was supposed to, he could buy a dozen bikes and a private road to ride them on.

  “What about these other guys of yours?” Tommy asked.

  “I already told them where and when to meet us. They should show up around the same time we do. Now for Christ's sake, pipe down and ease up, will you? You hold onto me any tighter and my liver's gonna come squirting out of my nose.”

  Tommy didn't talk for the rest of the trip, but his arms didn't loosen their grip.

  Finally, they pulled up in front of The Lucky Hand, a squat roadhouse that served as the base of operations for The Voodoo Devils. Bax killed the engine, put down the kickstand, and unstrapped his helmet, smiling at the sign on the door that said “Private Party Tonight.”

  Tommy took off the spare helmet, tucking it under his arm and grimacing at the bar. “Maddon', this place is a fucking dump. I feel like I could get a bad case of crabs just by looking at it.”

  Before Bax could respond, the door flew open and Skull burst out, beaming at Bax. “Holy shit, there he is!” He ran up to them, throwing his arms around Bax and lifting him off the ground happily.

  “The Skull and the Brain, together again at last,” Bax wheezed, patting Skull on the back. “Now put me down, huh? I already got half my ribs squeezed in on the way here, I don't need the other half busted too.”

  Skull put him down again. “Sorry, man. It's just...what's it been, ten years? You ain't changed a bit.”

  “Wish I could say the same for you,” Bax retorted, poking Skull's stomach. “I told you not to eat those pork rinds all the time, didn't I? Now look at you.”

  Skull laughed. “Same old Bax, always busting balls.” He looked at Tommy. “Who's your friend?”

  “Skull, meet Tommy Quarters. He may not look like much, but think of him as the golden key that's gonna open all the doors we need opened. Now let's go inside and go over the plan. The rest of my team should be showing up any minute.”

  They walked into the roadhouse and Bax looked around at the other members of the Devils. “Wow, Skull. You've really built this MC into something heavy, huh? And you can vouch for the loyalty of everyone in here?”

  “Damn straight,” Skull affirmed.

  “You're absolutely sure about that?” Tommy asked. “Because if even one of these apes thinks he can make some extra cash by selling us out to Altamura—”

  Skull's meaty hand clamped down on Tommy's shoulder hard. “You've been in here for all of five seconds, and you're already questioning how righteous my guys are? You must carry your balls around in a fucking wheelbarrow, pal.”

  “Easy, Skull,” Bax said. “Tommy's just a little nervous, that's all. This ain't his usual scene.” He turned to Tommy. “You might want to go ahead and say you're sorry, before Skull puts your nose through your fucking brain.”

  Tommy opened his mouth to crack wise, then closed it. “I was impolite,” he murmured. “I apologize.”

  “There, see? Now we can all be friends,” said Bax, slapping them both on the back.

  The door opened again and David walked in, followed by three other people. The first was a tall black man in his forties with a shaved head and gold hoops dangling from his ears. The second was a short woman in her early thirties with a delicate frame and a white streak in her otherwise-brown hair. The third was a man in his late twenties who was built like a refrigerator, with a round, hairless, piggy face and slab-like arms.

  The black man's eyes fell on Bax and he immediately exclaimed, “No. No, nope, all the no in the fucking world, uh-uh, fuck off, goodbye.” He turned to leave.

  “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 themsel
ves 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.”