The Player Next Door: A Novel

by K. A. Tucker

  To my father.

  With wariness, she watched him stroll all the way over, and that’s how, bingo, we’re now eye-fucking each other. At least, that’s what I’m doing.

  Until I can get out of here, track her down, and switch to straight-up fucking.

  My dad settles his girth into the stiff chair across from me. Somehow he’s managed to pack on fifty pounds eating shitty prison food peppered with the odd steak dinner. “You’re late,” he mutters in his typical gruff voice.

  “You have somewhere else you need to be?” I throw back before I can bite my tongue. If he wasn’t going to complain about that, it’d be about something else. Still, he doesn’t take too kindly to attitude, and Dad’s bad side is not one you ever want to be on, blood-related or not. “Got caught up with work,” I lie. “Who’s that new guy over there? Number seven.” I nod toward the table.

  “What do I look like? Fucking four-one-one?” he snaps back, irritated.

  I shrug, acting all nonchalant. “He seemed interested in you when you came in, is all.”

  Dad’s bushy eyebrows furrow with the glare he shoots me before peering over his shoulder. “New fish. A nobody,” he declares.

  It’s at that precise moment that my future lay glances our way. Her chocolate-brown eyes flare and then snap back, her face paling. Yeah, I’d say she got the skinny on who my father is, and it scares her. But will she be scared of me too? If so, what can I do to ease her fears?

  My dick twitches with eagerness.

  Dad shakes his head. “How’s the club doing? You and Caleb haven’t run it into the ground yet?”

  “It’s running smooth.” Better than smooth, and he knows it. He likes to talk about Empire like it’s his club, like it was his idea in the first place. He had nothing to do with it. My older brother and I purchased an old factory warehouse and converted it into a nightclub eight years ago. It’s gone through several identity transformations but it’s found its stride, catering to high-end clientele with cash to burn and people to impress. A one hundred percent legitimately run business, as far as any law enforcement is concerned. And, trust me, they’ve tried to prove otherwise. That’s the downside of being the sons of Vlad Easton: you have the Feds and the IRS crawling up your ass on the regular.

  “Peter was here last week.” His cold gray eyes watch me. “He said our friends have been causing problems for Harriet again.”

  By friends, Dad means the cartel, aka nobody’s friend, and by causing problems for Harriet, he means venturing farther into US territory and encroaching on my family’s foothold in the lucrative cocaine and heroin trade. It’s a business that my father and his brother, Peter, have been nurturing for decades, originating with a supply arrangement from “our friends” down south.

  A business that has amassed us impressive wealth and power.

  “So what’s Peter going to do?” My uncle is a crazy fuck—almost as crazy as my dad, who isn’t quite as crazy as the cartel.

  His sagging skin contorts with his sneer. “What’s he going to do? How about what are my sons going to do!” He stabs at the table’s surface with his meaty index finger. “It’s time you two stop fucking around like a bunch of playboys and act like you’re ready to take care of the family business.”

  I bite my tongue against the urge to remind him that we’ve laundered millions through Empire for “the family business,” and that it’s Caleb and me who keep the highly lucrative underground fight ring going. We can’t talk openly about it here, and besides, he doesn’t want to hear that. He definitely doesn’t want to hear the thoughts Caleb floated after the handcuffs landed on Dad’s wrists almost four years ago—that it’s time to let the cartel move in, wash our hands of the dirty drug business, and invest all this money in other, legitimate things. Things that won’t land us in this shithole with him.

  But it’s like Dad reads my mind. “What do you think, that you two could afford any of your cars and your houses and your club if not for all the sacrifices your uncle and I have made? All the blood and sweat that’s poured. The tears?”

  I highly doubt any of those tears came from my father. He didn’t even cry when my mother died. The guy’s tear ducts probably don’t work. And I damn well know none of that pouring blood was his, though there’s been more than enough spilled thanks to “Harriet.”

  He’s right though: we’ve gotten filthy rich off junkies shooting their veins with heroin and partiers filling their nostrils with cocaine.

  I sigh reluctantly. “We’ll go talk to Peter.”

  “Good. Because I want things running smoothly for when I get out.”

  You’re not getting out of here. Dad’s pushing seventy-five—he was in his midforties when Caleb and I were born—and he has another six years to serve for the witness tampering and money laundering convictions the Feds nailed him on. A drop in the bucket compared to what they could put him away for, if they could find their assholes in the dark.

  Harriet alone would put him away for life three times over. Could put all of us away, something my brother and I are not so keen on risking. Sure, when we were younger, we felt invincible. But Caleb’s thirty-one, I’m twenty-nine, and I’m looking at the indomitable Vlad Easton in an orange jumpsuit, sitting in a place where he swore he would never end up. And my brother and I? We’ve done the math. A lifetime behind these walls isn’t worth it, not when we’re already living like royalty.

  I’d say we’ve been smart, for the most part, keeping our hands relatively clean. Or looking clean, at least. That was always the strategy. But what Dad’s demanding now is the opposite of keeping our hands clean. He’s telling us to sink our hands deep into Harriet’s dirty, disease-riddled cunt.

  No fucking thank you.

  And then there’s the matter of dealing with the goddamn cartel. I wouldn’t say I’m afraid of them—we have our own network of proficient “fixers” to deal with threats, and I’ve learned to hold my own. I would just rather not wake up one morning to my head separated from my body.

  Caleb and I have discussed the future of the Easton empire already. Neither of us trust Dad’s judgment anymore. He and Uncle Peter are old-school, where giving your word is an iron-clad agreement and going against it earns you a brutal punishment; where R-E-S-P-E-C-T isn’t just a catchy song, it’s a way of life. They put way too much stock in the belief that blood breeds loyalty.

  Caleb and me? We live by one rule: don’t trust anyone but each other.

  That’s where Dad made his mistake, bringing Marek, some third cousin born to a whore back in Russia, into the fold. Dear cousin Marek is now feeding worms in an undisclosed location, but before he ended up there, he gave the Feds just enough of a smoking gun to tuck my father away for almost a decade.

  A guard passes through, stalling at table seven. The crestfallen look on my raven beauty’s face tells me that her visit is over. Shit. If I can duck out of here early and cut her off in the parking lot, I could earn myself a blow job before the drive home—

  “We need to go over some things,” my dad says, slipping a wad of paper out from somewhere unseen and sliding it across the table to me. Prisoners aren’t allowed to bring anything in with them, but the guards look the other way when it’s us.

  I unfold it to reveal a full eight-and-a-half by eleven sheet covered in encrypted codes that only Caleb and I and our accountant can decipher to hidden overseas accounts that the Feds didn’t manage to turn up in their investigation.

  This is going to take forever.

  I sigh heavily as I watch the woman wrap her arms around the man’s neck and squeeze tight, tears running down her cheeks. Her father, I’m guessing. Or uncle. Family. Definitely not her husband.

  The guy’s shoulders sink as he’s led back to the cells with her watching him the entire way.

  Not until he’s out of sight does she move for the visitor entrance, her gaze drifting over mine in a slow pass. It’s only for a second or two, just long enough for me to note the way her lips part, the w
ay her dark eyes skitter over my chest and arms, the way her cheeks flush, and then she swallows hard, ducks her head, and walks stiffly and quickly for the exit, those baggy jeans doing nothing for the tight ass I’m imagining.

  “Gabriel!” my father barks, spearing me with a glare. “Chase pussy on your own time.”

  I plan on it.

  “Parker. Hey.” I rest my elbows on the security desk.

  The sweaty, overweight guard leans back in his chair. “Gabriel Easton … what can I do for you today?”

  I’ve never liked this dumb fuck, but I tolerate him because he’s as pliable as putty. He’s also worse than a twelve-year-old girl when it comes to spreading gossip, but he knows better than to chirp about me. “There was a woman in here, visiting an inmate. She left a half hour ago. About five eight, long black hair and—”

  “Say no more.” A shit-eating grin stretches his ugly mug. “Damn, that was a fine piece of ass. At least, I’m guessing. Sounds like she’s coming back next Saturday. I’m gonna get her into a room to find out what’s under—”

  “Yeah, yeah.” As if he’d be conducting a strip search himself. They have female staff for that. But he’s already given me one vital piece of information—she’ll be back next week. “What do you know about her?”

  “Why do ya wanna know?”

  I level him with a severe look.

  It has the desired effect. “Let’s see. Her name is …” Parker lifts a page on his clipboard. “Oh right, how could I forget? Mercy Wheeler. As in ‘have mercy on my soul.’ And my dick.” He lets out a loud snort-laugh.

  I ignore his idiocy, unable to stop the smile that slowly stretches across my lips.

  Mercy.

  My sweet, sweet Mercy.

  You will be mine.

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  Click here to start the Dirty Empire series now or visit ninawestauthor.com

  Acknowledgments

  I know this story was perhaps fluffier than my usual, but given the year we’ve had so far, I needed to write something light and sexy and full of drama. I hope you enjoyed it. If you didn’t, blame the pandemic (in our household, that’s our answer for everything. Something went wrong? It’s COVID-19’s fault.)

  A special mention for the following people:

  Louisa Brandenburger, for answering my questions about schools in PA.

  To Elle Kennedy, for your help with the painful description-writing process.

  Jenn Sommersby, for taking my book in chunks and making it shine.

  Karen Lawson, for providing a second set of critical eyes for those pesky last errors that inevitably slip through the cracks.

  Hang Le, for nailing the cover. I said “make it a K.A. Tucker book, only different” and as usual, you delivered.

  Nina Grinstead of Valentine PR, for your help and expertise with spreading the word about this book release.

  Stacey Donaghy of Donaghy Literary Group, for guiding my career.

  Tami, Sarah, and Amélie, for making Tucker’s Troop a fun place to be.

  My readers, for your continued enthusiasm and support.

  My family, I know these last few months haven’t been easy. Thank you for finally respecting my office rules.

  About the Author

  K.A. Tucker writes captivating stories with an edge. She is the international bestselling author of the Ten Tiny Breaths and Burying Water series, He Will Be My Ruin, Until It Fades, Keep Her Safe, The Simple Wild, Be the Girl, Say You Still Love Me, and Wild at Heart. Her books have been featured in national publications including USA Today, Globe & Mail, Suspense Magazine, Publisher's Weekly, Oprah Mag, and First for Women.

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  For more information on her books, please visit katuckerbooks.com