by Mia Ford
I’m an undercover cop, so getting down and dirty with the scum of the earth is something I’m not afraid to do. I’m also a bad boy at heart, with or without the badge and gun. And women love getting under the covers with a bad boy, especially when they feel what I’m packing in my jeans…
I’m more than willing to bend the rules if it means I get to nail the bad guy, and maybe nail some bad girls along the way. It’s all part of the job. And I do my job very well.
I’m dead set on taking down the South Side Gang. This undercover bouncer gig got me in the door and now I’ve got Richie Silvestri in my sights. All I gotta do is wait, watch, listen, then make my move. It should be just another day in the life of Detective Danny O’Shea.
Then she comes along: Hannah Silvestri, Richie’s little sister, the finest piece of ass I’ve seen in a long time. Hannah is smoking hot, with a mouth to match. She’s sassy and smart, and all I can think about is burying myself between her thighs.
But Hannah is one tough nut to crack. It’s going to take more than my macho BS and bad boy charm to get those legs spread. But I’ll keep working her, cause that’s what I do. And soon I’ll sink into that hot flesh, and when I do, the whole South Side will explode in flames.
Chapter One: Detective Daniel Dutton
Sometimes it was hard being an undercover cop.
Sometimes it was harder than others.
Like now, for instance.
It was hard as a rock.
“Jesus, you’re good at that,” I sighed, sucking the night air in quickly through my gritted teeth. My head clunked back against the dirty brick wall I was leaning against. I barely felt it because all the sensation in my body had pooled in my cock. The girl’s tongue was hot and wet, hotter than the sweltering night air. It slid over my salty flesh like warm butter.
I felt like I was melting, she was that good. My knees felt like they might dissolve, just puddle onto the ground, leaving my body to flounder in the cesspool of stink and rot and filth that filled this back alley.
The thumping bass of the music inside the dive bar matched the pounding of my heart as the girl—what was her name again?—sucked the head of my cock, teasing and tasting my sweaty flesh like a refreshing Popsicle. Even the sounds she made had me thinking of yummy summer treats.
Devouring slices of watermelon.
Sucking a straw full of thirst-quenching lemonade.
Licking at those snow cones I used to get as a kid.
A bead of sweat rolled down the side of my face, and as I wiped it away, she gulped my cock all the way down her throat. I lost all thought after that. I ignored the snickers from some partiers passing the alley. I forgot about the scrape of my head against the brick. I stopped caring about the mosquitos buzzing around my face. My cock was held in a warm vise, being massaged and caressed by the smooth column of her throat and tongue, drawing out drops of precum, which she eagerly swallowed.
That tiny movement made me grit my teeth. The sensation was too good to give up. I refused to come. My greedy cock wanted more.
Danny O’Shea, underworld bad boy, had a reputation to uphold in this shitty town. There was no way I was gonna blow my load this quick, not knowing that this dame would spread the news of our encounter like wildfire, either furthering my reputation of a bad boy with a big cock or as a shit head who couldn’t hold back his cum for more than five minutes.
I lived and died by my reputation, my legend, the other cops called it.
There was no way one amazing blowjob was going to ruin that.
I slid my fingers through her sweaty blonde hair and pulled her closer, ramming my cock even farther into the tight recesses of her mouth. She responded by clutching my ass and clinging tighter, trying to take every inch, and that did it.
My body tensed then shuddered and I couldn’t help but moan. I erupted like a kinked firehose that had been twisted free, shooting so much cum down her throat I couldn’t imagine how she swallowed it all. My cock jerked and lunged to the beat of the music coming through the open door, but that didn’t stop this girl. She kept on sucking and licking, her mouth a siphon, drawing out every drop I had in my body until I had nothing more to give.
She released my cock with a little pop from her lips. I glanced down to see some drops of cum glistening at the corner her mouth. Without hesitation, she wiped her lips with one finger and stuck it into her mouth with a smile.
I let go of her shoulders, then stepped back to run my hands through my hair, pushing the sweat back through the long locks, plastering it to my head. A cool shower was in order, but of course that wasn’t on my agenda tonight. At least not yet. For now, I had other plans.
“I think I owe you a drink,” I said as I glanced down at her. Her hand was still holding my now withering cock. She was caressing it lovingly.
“Just a drink?” she asked coyly, gazing up with luminous green eyes that practically glowed in the sputtering light above the door. Her fake eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks. “Aren’t you gonna let me ride that big thing tonight, Danny?” She pulled my cock to its full flaccid length. It twitched in response.
I smiled and tugged a strand of her hair to get her attention. I loved blowjobs as much as the next guy, but I didn’t have time to sample all of this girl’s talents, at least not tonight.
“I’d love that, doll, but I’ve gotta see a guy about a job.”
“I just gave you a job,” she said.
“Sorry, not tonight.”
“Fine,” she said with a pouty smile. She planted one last kiss on the tip of my cock and let it go. I stuffed it back into my jeans before she opted to try again.
“Rain check then,” she said as she got off her knees. She tugged her tight red mini dress down to cover her ass. It was a nice ass, and she was probably a nice girl, but I never dated any girl who hung out in dive bars and gave blowjobs in a back alley. Not good for my wellbeing or survival. It wouldn’t pay for anyone to put together that Danny O’Shea, bad boy renegade and criminal opportunist, was actually Detective Daniel Dutton, Vice Division, Chicago P.D.
I zipped up my jeans then dug in my pocket for some money. I held out a twenty.
Another pout. Her cherry lipstick was smeared all over her mouth. Not a good look for her. She plucked the money from my fingers.
“I was hoping we could at least have a drink together,” she said softly as she caressed the money over her face.
“No can’t do, sweetheart. Not tonight.”
“Are you sure?” She took a step toward me, but I held up my hands. Man, this chick didn’t know when to quit. I wasn’t used to women not taking no for an answer. I gave her a firm look and shook my head.
“Maybe another night,” I said. “Like I said, I’ve gotta see a guy about a job.”
She shoved the money into her swollen cleavage. Nice tits to go with that tight ass. Still, a skank was a skank. I could never take her home to meet Pops, or my siblings—all seven of them in the tradition of good Irish folks—would have a field day with this girl, although my brother Paddy would have tapped that ass in a New York minute.
“I thought you really liked me, Danny,” she said, trying to sound hurt. Her voice had taken on an annoying, whining tone, and that did it. I needed her gone. No blowjob out there was worth putting up with a whining woman.
I dug in my pocket and yanked out another twenty. What difference did it make? I was going to expense it anyway. Her eyes brightened, and her lashes fluttered in her excitement as she held out her hand.
The crash inside the bar came right on cue, and a beer bottle came flying through the door to smash against the opposite wall of the alley. She flinched and ducked as she glanced toward the open door.
Inwardly, I smiled. Things were progressing right on cue.
Another bottle hurtled through the door, hitting the dumpster and shattering into glistening shards. A body spilled into the alley and rolled several feet to land in the glass.
The girl snatched the money from my hand, and stuffed it
into her cleavage with the other bill. “Gotta go before the cops get here. See ya soon, Danny. My pussy will be hot and ready when you are.”
“Good to know,” I said. “Now, scram.”
She could run fast in those five-inch stilettos. I took a moment to watch her ass flex and shake as she rounded the corner onto the sidewalk, then rubbed my hands together and took a deep breath.
“It’s show time, folks,” I said.
I headed into the Rack ’Em Up Bar to begin tonight’s act two in the life as Dirty Danny O’Shea.
Chapter Two: Hannah Silvestri
The sounds and smells of the city filtered through the gauzy curtains over my windows when a whisper of a breeze came through. The night was hot and mostly still, one of those nights in Chicago where everyone and everything seems a hairsbreadth away from melting. The ancient air conditioner jammed into the other window had died two days before, and though I’d asked three or four times, no one had come to fix it yet.
The rhythmic thump of Girls, Girls, Girls filtered through the floor from the club below. Lucky me, I lived above Pussy Whipped, my brother’s strip club. Any money my brother made went back into the club or into his pocket, not in the areas no one saw. It was a shithole apartment and he let me live there free, so in his mind, I had little right to bitch about anything. The paint was peeling on every wall, and the ceiling had a crack that leaked water in a heavy rain. This had caused a huge stain that looked disgusting and was probably festering into deadly mole, but at least it was on the ceiling, so I never looked up and tried not to think about the tiny spores burrowing not my lungs.
A tiny bedroom lay off the living room, and the adjoining bathroom had been remodeled sometime in the eighties. The puke green was a lovely color. All in all, not a decorator’s dream, but I did have a small kitchenette, which served my purposes because all I really needed was a small fridge and a microwave. I got most of my meals from the club’s kitchen, and when I was ready for take-out, almost anyone in the neighborhood would deliver to the club, hoping for a free peepshow.
I was comfortable enough, but the noise level of the music, not to mention the sounds of the catcalls made by its illustrious patrons and the city noise outside, made it hard to concentrate, one of the many prices I paid for being the sister of Richie Silvestri.
I guess I should have been grateful he refused to allow me to dance. Such a good brother to keep his sister from stripping. As it was, I bartended the day shift, mostly because Richie thought the classier men came in during the day. There was nothing classier than a man who spent his hard-earned money going to a strip club during lunch hour and happy hour. And they all leered at me like I was a piece of meat in a butcher’s front window. Not in my most terrible nightmares would I give any of them the time of day, much less allow them into my bed. I wanted a man who wanted me, not some body dancing around a pole.
I’d seen them all lined up at the bar and the tables around the center stage—politicians, guys in suits, office workers, the construction guys, the factory rats. Very few of them tipped the bartender well because they’d earmarked their money on the hot fantasies shaking pussy and tits in their faces. Fantasy was the right word because, underneath the erotic outfits and the cliché names, the daytime ladies would never be indulging the fantasies of these men with no future, no hope, no passion in their lives except the hard-on in their pants. These women were single mothers, women going to night school, trapped girls trying to make enough money to get back home to Boise and Omaha and Bismarck, women who’d once held big dreams for Chicago. I could have told them dreams died in Chicago, but they wouldn’t have listened. You had to live it to believe it.
None of the women gave a damn who passed over the dollar—sometimes a five or ten—as long as it got passed. Yet the men were all looking for that hookup, not knowing that the stripper with the heart of gold, the hot body, and adoring gaze was a fantasy only in their pornographic imaginations. None of the dancers cared who these men were or what they wanted. The women wanted their money, plain and simple, because they had to feed their kids and buy that bus ticket back to failure and lost dreams.
All of us were trapped between fantasy and reality, playing mind games and just trying to make it through our ten-hour shifts. I really hated the daytime.
The nighttime, though, belonged to me. Richie thought I watched Netflix and read romance novels up here in my tiny apartment. If he knew I was working toward a degree, my internet would have been unplugged between one heartbeat and the next. Richie thought women were good for two things—stripping or pushing out kids. I had created a problem for my brother because he didn’t want me doing either.
I finished up my lesson for the night and saved everything on the flash drive. I had just hit Clear Browser History when a fist pounded on my door. My heart skipped a beat.
“Jesus, hang the fuck on,” I yelled.
I shoved the flash drive into the pocket of my shorts.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, Butch.”
My head dropped before I could hold in the sigh, and though my heart tried to return to a normal rhythm, the sound of Butch Collette’s voice always made my hackles rise. They didn’t come uglier than Butch—or meaner. What the hell was he doing here?
“What do you want, Butch?”
Something knocked against the door, and then I heard the rattle of something metallic.
“Came to fix your window unit.”
Yeah, right. My brother’s right-hand man and enforcer had decided to play service technician? Something wasn’t right here. The man would do anything to be alone with me. I guess I had to give him props for at least finding a valid reason to come to my apartment instead of stalking me on the bar floor like he did every afternoon.
I glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was almost midnight. I went to the door and opened it a crack, making sure to keep the chain in place. Not that a chain—or a door for that matter—would matter to Butch. If he really wanted in, he’d get in.
I peered through the opening, up, up, up into Butch’s face. His bald pate glistened with sweat. The scar on his chin blazed a fiery trail over his skin and cut through his lip. No one talked about that scar, but rumor had it he’d gotten it while protecting Richie from a very dissatisfied customer years ago. Butch had carte blanche around here because of that scar. The prison tats on his hands and arms signaled Butch was a badass motherfucker. I never asked what they meant because I didn’t want to be more scared than I was.
Yes, he scared me, but that didn’t mean I had to let him in my house. Richie thought Butch walked on water, but he would back me on that.
“I’m getting ready for bed, Butch.”
Bed. Wrong thing to say. His piggy eyes lit up as he raked his gaze down the gap, trying to see anything at all, any flash of skin. My skin crawled. I curled behind the door and pressed against it, hoping to become invisible. No such luck because his gaze just came back to mine. I felt the flash drive in my pocket like a dirty secret as I tried not to cower under his stare.
“Anything I can help with?” he asked, giving me a lurid smile.
I almost vomited right there at my front door.
“No…thank you.” I swallowed hard.
“I brought the tools.” He held up a metal toolbox and rattled it for effect. I knew for a fact a hammer and screwdriver weren’t going to cut it on an air conditioning unit. That was the box they used to fix the stripper poles downstairs and occasionally tighten a screw on a barstool.
“Can we do this tomorrow please? Maybe before my shift?”
“Seven thirty?”
“Sure. That sounds great.” I tried to smile, but it felt lost inside. I wasn’t even sure I knew how to smile anymore. I’d heard it often enough at the bar.
“Hey, beautiful, nice ass… give me a smile with those ruby red lips...”
What I wanted to do every time I heard it was smash a beer bottle against the counter and shove it in the guy’s throat just
to shut him up.
I really needed out of this town.
“Okay, Hannah,” Butch grunted. “See you in the morning.”
He gave me a gap-toothed smile, turned and lumbered down the staircase, all six-feet-five, two hundred fifty pounds of him, muscles and sinew and bone, so much there to inflict pain. Each step creaked a protest beneath his frame.
I closed the door and locked all three locks, and then for good measure, I shoved a chair under the knob. None of it would have stopped him. He became a charging bull under the right circumstances.
My legs buckled, and I hit the floor hard. The flash drive poked into my hip, reminding me I needed to put it in the tampon box with the others. As far as I knew, Richie never came into my apartment. Why would he? He knew I was a scared little mouse watching the cats prowl around the house with absolute impunity. Every step I took, every move I made, brought the potential for the snap of the traps that seemed to encompass every aspect of my life.
Someday…
I just kept telling myself…
Someday…
Someday I would be free.
But in the meantime, I was stuck here until I could do something better.
Then the flash drive joined the other four, which held the courses I’d already completed, in a tampon box in the top of the bathroom closet, each stuffed into a little cardboard tube which I knew no man would ever want to touch.
Chapter Three: Danny O’Shea
The bar lights should have made the place welcoming, but all I felt was sadness. Neon colors split the semi-darkness, creating pools of vibrant blue, red, and green. Some of the lights flickered, and other had burned out creating gaps in the messages. The Chicago sports teams were all represented.
The Bears and the Bulls and the Cubs were all partnered onto signs with Budweiser and Miller Lite and Old Style, as though those multimillionaire players would touch a bottle of something so mundane or drink it with the common guy. I wondered why they bothered. No one who frequented this shit hole had the money to actually go to a game.