“Do you really pay a guy in hand jobs?” Miles asks, his back against the far wall and his hands in his pockets.
Stella forces a giggle. “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Anything else?” I interject before the conversation is completely derailed by bullshit.
“Hm. I can’t remember anything else, puddin’. Maybe you should jog my memory.”
Stella leans in closer to me, cramming her jugs together with her arms. They look like they’ll explode out of her bra at any moment. I roll my eyes and pull out my wallet. “How much this time?”
She frowns. “Hey. I’ll have you know that I need to make dough just like every other sad sack in this town. I got kids to feed and rent to pay!”
“I said how much, not tell me about your damn kids.”
“Fifty.”
“Is it worth fifty?”
“It’s definitely worth fifty.”
I wait. Stella glowers at me. I’m not paying her until I hear the information, and she knows it.
“Fine,” she huffs. “Listen. I was at the front desk when it all went down. I never saw the guy, but I did see a car waiting outside with a big son of a bitch at the wheel. He peeled outta here fast after everything happened. I think the shooter has some serious muscle protecting him. The driver had hands like hams and a bald head. Tough. Tougher than you, I’d wager.”
“Heh. We’ll see. Bullets don’t care how thick your hands are.”
Stella licks her lips as she eyes my wallet. “Well? Pay up.”
I pull a hundred and toss it on the counter. She snaps it up and shoves it down her bra, tucking it under the breast. “Oh my, so generous. What’s the occasion?”
“You’re just so cute,” I drawl, shoving my wallet into my pants pocket.
“Oh please—don’t give me any of that. Everyone knows you only get hard at the sight of cock.”
“Really? The way you were shimmying out of your clothes made me think you forgot.”
She giggles again, a slight hint of red peeking through her makeup. “Oh, that’s just my normal way of doing things, puddin’. It works on most guys. You know the drill.”
I finish my cigarette and make my way over to Miles’s little corner of the room. Tossing the butt in the trash, I give him a sideways glance. Before I ask him what’s on his mind, the front door opens, Brisko panting from the short jog.
“I’m here, Pierce,” he says between heavy breaths. Three more guys enter behind him. Muscle. Perfect.
I motion to the elevator. “There are two bodies. Take Mikey Vice to the family estate. Big Man Vice will decide what to do with it. Take the girl and throw her under Pier Eight, all right? On the rocks, not the water. Make sure she’s visible, but not visible from the street.”
“Got it, got it.”
“And place this card on her.” I pull out the Cobras’ calling card, keeping my prints off it. Brisko, with gloves, takes the card and tucks it away in his jacket. “Make sure it stays on her body.”
“Got it,” he drones again, stuck on automatic replies.
Stella snorts and crosses her arms over her considerable chest. “Are you really gonna do Candy like that? She was a nice girl. You’re doin’ her wrong with this.”
“If you care so much about her, what’s her real name?” I ask.
“Uh….” Stella fidgets for a moment. “I think I know this…. Uh…. Sugarlips?”
“That’s what I thought,” I say. “But don’t worry. She’s goin’ to the cops after this. They’ll identify her and get her back to someone who knows her.”
“Oh… I guess that’s okay, then. Just don’t get the cops back involved in our neighborhood, or else there’ll be hell to pay.”
I motion for Miles to follow me outside. We still have places to go before the night is up. He complies but avoids Brisko at all costs. The moment we exit, we’re both soaked. The rain didn’t let up, and it doesn’t look like it’s going away anytime soon.
We jog over to my car and jump in, getting the seats wet in the process. Miles fastens his seat belt and gives me a half smile. “You gave her a lot of money.”
“You make nice with the little guys,” I reply, taking the car out of the lot. “Remember that. If she has information in the future, you know she’ll call us.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“I DIDN’T know Noimore still had pay phones,” Miles says as he slides his quarters into the machine. I lean on the glass wall, watching the rain from the safety of the booth. Traffic rushes by, some of them ignoring the red lights. I suspect the intersection has its fair share of accidents since the cops are nowhere to be seen.
Miles clears his throat. “Hello?” he says into the receiver.
I step out of the booth and walk under the overhang for the subway. Noimore City Bus Transit doesn’t make it out to this part of the town. Trash has accumulated in every corner of the public area, most of it soaked in urine. Passengers shuffle out of the underground with their heads down. When a lady walks over to the phone booth, I step in her way and shake my head. She flinches back and hustles away. I hate busy thoroughfares.
My cell phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and scan the screen.
Nicholas Vice—Big Man Vice, as most know him—calling me directly. I answer.
“Nick,” I say.
“Pierce,” he replies, his voice a deep rich tone that reflects his mood like a mirror. “Where are you?”
“On the corner of Twenty-Third and H.”
“I want you to meet me. I’m sending you a ride.”
“I’ll be there.”
He hangs up and the conversation ends. I tuck my phone away, dwelling on the possibilities. He’s not a talkative man, and I appreciate that, but I’d still like more information than no information. I know he’s not upset with me; I’d have heard it in his voice. Plus, he’s superstitious at some level…. He’s always liked me a little more than his other enforcers, simply because we share the same first name. The moment I introduced myself as Nicholas Pierce, he took me into his personal circle of guards. Guess I got lucky.
I glance over at my car. It’s parked in a public spot, nothing too shady. A piece of me knows it’ll get broken into if I leave it too long, but I’m not going to refuse Big Man Vice’s ride. I’ll take my chances.
Miles exits the phone booth and takes his place by my side. “Hey. I talked to the detective and told her where to find the body.”
“And?”
“And she said she appreciated my tip. She didn’t say anything about me being a mole.”
“Of course not,” I say. “It’s about establishing a pattern. We do it once or twice more, maybe even something you can help prevent, and she’ll ask you. Trust me. Just play the part.”
I wish I had stayed in the booth to hear the conversation. I’m not sure how good a liar Miles is. Perhaps Detective Ambers pegged him immediately. Oh well. I’ll deal with it later, if or when it becomes a problem.
“So, what’re we doing now?” Miles asks, huddling closer to me. He didn’t bring a jacket, and he shivers from time to time.
“We’re waiting.”
“Waiting? For what? Is this a reconnaissance thing?”
“It’s a waiting thing.”
Miles exhales but doesn’t question me further. Another thing I like—he’s copacetic and easygoing. If he had been difficult, this wouldn’t work. I don’t have the patience I used to.
While I stare I catch myself admiring his form. The rain gets his clothes wet and everything clings. His smooth face, slicked black hair, and discerning eyes are a pleasant sight. He drops one hand to the crotch of his pants, squeezing and adjusting, no doubt an unconscious motion, but still….
I stop my leering and force myself to stare at the traffic lights. I haven’t been this horny in God only knows how long. We’re in the middle of the seediest part of town; no one would blink an eye if I took Miles into the shadows of a nearby alley and forced him to his knees. Hell, they mi
ght not even intervene if I had Miles get on his knees right here, in front of the subway. There’d be a bunch of sick fucks getting off on me using his mouth…. I wonder if Miles would even do it.
I rub at my eyes. I need to stop. All night I’ve been stealing glances and fantasizing… now it’s finally hitting a point that I need to do something about it or else it’ll just get in the way.
“I’ll be right back,” I say.
I saunter out to my car, allowing the icy rain to pelt my body. It chills the ever-building desire, and I breathe easy. I don’t know why, but I get uneasy thinking about Miles in compromising positions. I wait a few moments. All I need is to make it through the night. I’ll take my “payment” from him when we get back to my flat, if he’s still offering.
As I return he gives me an odd look and tilts his head. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
“You went to your car, stood around, and then walked back.”
I run my hand along the back of my neck. I got nothin’. “Life’s a fuckin’ mystery, kid. Get used to it.”
He chuckles, a bemused look on his face. “Ever think about writing fortune cookies?”
Even I get a chuckle from that. Ah, how I miss wit. I need to stop spending time near Pete and Brisko.
After a few minutes, a limo pulls up to the corner. Big Man Vice doesn’t do things cheap. I open the back door and slide in. Miles hovers around, glancing over his shoulder and then back at the luxury vehicle. Before I yell at him, he gets in, taking a seat next to me in the back, despite having the option to sit anywhere along the side of the interior. Once the door shuts, the driver lurches us forward. Must be in hurry. He did get here quick. He may have even been in the area….
I relax back against the soft leather of the seat. The divider window is shut tight, giving the back area a bit of privacy. Multicolored lights, dim and pleasant enough, line the floor and roof, giving the back a “party room” feel. Bottles of vodka and champagne fill the side compartments, and I help myself to one. Hard liquor is my drug of choice, next to cigarettes. I don’t even bother with a glass—I throw off the top of a vodka bottle and take a swig. The burning sensation doesn’t last long, but the heat in my belly does. Good ol’ vodka.
With a lifted eyebrow, I offer the bottle to Miles. He takes a shot glass from the side door and holds it out. I pour him a drink and he throws it back. To my surprise he doesn’t cough it up or make a mess. He’s had his share of hard liquor. I pour him another.
Besides the tinkling of glass against glass, the ride is quiet. Miles throws back his second shot and then exhales.
“You have any scars?” he asks out of the blue.
I give him an of course I fucking have scars look.
He replies with a sardonic stare. “Which one’s your worst?” he clarifies.
“Some asshole stabbed me in the leg a couple of years back. I walk around a lot—it made recovery an arduous process, to say the least.”
“Can I see it?”
I snort back a laugh and shrug. I pull up my pant leg and show off the gnarly piece of work left by the blade wound. It runs from the side of my knee down to my ankle, leaving a hairless line of protruding knotted flesh. I got lucky and didn’t need surgery on my kneecap, though the doctor said I might if I kept running around on it.
The lighting is terrible, and Miles takes his time examining my old injury. Once he’s done I release the fabric and we both lean back.
“What happened to your eye?” he asks, his tone hesitant. That’s probably what he wanted to ask in the first place.
“Oh, that’s one hell of a story.”
“R-really? What happened?”
I smile. “I was at this bar when a fight broke out with some bruisers from the Red Spades. My buddies were surprised and got a slug to the back, but I managed to gun a few down before hiding behind the counter. It was just me and this one guy—a seven-foot-tall guy—and we ended using broken bottles as weapons. He clipped my eye, and I caught him in the throat. Blood everywhere.”
Miles, wide-eyed, nods along with my words. “Wow. That’s crazy. I’m impressed.”
Heh. People will believe anything. I restrain a chuckle and take another swig of vodka. I cringe. Too much. After I get my breath back, I throw my arms up on the back of the seat. “What about you? Got any scars?”
“Uh, not really.”
“It’s a yes or no question. Don’t make this needlessly complicated.”
“Well, yes,” he says with a sigh. “But it’s not a fighting scar. It’s a… well, I had my appendix removed. I broke open the stitches when I was younger, and I had to go back to the hospital a few times. It left a noticeable scar, even though I was ten at the time.”
“Let’s see it.”
He laughs. I say nothing. He stops laughing. “Seriously? It’s nothing to look at.”
When the silence persists, he gets nervous and forces a smile. I wait and he eventually gets the picture. Leaning back, and with unsteady hands, he unbuckles his belt, unzips himself, and pulls down his slacks, revealing the top of his black boxers. He pulls those down without exposing himself and shows me the V cut of his hip just above the good stuff. There’s a scar—a straight medical scar—starting from his side and angling downward, ending at his treasure trail.
The dividing window slides down, and the driver glances back at us through the rearview mirror. Miles grabs at his clothes and attempts to pull them up in a hasty fumbling ball of panic.
“Whoa, whoa,” the driver says, lifting his fingers off the wheel. “I fully support your right to, uh, do whatever it is you guys are doin’ back there. I just wanna ask Pierce somethin’ before it gets thick.”
“Leave ’em down,” I command Miles. He stops before he gets his clothing up and hesitates. I turn my attention to the driver. “Diego? Is that you?”
“That’s right,” the driver replies. “I’ve been first driver for a while now and—”
“Ask your question and be done with it.”
Diego chortles. “Have you seen Cordoba around? He hasn’t been answerin’ his phone. It’s been a whole week since I’ve seen him ’round Big Man Vice’s house.”
“No. I haven’t seen him.”
Which is the punchline to most questions nowadays. So many people are turning up dead or going missing. If we don’t get on top of this, everything is going to go south real fucking fast.
“That’s what I was afraid of,” Diego says, rolling up the divider window.
I return my attention to Miles. He’s got his head down and his pants half back in position. I tuck a finger in the belt loop and pull them back down to get a better look at the scar. He gets stiff when I run my thumb over the injury and trail my hand down farther.
“What’s this?” I ask, catching sight of a black line inked into his flesh and running to the outside of his hip.
“A tattoo,” he says, his voice shaky. After inhaling he repeats, in a steadier voice, “A tattoo.”
“Of what?”
“A phoenix.”
As much as I want to inquire about his tattoo—and pull his pants off to get a good look at it—I stop to admire how hard he is. He tries to hide it by pulling on his pants and shifting in his seat, but with his zipper down there isn’t any escape. I set my vodka down.
“Unbutton your shirt,” I say, enjoying the way he avoids looking at me straight on.
He’s obedient and does what I tell him to, getting me hot all over again despite my shower in the rain. Miles opens his shirt, and I take in his youthful, toned body. His bruises have healed somewhat—they mar an otherwise delicious piece of meat. He shudders under my gaze, but that’s all right. The precome soaking his boxers is enough to know he’s enjoying himself.
“You ever let another guy take you in the ass?”
Miles grows red and his dick involuntarily twitches at my question. He shakes his head. I lean in close, enjoying the raw musk of sex. Sweat beads across his half-naked bod
y, and the close confines of the backseat make everything erotic.
I slam his back against the door and corner of the seat, trapping him in place as I loom over. He doesn’t resist and, instead, leans back to give me better access. I didn’t know he wanted it this badly. It drives me mad, but I maintain control. Barely.
“You’re gonna be my bitch. Ya know that, right?” I whisper, my breathing heavy. I get in close to his neck and bite down on the nape, enjoying the gasp he offers in return. I lick the injury in a sensual apology, though I want the mark to show. The salty taste of his skin is just what I’ve been craving. He whimpers and my clothing feels too constraining.
This is gonna happen.
I rip off a few buttons on my shirt just as the limo comes to a halt.
Shit. I should’ve fucked him at the inn when I had the chance. I sit back in my seat, distancing myself from Miles and taking a few deep breaths. He pulls his clothes together as the divider window rolls down a second time.
“We’re here,” Diego says.
“I see that,” I reply in a husky voice.
After the overpowering urges of lust leave my thoughts, I chuckle. I’m glad I didn’t fuck him at the inn. I have higher standards than a pay-by-the-hour brothel with dead bodies in it. What the hell was I thinking? The mind goes to some strange places when consumed by carnal desire. I’m completely fucked-up sometimes.
I open the limo door and step out. Miles attempts to straighten himself, but I hold up a hand.
“Stay here.”
“Why?” he asks, his heart rate still obviously high.
“I’m gonna meet Nick, and then we’re gonna drive back. Simple stuff. Plus, he doesn’t appreciate uninvited guests. Just wait here.”
“All right. Fine. I’ll wait.”
The rain washes over me once more, chilling all desires and returning me to my normal state of not giving a fuck. The limo is parked in front of Big Man Vice’s favorite evening hideout, the Crystal Floor Nightclub. It’s high-class and exclusive—the kind of place you only get invited to. There’s no line of people waiting to get in, but bouncers block the door regardless. Despite the rain they stand with muscled arms folded over their chests.
Vice City Page 4