Heartless

by Jade West

  Hunter called me again on Saturday morning, when I’d finally gathered sanity enough to head back to my own apartment for a shower. I tried to keep my tone regular as I answered him.

  “Early damn call,” I said. “Calling to give me an update? Getting some more Melissa pussy, or moved on to fresh turf?”

  “Don’t even try to change the subject,” he barked, and this time his voice was tense as hell.

  “What subject?” I asked. “You haven’t even said anything.”

  “You know exactly why the fuck I’m calling.”

  I laughed. “And you know it’s none of your fucking business,” I said, and he scoffed at me.

  “Sure. Call me when you want some sense pushed into that skull of yours.” He hung up.

  I doubted I’d be calling him anytime soon.

  Elaine didn’t move through Saturday. I kept my eye on her tracker location, but this time it was from my apartment couch, fighting back my own sweep of paranoia that she’d headed out without her clutch. I forced myself to stay away from her, checking up on the business shit I should have already signed off as done, with that tracker still bleeping alongside me. I should’ve been out with my family that night, letting my father know just how things were going in the empire he’d taken a decade to step away from. There’s no way I should have risked the backlash from bailing out on his questions like I’d been doing with everyone else that week.

  Yet still, I canceled our evening together. One simple text.

  Catch up some other time. Commitments need attending to.

  I didn’t bother checking the replies. I wasn’t interested in what they had to say.

  There was only one thing I was interested in. Elaine Constantine’s diary. I knew what was brewing for her that night. Tristan.

  I knew where the venue was. Spirit Club – another downtown dive and another shitty Blue Hawk gig with her pussy boy bestie chasing dick, no doubt.

  I didn’t use my chauffeur for the journey this time.

  My cab pulled up at Spirit Club when the gig was barely started. I’d known what was coming. This time I needed no guest list pass to get past the doormen, but I did need to go through a damn security sweep for signs of firearms or weapons. It felt damn fucking strange to be patted down by loser doormen, their hands so damn close to my flesh.

  I already knew my plan for being there and found myself a position deep in the shadows at the sidelines, safely out of view of my pretty blonde mouse when she arrived.

  It was a good thirty minutes later when I first saw her on the opposite side of the dancefloor, hanging off pussy boy’s arm with a smile on her face. The big, bright smile of hers was superficial enough to make me smirk. She was flinching every time someone brushed up close, spinning to face them with wide open eyes.

  She was scared. Really fucking scared.

  My stare was firmly on her as the gig started up and her gaze shot up to the stage. It was that jerk up there again, the brute with a roar of a voice that sounded like shit, only it wasn’t his voice that I hated that night. It was him.

  It was the way my sweet little mouse was staring up at him.

  Nothing could deny it, even though she was getting drunk on beer, and gin, and whatever the fuck else pussy boy was delivering to her. There was no way to avoid seeing the obvious.

  The guy was huge, a trunk of a man with muscles rippling under his metal-loving tee. His hair was dark and slick, and his eyes were as deep as mine were. Almost.

  It was enough. Enough for my sexy little bitch to want a piece of him. She wanted the cunt on that stage.

  I wanted to kill him for it.

  It made no sense, not a bit. It should mean fuck all to me whose dick one of the Constantine bitches were chasing after. I should be convinced this was the right location to finish her off, wipe her out and be done with it, never to think about the needy princess again, but I knew it wouldn’t happen.

  Jesus Christ, I needed to get a fucking grip.

  I shouldn’t be in that damn fucking club, with her damn fucking tracker beeping through to my cell. I shouldn’t be anywhere near her. Shouldn’t be thinking about her. Shouldn’t be wanting anything to fucking do with her other than her demise. But still, I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t stop myself.

  All through his set she was cheering for the dick on stage, and all through his set I was gritting my teeth at the sight of it. I was wound up all the more when I caught sight of worse, a whole load fucking worse – the way he looked back across the room at her when he lifted his hands in the air and said his see you later to the crowd. He was gazing after her as hard as she was gazing after him. I could have slit his throat if I hadn’t been barren of blades to slice him up with.

  Elaine was her usual drunken self as the night wound its way on, downing her drinks one after the other. The Blue Hawk prick was up next, and she was trashed enough to bop around on the dancefloor, past giving a shit for who the fuck was hunting her down.

  Stupid. Little. Bitch. She should only dance for me.

  Pussy boy was dancing next to her, both of them leaping around to dickhead’s punk rock shit as I weaved my way closer. She didn’t even know I was looming. Didn’t care.

  That only made me want her even more.

  I was planning on leaping out and grabbing her as soon as she was off that dancefloor, just as soon as that Hawk prick said his goodnight to the crowd, but I didn’t get the chance. No sooner had the stage cleared than pussy boy took hold of Elaine’s hand and raced her through the doors backstage, and the two of them were gone. Gone and out of sight.

  No fucking way. I’d missed my grab and take.

  I should’ve walked away rather than using my name to clear my route to my prey, but I didn’t. I was straight on after her, slamming into the security bouncers as I pushed my way backstage.

  “Get the fuck off me,” I hissed at them, but they didn’t move, just took my arms in theirs and pinned me back against the brickwork.

  They should’ve known who I was. They should have seen it in my fucking eyes, but they didn’t. They were fucking fools who fucking didn’t.

  “Backstage is off limits,” the one fool grunted, and I lashed out at him, kneeing him hard enough in the groin to watch him fall.

  “I’m Lucian fucking Morelli,” I snarled, with my foot on his chest as he squirmed. “I’m Lucian fucking Morelli, and you’ll let me through backstage or regret it for the rest of your sorry life.”

  I knew my name would spread. There was no way word of my attendance at this dive wouldn’t make its way uptown as well as downtown, and it was the last thing I needed, shit from my father on top of the shit from my event cancellation. My father was a man of steel and Morelli law; he didn’t suffer fools, not even when those fools were blood related. Especially not when those fools were blood related. Hell help me. Hell save my filthy damn soul. But I didn’t have time for that now.

  The doormen weren’t fools enough to challenge me. The guy on the floor kept on squirming, letting out another groan as I planted my boot in his ribs on my way over him. The other guy swung the door backstage wide open, tipping his head down low as I passed.

  I paced through, head turning frantically back and forth to find the temptress I was hunting, but I couldn’t hear her. I couldn’t hear shit. No backstage voices, or backstage anything down the corridor ahead of me, there was nothing but a round of empty bottles in the dressing room.

  That’s when I heard her laughter – just one small giggle through the rear door to the parking lot, and the sound of a car door slamming shut.

  I caught one glimpse of her in the cab as it pulled away. She was sitting in the backseat next to her brutish prick from onstage, with her pussy boy mate and his dick conquest piled in along with them.

  Damn it, they had somewhere to be going.

  So did I.

  I pulled up the tracker, and then I called a fucking cab.

  My Constantine toy didn’t have long left to play with strangers. I w
as on my way to hunt her down.

  18

  Elaine

  “Remind me, baby girl. What’s your name?” the guy asked me in the backseat.

  He was Stephen. Stephen from London. My head was lolling against his shoulder as we drove through the streets.

  I conjured up a title.

  “I’m Rebecca. Rebecca Marsh.”

  “Rebecca Marsh,” he repeated. “I want a piece of your pussy, Rebecca Marsh.”

  My drunken mouth smiled.

  I looked at him, illuminated by the flashing lights of the city through the windows. He was everything I wanted. Dark and strong. Fierce.

  Lucian.

  I looked past Stephen from London, and Tristan was all over Blue, both of them hands on and heated. I was jealous. Just like always, I was jealous. I wanted to feel hands on me.

  For once in my life, I got them.

  Stephen from London lowered his head and kissed my neck. Wet, warm lips that tickled. His hand slipped down my arm, and his fingers pushed their way inside my dress, squeezing. Squeezing my tits nice and hard.

  Lucian.

  I found my back arching, seeking more. I wanted rougher. I wanted hurt.

  I didn’t get it. The cab pulled up outside some house in the middle of a backwater city hovel, and there were lights on inside. Lights and open doors and bass thumping loud.

  “House party, let’s rock!” Blue shouted, and both him and Tristan bailed out of the cab.

  “Let’s go,” Stephen whispered, and tugged me out by my hand, offering me another swig of vodka as we went. “Can’t wait to show you off at this party, Rebecca,” he told me. “You’re one hot little bitch, you know that?”

  Yeah, I did know that. It was my only skill in life. It had always been my only skill in life.

  Even in my hazy state I felt the shiver of shame inside me, of wanting something dirty and cheap and forbidden, but there was more tension building along with the shame. That first tingle of knowing you don’t want something, even when your body is going along for the ride. My body wanted Stephen from London. My heart wanted Lucian Morelli.

  The hallways were crowded with partying punks. People were getting it on everywhere I looked, that or dancing around to the beat or playing drinking games with ping pong balls and plastic cups. Stephen from London led me along after Tristan and Blue, right through a cluttered kitchen at the back of the building, where someone handed me a fresh beer.

  I didn’t want it, but my body did. I downed it in one and took hold of another.

  “Check out this song, Rebecca,” Stephen ordered me, his bark of a voice straight in my ear. “This is me on vocals. Slay the rich, feed the poor, it’s called.”

  I smirked to myself at that. Nobody would ever slay the rich. The rich controlled the world.

  Stephen from London clearly hadn’t noticed the diamonds in the ears he was talking to, or the collection of gold rings on my fingers. He hadn’t noticed the designer dress I’d torn slashes into, or the one-off stilettos on my feet. He hadn’t noticed the value of the clutch next to me on the sideboard, or the cosmetic sheen of the teeth in my jaws, or the way I was as suited to punk rock as a cow was suited to the moon.

  He didn’t care. He didn’t care who I was, and he didn’t care about me. Still, it made no difference. Welcome to my world, Stephen from London. Welcome to my world. I was used to it.

  My ear prickled when he spoke next, another growl right into my mind. “Come with me. I want that pussy. I wanna get my hands on you.”

  I didn’t speak. I couldn’t find an answer.

  “You want that, don’t you, baby girl?” he pushed. “You want a piece of Stephen Cannon dick?”

  I should tell the truth. I should tell him I didn’t want a piece of Stephen Cannon dick, I wanted a piece of Lucian Morelli.

  That’s all I wanted.

  That’s all I needed.

  But I didn’t.

  I smiled as my body pressed up to him, pushing my own crappy needs aside in pursuit of something cheaper.

  “Yeah,” I told him. “I want a piece of Stephen Cannon dick.”

  I turned to find Tristan, but he was in the darkest corner of the room, his hands on Blue. I felt Stephen’s fingers squeezing mine, and he pulled me.

  “I’m staying at Blue’s drummer’s place a few blocks down. We’ll walk.”

  I reached back for something, but my mind was dazed as he tugged me. What was I reaching for? He answered me.

  “Another beer for the road,” he said and shoved a bottle in my hand. “Cheers,” he added and clinked his drink against mine.

  “Cheers,” I said as he dragged me outside.

  It was cold, and my stilettos were noisy on the sidewalk. He didn’t care. He kept on tugging me, kept on telling me about how amazing he was, and how damn amazing his songs were. He sang one to me as we crossed the street at the end of the block, and I remembered his voice from the club, looking up at him and seeing the darkness in his eyes all over again.

  Lucian.

  He stopped us next to a late-night store and ran inside to get some cigarettes. He lit one up as soon as we left, offering it over.

  “Fancy a drag? You a smoker?”

  I nodded, even though I didn’t fancy a drag and had never been a smoker in my life.

  I wanted a line of coke. I was done with the denial. I wanted a damn line of coke.

  I reached under my arm for my clutch, but it wasn’t there. Crap, my clutch wasn’t there.

  I stopped in my tracks and cast the cigarette to the ground. Where the fuck was my clutch?

  I patted myself down like a stupid bitch, even though there was no way it could be anywhere near me. I glanced back at the street behind us, but it was nowhere in sight on the sidewalk.

  “I’ve lost my clutch,” I told Stephen, and he laughed.

  “I’ve lost my cigarette, so I guess we’re even.”

  He thought it was funny.

  I tried to pull backwards up the street, but he held me firm.

  “My clutch . . .” I said, but he didn’t move.

  “You don’t need your clutch, Rebecca,” he told me. “You need my dick.”

  I needed coke. Not dick.

  He pulled me along again, holding me tight to his side.

  “You need my dick, Rebecca, and you’re getting it.”

  Stephen from London was huge next to me. His muscles were solid against my side, and his eyes were dark with want as he lit up a fresh cigarette. This time I waved away his offer of a drag. I didn’t want anything from him, but my pussy didn’t agree with me. My pussy was demanding a dick inside it after a lifetime without.

  Lucian.

  I had no idea where we were headed, other than some drummer’s place in some street downtown. My footsteps obeyed the man at my side, my stilettos still loud underneath me. His hand moved to my ass and squeezed, and it made me flinch.

  “I hope you know my dick takes every hole I want.” He laughed. “Get ready to give me all of yours.”

  I didn’t laugh back, but my footsteps kept on obeying.

  “Drink up,” he said and tipped my beer back against my mouth. It dribbled down my chin, but I kept on swigging. “Almost there,” he told me.

  He was tensing up. I could feel it.

  I was tensing up. I could feel it.

  The jangle of keys in his hand told me we were there. We climbed some metal stairs, dangerous under my heels. My heart raced, but I kept on moving.

  He opened the door at the top, and the drummer’s apartment was a shithole, bottles and duvets strewn all over the floor. It stank of cigarette smoke, just like Stephen from London did.

  “Now, give me that pussy,” he said and slammed me into the nearest wall.

  His mouth was hot on my neck. Frantic.

  His body was hot against my chest. Wanting.

  My legs spread, letting him grind. My pussy tingled, wanting to be taken.

  But it was my flesh and not me.

 
Lucian.

  Stephen from London wasn’t the man I wanted. I wanted Lucian.

  The one time in my life I managed to get a dick brave enough to be inside me, and I wanted another man enough to push him away. I shunted him off me, hard, and Stephen from London stared at me with shock on his face.

  “What the fuck? You looking for a johnny? Don’t worry, baby, I got one right here.”

  I wasn’t looking for a condom. I was looking for an exit.

  I shoved him away again when he leaned back in.

  “Sorry,” I managed, “I have to go.”

  “Go?” he asked and didn’t move a muscle. “Where the hell do you need to go to right now?”

  I didn’t have an answer, so I didn’t give him one, just pushed my way to the side.

  That’s when he grabbed me, and his voice turned darker.

  “I left the fucking party for you. I could’ve had any fucking snatch in that place.”

  “I’m sure the party’s still rocking,” I said, and I was laughing. “Sorry, Stephen. Didn’t mean to waste your time.”

  “You ain’t wasting it,” he replied. “I’m not gonna let you.”

  He pushed me back up hard against the wall. That’s when his mouth met with mine, and his tongue forced its way inside. That’s when he kissed me deep enough that my drunken haze disappeared under the adrenaline rush.

  He was rough. I should’ve liked it.

  His dick was hard against me, grinding through my dress. I should’ve liked that too.

  Lucian.

  Stephen from London didn’t look as much like Lucian Morelli up close. His kiss was sloppy, and his brows were far messier. His cheekbones were less sculpted, and his jaw was weaker.

  He didn’t taste like Lucian Morelli either. He tasted of cheap beer and cigarettes.

  I pushed him away again, third time lucky.

  “Let me go, and get back to the fucking party,” I said, but he sneered at me.