by AJ Adams
Jorge knew. "Fresa, you're a winner, don't forget that."
Sweet, right?
"We'll get started straight away." James was just like Jorge, jumping right into action. He waved at a laptop standing the bedside table. "I sent you that report, Jorge. It's preliminary. There are some items that need more research."
"Fenomenal. I'll get to it by end of business."
The lawyer hesitated and added softly. "Boss, if you need to talk."
It was a sentence loaded with meaning. They were speaking about the crisis; the reason Jorge had rushed out. I knew it instinctively.
"There's nothing to discuss." Jorge wasn't sharing. "It's over."
James nodded grimly. "I saw. Well done."
The cryptic was easy to deconstruct. Kowalczyk had struck, and the Zetas had hit back. Whatever it had been, it had nasty.
"Okay," Jorge stood up. "Persia, I'll be back to collect you around six."
At the prospect of a full day of lessons, I almost quailed. With a pencil, a bolt of silk and a sewing machine, I was happily absorbed for days but the mere sight of a textbook shot me back in time where I was ten years old and failing school again.
But James was nothing like any teacher I'd ever met. He sat back, smiling, "Did you ever hear about the time Moose Castillo secured a building contract from the State of New York although he had no staff, no equipment and no experience?"
I was fascinated. "No."
James settled back. "He did it by tricking the city into signing a supply contract and promising him a guaranteed amount of work per year. It went down like this..."
It was a wild tale. It was followed by the story of how Danny 'Axeman' Trujo conned a car company into paying a fortune for plain old tap water and another where Angel Fernandez sold the same car to fifteen people without the vehicle ever leaving his garage.
I was hooked. "Oh my God, how do I protect myself against the likes of the Moose, Axeman and Fernandez?"
"Laws are open to interpretation," James pointed out. "The trick is to see beyond the meaning you want and how others might use them against you."
"I need to take a law degree and join the cartel?"
James chuckled. "You'd be an asset to either."
He really was smooth.
"We're going straight for gold," he continued. "We cover all the scams, inside out, and then we look at protective strategies."
From there on, we just plunged in. I was learning how to spot ropers, that's con artists whose job it is to find marks, that's victims, when lunch arrived. An exquisite Dover sole for James and spinach salad for me and Miranda, the nurse.
While we ate together, I was a little curious about the setup but I knew enough not to ask questions. James was the Zeta's lawyer, but he knew more about scams than a grifter. As for Miranda, she was the oddest nurse I'd ever come across. Not that I know many but I bet flashing your boobs when you're dressing a wound isn't done in the NHS.
While it was different, I found I was enjoying myself. Getting an education was fun. While Miranda was changing dressings and talking dirty to James, I checked my bank balance for the millionth time, just to make certain it wasn't a dream. I knew I was wide awake when I read my messages: a raft of nasty texts from Colin, poison from trolls and more dicks than a porno.
I'd set my Twitter notifications to silent but when I peeked, I saw it had gone bonkers. Attack of the drones. Clicking on the headline, I gazed in awe at Kowalczyk's home in flames. Mystery fire. Mansion destroyed. Twitter were as one that this was part of a Zeta-Kowalczyk war but unsure what had kicked it off.
The mainstream press were having a field day. Unlike social media, they had to restrain themselves so they reran the events from Ascot and hinted at gang conflicts.
The innovative attack had Jorge's signature all over it. He'd rushed off at dawn and James had offered comfort. I trawled through the London news and found a tiny mention: gang violence claims two teens. There were no names, no photos but my gut told me this was Kowalczyk's work. It sickened me.
"Persia?" James saw straight away. "Oh," he sighed. "You heard."
I didn't know what to say. I liked him, in fact, I liked the Zetas, but the deaths and destruction frightened me.
"That monster Kowalczyk got what he deserved," Miranda spat. "Killing kids, the bastard. Those boys were just seventeen." She'd spent the morning smiling, with her feet up as she'd fiddled with her hair, looking as if butter wouldn't melt but now she was raging. "The boss did right. It's a shame that Polish creep didn't burn along with his fake Pollock."
"Whatever happened, it's very much like karma," James agreed discreetly. "Persia, let's talk about ways you can cheat a company by abusing return policies."
Miranda stayed for that one, claiming, "Maybe I can snag a new handbag without paying." But she became bored with the discussion on how product quality affects guarantees and went back to playing with her phone. Me, I was taking notes galore and visualising how I'd place and market my brand.
Time just flew by and when Jorge pitched up I couldn't help but exclaim, "Six o'clock already?"
"Almost seven," Jorge grinned. "I'm running late, fresa." I got a kiss and James a book on horse racing. "It's written by a champion jockey. It might give us valuable insight."
For sussing out what common scams to protect themselves from, I gathered. Or on running new ones.
"I'm late because the vet called," Jorge sighed. "Flying Eagle has sore knees. The trainer says Kowalczyk raced him too often. He needs a long rest."
James pulled a face. "His value will drop. It's a bad investment."
Jorge shrugged. "I'm sending him to the seaside. Rest and some swimming, hydrotherapy the vet called it, will help."
"That will cost a bomb."
"Yeah, but you should have seen that horse fly, James." Jorge's face lit up. "He's a champion. A real winner."
James just shook his head. "Maybe."
"He'll race again. And if not, he can be a stud horse. He'll like that too."
"Okay, okay, we can use it as a write off," James conceded.
Listening to them, I was in a quandary. Jorge was like two different people: the hell on wheels cartel man who burnt down Kowalczyk's house in revenge for killing teen dealers but spending thousands on the comforts of a racehorse.
Except, further pondering revealed, he was just being himself. This was his black and white thinking. Kowalczyk was a player, and the teens and horses were innocents. Or, with the kid gangsters, not exactly driven snow but young and therefore given a break.
"Hello, boss." Miranda came frisking in, smiling at Jorge and fawning. "Can I get you a drink? Something to eat?"
"Thanks, but we can't stay," Jorge said briefly. "The doc says you're doing an excellent job. You'll be getting a bonus."
Her smile was radiant. "Thanks."
With that, we left.
Jorge put an arm around me straight away, pulling my hat over my eyes and escorting me out via a loading lift. His gun was tucked in a holster in the small of his back and I felt a hard blade strapped to his arm. Jorge was ready for trouble.
"Is Kowalczyk raging?" I asked quietly.
"He's screaming like a pig with his balls caught in a vice."
"Good." And I meant it. I squeezed his hand. "I heard about those boys. Sorry, Jorge."
He was silent but his sigh spoke volumes. He wasn't big on guilt but he felt for kids, for innocents.
On impulse, I stopped and kissed him. "You're all right, Jorge Santos."
His mood lightened instantly. "Oh yeah? That's good to hear. How about we go to Bubbles?"
"Great. But with Kowalczyk on the warpath, is it safe?"
He shrugged. "Probably not."
Thinking it over, I refused to be a scaredy-cat. "Let's go dancing."
Jorge made a call, rattling instructions in Spanish. Then, taking my arm again, "Better warn the socios to keep a little distance for the next few days. I don't want that jodido Pole taking aim at them."
His care for Isa, Orabelle and Tazanna warmed me. "Already done, love. I called them earlier."
"Good." Zeta Towers had more entrances and exits than London Stadium but Jorge walked me out a back door, through a car park and out into an alley I hadn't known existed. Stepping into a waiting car, we drove swiftly across the city and to another alley. Winding our way through a maze of backdoors, we magically ended up in Bubbles.
It was bouncing. From the stares, nudges and whispers, London had come to gawk.
Jorge pretended he didn't know. He sat me at his table, checked my favourite water was nice and cold, and asked, "How did it go with James, Persia?"
He was in a war, inundated with office work too, and his first interest was in my comfort. I had a sudden flashback of Kowalczyk pinching me and demanding I pour his drink. Jorge was a devil, but he had a heart.
"So, I thought I'd find you here!" He was tall, broad and damn angry. His thin lips pressed together, the glower and even the crewcut bristled with fury. "Enjoying yourself, are you?"
"Detective Inspector Smith!" Jorge surged to his feet, ready to embrace him. "Well, well, where have you been?"
It was a great performance, and I saw right through the wicked grin. Jorge was up to no good.
"You know damn well," Smith snarled.
"You went to visit our sugar factory." Jorge's smile flashed. "Did you enjoy yourself?"
Wolves couldn't have improved on the policeman's growl. "You set me up."
"Never!" Jorge oozed shocked sincerity. "I respect you far too much, my dear Detective Inspector."
Smith took a deep breath. Then, abandoning his tack for a better one. "I know what you're doing."
Jorge didn't say a word.
"I won't stand for it," Smith snapped. "You're not bringing that Mexican crap here."
The music blared, playing some catchy salsa. "You don't like Enrique Iglesias?" Jorge frowned. "How about Jon Secada?"
Smith puffed up but instead of exploding, he went quiet. "I don't give a damn about Baros and his killers going missing, or Kowalczyk's place going up in flames but I won't have kids being killed in your goddamn turf wars."
Jorge sighed. "Nor will I," he said seriously.
At that, the two connected. It was eerie. Jorge's dark looks were set off by a Ralph Lauren silk shirt and Armani suit that wouldn't get you change from £5000 while Smith's attire was so poorly cut, that it might have come from the local supermarket. They were on opposite sides of the fence too yet they shared that one value.
"You're at war with Kowalczyk," Smith said quietly, seriously.
Jorge was dead still.
"Give it up. Go home to Mexico. Walk away." Time stretched. Smith waited and then shrugged. The connection vanished. "Fine," he growled. "I'll get you, Santos. Never doubt it."
We watched him leave, pushing past the punters who were whooping it up.
"He's a romantic," Jorge observed. "He really thinks you can fight crime."
"You don't think so?"
"Life's a competition and there are no rules. You can only choose not to be a victim."
It resonated so closely with my own experience that I was speechless.
"You okay, Persia?"
I took his hand. "Yes. Just thinking, Jorge."
His eyes were understanding. "Keep fighting, fresa, and know I have your back."
Conflicting emotions warred within me. It hurt too much to think. So, blinking away sudden tears, I watched Smith who was still battling the crowd. As he met Lencho and Paco entering the club, we could hear his snarl clear through the hubbub of punters.
"He's in a filthy mood," Lencho chuckled as he slid into his seat.
"He needs sweetening," Paco agreed evilly.
My curiosity peaked. "You sent him off on a wild goose chase to a sugar factory? What did you do? Persuade him it was a cocaine processing plant?"
The Zetas just burst out laughing. I admit, I laughed with them. It was funny and ever so mean. Like a scene out of that old show, The Dukes of Hazzard.
"Smith always cheers me up," Paco sighed.
"Yeah," Lencho agreed. "He always gives us that 'Doh!' moment."
"We'd better be careful though," Jorge sighed. "He's pretty determined."
The three didn't speak but by the shadow that hovered over them, I knew what they were thinking.
"Absolutely not," Jorge replied to their unasked question. Before I could think of how to ask, he got up and held out his hand. "Dance, Persia?"
Pussy Wave were singing, and it was too loud and busy to talk. It wasn't until midnight, after going home in a dark limo, driven by a Zeta satellite, that I asked, "Jorge, why do you like Smith?" meaning that I was amazed the plod hadn't been iced.
I thought he might not answer but Jorge just shrugged. "He's an honest man, fresa. For a cop, that's rare."
I should have known. It was all of a piece: Jorge was unapologetic about who and what he was, but honest policemen and teens were spared Zeta-style retaliation.
"When you and James are done, I'll set up a chat for you with our chief accountant," Jorge pulled off his shirt, revealing the ripped abs and muscled back. The bruises were fading and his arm had almost healed. "You should have a sit-down with Rovero too. He's got a gift for dealing with trouble."
He was going all out for me and it was clear why. I hugged him hard. "I forgive you, Jorge."
His skin was soft and his hands gentle. "Ay, fresa, I messed up."
"Good grief! Surely you're not admitting to it?" I mockingly touched the back of my hand to his forehead. "Hmm, you're a little hot."
He chuckled. "Nobody can hear us. I've plausible deniability."
"Cheeky sod." I kissed a fading bite mark on his shoulder. "Seeing it's confession time, still not sorry I shot you."
He cupped my face in his hands, gazing into my eyes. "Well, I am sorry, corazón."
Suddenly, I was choked with emotion.
"I can't change the past," Jorge growled, "but I promise you, fresa, anything you want, I'll do. Just say the word."
I wasn't alone. I had an anchor, a person who cared for me. The terror of being abandoned that had lurked in my subconscious all day, faded. This man would not let me down.
Embracing the warm lean body, snuffing up the rich spiced signature scent, relief and comfort turned to lust. "Still thinking of the wish list, Jorge?" A growl and sudden solid heat pressed against me was answer enough. I jettisoned my fear and gave him my trust. "Let's get dirty."
A soft lingering kiss, deepening into passion. Gentle fingers trailing over my back, teasing, exploring. And then, rope.
The sight of the rough coils gave me butterflies. "Seriously?"
His eyes narrowed with want. "Face down and helpless."
Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. It was the one thing I'd never been able to bring myself to do. In the dark abyss of my memory, the cellar gaped. "Okay." Butterflies turned to bats.
Spread out, rough textured coils securing wrists and ankles, my breath ragged and my heart banging away, I wasn't sure if I was intoxicated with excitement or stroking out.
"Corazón." His voice was a whisper in my ear. "Preciosa."
His love flowed over me, drowning me in delicious sweetness.
Hands stroking my hair as his hard body leaned over mine.
Warm soft skin against mine. Weight pressing me down, arms cradling me fiercely, protectively. Then, hardness sliding against that secret place.
For a moment my breath caught, the ropes twisting and keeping my tense body stretched.
"Persia." The rough voice filled with concern. "Stop?"
He'd not hurt me. I twisted round and kissed the powerful wrist. "Never."
"You say stop, I stop."
That last vestige of fear evaporated. I arched, bumping him lightly. "Go for it, love."
"Corazón." A kiss buried in the nape of my neck. "You're beautiful."
That love enveloped me, rippling through me, setting electric shivers of exciteme
nt pulsing straight to my nipples and clit.
Spread wide and helpless, time slowed and consciousness flickered, accentuating my senses. Breath quickening, body heating and flexing, perception fixed on the ropes and inevitability of possession. Building excitement sparked fire deep inside me, the volcanic heat warming and juicing.
A boatload of slippery lube and a hot hard tip leaning against me. A timeless pause and then his hardness invading, pushing relentlessly into forbidden depths. My breath whooshing out, a groan escaping.
Then, the hot hardness pushed in, sliding deeper. His steel thighs pushing me down and wide, centring me, spreading me for his pleasure. Stretching, invading, leaving me hovering on the cusp of pleasure and pain. I floated in ever rippling pulses, gasping on the trembling edge of agony and delight.
"Deep breath, fresa."
A thrust of his hips and that huge cock slid home, filling me. This time we groaned in unison, pleasure and submission mingling and fuelling soaring delight. He chuckled, his laughter rich with satisfaction. He was on top, in charge, and loving it. As I embraced and accepted his delight, my heart swelled with love for him. This was right. This was perfect.
A hand in my hair and lips in my neck. "Here we go."
Hips thrusting, he rode me gently, rocking his body over and into mine, dropping kisses on neck and shoulders as he revelled in his power. Helpless underneath him, his hard body tight against mine, I let myself fall into a sea of pleasure. Each thrust propelled me deeper into delight. My body rippled and soared, tethered to this earth only by the ropes.
"Preciosa," he murmured. "God, you're beautiful."
As I arched, drowning in sensation, his moan joined with my wail.
"Corazón."
The sweetness of his love tipped me over the edge. "Fuck me!"
We went wild, arching, thrusting, our bodies colliding in a pagan rhythm as old as time. The fire in me banked, flamed and then I was wailing as I peaked and shattered in bone quivering orgasm.
My delight pulled him into release. Wrapped around me, hips pumping, his groaning breaths loud in my ears, he poured himself into me, each pumping, shuddering thrust, slamming through me with soul-shattering intensity.