by Amarie Avant
“What happened after that?” Salvador asked. The arrest hadn’t been Hardy saved the girl and was placed in handcuffs. No, Salvador perceived that Hardy hadn't gone straightaway to jail. Intuition told him so.
“He was bloody.” Avery began, gulping back trepidation so readable that it curdled Salvador’s stomach. “I told him to come back to my place—”
Salvador noticed that his woman refused to say the thug’s name. The other night, she seemed strained when mentioning Hardy’s name. But now, she chose not to say it at all. With a sneer, Salvador asked, “You thanked Hardy properly?”
Her lips twisted in shock. “You're such an asshole.”
As Avery took two steps back and began to turn around, Salvador grabbed her forearm using a bit too much force.
“Ow!”
His mission wasn't to hurt but to taunt. Salvador slightly let up on his hold. He pinned her against the wall.
“How did you thank him?” He asked while his other hand coursed up her smooth, tiny waist.
“Stop! I hate you. So, I'm a whore? There's only one way to thank someone who saved me from being accosted?” She snapped as Salvador’s hand snaked beneath her lace bra and palmed her breast, thumb grazing over her hardening nipple.
His cock pulsated against her thigh, but she glared at him. Salvador’s hand pulled away from Avery’s body to her cheek, gripping her with more force than necessary.
“Did you kiss him?” Salvador asked then bruised her mouth with his own. His tongue slammed between her lips, forcing them to part. The taste of her mouth made him moan. The sweetness of her tongue was enough to make him go crazy with jealousy. Salvador pulled back from her seductive lips to gather her attention to ask again. “Did you kiss him?”
“No, he kissed me!”
“You fuck Hardy?”
“No,” she snapped. Now, her lips bunched together even tighter. “Get the fuck off of me, Sal. You’re being a douche, and—”
“Did you want to fuck him, mi amor?”
Instead of waiting for his woman's reply, his brazen rough lips again seized hers. Innocent Miss Castle wanted a no-good goon? Fuck that; he'd give it to her rough. Salvador wasn’t from the finest areas of town, but he’d always been a by-the-rules person. There was no way in hell Salvador would permit Avery to leave him. He’d literally kill her first.
“St-Ssstttoopp,” she gasped. Salvador ignored her pleases. As his tongue wrote his initials on Avery’s neck, he gripped a breast in his hand. A rock-hard nipple was squeezed between two fingers. Avery murmured something. The pianist’s melodies were shot down from his mind and replaced by the sound of her body. Sal dropped to his knees. He hastily undid his silk tie while hoisting a toned thigh over his shoulder.
Salvador nudged his nose against the thin lace barrier of her panties. He breathed her in, feeling her weight mold down harder on him as her knees went weak.
He pushed down her panties, lifting her leg from his shoulder, and Avery kicked them off with a thrust of her heel. Silently she breathed, head back against the wall. Salvador French kissed the honey well of her moist pussy. His mouth made an o around her clit; then he sucked it into his mouth. The reaction sent liquid lust dripping along his chin, which he lapped up like a dirty animal. He was obsessed with the taste of her. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that if she ever left him, that would be the end of her.
CHAPTER 10
Avery
Don . . .
She panted, crushing the sound of Donavan's name from her mouth. As Salvador made Avery rise over wave and wave of orgasmic moans, she attempted to concentrate on the man that actually loved her, not the one who had left without a word said.
Her hand seized jet-black tresses when her soft slender fingers should have been coiled through waves upon thick waves of honey-brown hair.
Salvador looked up. She almost leaped off his shoulders imagining Donavan's hazel eyes. “Fuck me now!” She growled to mask the shock. The words she said a moment ago were true. Not an ounce of love was left between her and Donavan, and her future with Salvador had made her delirious with desire. It was true. All she had to do was keep saying it until she convinced herself as much.
Salvador rose, and his pants and boxers descended. He lifted her up. Her assumptions were slammed down as his dick slammed into her warm ocean. Avery had expected him to carry her to bed first. She extended her voluptuous legs around his taut waist, realizing that they were indeed fucking. This type of sex had always happened last minute. At the airport terminal restroom, car garage and even in the hallway when one was coming or going. Sex was like an icebreaker or a way to cut the tension. But this hard, sweaty, breathy type of sex had disappeared once she permanently returned to town and had been replaced with Salvador’s attempts to make love to her. Avery missed this. She still loved the sheer rawness of it.
Her hands dug into his biceps as her upper body was leveraged at a sixty-degree angle. Head back; she bucked on Salvador’s wild cock as he plunged her up and down.
Biting her tongue, Avery physically forced herself not to utter the wrong name. His dick moved at the speed of light, gliding in and out of her body. Warmth gushed into Avery’s core, and then Salvador held her dearly to his chest. Their heartbeats boomed in havoc. She counted the rhythm. They didn't match.
She was not in love with Salvador Esparza. Nevertheless, he was her constant. Everything about him said that he loved her. This was the man for her. Besides Donavan equaled abandonment.
Salvador held her like a bear, clinging tightly. Then his thumb grazed her chin, tracking her gaze. He asked, “You're crying?”
With the tears, she endeavored to shed Donnie from her mind. She had to be careful. Salvador could read people. Avery didn’t want to chance him deciphering her raging emotions because those feelings were a jumble of confusion.
“Yes, that felt so good,” Avery said. A tiny, crazed laugh erupted from her body. He kissed her, hugging her tighter.
Avery needed space. She had a storm of tears to cry. She murmured her usual line, “Let's go get you clean.”
A moan vibrated from his body to her chest. Though he didn't speak, she felt his excitement. He sat her down.
“Round two?” She read his lips.
Avery nodded.
It had been years since Avery’s CD had gone gold. Each and every score was an original for Donavan Hardy. She had cried every day, working on her composition. Then, one day, she had no more tears. Tonight, those dormant feelings ran rampant. Round two would be accompanied by the rainspout shower heads mingled with her tears—a new symphony of love.
CHAPTER 11
Donavan
Donavan’s Kawasaki crept to a stop between two Chevy Silverado’s. About five additional large pickup trucks lined the farmhouse out in the wilderness. A cherry red Ferrari was parked in the spot reserved for his boss. Good. He hadn’t traveled this far into the boonies for nothing.
Two goons stepped outside as Donavan pulled the helmet from his head. The cool breeze dried the sweat on his neck. He rubbed the curls from his forehead, thinking that a haircut would make him look less boyish but too busy to care.
“You caught heat?” Raymond asked pointing at him.
“Keep pointing that finger at me. I’m gonna break it off and ram it so far up your fucking asshole that you actually stop talking,” Donavan matched Raymond’s glare. “How ‘bout that?”
Raymond disregarded the Donavan’s comments about keeping quiet. “No, you were on a fucking job but decided to go save the bitch across the street—”
The mouth. Donavan always had a fetish for punching a smartass in his mouth. Blood splattered across his hand as Raymond dropped to his knees. Instead of tuning into the idiot’s cries, Donavan glanced at the blood trickling down his wrist and beefy forearm, considering a new tattoo. A design like this might be a good look. Noticing one of Raymond’s front teeth embedded into his knuckle, Donavan pulled it out, smiling and thinking about Avery bandaging his han
d a few days ago. It was a useless action.
“You’re a crazy motherfucker,” Raymond gasped, attempting to hold back the blood squirting from his mouth.
“C’mon, Donavan,” the other one said. “The boss ain’t gonna like you laughing at this little douche.”
Donavan nodded, understanding. He planted his boots wide, his thick muscular legs straining against his jeans as he leaned down. Another thought crossed his mind: that Cuban. Donavan grabbed Raymond by the collar and punched him again, exactly the way he craved punching that fuck Avery had left the jailhouse with Friday night.
“Hardy, we’re gonna have a problem if you off my son,” Elroy Palmer said as he puffed a cigar. One hand was in the pocket of his double-breasted custom suit, the coal of his eyes complementing the coal gray of his suit. His gaze crept over Raymond. He shook his head then looked back at Donavan. With a quick cock of his head, Elroy began to walk back into the farmhouse.
“Big fucking tip,” Donavan pointed at Raymond, prompting him to flinch, “wash your mouth out.”
Raymond rolled over to his side to spit blood. With the top dog as his father, the idiot was accustomed to the last word. “Yeah, I’ll wash my mouth with your bitch’s cunt.”
Donavan turned around.
“Hold up.” The other lackeys grabbed Donavan’s arms. He laughed as Raymond flinched then Donavan turned around. Though he had no woman, the respect factor was always lacking when it came to the boss’s son.
Donavan walked into the house, which was grand and suited for a magazine. When the inside was converted into a real home, Palmer had opted for the best of everything. The distressed wood had been well kept, and exotic light-brown longhorn rugs decorated the floors. There were horsehair couches throughout the house, and canvas paintings of Palmer’s beloved thoroughbred horses adorned the two-story-tall walls. Though, there was not even one five-by-seven candid of his firstborn, Raymond Palmer.
Donavan stepped into Elroy’s office, where the beefy man sat behind a shiny Cherrywood desk. The wood paneling in here was dark, heavy—extravagant. The shutters were open, and it being a sunny day allowed more light in than usual.
“I brought you back into the fold, Hardy,” Elroy began. He always started with the guilt trip, having hired Donavan at the age of 13. “I try to help you since its hard as hell out on these streets to get a job, at least that’s the last thing I’ve heard about ex-cons, that getting a legit gig ain’t a fucking joke. Am I right?”
“Yeah,” Donavan shrugged. All his cohorts were felons, except for Raymond. The boss’s son would bitch when it was time to go on a real mission, so he got let off the hook. Instead, Raymond got caught for frivolous shit like public intoxication, DUI, pissing in parks, stupid stuff like that.
“Those people obviously didn’t give a shit about you, Donavan. Where are they now? I’m the one who’s always taken care of you.”
Donavan stood there, stoic. He didn’t like talking about his personal life with Elroy, no matter how much the guy liked to think he was a father figure.
“C’mon, man, I’ve put weight in your pockets since you were a boy,” Elroy continued. It was true. Donavan had good parents, but he had needed more money to take care of Avery. Not once did she complain about the necklaces and trinkets he bought, well, only to tell him that they weren’t necessary because she knew his money didn’t come from anything good, but he wanted to give her better.
“What happened with Willie?” Elroy asked, abruptly, changing the subject and slapping his empty palm. His gray eyes were filled with greed, but the man wasn’t going hungry anytime soon. Besides running illegal bets for the horse races, Elroy kept a hand in gambling. This grand farmhouse held poker games at one hundred grand just to warm the seat.
“I’ll go back to JJ’s Bar and chat with Willie.”
“Fucking chat?” Elroy pulled out his trigger finger. “Hardy, you’re a beast in your own right; those muscles get you far here, no lie. But I’m sure Willie’s bro has already pulled together my-motherfucking-funds to help Willie’s old hobbling ass get away!” Donavan’s eyes were locked on Elroy’s as he’d spoken through gritted teeth. Spittle had flown onto the glossy wood desk.
Why does the team even allow Willie to bet? He’s never been good for it. Not being the sort of man to lose his cool, unless provoked, Donavan spoke in a calm voice. “I’ll find Willie.”
Donavan had another reason to remain cool. He didn’t want it brought to Palmer’s attention that he’d visited JJ’s twice in one week, without patting down Willie on both occasions.
“Easy peasy, huh?” Elroy leaned back in his chair, knowing that nothing in this entire world was against him, save for his own heart. Air breathing through his mouth, Elroy nodded while rubbing his goatee. “Mark my words, Hardy. One of these days you’re gonna have to pull the fucking trigger. No matter how intimidating you are. Bullheaded, no doubt, but yeah, there’ll come a day. I like telling everyone I got me an ex-Army fuck who was so damn bad that the motherfucking Army had to kick his ass out! Yes, sir, I like to tell ‘em that. So, do something.”
Donavan gave the sort of laugh that implied the man’s words meant nothing to him. He wasn’t murdering anyone for Palmer. The motherfucker didn’t pay him enough. Though laid back in demeanor, Donavan didn’t veer for anybody’s request. Even as the years passed, one image kept him from being so far gone—Avery Castle. Yes, he’d wanted to bash those two guys’ brains in for even uttering a single word to her. His hands had felt heavy, almost like dead weight. Then they had seemed to have a mind of their own.
“I'll handle Willie.”
“Good, Hardy. Get hungry, stay hungry.” Elroy chanted the motto.
Donavan took a deep breath and walked out of Elroy’s office. Get hungry. Have no qualms about taking someone out. Stay hungry. That sort of greed is what got men like Elroy Palmer to the top of the fucking totem pole. Elroy wanted to mold Donavan into an image of him. Fuck that. The only desire to murder Donavan ever had was when pissed. Damn right, he needed anger management. He didn’t have time to give a crap to find out if it’d help.
The sunshine blanketed his tanned skin once more. Donavan didn’t head to his motorcycle. He sauntered past the willow trees and down the lot to one of the tinier houses on the remodeled plantation.
He decided to visit Moses, the all-knowing one. Shaggy blond hair swayed in the calming breeze just like the willows Donavan passed. Moses sat on the porch of the tiny home, head leaned back, with his own rolled up joint. The smoke fizzled into the air.
“Sup, bro,” Moses said, eyes sparkling and ablaze with contentment.
Donavan rubbed a thumb across the stubble on his face. He stopped at the bottom step of the porch—no contact high for him.
“You need an update on Willie?” Moses inquired.
“Nah. I can find him.”
A smooth chuckle came from the pimple-faced Moses. “No fucking doubt, Hardy. You’re built like a Rottweiler with the senses of a hound. In that case, what can I do ya’ for?”
Donavan knew he shouldn't, but he asked Moses to look into the two assholes that had messed with Avery. His shrink in the army had said, “Woe to the man who provokes you,” and the saying stuck. He wasn’t going to let it go.
“Oh, so we wanna have a lil’ party with those boys, I see?” Moses said, turning his laptop on. Since Donavan didn’t brag or want to talk about his business, Moses’s frame of mind switched gears. “Gimme a minute.”
Moses squashed his joint into the ashtray on the rickety side table next to him. He grabbed the laptop from the wooden chair on the opposite side, resting it on his lap. Donavan subconsciously told himself that he wasn't going to do anything. AC—Avery—is no longer my lady, he chanted to himself.
Then why do you want the information? He stopped himself from chuckling at that bit of insight.
Donavan had gotten the names of the guys he’d beat down from Kelly. It turned out that the idiots were working construction for h
im part-time. Donavan gave their names to Moses. Since he didn’t have their date of birth, Donavan gave Moses distinguishing characteristics: scars, tats. “Those dudes had to have been barely twenty.”
“Home addresses at your service in record time.” Moses cracked his knuckles.
As he stood there, the soft sunrays began to warm then burn his back. Hands balled into fists, Donavan recalled all the fights he’d gotten into over Avery. Hell, the majority of those altercations could have been handled by her soft voice, but it had always been the principle. There were standards at their private schools.
She. Belonged. To. Another. Now.
Those pretty brown eyes made him want to undress, and swim into the warmth of them. But touching her was a negative. There was a new unwritten rule regarding proximities, stay the hell away from this girl. Even arm’s length was dangerous.
But he snatched up the sticky note with the scrawled address anyway . . .
It was on the way home. I will not murder them.
CHAPTER 12
Salvador
Salvador sat in the video room, glaring at a trio of monitors. The one in the center displayed the liquor store surveillance footage from the dispute between Hardy, Garret, and Brown. The power in Hardy's left hook had Salvador rewinding the recording yet again.
Though a cop was assigned to the case, Salvador had wanted to see the video. After this, the investigator determined he would conduct a search and read the rap sheet that Donavan Hardy no doubt had acquired. Though he was unable to get the exact information as to why, Salvador was aware that Hardy had been in prison at Fort Leavenworth in Kansas. Salvador also knew that Hardy had been there for a little over a year at the age of eighteen after being dishonorably discharged from the army. He needed more info regarding the charges. What Salvador did know was that Hardy had a speckled history in South Carolina and was linked to a local known “redneck,” wannabe mafia boss, Elroy Palmer, who dabbled in racketeering, conspiracy, and fraud.