Begging for Bad Boys

by Willow Winters

  It’s an inspired idea, honestly. “First his wife, then his business, then his crew, then him? Destroy him bit by bit?”

  Marcus nods. “That’s what I was thinking. Waters took from us, so we take from him. And you’ve gotta admit, it’s sort of your style.”

  “My style?” I ask, amused. “And just what is my style, Marcus?”

  I know Marcus isn’t used to so much deep conversation. Most of the time, our conversations are much more direct, lots of yes-or-no type answers. “It’s just . . . you’ve got flair, man. It’s why you do this so much better than me. There’s like, a sense of poetry to what you do. And since Waters took Pop from us because of this bitch, maybe it’s just sort of fitting that we take from him starting with her, too.”

  I think about it, and I must admit I’m a little unsure. I have a soft spot for women, but I’m making an example of this fuck-face. I don’t care how much power anyone has. No one’s going to get away with stealing from me. And Waters stole something more important than money from me. He stole my flesh and blood. He took Pop from us, and he didn’t even care. All he cared about was making sure he looked like a tough son of a bitch for someone supposedly flirting with his wife. I even know why Pop maybe, maybe might have looked at the woman. She does look a lot like Pop’s sister, the aunt who died before I was born.

  It doesn’t matter, though. Waters thought that Pop was giving his new bride the horny eye, so he pulled out his gun and POW! I’m twenty-four, parentless since Mom took off when I was a teenager, with a younger brother to take care of and a street gang that’s looking to me for leadership. Marcus’s idea is a good one.

  Still, there are drawbacks to consider. “You know if we do this, we’re going to have a target on our backs until this is carried through. Marcus, I’m not saying that you’re wrong, just that if we go through with it, he’s not going to stop. We’re going to need to go fast and brutal. Like Caesar crossing the fucking Rubicon. Once we do it, there ain’t no going back.”

  Marcus shrugs. He was always the baby in the family, and he was a little younger when Pop was gunned down. For him, the pain isn’t any more or less, but it is more visceral, more in the gut. “You know me, Ryker. I’m fine with that. I’ve been willing to die for five years now. Besides, he won’t do shit if we have his precious wife.”

  Precious wife. What an understatement. Sarah Waters is Jacob’s prized possession. I’ve met her before, something I don’t think anyone else knows except for maybe Marcus.

  Back before she met Jacob Waters, she was known as Sarah Desjardins, or just Sarah D. if you were more into pop culture. She’d done some teen shows, the sort of angsty teen shit that I wasn’t into even when I was a teenager, but she certainly made watching that chick flick shit easier. She always had that elegance, that sort of innocence combined with a physical maturity that looked beyond her years. I know that her show where she spent at least half of each episode in a Catholic schoolgirl uniform was popular with guys, mostly for the spank bank material she provided an entire generation of guys my age.

  Then Sarah D. found out that being a teen hottie doesn’t always translate to success past the age of twenty-one. That’s when I met her, although she probably doesn’t remember. She’d come into the city to do some B-grade action flick that was trying to pretend it was A-list. I worked security for fun, helping a guy Pop knew, and Pop knew I liked movies. One day, I’d even been given the task of escorting Miss Sarah D. from makeup to the set, keeping the few fans she had off her.

  There had been one guy, one of those pervy types I’d come to spot a mile away even with my inexperience, a little too old to be looking for an autograph for himself and a little too young to be looking for autographs for his kids. That and the way his eyes had a sort of desperate shine to them. When he made a move toward her, I very calmly grabbed his wrist and twisted it behind his back, throwing him onto the sidewalk face first.

  “Thanks,” Sarah told me, giving me an appreciative glance. I think it was the first time she really saw me, and at the time, I felt like there was some kind of connection. That asshole complained and got me reassigned to a different part of the set though, and I wasn’t around her as much after that.

  She doesn’t remember me for damn sure, but it was that same movie where she met Jacob Waters. The tabloids had a field day, considering that his second wife had just disappeared a year before, but even then, Waters didn’t give a fuck. He was dating a woman who was named one of Young Hollywood’s Top Twenty-Five Hottest Under Twenty-Five, a woman younger than half his age. They got married, and a month later, my Pop was dead.

  Since then, Waters keeps Sarah like some people keep a piece of jewelry. He parades her around. There isn’t a society event in the city where she’s not on his arm looking like a million bucks. Even now, five years into the marriage, although she’s officially retired from Hollywood, she gets headlines. It’s easy to see why. She’s beautiful. Long, black hair that hangs nearly to her waist, a light natural tan to her skin that is supposedly the result of a little bit of Gypsy blood to go with her French maiden name in her background, and a sensuality that certainly adds to that rumor.

  But on the other hand, like a well-kept poodle, she’s spoiled. She doesn’t go anywhere without either Jacob or a couple of bodyguards. Or both. Prada and Gucci are to her what Hanes and Levis are to me.

  Still, that body, those dark, mysterious eyes, and even the fact that she’s tall for a woman, just a shade under six feet . . . I can’t help but crave her. I have ever since I was a teen myself.

  Not that it matters. Marcus is right. Either Sarah Waters is as corrupt as her husband, a gold digger who doesn’t care that the gold is above and beyond bloodstained, or she’s so fucking stupid that taking her out of the world might just do humanity a favor. With her in our possession, we can cripple Jacob Waters just long enough to destroy the rest of his castle and make it crumble down around him.

  “If we’re going to get Sarah Waters, we need a distraction. We do that, and we distract Jacob. We’ll start with his crew, his friends. Who are the fuck-faces who are closest to him?”

  “Sal Francisco for sure, but also Jimmy Carlson and Julio Gonzales,” Marcus says right off the bat. “Why? What are you thinking?”

  I turn, looking back out at the lights of the city, the speckled chaos of the city helping me think. “Those three—they get together on a regular basis, playing poker, if I remember right. We take out those three all at once, and it’ll get Jacob’s attention and send the sort of message that we want to send. Get with our boys who have ears and info. I want to know when and where those three are playing together again. We go in, and we hit them hard.”

  Marcus nods. “I’ll get right on it.”

  “Also, find two men with steady hands, good ones to back us up,” I reply, taking my hands out of my pockets and clasping them behind my back. “You have to figure that they’ll have men with them, let’s say six on four, with us having the element of surprise. So, I want their deaths to be . . . noticeable. Something that’ll get Jacob and his pretty, pampered wife out of his mansion in order to attend the funeral. See to it.”

  Marcus turns and leaves, leaving me alone, looking out on the streets, watching as the lights move and the blood flows. Soon now, it’ll run red with real blood.

  Every time the king dies, there’s always a little bloodshed.

  Chapter 2

  Sarah

  The room is just a little chilly, but at least after my shower, it helps me to remember that I’m real. It’s not pain. It’s more like dipping my body in a cool stream to help me wake up. Except that I’m not sleepy, and the dream isn’t a dream. It’s a nightmare.

  “Mrs. Waters, Mr. Jacob told me that you’re supposed to wear this,” Constanza, the maid, says. I’m naked from the waist up, my towel wrapped around my waist for convenience’s sake only, looking at the body that at one time had men drooling over me, saying nothing to Stanzie as I look at my breasts. They’d once b
een called ‘two pieces of evidence that God is a man.’ I doubt that the horny editor who penned that line to go along with my photo spread for that magazine would think of them that way now. Not with the scars that dot them or the deeper ones that cover my back.

  I don’t hide my body. Stanzie knows about my scars. They all know that my ‘loving husband’ beats me. They know that the big pucker-shaped star a little over my right nipple is from a cigar that he put out on my skin. They know about the longer ones where he’s beaten me with his belt. Dozens of scars, and not a single stitch in five years.

  I don’t blame Stanzie. She’s just as terrified of Jacob as I am. An illegal immigrant who came to the city from Brazil on the promise of becoming an au pair, she lasted a week before Jacob raped her in front of me while I lay tied up and beaten half-senseless on the bed. She’s just as terrified of him as I am.

  They all are.

  Which is why none of them are willing to help me.

  Instead, I continue to brush out my hair, one of the few things that Jacob hasn’t cut or abused since we got married. He likes it long, and despite all the other abuse I’ve received, my hair is still just as thick and strong as ever. I wish it would go brittle and break off more easily when he grabs it and drags me through the marble hallways of his mansion, but it doesn’t. I hate it, while at the same time, I take a little bit of perverse pride in it. At least from the neck up, I’m still the Sarah D. who used to make men’s knees weak. I’m still the girl who grew up in the suburbs and thought she had a bright future ahead of her, a girl with humor and happiness. At least it’s somewhere inside of me. It would be nice to pretend I’m still that girl, but at least I have my memories. Although lately, they’re slipping.

  “Mrs. Waters?” Stanzie says again softly. “Are you okay?”

  I set my brush down, nodding. “Yes, Stanzie. Would you help me, please? My back’s a bit stiff after yesterday’s workout.”

  Stanzie doesn’t say anything about my obvious lie. She knows it’s because of Jacob.

  Instead, she goes over to my dresser, taking out the Agent Provocateur lingerie that Jacob insists I wear. He picks out everything for me, all of it being sexy and just walking the line toward slutty, AP lingerie and form-fitting dresses that are just a little too tight or a little too revealing so that I look the part of the gold digger tramp who’s fucking her way to her inheritance. I know better than to question him or to try to be anything different.

  I slide on the thong panties that Stanzie has set out. I feel for her, but considering the number of times Jacob has screamed at her that he’s only treating her like garbage because of me, she might hate me just as much as she hates Jacob. Hates him and fears him.

  Next is my bra, which thankfully, because of my scars, is more comfortable, with wider shoulder straps and padded, lined cups that make my breasts seem bigger to a casual observer. Jacob likes it when I look curvier when we go out. It hides the scars though. He’s careful to make sure that anything he does to me can be hidden.

  I don’t hear him. He can move like a goddamned cat when he wants to, but Stanzie and I both can feel his presence the moment he walks in my room. It was that presence that I was at first attracted to. I was drawn to his power. Of course, he’d been charming then. He’s a good liar. Stanzie stiffens, and even my fingers tighten a little before she can hand me the cocktail dress that I’m supposed to wear this evening for our event at the Philharmonic.

  “Constanza. Out,” Jacob says, and she disappears like a ghost, without even giving me a glance of pity. It’s probably better for her that way.

  I stand stock-still, frozen in place like a marble statue as my husband of five years, Jacob Waters, comes closer. I’m tall, but he’s still taller. He’s already dressed in his suit pants and shirt, although it looks like he hasn’t gotten his tie on yet.

  “You certainly do look seductive tonight.” Jacob chuckles, running a finger up my arm and over my shoulder. Coldness pricks my skin where he touches me, and I can’t help it. He starts walking a hand up my back as he draws closer and closer to the mark that truly broke me, and I shiver. I don’t think it’s fear. I don’t feel fear anymore. I wish I did. It’s just physical disgust.

  “This one is so beautiful,” he whispers gleefully, tracing the deep fold in my skin. “A harsh lesson, but you learned, more or less.”

  More or less? Yeah, I guess I did learn my lesson. It was the time that I learned that trying to run from Jacob Waters was useless. It was the time I realized just how much of a monster he is and that the cops in this town are in his pocket. I’d gone to them after watching Jacob kill a man by throwing him off the balcony of his office building.

  Not that it helped. The cops handcuffed me and brought me back to the mansion, dropping me off in the foyer and leaving the cuffs on before shaking hands with Jacob and leaving me to his lesson. So yeah, I did learn my lesson. If I’m ever going to escape, I’m going to have to kill him.

  Jacob grabs the back of my head and my throat, painfully twisting my head to the side to look him in his icy blue eyes that burn with gleeful madness. “Ooh, Baby was thinking naughty things.”

  “No—” I start to reply, but Jacob doesn’t care. There’s no use. Pain shoots up and down my spine as he shakes me around by my neck, his face twisting into a mask of insane joy.

  “Oh, yes, you were. I know what you’re thinking. I know exactly what you’re thinking every moment of every day. And you were thinking very bad things about your Daddy, weren’t you?”

  His hand loosens a fraction of an inch on my throat, allowing me to take a breath that feels like pure moonshine being poured down my throat, and I sob. I can’t help it, but the pain in my neck and in my throat mixes with the shame and I’m reduced to crying again as Jacob shakes me back and forth. Finally, he leads me across the room toward my bed, shoving me back onto the bed as he reaches for his belt, undoing it but mercifully leaving it in the belt loops.

  “Oh yes, you were naughty, and Daddy’s going to have to punish you,” Jacob rasps, his voice rising until it’s almost girlish, a far cry from the deep, powerful tones that the public knows him for. “Daddy’s going to have to punish you good.”

  I start to cry. What’s worse, and what adds to my shame, is that my mind tells me that this is what I get. Everyone told me not to get involved with him. It’s all I get to look forward to for the rest of my miserable life until I find a way to kill him.

  I’m sobbing in shame when I feel temporarily relieved. “Oh, be quiet. We’ll continue this later. I’ll send Constanza in to help you get ready for the night out. Just remember, I own you.”

  He leaves, and in the temporary silence, I want to scream into my pillow in rage and helplessness, but my screams are silent. I know better than to disobey him.

  It’s a death wish, but I can’t wait until I have the perfect opportunity to kill him. I’ll go to Hell a happy woman if I can send him there just a few seconds before me.

  Chapter 3

  Ryker

  “Are you ready, Ryker?” Marcus asks, and I’m grateful again for my brother. While he may think he’s not helpful, it’s at times like this that I most appreciate his presence. I feel the weight of the potential deaths on my mind. Not of the three assholes that we’re aiming for, but of Marcus, Javier, and Eric, the two hitters Marcus felt would best help us for this job.

  Marcus isn’t like me in that regard. Sure, he knows Javy and Eric better than I do—that’s his job. He knows the boys. I need that sort of distance from them because deep down, I care about them too much to want to risk them. It’s hard enough risking Marcus. Myself . . . well, that’s just the way it goes.

  His question helps me focus on the challenge at hand. Tonight’s poker game is happening at The Lucky Seven Tavern, where there’s a very lucrative underground casino in the back room. Where money isn’t the only thing they bet, but things that you can’t exactly exchange in the casino a hundred miles down the road. Six men—the three targets plus
three more men who are unimportant to me except as potential guns—and a few bodyguards.

  “Yeah, I’m ready,” I finally reply, going over to the scratched desk in the warehouse we’re using as a staging area for tonight’s attack and picking up the Saiga-12 that I’m using for tonight’s hit. Marcus is carrying the same thing. Two semiautomatic shotguns are enough for this, while Javy and Eric will be carrying MP-5s. It’s one of the first lessons I learned when I started bringing the gangs together, one I borrowed from the military as I took my brains from studying at a community college and applied them to running this thing. Everyone showing up with whatever Saturday Night Special they wanted to bring to the party is a good way to find yourself fucked up very quickly. Good troops need good equipment, so I’ve made sure that my men carry the best we can get our hands on.

  That lesson becomes clear when I see Javier holding not the MP-5 that I ordered, but an Uzi in his hands when I come out of the office, making me stop. “What the fuck is that?”

  He’s a new kid, a steady hand so far, but he’s from the South Side, and I can read in his eyes that he wants to make an impression tonight. “It’s my baby. I call her Charlene.”

  I roll my eyes, holding up a hand when Marcus takes a step forward. I’ll handle this. “Put the bitch away. That’s not what we’re here for.”

  “Why?” Javier asks, a trifle unsure but not wanting to come off as a punk. Little does he know that by standing up to me, he’s just making it worse for himself. “Charlene can pump lead just as good as those German death machines.”

  I step closer and take the Uzi from him. Without warning, I turn and spray the Uzi across the other end of the warehouse. We’re secluded enough that the sound won’t be noticed. “Now that you’re out of ammo, what the fuck good are you?”