The Mobster’s Masseuse

by Kane, Jessa

  The Mobster’s Masseuse

  JESSA KANE

  Copyright © 2019 Jessa Kane

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

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  CHAPTER ONE

  Walker

  I don’t do massages.

  Getting one implies that I’m overworked and stressed—both of which suggest weakness. In my world, weakness is the kiss of death.

  I’ve been the head of the McManus family for five years, ever since my hardnosed bastard of a father dropped dead on the tennis court of his estate, probably to avoid losing the match. He hated second place. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t being groomed to step into his shoes and run the Boston underworld in which I was brought up. There wasn’t a hiccup when I took over, tightening up the operation and bringing the family into the twenty-first century.

  I’m not a good man.

  I’ve killed. I’ve intimidated. My business practices are illegal, immoral—and they make me a lot of money. I’ve got no intention of going legit any time soon, like the pale, pencil-pushing stool pigeons I see waiting at bus stops when I pass by in my Bugatti. No fucking thanks.

  Those are the kind of men who get massages. Their positions at their jobs aren’t contingent on their strength. Their resilience. Their immortality.

  Mine is.

  Rich, my right-hand man, thinks he’s doing me some big favor surprising me with a massage on my thirty-fifth birthday, but if he thinks I’m going to lie down and let some stranger rub oil that smells like flowers on me for an hour, he’s got another think coming.

  Unfortunately, Richie’s mind doesn’t work as quickly as everyone else’s and I don’t hurt his feelings, if I can help it. I met Rich on the first day of second grade when he was getting his ass kicked on the kickball field by a bunch of fourth graders. Growing up in Southie, I’d learned to mind my own business before I could walk, but I didn’t like the way the older boys had singled out learning disabled Richie. Didn’t seem fair.

  So I sent them crying to the nurse’s office holding their bloody noses.

  Richie has been my shadow ever since. No one messes with him now. I make sure he’s got an armed guard at his disposal at all times. Usually I do, too, but I don’t need my employees thinking I’ve gone soft.

  “You’re going to love it, Walker. Love it. Best massage of your life.” Richie is wringing his Sox cap in hands. “I told them to give you the VIP treatment.”

  I scratch an eyebrow. “Thanks, Rich.”

  Yeah, not happening. I’ll sit in the room and check in with my lieutenants over the phone for an hour. The masseuse can text her boyfriend or whatever. Everyone goes home happy. The alternative is taking off my clothes and lying down, vulnerable in an unfamiliar place. That’s how people like me get killed and I’m planning on living for a while.

  “Now, this isn’t one of them cheap p-places,” Rich continues in an excited tone, as we turn the corner onto a quiet, tree-lined street. It’s the section of the neighborhood where I don’t spend a lot of time. Part of the city’s “improvement” measures, which amount to some coffee shops, an overpriced shoe store and apparently, a day spa. Based on the total lack of foot traffic, I’m guessing South Boston ain’t looking to be improved on. “It’s not one of those happy ending deals, either. It’s a real, professional joint.”

  “Yeah, I’m really looking forward to it,” I say, patting him hard on the shoulder. “A little R and R never hurt anyone, right?”

  “Exactly.” He slaps his hat down on his head and opens a frosted glass door, set back from the street in a wreath of ivy and brick. Before we duck inside, I take a moment to scan the street for anything out of the ordinary. We were cautious coming here, doubling back and taking quieter roads, but the atmosphere has been tense lately in Southie.

  A rival outfit from New York has been breathing down my neck to make a deal. They want to transport weapons through my neighborhood and they didn’t take it well when I told them to fuck off. I wouldn’t put it past them to make an attempt to forcibly remove me, their roadblock between point A and point B. I’m planning a visit to New York soon to put a stop to the situation in person, by fair means or foul, but until then, I’m taking no chances.

  “And don’t you worry, boss,” Richie continues. “Don’t you worry, because I’ll be right in the waiting room watching your back.”

  “I know you will, Rich.”

  The receptionist, a young girl with a deep brown complexion and short braids, looks up and drops the phone she was cradling between her ear and shoulder. “Uh.” She stands up and drops back into her seat. “Oh God. I, um…I just work here. Should I get the manager—”

  “Relax.” I hold up a hand and bare my teeth in my best impression of a smile. I get this reaction anywhere I go in Boston. And based on her accent, she’s local enough to know who I am. “My friend here booked me a massage.”

  “Yeah.” Rich does kind of a nervous sidestep toward the counter, hat back in his hands being wrung. “I put it under my name. Richie Hayes.”

  I prop an elbow on the counter and lean in, sliding her a few crisp hundreds. “If you could keep this quiet, I’d appreciate it.” Another slight baring of teeth. “No one is going to know I was here.”

  “No. No, sir, Mr. McManus.” She won’t look up from the appointment book. “If you want to follow me to the l-locker room, we can get you a robe—”

  “That won’t be necessary.” I take a seat on some oddly shaped, chrome seat and stretch my legs. “Just let the masseuse know I’m here.”

  I’m only waiting for another thirty seconds after the receptionist almost breaks a leg launching herself into the back room, but in that short time span, Richie manages to tell me six more times how much I’m going to love the massage. I’m just reaching the iceberg tip of guilt that I won’t actually be enjoying his present for real, when the girl reemerges. “Meadow will see you now.”

  Meadow?

  Fuck sake. She’s probably going to dissolve into tears when I walk in. I really don’t have the patience for a couple of terrified broads today. My enemies have been getting too close for comfort lately. I’ve got a business opening on the other side of town tomorrow to help me clean my illegally earned money and I’m not satisfied with the numbers yet. We’re moving a shipment of car parts tomorrow night to a distributor and I have to lean a little harder on my favorite dirty cops to make sure we fly under the radar.

  Everything will work out. I always make sure it does.

  It helps that I’ve got a reputation for meting out swift and deadly punishment to anyone who crosses me.

  But I definitely don’t have time for a massage.

  A glance at Richie’s hopeful expression, however, has me rising to my feet. “Great. I’m ready.”

  The receptionist stumbles in her haste to guide me down a candlelit hallway to yet another waiting area. Jesus Christ. I’m beginning to form a tic behind my eye when soft footsteps approach and another gi
rl enters the room. Her head is bowed forward, so I don’t see her face at first, but interest swipes at my belly nonetheless.

  And that’s unusual.

  Not only because her hair is hiding her features, but because I generally don’t waste my time with women. When I need my itch scratched, I handle it with someone convenient—usually at one of the many clubs I invest in—and move on, preferably without names or numbers being exchanged. I’m never looking to meet a woman. They’re usually just scenery. As inconsequential as any of the men I encounter who aren’t making me money.

  This girl, though. She smells like oranges and the scent cuts right through me, waking up my senses. It’s an unusual smell for me. Coffee, leather, alcohol, gasoline, blood. Those are smells to which I’m accustomed. Her fresh, citrus zing sends fingertips crawling down the front of my body and my cock reacts.

  Then. Then she looks up at me and I start praying.

  I don’t know what prayers sound like anymore, but my memory dredges them up from years of Catholic school and I silently trip through them, wondering what the fuck kind of magic she’s wielding.

  My God.

  Meadow, was it?

  I’m rock hard behind my zipper. So fat and ready, I could come with one rough stroke of my fist. All because of that pillowy bottom lip, her freckled nose and eyes the color of a freshwater lake. Even her hair is turning me on and she’s got it in a ponytail, little sandy blonde-brown pieces framing her face. Her body isn’t even on display. She’s in a pristine white uniform that hangs loose around her curves, but I can still tell she’s got a dynamite rack. A pussy I definitely want to pound.

  Richie’s words from earlier come back to me.

  It’s not one of those happy ending deals, either. It’s a real, professional joint.

  That so?

  I guess I’ll be spending the next hour proving that shit wrong. When I want something, I go after it and I always get it. And I want Meadow like she’s the final inch of water in a canteen and I’ve been hiking in Death Valley.

  She turns on the ball of her foot and I follow her toward a room, cursing silently over the two perky swells of her ass cheeks, the way they twitch. When she leads me inside and quietly shuts the door, I’m already unfastening my cuff links, ready to relieve the growing pressure in my groin. Maybe I’m presuming too much, too fast, but I’m a good-looking man and even if I wasn’t, the power I hold would guarantee Meadow gives me a very different kind of massage.

  I swear to God, I’m just planning on getting laid, but then she turns to me, pokes me in the center of my chest and says, “Listen, mister. I don’t care who you are. If you can’t behave like a gentleman and keep your eyes where they belong, you can just take a walk.”

  Yeah, when she says that, she’s mine.

  Meadow is all mine.

  To keep.

  “Say I want to give you the massage, instead, Meadow.” I step closer and tilt up her chin. “How much would you charge me for that?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Meadow

  My high school guidance counselor told me my smart mouth would get me into trouble someday. Apparently that day will come sooner rather than later.

  I’ve just told the Walker “Bad Boss” McManus to take a walk.

  Of course, I didn’t know my eleven o’clock deep tissue massage was with a notorious mob boss. I’m new in town, fresh out of Florida, so I didn’t even know such a man existed. Not until Carla burst into the room like the hounds of hell were at her heels, stammering that we we’d probably have to cough up all our tips as protection money now or die a bloody death.

  Oh yeah? I’d like to see him try.

  I didn’t work three jobs to put myself through massage therapy school so I could hand over my money to some mobster.

  Granted. He is rather large, spectacularly intimidating and very…

  Very, very, very good looking.

  He’s older than me, by more than a decade. At least. And that maturity is making itself known in annoyingly attractive ways. Little lines at the corners of his dark blue eyes, a wealth of gravity in his expression. Like he knows how the world works and is merely amused by my attempts to try and spin it in a direction he doesn’t dictate.

  His hair is slicked back, away from his granite-jawed, master-of-the-universe features, the likes of which my nether regions were not prepared to handle this morning. He’s in a white dress shirt and navy slacks that look like they were licked onto his thick muscles.

  I still haven’t answered his question. Did he really ask if he could pay to massage me? Ooh. The nerve of this man. I have scraped my way to this point in my life. From a trailer park with constant casting changes of whoever was playing my mother’s boyfriend that week to a respectable one-bedroom apartment in an up-and-coming section of Boston. A certified massage therapist! And I’m good. I’ve only had this job for three weeks and already I’ve had several return customers.

  Sure, I have to put up with my disgusting, touchy feely boss, Randall, but you take the good with the bad. And for me, this move has definitely been good.

  Now this…harshly attractive man who is almost certainly a dangerous murderer thinks he can come up in here and treat me like a joke?

  I’ve worked really hard not to be one of those. Too hard.

  Deciding I’d like to keep my self-respect at any cost, I raise my chin. “How about you spend your money on some common decency?”

  A dark eyebrow arches. “Are we not getting off on the right foot, Meadow?” The way he breathes my name curls my toes in my sensible shoes. “You on the table, instead of me. Name your price.”

  “The price would be my pride. I value it quite a bit.”

  “I know a little something about pride.”

  “Robbing people of it?”

  “Holding on to it.” His chest dips and expands, releasing a low growl. “Fuck, you are interesting.”

  Fuck, you ahh interesting.

  I like his Boston accent way too much.

  This man wants to eat me alive. I’ve had guys show interest in me on a fairly regular basis, but what they showed me was child’s play compared to Walker McManus. He’s only letting me think I have an ounce of control here. That realization scares me, yes. But…it makes my limbs loose and my stomach levitate.

  I’ve fantasized about moments like this, never thinking they’d happen anywhere but in my mind. What would Walker think if he knew I’d warred against two opposing needs for years? The need to finally be in control of my life…and have control wrestled away in the heat of passion.

  Not with him.

  Not with him.

  This man is bad news.

  He will chew me up and spit me out. That’s the last thing I need when I’ve only started standing on solid ground, living my new life. A life I built, brick by brick, through hungry nights and endless days. I won’t be knocked off course.

  My mental reinforcements mean nothing to Walker. He crowds me up against the massage table, slowly and I curl my fingertips into the leather underside. “If I sacrifice a little of my pride, will you do the same?”

  “I’m not sleeping with you,” I breathe.

  “I asked to give you a massage, but I like where your head is at.”

  My frown makes his lips twitch.

  “Sacrifice some of your pride first,’” I say. “Then I’ll decide.”

  “You’re not hoping to get something for nothing, are you, gorgeous?”

  I bat my eyelashes. “Who, me?”

  He sighs a laugh. A sound that’s mature and rich and masculine. It stirs my hair and sends my pulse into a tizzy. His hands brace on the table edge on either side of me and he drops his mouth, right above the pulse in my neck, groaning in a darkly male manner, turning my panties sodden. “Fifty grand. You get naked on the table. Naked. I put my hands and mouth wherever the fuck I want them.”

  “Fifty…” I gasp. “Fifty thousand dollars?”

  “Mmm. Is that a yes?”

  �
�No. No, I’m not selling myself for sex.”

  “You’ll be the one getting pleasure.”

  “You’re that sure of yourself?”

  When I’m positive he’s going to give me some line about being the female orgasm whisperer, his expression turns thoughtful. “I’m not that sure of myself, actually. People tell me what I want to hear. They’re afraid not to. For all I know, women do the same.”

  I can’t hide my surprise. “Was that you sacrificing some pride?”

  “That depends. Was it enough to convince you, Meadow?”

  God. Why is everything about him so appealing? I like the way he’s looking at me. Like I’m a masterpiece he’s unveiling stroke by stroke. I like how he bats around words with me like we’re ping pong opponents. Not to be arrogant, but people usually can’t keep up with me in a conversation. It’s why I gave up on dating before I even graduated high school. This is nice. Knowing he’s paying attention and capable of a rejoinder. Annoyingly nice.

  “You could be lying,” I say. “You could know damn well you’ve got mad skills when it comes to women.”

  “If I’m lying, you benefit by having multiple orgasms for lunch. If I’m telling the truth, and I’m not confident that I’m God’s gift to women, then you walk away with a chunk of my pride. Win-win.”

  I’m fighting a smile. And my arousal. “You must be very good at your job.”

  “Now that I’m confident in.” His big hands cradle my hips roughly and a shudder rolls through me. “I don’t want to talk about my job, Meadow. I want you undressing.”

  “One hundred grand,” I blurt.

  He doesn’t hesitate. No, his eyes merely heat until I’m being blistered under their regard. “Done.” His mouth brushes mine. “Now strip.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Walker

  My theory that this girl was made for me—and only me—is further confirmed when she whips her shirt off with nothing short of defiance. Her eyes glitter with a mixture of anticipation and challenge. The potent combination makes my balls fill and tighten in response. Good Lord. This is a girl that will put up with none of my bullshit and I never thought that would be so fucking appealing. But it is. Because it’s Meadow. I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my days butting heads with this beauty.