Angel: An SOBs Novel

by Irish Winters

  Suede dug her fingernails into said ass. “Like this?” she teased.

  Smoothing her hair out of her eyes, he kissed her forehead, his knees still outside her thighs, but his randy cock making his intentions known to her belly. “Absolutely,” he growled. “You interested?”

  “You want me to manage your finances?”

  He bumped his nose to hers. “Our finances. Yours and mine. I told you a long time ago, baby. What’s mine is yours. I get that you need to contribute, that you need to feel empowered in your own right, and I’m thrilled that you do. You’ll go far. I wouldn’t be surprised if you own your own business on Wall Street someday, but until then…” He landed a kiss on the tip of her nose. “Work for me. Cook for me. Never let me go.”

  Shimmering pools of liquid blue stared up at him. “Never let me go,” she corrected.

  Shifting his weight, Chance angled his knees between her thighs and with one thrust, sank into her body. “Never,” he breathed. “I found you fair and square, and I keep what I find.”

  “Me too,” she whispered in his ear as her hands slid up his back to his shoulder blades. “I finally found what I’ve been looking for.”

  If that didn’t tear his heart out, then she made it worse. “It’s you, my love. You’re my last and my only… Chance.”

  The End

  Epilogue

  Some eighteen hundred miles east of Montana, Pagan took a knee outside one of two eight-paned rear windows of a townhouse in D.C. proper. Like row houses, the homes adjoined but their facades were different. Some were painted in federal blue with stark white trim, others in earth tones with dark brown accents. Gray stone and red brick decorated others, lending to the appearance of America’s individualistic spirit.

  Yeah, right. This ‘burb’ was nothing but a cookie-cutter tract of over-priced housing for the upwardly mobile near-misses and abject failures in the frantic District’s business world. It was for wannabe politicians who’d never gotten elected, for men and women resigned to teach because they weren’t good enough for higher aspirations. The faded paint and shabby lawns did look half decent by moonlight though.

  This particular home was special. John Wesley Mills lived here with his cat, and didn’t that figure? Johnny-Boy was a cat person. Gallo wouldn’t like that on principles alone. Neither would Lucky, the good girl who used to go by that awful moniker, Meine Liebchen. Who in their right mind names a dog something that translated means love of my life?

  Pagan wondered at people like the recently deceased, Mitchell Franks.

  Dark had fallen hours ago, but Pagan had time. He now knew the intimate details of Johnny-Boy’s alter ego. A lackluster insurance salesman who barely made his quotas by day, he dabbled in illicit drug distribution by night. Didn’t fall too far from the proverbial tree that had taken root in South America a long time ago. Well, not really that long ago, but back in the 1940s, when Nazis there thought they were safe from the reach of justice and truth.

  His ancestors, two brothers, Richard and Zimmer Franks, both SS guards, had settled in beautiful Bogotá, Colombia, after the war. It was a nice place to live—then. But as sure as crusted dirty snow follows the freshly fallen, pure white flakes of a wintery storm, deceit and misery followed the Franks brothers.

  Richard, the younger one, despised the lack of sophistication in his new country. In less than months, he fled to the United States, took on a new history, that of a used car salesman, but kept his old name. Zimmer, the older brother, was made of tougher stuff. After ingratiating himself to the governor of Bogotá, he began two businesses, one legal, one not. He married well and entrenched himself in wealthy Colombian society. The downside to his success was his only heir, a daughter, who in turn had married Diego Gonzales, the local crime lord. Not because she’d wanted to, but because Zimmer needed her to.

  It was an arranged marriage of epic proportions, two criminals uniting their kingdoms and expanding their grasp, all accomplished in the time it took for innocent little Amanda to say two words: I do.

  Zimmer had long since lost track of Richard. He’d always acted as if he had a broomstick stuck up his ass anyway, and there were times Zimmer thought he’d detected homosexual tendencies in his brother. That perversion wasn’t tolerated in their mother country, and Zimmer wouldn’t tolerate it in Bogotá. Richard had sent letters to his brother, but Zimmer burned each and every one.

  A staunch believer in all Der Führer stood for, Zimmer set his aims high and his means low to acquire those aims on behalf of the Third Reich. He’d not only organized SS operations while in the Homeland, but architecturally designed several of the finest crematoriums. He was good at it, this death thing. That was how he did business. Efficiently. He said what he meant, and he followed those few words with lethal enforcement. That was how a strong man ruled the world. A few beheadings, here. A dismemberment or two, there. All in a day’s work.

  Eventually, at the age of one hundred and one, Zimmer passed away in his sleep, but not before he’d trained his grandson, a darling, blond youngster to take over the family business.

  Wilhelm Gonzales immediately executed every person in the city who owed his father or his grandfather as little as one peso. That was also the day Wilhelm learned he was not alone in the world. A long lost relative surfaced in his fair but troubled city, another blond and blue-eyed man who reminded Wilhelm of his proud German heritage. That man was Richard Franks’ grandson. Mitchell.

  As for Johnny? Mitchell’s sister, Celia Franks, had married Collier Mills, a Maryland banker. Not an important banker, but a hard working nine-to-fiver who was never good enough for the rapacious, conniving dreams of one of Hitler’s right-hand man’s progeny. At least, that was the story John told his friends down at the local German tavern about his father.

  Pagan had done his homework well, not only online, but at the tavern as well. Men on the downside of life tended to gripe about the father’s they hated, especially after a few beers. And Pagan liked to listen.

  John Wesley Mills had just earned rank in the local fascist chapter, a group with violent tendencies toward murder, chaos. The usual. First lieutenant now, he had bigger dreams for America, dreams that paralleled Zimmer’s dream. Beheadings. Dismemberments. Hangings. Terror. The tactics worked in South America. Why not here?

  Hence Pagan took a knee, not to pray, but to rack the slide of his Sig Sauer P226 MK25, complete with SR09 suppressors. X-ray sights. Elite ammo. He didn’t plan to use its twin, but kept it holstered for now, loaded and just as ready. Like a brother who’d come bail your ass out of trouble if things went sideways.

  But that wasn’t happening tonight. Donning black nitrile gloves that matched his leather jacket and his mood, Pagan ghosted into Mills’ home without the OTS doorknob making so much as a snick. But the second—the very second—he entered Johnny Boy’s space, his nostrils flared wide at the coppery scent of freshly spilled blood in the air. Damn. Johnny Boy wouldn’t have killed someone in his home tonight, would he?

  When a silent shadow slid down the loft steps at his left, Pagan crouched low, his piece forward, ready to fire. He leaned into the act, anticipating it, needing to end this lowlife for the sake of the woman his brother loved. This was no sanctioned hit. Neither had it been vetted through the SOBs. This was personal. Johnny was the last living descendant of the treacherous Franks brothers. He and their warped ideology needed to die.

  Primed, all Pagan had to do was press the trigger, light up the night, and leave without waking the neighbors—until he realized he’d caught Miss Hex.

  “Freeze,” he growled, lifting to his feet and into view.

  She halted, her right arm across her chest, her fingertips still on the handle of the pink-as-a-newborn-baby’s-butt weapon she’d just holstered, her voluptuous breasts crushed and plumped inside the cups of her black sports bra in the process. “Oh, hi Pagan. What are you doing here?”

  “You ended John Mills?”

  The woman smiled. She knew she was eye
-candy galore, from the peaks of those girls to the tips of her designer boots. That she managed two underarm holsters with the size of her assets amazed male snipers everywhere. Not that they minded. They just liked to watch while she put those babies away.

  “Course I killed him. Why are you here? To kill me?”

  “Hardly.” He holstered his piece to prove his word, his heart thumping at the heady scent of cherry blossoms wafting from Miss Hex’s sexy body. How could she smell so good, yet be so lethal? “You knew one of us Sinclairs would be coming for Johnny Mills. You should’ve let us end him.”

  Her deep brown eyes widened under delicate brows that made her look extraordinarily innocent, which she was not. “I had a job to do and I did it, and yes, thank you for asking. My fingers mended nicely, no thanks to your brother. Why are you here?”

  Pagan’s mouth went dry at the sight of all that exposed skin. Her belly. The creamy swells of her breasts above the bra. Her long neck. Of course she’d dressed in black leather shorts that creaked when she walked, but those legs…

  Every drop of blood in his brain fled south. Hex was a tits-and-ass, ‘play nice with me and I won’t kill you’ kind of gal. A brazen alpha, he had no doubt she’d dominate any partner dumb enough to get too close. At the end of the day, she was Kruze’s type, and didn’t that reminder of who she’d probably been with—as in slept with—pump a gallon of bile into Pagan’s already churning gut?

  He stepped away from Miss Hex, then took another step back for good measure, not sure why the thought of Kruze with this woman irked him. “Fine then. It’s done. Goodbye.”

  She took a step toward him. “Would you like to double-check my work? I’m not proud. I’ll show you. One shot. He never felt a thing. Never knew I was there.”

  Pagan shook his head, as much to shake the notion of actually sharing the same air with this tantalizing, but off-limits woman, as to distance himself from the scent of her. Cherry blossoms made him unfocused and weak, two traits that could get a sniper dead. “No thanks. Gotta go.”

  “But Pagan,” she breathed, her perfect lush lips drawn into a pout that made a man stop and take notice and wonder what those lips would feel like. What they’d taste like. From there, it was only a hop, skip, and a jump to what her other parts would taste like.

  His tongue licked a quick lap over his bottom lip before he bit it. He squared his shoulders, intending to leave, damn it, but Miss Vicky wouldn’t shut up.

  “You and I had a common enemy. I got here first, that’s all. You would’ve done the same. Friends?” She extended slender fingers, the nails painted pink, but reaching for him. Daring him to accept—something. He was pretty sure it wasn’t friendship.

  Tugging his gloves off, Pagan stuffed them in his rear pocket, then made contact quickly. Succinctly. Barely squeezing those feminine bear traps. But sometimes, in the cosmic scheme of things, it only took… One. Touch. That single brush of skin against skin. The melding of lifelines to lifelines. The matching of fingerprints on fingerprints.

  A spark sizzled up from her palm and hit his brainpan like a bolt of greased lightning. It was a different kind of energy. Brighter. Crazier. So. Damned. Hot.

  She pulled back with a hiss, a glint of shock in her eyes. “Pagan? Did you just...?”

  As her words trailed off, he leapt into defensive mode. “Shock you? No. The carpet’s full of static electricity, that’s all.” Liar. He’d felt something and he knew it. Pagan just didn’t know what it was.

  Rich black mane swished over one leather-clad shoulder, rivaling the leather for shine even in the dark of a dead man’s house. Vicki Hex, the Sicilian mob’s number one killer, cocked her pretty head and said, “I like you Pagan Sinclair. You’re… different.”

  Was that an insult or an attempt to be funny? He wasn’t sophisticated enough to play with the likes of Hex, and he didn’t want to look like a fool. “I gotta go.” Damned if his voice didn’t sound rough and ragged instead of suave—like Kruze’s had he been here.

  She moved in closer. “Let’s go have a beer. Talk. Maybe we can work a few jobs together. I’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  He shook his head, not ever—EVER—working with Hex, not in this kill-or-be-killed career they’d both chosen. It seemed wrong offing bad guys with a truly beautiful woman at his side. “No,” he told her, his lower back sore, and his balls aching from standing at attention. Least that was why he thought his balls ached. Couldn’t be—that.

  Her lips pinched. Again with the hair swish and the coy fluttering of lashes. God, her eyes were black tonight. Deep and dark. Sultry and full of steamy promises. He didn’t dare blink for fear this was all a dream. A dream come true…

  “Aw, you’re turning me down?” she asked.

  Are you turning me on? “Yes,” he damned near shouted. “Work. I’ve got work…” Or something. “…to do. Now goodbye.”

  Miss Hex knew no boundaries in her specialty. In less than the time it took Pagan to draw in a belly full of air, she was in his face, her girls plastered against his pecs. His gaze automatically fell into the tempting valley between those breasts. Soft. They had to be soft and warm. Femininely fragrant. Tasty.

  Umm, yeah. About that... Pagan knew damned well his brother had bedded her, at least once. That was his big brother’s style: Love ’em and leave ’em.

  Suddenly, Miss Hex’s elbows were on Pagan’s chest. Her fingertips were teasing the curled hair behind his ears, and her lips were within kissing range.

  “I need a cut,” he told her, not sure why that trivia blurted out, but okay. Not on my best game here, he thought. Mostly, because I got no game.

  Her lips pinched and Pagan closed his eyes, not because she might kiss him, but because this was a dream. He’d wake up any second now, and he didn’t want to embarrass himself when he did.

  Instead, the softest lips caressed his firmly closed mouth like butterfly wings, brushing over his skin, asking. Her tongue flickered like a whisper and a promise, wetting his lips just enough to start a fire in his gut.

  “Come on, big guy. Just one beer?” Miss Hex coaxed, her breath a heady hint of whiskey sour and forgotten good intentions.

  The beer could wait. Circling her, he cupped the nape of her neck with one hand, and the leather clad cheek of her ass with his other. Tilting her head, he took her mouth hard, mashing her lips, thrusting his tongue into the slick warmth of her mouth while he imagined that other slick warmth, and what it would feel like to know her in every sense of the word.

  She growled, but not in disgust. Giving back with passion and heat, her boots lifted off the floor. She wrapped her long legs around his hips, pressing her core to his belly. If this was what she wanted, she was going to get it. Here. Now. He had both hands full of ass, and a hard-on from hell in his pants. “I’m not doing this here,” he told her open mouth.

  Her fingers slid up his jaw into his too-long-for-military hair, smoothed over his skull and set off every last milliliter of testosterone in his body. “I know a place.”

  Suddenly he was nitroglycerin, unstable and ready to blow. Until his brain re-engaged. He set her feet to the floor, not sure what just happened, but not—NOT—going down this road with one of Kruze’s girls. Not in this lifetime.

  There’d be no kids in her future, and Pagan wanted a family like the one he’d been raised in. A family required a real mother for his future sons and daughters, not some killer dominatrix with a leather fetish and a delectable, but well-used, ass. Pagan didn’t do one-night stands, and he didn’t do easy. If nothing else, the woman he married would be respectable.

  Disgusted at his lack of control and morals, he uncupped his fingers from said ass, inhaled deeply to clear his head, then settled Miss Hex’s boots back to the floor. With his heart jackhammering up his throat, Pagen stepped away from the hottest temptation of his life. He’d done crazy a time or two in his life, jumped off a couple bridges, drove too fast, hitchhiked, and downed too many fifths of Irish Whiskey, but this was his
future on the line. Yeah. Miss Hex had no hold on that, and he wouldn’t—absolutely would not!—give her one now.

  She stood there with her feet spread, breathing hard and her plump girls heaving beneath that tiny T. Hex was a gorgeous mess of long, black hair, her just-kissed lips still wet from his tongue. “Pagan, I—”

  He reached for those lips and ran the pad of his thumb across the bottom one, walking away from an offer of free sex that would’ve been out of this world. But so damned wrong. “I’m not that guy,” he told her gently before he changed his mind. “I don’t do women like Kruze does. I’m not made that way. Sex has to mean something. Sorry.”

  Her nose wrinkled. “Kruze? What’s he got to do with this? With us?”

  “There is no us, Victoria. I’ve got” —he ran a quick hand over his head, not sure what he’d just heard or why he’d called her by her full name— “Jesus, I’ve got to go. Bye.”

  Her fingers hit his wrist, clutching him before he got away. “I’m… I’m sorry. I…” She seemed tongue-tied. “I didn’t know.”

  That got his pride’s attention. “You didn’t know what?”

  Her eyes flashed then. “Never mind. Go. Just go.”

  He couldn’t help but nod. If he lived to be one hundred, he’d never understand how a female mind worked. “Fine then. Bye.”

  Turning back at Mills’ rear doorway, it hit Pagan hard. Something was wrong with this picture, but damned if he knew what it was or how to fix it. And no, turning back was not an option. She’d read weakness into a dumb-jock move like that. To Hex, this was nothing but a game. A kill-or-be-killed game, and he didn’t play with love that way. He just plain didn’t have the heart for it. Yet he couldn’t stop his big mouth from asking, “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”