by KB Winters
“You’re a cop, Addison, that’s your default position. Friends or enemies. Black or white. Up or down.” I took a sip of whiskey and set my gaze on Addison, really taking her in, not just as a person or a federal agent, but as a woman. She was pretty in a plain, girl next door sort of way. Even off-duty, she wore those ugly-ass boxy suits, but if you looked closer, you could see a nice set of C-cups under the plain white shirt, fit legs under the ill-fitting black slacks. She wasn’t my type, but she could be if it helped achieve my goals.
“The world I live in isn’t so binary.”
She shrugged and downed the shot set in front of her. “That’s what criminals always say. It’s how you justify doing bad things.”
“I never need to justify my actions. I do what needs to be done to achieve my goals. Same as you.”
“Not exactly the same,” she shot back, cynical and amused.
“The only difference is you believe what you’re doing is good simply because the law says it is. There are many instances throughout our history where the right thing, endorsed by the government, wasn’t good at all.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll give you that good and legal aren’t always the same thing, but your family is unequivocally illegal.”
“Then why the fuck do we send money to the IRS for our casinos, restaurants, gun shops, and all the other businesses registered to us? Pretty sure you can’t pay taxes on illegal business, Agent Beck.” I smacked my lips together and shook my head, leaning in just a little closer.
“That’s the part I don’t get. You all make a ton of money with all those legitimate businesses, so why not just let the illegal businesses go?” She downed a few more gulps of beer and turned to face the bar.
I took advantage of that move and slid my arm on the back of the stool, suddenly grateful for Thomas’ suggestion to make the stools more comfortable in this room so the drinkers spent more time and money here.
“The question you should be asking is why doesn’t the government legalize and tax those businesses.”
She opened her mouth and let out a husky bark of laughter.
“Don’t say because the government cares about its citizens because it’s cliché and not true. The opioid problem indicates otherwise, yet you’re not banging down the door of Big Pharma.”
She laughed again. “You have answers for everything, don’t you?”
“Not everything,” I told her, my voice low and deep. “For example, I don’t know how much it’s gonna cost me to get rid of you.”
Her head fell forward and Addison laughed. “Even the Ashby family doesn’t have that kind of money.”
“Try me.”
People always used that line; thought it made them sound cool, but to me, it only said there was a number, and I just had to find it and talk them down just enough to make accepting the money palatable. It wasn’t so easy to say no when someone was offering to double or triple your salary for a lot less work.
Her smile faded. “I’m not for sale, Mr. Ashby.”
I laughed. “Are we back to Mr. Ashby, now?” I shrugged off her expression and moved forward because that’s how I got shit done. “If it makes you feel better, don’t think of it as being for sale.”
“Yeah? And how exactly should I think of it?”
“As getting what you’re owed for years of hard work, of the sexism you had to put up as a woman working for the FBI. Think of it as a bonus to help you pay off your student loans.” And there it was, that flash of recognition that meant she did have a number, and even better, she was thinking about my offer.
I smiled like the predator I was, smelling the blood in the water. “I can give you more money than you can make in a lifetime, and all you have to do is walk away. Leave me and my family alone. Leave my businesses alone. You’ll live a long healthy life, maybe fall in love with a guy who can’t give you an orgasm to save his life, push out a few ankle biters, all while working for the FBI, being the best little agent you can be.”
Her gaze slammed into mine, her lips pulled into a straight white line that slowly curled up into a smile. “Why do I have to marry a man who can’t give me an orgasm?”
Ah, the agent wanted to flirt, to play. I could indulge. Fucking her might be easier than paying her. “Because you, Agent Beck, are not a sexual being.”
“You don’t know that. You know nothing about me.” The pulse at the base of her neck kicked up and her pupils dilated.
“I know that a woman who hides those tits and a fit figure under those suits doesn’t want men looking at her and thinking, I’d like to put those sexy legs over my shoulders and make her scream my name.”
“Vulgar,” she replied, but she still smiled.
I leaned in close and whispered in her ear. “No, Addison, vulgar would be wondering out loud if your nipples were the color of strawberries or if they were darker, like raspberries. Vulgar would be wondering if you keep a little bush over your pussy or if you wax religiously. Vulgar would be wondering if your panties are stained with the cream of your arousal, if one thick finger could pull an orgasm from you in under a minute.”
She gasped, and when she turned, our faces were no more than a few inches apart.
“You think very highly of yourself.”
Her words came out breathy and more than a little husky. Yeah, she was turned the fuck on.
“I do, but I bet if I touched your pussy right now, if I slid my hand down your pants, I’d find your lips swollen and slick, and then I’d know.”
She blinked. “Know what?”
“That it was because of me. That your pussy creamed because of me.”
Addison gasped and licked her lips, leaning in closer and closer until her lips damn near touched mine. She froze, realizing a moment too late who she was and who I was before she sat back and finished off her beer.
“Thanks, but no thanks, Mr. Ashby.” She slid off the stool and pulled a few bills from her pocket.
I stood, towering over her with a smile and a shrug.
“Suit yourself, but Agent Beck?”
“What is it?”
“Challenge accepted.”
She let out a low growl and stomped off, and I laughed. She was a spitfire; I’d give her that much.
It was too bad I might have to kill her.
Chapter Eight
Mo
The Saturday night crowd at Midnight Mass was loud and rowdy, and it was all because of football, college football to be exact. Football lovers of every stripe showed up from bookies to degenerate gamblers, casual gamblers, college kids hailing from the hometown of one of the teams, girls who loved football fans, college football players, and even wannabe college football players. They’d all lined up to grace a booth or a table or a stool to set eyes on the Fightin’ Irish as they kicked ass, took names, and left no prisoners on the field.
The beer flowed like wine at a Greek orgy. We’d already been through six bottles of Velvet Fire, and game day wasn’t even halfway over yet. After spending last night flinging drinks at Lucky Lopez, my feet hurt, my head ached, and I wasn’t in the mood to be a smiling, welcoming waitress today.
But, as the strippers at Lucky Lopez told me last night, the show must go the fuck on. Those girls shook their ass, clamped their thighs, and made that pole their bitch whether they were sick, injured, or heartbroken. It was about the almighty dollar, and I summoned up all the energy I could muster and channeled my inner stripper to make it through my shift.
Thankfully, the Fightin’ Irish t-shirt I’d altered by cutting it up and tying it at the waist went a long way to making me feel better. Okay, it was the tips the shirt earned me that made me feel better, but that was basically the same thing since the results were the same. Better service meant better tips, which made it the perfect endless loop of rewards for all involved. Too bad not even money could stop the yawns that nearly split my face open.
Coffee. I needed coffee, and I needed it now.
Right. Fucking. Now.
I s
topped in the kitchen to drop another order and grab a quick cup of black coffee. It wasn’t normally my jam, I preferred my coffee sweet and creamy, but I was desperate and short on time.
“What the fuck?” I took a sip from the ceramic mug and felt my stomach lurch. Hard. Weird. I drank coffee at least twice a day, and I’d never had a bad reaction. First time for everything, I guess. I drank as much of the black stuff as I could without puking and rinsed my mouth out with cold water. Nobody wanted coffee breath blowing in their face while they were thousands of dollars down on the game.
“Order up, Mo!” The chef, Sean, glared at me and then barked for good measure. “Goddammit, Mo. I said order up.”
Sean was a temperamental asshole, but he made upscale pub food better than anyone else in town. His food helped my tips, and that was the only reason I hadn’t poisoned the flask he kept in the pocket of his white jacket.
“Yeah, I heard you. I’m coming. Don’t want to serve greasy bar food when it’s lukewarm.”
“Fuck you, my food is not greasy. Or bar food.” His reddish-blond brows dipped into an angry vee that made me smile.
I grabbed an oversized tray and made my way to the window. “Nachos,” I snorted.
“Short rib nachos with a homemade, creamy queso,” he growled.
“Chili cheese fries.” I repeated the order as I loaded another plate onto the big monstrous tray.
“That’s fucking ground bison, not some shit quality beef,” he grunted at me. “Homemade chili, little girl.”
I laughed because it was so easy to goad Sean into showing off his Irish temper. “My bad,” I shot back and rolled my eyes. “And finally, mashed potatoes with…soup?”
“Lamb shank shepherd’s pie, thank you very much. I wouldn’t expect a little girl from the wrong side of the tracks to understand.”
I laughed again and shook my head. “Wrong side of the tracks? I grew up on Snob Hill, thank you very much.”
It didn’t matter what went on inside the house of horrors, I wasn’t trash, whatever else Sean thought. “Sounds to me like you’re the one overcompensating for something.”
He smiled. “I’m happy to show you, Mo. Anytime.”
“You couldn’t afford me.”
With my tray loaded, I didn’t wait for the chef’s response, not while I had a rowdy table of four waiting for gourmet bar food to soak up some of the booze they’d been drinking for the past few hours.
“Hey, boys. Hungry?”
“Starved.” The blond with the dimples was a big flirt, and gorgeous to boot. Flirting with him was no hardship, and it was just the distraction I needed for the rest of my shift. Jasper kept himself scarce, which was exactly what my mind and my heart needed after a long fucking week.
“That’s good because I got a ton of food here for you to enjoy. The Nebraska game will be starting soon.”
Blondie with the dimples grabbed my wrist, and I didn’t break any of his fingers because he was playful, not aggressive.
“Have a seat, beautiful, and share my nachos with me.”
“Can’t. I’m on the clock. You wouldn’t want me to get in trouble, would you?”
“No,” he sighed and let his shoulders fall in disappointment. “But I would love to buy you a drink or more when your shift is over.”
“Hey waitress, more drinks over here.”
I looked over my shoulder at the group of husbands doing their best to prolong their time away from the wives and kids and sighed. “Thirsty football fans await,” I told blondie with a mildly disappointed smile.
“I won’t forget,” he called after me while I dodged a dozen sets of hands, all reaching out to grab my ass.
Men. Get a few drinks in them, and they forgot all their manners and home training. “Beers and shots are on the menu,” I reminded them all with a playful smile. “T&A is not, I’m pretty sure.”
“Should be,” one of them growled and bit into his burger. “Your tits look a lot more appetizing than this burger, and this fucker looks good.”
The table laughed at his joke, and I just smiled at the casual vulgarity.
“Be back in a sec with your drinks,” I promised and sauntered off, making the first left into the employee bathroom, where I upchucked the club sandwich I’d eaten earlier on my break.
The flu. It had to be the flu because my stomach was made of steel, and it took a lot for me to get sick. I worked almost every day at the pub and on my back and hadn’t been sick in four years, but now even the smell of coffee made me ill. I flushed the toilet and rinsed my mouth, taking a look at my pale face in the mirror, at the signs of exhaustion around my eyes and mouth, the dark circles under my eyes.
It could be exhaustion with everything I’d been doing. Between double shifts working Lucky Lopez and some late nights at the hospital with Sadie, I hadn’t been sleeping at all.
The door opened and then closed, but I ignored it since only employees were allowed in here. The people who came to Midnight Mass knew the deal. They knew who ran this place and knew not to fuck with the people who worked here.
“Ah, there you are, beautiful.” It was one of the reunion jerks, not the blond with the dimples, but his ugly, brown-haired friend.
I narrowed my eyes at the asswipe through the mirror and sighed. “This restroom is for employees only. Customer bathroom is further up the hall, on the right.”
“Oh, come on now, honey. Now isn’t the time to play hard to get. I saw that look you gave me when you waltzed off. It was a clear invite to follow.”
He took a step closer and slid a finger down my arm.
“Wrong, asshole. I don’t fuck limp dick motherfuckers in public bathrooms or anywhere else.”
I knew that look well, the illogical anger that came on like a flash flood.
“Oh, bitches like you think you’re so special, don’t you? A fucking waitress, and you think you’re too good for me. We’ll see.”
He stepped right up to me, close enough that I could see the storm clouds gather in his eyes. I knew he meant to harm me, to fuck me up good if given half a chance.
I pushed him away as hard as I could and stumbled on the uneven tile, giving him the perfect chance to grab me by the throat and push me up against the wall.
“Let. Go.”
“I don’t think so, bitch. We’re about to see if my dick is as limp as you think it is.” He ground his semi-hard cock against my hip, squeezing my throat as his other hand slid between my legs in search of my panties. “You got a tight cunt? I love a tight cunt that grips me hard while I fuck it.”
“You couldn’t handle this pussy,” I assured him with a dark smile. It wasn’t smart, taunting this asshole, but I didn’t back down, not anymore. I didn’t cower in corners or hide under the sheets like a scared little girl.
If he was going to fuck me up, he’d have a fight on his hands.
He reared his hand back and let it fall in a perfect arch, right across my face. “Bitch!”
His hand squeezed my throat even harder, enough to not just cut off my air but to cause black spots to form around the edges of my eyes.
“We could have done things the nice way. The easy way.”
I cried out at the backhand, feeling the sting from his knuckles immediately. My face throbbed while I squirmed away from his touch, a move made in vain as his fingers slid my panties to the side. The asshole was strong, though, rendering my efforts useless. I reached behind me, into the back pocket of my skirt, and produced a switchblade that I pressed right to his throat just as two fingers found their way into my pussy, down to the last knuckle.
“No!”
“This is already happening, bitch; might as well enjoy it.”
I pressed the blade a little harder because usually, that did the trick with assholes like this, but he wasn’t moved at all.
“Fuck. That.” I tried to close my legs, to kick him away, but he just laughed.
And laughed.
The bathroom door flew open, and both of o
ur heads swiveled in that direction. My heart leaped at the sight of Jasper, big and angry and menacing. Ready to rescue me.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“Back off, asshole. You can have her when I’m done with her.”
I cried out when his fingers pumped in and out of my pussy, his hand choking me with more effort. My eyes went wide as the black around the edges grew more pronounced. I knew what came next, had been here more than once in the early days of my escort career.
“Yeah, that’s not how this works, motherfucker.”
Jasper’s broad shoulders hunched forward, and he barreled inside the bathroom, pulling out his gun as he came closer and closer. He pressed the barrel to the asshole’s head, looking as sexy and ruthless as I’d ever seen him.
“If you want to live long enough to see the sun rise tomorrow, let her go.”
His words were eerily calm, but the look on Jasper’s face was pure fucking murder.
“Oh, she likes it. Tell you what, you can take her asshole while I pound this wet cunt, and we both get what we want.”
Hell blazed in Jasper’s eyes, and he let the gun drop into his palm, leaving the butt of the gun exposed.
“Wrong answer, dickhead.”
With one swift move, Jasper cracked him behind the ear with the gun, sending his head forward and impaling him on my knife.
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit!”
His blood was warm and deep red as it trickled from the small hole in his neck between my fingers, tracing the veins on the back of my hand.
“Jasper, what the fuck?”
“The word you’re looking for is thank you, Maureen.”
My stupid little heart leaped at the way he used my given name, something he only did when he was really serious.
“Yeah, thanks, Jas. You’re my fucking hero, but there’s a more pressing problem. His neck is about two and a half inches full of switchblade.”
Jasper grabbed a handful of thick brown hair and yanked his head backward to inspect the small hole. “It’s barely a flesh wound. He’ll live.”
