Vice Enforcer

by S. A. Stovall

  He stares a bit longer. “How long has your eye been like that?”

  I turn away. “It just happened.”

  “Hm.”

  I don’t like the way he asks these questions. He starts to ask another, but the door to the office swings open and hits me in the arm. I hadn’t even realized how far I had leaned away from him until this moment. The guy gets me on edge.

  “Lieutenant Walker,” Monica says, poking her head in and smiling. “I have Deputy Chief Charleston on the line for you. He says he isn’t going to wait long.”

  The lieutenant mulls over the comment while running a hand down his face. He looks tired—and stressed—and eventually lets out a long sigh. “Wait here,” he tells me. “I need to ask you a few more questions. I’ll be right back.”

  He steps out of the office with Monica, leaving me alone with all his paperwork.

  The commotion of a busy department filters into the room and creates a dull backdrop to an otherwise still environment. I glance around and smirk. The guy must be some sort of straightlaced white knight. He has a picture of himself becoming an Eagle Scout, right next to a picture of his police work at a local elementary school—not to mention all the handwritten cards from kiddies thanking him for his time—and on a shelf behind his desk, I catch sight of an ISBA Law Enforcement Award for a search-and-rescue operation during a major fire in downtown Joliet.

  Well, la-dee-da. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear he has an ego three times the size of the moon.

  Curiosity gets the best of me, and I amble around the side of his desk to get a better look at his paperwork. I sift through mountains of personal files on the rescued individuals and take note that they’re all under the age of twenty-five. Kids that young shouldn’t be victims of crimes this heinous.

  I freeze when I see a few case files labeled “Noimore.”

  I know that city like the back of my hand, and lately it’s become a heart of darkness for the region, pumping the lifeblood of crime into the surrounding territory with a steady pulse. Once it was run by the Vice family mob; now it’s tearing itself apart with turf wars and new emerging gangs. I’m sure some of the Vice family still holds power there—if anything, I’m sure Jeremy Vice is out of jail—but that only adds to the chaos of an already hostile environment.

  Jeremy Vice.

  Even thinking about the man gets me uneasy. I left the mob because I wanted out, but I had to fake my own death because Jeremy kept me as a tortured dog. He really did a number on me for the few months I worked under him. I swear he broke a piece of me—a piece of confidence I once had—and I can’t bring myself to dwell on it too long.

  I hope to God I never have to go back to Noimore ever again.

  And what’s a Joliet cop doing with another city’s criminal records? Again, I can’t help myself. I flip open the Noimore files and leaf through the information.

  Everything stacks up pretty quick. The Illinois State Police want city police departments to work together to stop the recent uptick in human trafficking. Still… I don’t like that cops in this area are involved with Noimore criminal records.

  I catch my breath the moment I spot my file. It’s open on his desk, like that asshole lieutenant had just been reading up on it. I yank it over and scan the information, my heartbeat threatening to drown out all other sound.

  It doesn’t have my name or picture, but it lists my appearance, profession, and suspected crimes. Vice family top enforcer. Suspected of murder, racketeering, extortion, possession of illegal firearms—the list is extensive and rather accurate.

  Tall Caucasian man. Midthirties. Dark brown hair. One eye discolored. But everything else is flat wrong. My blood type, my fingerprints—everything. Big Man Vice had lots of connections in the Noimore Police Department back when I worked for him. They made sure misinformation was the only information the cops ever got.

  My date of death was recorded eight months back, the night I escaped Noimore and got away from Jeremy.

  I allow my panic to wane as the facts settle in. I’m officially dead. There’s no way anyone’s going to be able to link me to my past. As long as I don’t give them the opportunity.

  I graze my left eyelid and curse under my breath. I have a few distinguishing marks, and that golden boy lieutenant picked up on one fast. With a sigh, I pull up my left sleeve and examine the stark black text of the tattoo I have along my forearm. It reads: VICE HOUND. A gift Jeremy etched into my skin so that I’d always remember who owned me.

  Maybe my bum eye alone can’t pin me, but I’m sure even a simpleton could put one and two together after reading this file and seeing my tattoo.

  Before the lieutenant comes back, I shut all the case files, leaving mine open like I found it, and exit his office.

  Time to leave.

  I step around officers rushing to and fro and head straight for the front lobby where I left Miles. I stutter-step to a halt the moment I catch sight of Lieutenant Walker chatting it up, right before the front counter. He’s speaking to Miles, of all people, and the two laugh and smile like they know each other.

  When the lieutenant turns to leave, I walk around one of the many occupied desks, keeping my back to the man as I make my way to the front. Police officers give me odd sideways glances, and I flash my PI trainee license to placate them.

  I walk up behind Miles and grab him by the upper arm. “Let’s go,” I mutter.

  “Pierce,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “If you want to avoid the press, we should exit some other way.”

  “Fine.”

  We head through the police department, following the Exit signs. In a long hall past the bathroom, where a few officers are congregating, I turn to Miles and frown. “You know that guy? The lieutenant talking to you?”

  “Rhett?” Miles asks, lifting an eyebrow. “Yeah. He’s an instructor at my police academy. Why?”

  “Did you call him Rhett? You’re on a first-name basis with the man?”

  “He said that’s what we should call him on the first day of class. Is something wrong?”

  “I don’t like him.”

  We exit out a side door into the police vehicle parking lot, and the predawn darkness is the only thing to greet us. It’s been a long night. All I want is to get home. We cross the lot and enter the visitor parking away from the crowds.

  When it starts sprinkling, Miles jogs ahead and unlocks the car. I walk over to the passenger side and crank open the heavy door with a bit of effort. Our clunker came cheap, but that’s the only good thing you can say about it. It’s silver, with a black driver-side door, and it’s some foreign model of a two-door town car that I don’t recognize.

  I miss my old vehicle—she served me well for years—but I had to leave everything behind when I “died.” I think I mourn the car most of all.

  Miles starts up the engine and pulls out of the parking lot. The city of Joliet is quieter than Noimore, and I already feel sleep taking hold. Our radio has two stations: white noise and static. Instead I listen to the gentle patter of rain on the windshield.

  “I thought you weren’t going to do this anymore,” Miles says, his gaze set to the road and his voice neutral.

  “Sometimes PIs get into some shit. Comes with the territory.”

  “Not gunfights. I never expected to get a phone call in the middle of the night and hear bullets whizzing by.”

  I exhale and lean back. What I wouldn’t give for a cigarette. “It’s a job.”

  “You know this isn’t like working for the mob, right? You don’t have to do whatever Shelby tells you to do. You can say no.”

  I don’t answer.

  What’s he trying to say? That I should act like a coward and duck out if a situation looks too hairy? Fighting guys is the one thing I know I’m good at. He shouldn’t fret so much.

  “Listen,” he says with a sigh. “I was worried, okay? I’d prefer if stuff like this didn’t happen anymore. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  “I’m a
grown-ass man, and I can take care of myself. I’ve done it for longer than you’ve been alive.”

  He doesn’t say anything else after that. Probably for the best. What’re we even arguing about?

  The drive continues in silence. When the dawn breaks, it cuts through the thin storm clouds and ends the drizzle. The peaceful streets of Joliet are quiet at this time of the day, and it honestly relaxes me. Despite having argued with Miles, knowing he’s in the car with me is a comfort. I don’t have much in this world besides him, literally and figuratively. He’s one of the few people who know who I am and who I trust.

  Our home sits on the edge of town, in a small collection of one-story houses grouped together like a suburb but treated like a dump. Chain-link fences are the norm, abandoned houses are commonplace, and the sidewalk is cracked more than the broken windows. Some homes are pleasant—well-loved jewels in a pit of soot—but they’re the exception, not the rule.

  Miles pulls the car into our slanted driveway and parks. I step out, walk over the brown grass of our lawn, and unlock the front door. He follows me in and locks the deadbolt after.

  The pale morning light isn’t strong enough to pierce the thick curtains over the windows. Our place is dark. I like it that way. I like my business private, and I’d prefer not to see anyone else’s either.

  Miles walks up behind me and wraps his arms around my midsection. He pulls me close and licks my neck—his erection painfully obvious through his sweatpants.

  He nibbles my ear and murmurs, “I’m sorry, Pierce. I can’t stand the thought of losing you again.” He unbuttons my shirt and runs his hands along my stomach and chest, his hot breath accelerating with each passing moment.

  “I’ve got your back,” I say, enjoying the feel of his desperation. “I’m not going to leave you because of some thugs in a rail yard.”

  “Mind if I go to bed with you?” he whispers.

  “Get in there and wait for me,” I command. “I’m going to take a shower first.”

  “All right.”

  He lets go of me and complies with my demand.

  After the firefight in the rail yard, I would have killed to have Miles for a round of sexual escapades, but waiting three hours in a crowded police department put an end to that thrill ride fantasy like Travis put an end to Old Yeller. Miles, on the other hand, is still young and horny—he’ll be twenty-one next week—and I swear he’s never satisfied. After a hot shower, I should be good to go again.

  I walk into the bathroom and shed my jacket and shirt. Once I click on the lights, I’m greeted with the dull, soul-crushing gray the room is decorated in. I swear it looks more like a prison cell. I’ve seen seedy motels with better accommodations.

  I turn on the water in the shower stall and strip off the rest of my clothing. Right as everything gets lukewarm, I slide in and exhale, allowing the water to take away any excess stress. The heat does wonders for my sore body.

  The shower stall clicks open and I flinch back, startled by Miles’s sudden appearance. He steps into the stream of water, unapologetically pressing up against me and pinning me to the tiled wall.

  Jesus Christ. I forget how good-looking this kid is from time to time. Maybe I’m taking him for granted, but I swear I don’t think I saw him fully until this moment. Long workout days and eating right—coupled with a youthful metabolism—have transformed him from a lithe tween into a chiseled man. He’s not overtly bulky, but his honeyed skin hugs muscles enough to see definition.

  Miles runs his black hair under the water, allowing it to slick back before pressing his mouth against mine. His need is infectious. He laps his tongue across mine, and he bites my lip.

  “I’m sorry,” he mutters before licking my jawline. “I couldn’t wait.”

  I chuckle. Fine by me.

  The shower stall isn’t built for two people, but Miles doesn’t want to separate more than a few inches at a time, so it makes little difference. He kisses my neck and trails his lips down to my chest. I lean back into the corner and spread my legs enough for him to get in between. His hands run the length of my slick body as he gets down on his knees.

  I weave my fingers through his wet hair, and he practically purrs, desperate for contact.

  “Play with yourself,” I say between husky breaths.

  I’m hard. I’ve been hard ever since Miles stepped into the stall with me. But the swelling gets painful when he stares up at me with an intense yet playful look. He slides his tongue along my length, and I have to brace my feet against the walls in order to prevent myself from collapsing. The running water only adds to the sensation, and I shudder, caught off guard by the pleasure.

  I twist my hand into a fist, pulling on his hair and forcing him close. “Enough games,” I growl. “Take me in your mouth.”

  Miles is usually compliant, but when he wraps his mouth around me this time, it’s slow and featherlight. He glances up at me, giving me the same look as before.

  If we weren’t in this narrow-ass stall, I would throw him down and fuck him, but as it stands, I’m too caught up in the gratification to walk. Instead I hold him close and buck with my hips, eager to feel the tight grip of his throat. He’s strong enough to resist and holds back from giving me what I want.

  I tilt my head back and let my jaw go lax, allowing water to brush along my lips and tongue. I close my eyes and continue thrusting, my mind consumed by the need for relief. Miles picks up his pace, moaning once or twice from his own handiwork.

  The heat from the shower couples with the heat of Miles’s mouth to create a hot potency that I haven’t experienced in a while. I hear my own moans echoing throughout the bathroom, but I’m so lost to the moment I don’t remember making them.

  Miles sucks hard and groans, his orgasm evident in his stiff posture and trembling grip on my hip. The tension in my body builds to the point it’s unbearable before releasing in one powerful moment. I seize up and unload my seed into Miles’s mouth—which he swallows—before sliding down the wall of the shower into a sitting position, Miles kneeling between my thighs.

  I take a few seconds to breathe. Miles laughs and leans his head into my shoulder.

  “You taste good,” he says.

  “Fantastic,” I reply between pants.

  He scoots forward and braces himself over me, the water blocked by his body as he locks lips with mine. Despite having just come, I feel his semihard cock pressed against my leg.

  Miles breaks our kiss and stares at me, his gaze a little too hungry for someone who should be satisfied. He looms over me, leering like he enjoys what he sees.

  “Pierce,” he whispers, his tone low, “I wanna fuck you.”

  I grit my teeth. “No.”

  “Afraid you’ll enjoy it?”

  “I’m not into it. Now get up.”

  Miles stands and holds out a hand. I take it and he pulls me up, but my legs threaten to buckle. He leans me against the wall and hands the shampoo over, content to go about his routine of washing as though that’s what we had been doing the entire time.

  “Do you think you’ll ever want to try it again?” he asks, soap running down his sculpted body like he’s in a goddamn commercial. “Being the bottom, I mean.”

  I’m open with my staring, and Miles seems to enjoy it. He’s got a tattoo on his leg—a phoenix done in solid black, with the tail starting at the knee and the wings ending on his hip. It’s a nice design. Nicer on him.

  I stop myself in order to wash. “What’s got you into this all of a sudden?”

  “Well… I want to know what it feels like.”

  I glance over and meet his gaze. I keep forgetting I’m the only one he’s ever been with. A small piece of me feels guilty, like I’m limiting his possibilities, but another piece of me knows I don’t want to give him up. But I’m not in the right frame of mind to talk about it.

  My phone rings, the beeps muffled by my pants pocket. I step out of the shower, dripping water all over the floor, and amble over to my slacks. I
n one quick motion, I scoop up my clothing and dig out my phone.

  Shelby.

  I let the thing go to voicemail. I’m not in the right frame of mind to talk to him either.

  Miles turns off the shower, and I glance over my shoulder at him. “We’ll discuss this some other time.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE MIDAFTERNOON sun is marred only by the occasional cloud overhead. The fleeting shadows are nice. I loathe working in the harshness of unabated light.

  And I also loathe this fucking garden.

  I throw down my hand spade and glare at the myriad of dead plants scattered throughout my elevated garden box. Seven and half months ago, when we moved into this shithole, I decided I would try my hand at domestic life. Gardening seemed easy then. I even bought a goddamn book on the subject.

  But nothing works. It’s like the Grim Reaper himself toiled over the soil before I started planting.

  That’s not entirely true. One single radish is still alive.

  I lean over it and graze the green leaves with the tips of my fingers. The thing feels limp. I glance through my gardening book, attempting to find a solution. Maybe I can save this one sad-sack radish. Then I can say I wasn’t a complete failure.

  I find a passage about caring for plants midgrowth. It reads: talking to your plants is one surefire way to perk them up!

  Talk to the plants? What do you say to a plant?

  “Grow, you little piece of shit,” I say. “Don’t you wanna live? Fucking act like it.”

  I swear the radish wilts a little more the moment I’m done talking.

  Miles opens the back sliding glass door and steps out into our backyard. He’s dressed in his police academy uniform—some shiny black shoes, dark blue cargo pants, and a tight matching T-shirt. He looks like a cop already, in part due to all the rigorous training he’s gone through to make sure he can pass all the obstacle course tests.

  “Pierce,” he says as he approaches. “I’m going to go pick up Jayden and Lacy from their tutoring lesson.” He glances from me to the garden box. “Who were you talking to?”

  “The last of my sanity,” I quip. “Is that all you wanted to tell me?”