He shakes the thought from his head and turns his eyes back to mine.
“It’s pretty serious though, the Bulldog thinks the Corrupt Bastards MC was working under the G-Man and that they will look to retaliate against the club. Now that Victor’s relinquished his control over to his nephew.”
“What’s his name again?” I ask, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth and taking it for myself.
“Oh fuck, some guinea shit…Mario. No, that’s not it. Enzo, Luigi, no…Rocco!”
“Right, Rocco…” I say. They briefed me on this Rocco character at dinner last night. Apparently Pastore handed over his empire to a nephew no one knew he had and asked Jack to play nice with him.”
“If Victor killed the gangbanger wouldn’t this shit storm be Rocco’s problem?”
“One would think,” Linc replies, shaking his head. “But it’s like six degrees of separation between all these guys, and because Riggs’ old lady is mobbed up, he’s the numero uno target.”
I lift my hands to my head and rub my temples. These people were all fucked, no, they were motherfucked. Make that a capital M.
“I changed my mind,” I declare. “I don’t want to know. I’m hitting the hay, wake me if the bad guys show and we need to shoot motherfuckers.”
“The bad guys?”
“Yeah, I lost track of who the enemy is. One minute it’s the Chinese, then it’s the Italians and now you start throwing in guys who use initials as a name. I’m too fucking tired to deal with this crap. Unless these motherfuckers show up here looking to play, don’t fucking wake me either.”
“Rough night?” he asks as I reach behind him for the door. I freeze in my tracks and immediately I’m engulfed by the memories of Gina. Bending her over as I pound into her from behind hard and fast, pulling her hair, and leaving bite marks along the nape of her neck—yeah, it was a rough night.
Ignoring Linc, I snap out of it and pull open the door.
“What do you want me to do with the briefcase?”
The fucking briefcase.
Shit.
When I first offered to have Linc grab the thing I wasn’t thinking clearly. Well, to be more accurate, I was thinking with my dick. Then I had a dose of her. Then another. And another. I couldn’t go back because this time I wouldn’t be able to walk away again. I’d look at that pretty face and forget I’m a walking nightmare. A woman like her didn’t need to get dragged down by a fuck up like me.
“I’ll pay you,” I blurt, turning my gaze back to Linc.
Decision made.
“Come again?” he asks raising an intrigued eyebrow. Of course he did, Linc didn’t turn down a shot to make a buck. If I told him to run around the parking lot, quacking like a duck in a speedo he’d do it as long as I forked over the cash.
“Four fifty-three Carroll Street, top floor,” I tell him, reaching into my pocket and pull out the little cash I had in my pocket—a hundred and six dollars. I shove it into his palm and snarl, closing his fist as I peer at him. “Drop the suitcase off.”
“Briefcase.”
“Whatever,” I mumble.
“That bad, huh?” I don’t bother answering him and instead I watch him pocket my money. He shrugs his shoulders as his lips quirk.
“Too bad I probably would’ve charmed her better than you could,” he says, pointing his thumbs toward his chest. “Nobody can resist me.”
I step to him, poking my index finger against the center of his chest as I narrow my eyes and pin him with a deadly glare.
“Drop the fucking briefcase on the stoop and get the fuck out of there.”
“Man, she’s a hot piece of ass. If you’re done with that you should spread the wealth. Didn’t your brothers at the other clubhouses teach your greedy ass how to share?”
I didn’t take to the club whores like the rest of my brothers did. Didn’t find sticking my dick in a hole everyone else used and abused appealing. Especially after Ally and my dire need to fix the broken. Ally was as broken as they came, destroyed as much as the woman who bore me. I couldn’t fix either of them and gave up on being the hero. Gina was no whore. She wasn’t my property, but she wasn’t the clubs either. And she sure as fuck didn’t need a hero. Bottom line; Gina was no fucking Ally and comparing the two was almost comical.
I had no right to bear claim and I wouldn’t either, but I’d be damned if I’d sit back and allow Linc to make a move on the woman I was balls deep in all fucking night. Fuck, I was still wearing her scent like a badge of honor.
“Drop the fucking briefcase at the door or my greedy ass will shoot your dick off.”
It wasn’t even eight in the morning and I was already cursing this day and damning everyone to hell. Bed. I needed my fucking bed.
Was that too much to ask for?
Probably.
GINA
He fucking left.
Before I could even ask him to stay, he pulled his pants on, shoved his feet into his boots, and grabbed the rest of his shit from the floor. Technically he had already spent the night with me since it was nearly five in the morning when he decided he’d had his fill of me so I wasn’t expecting much. I figured he’d at least lay beside me, get an hour or two of sleep and then when I had to get my ass up and ready for work we’d part ways like any two civilized adults who had spent hours fucking each other senseless.
Instead I got a bullshit wham, bam, thank you ma’am.
Actually, I got a tip of the chin accompanied by thanks for a sweet night, pretty girl.
I barely managed a wave before he vanished.
I thought showering would help erase the memory of him, that it would ease the sting of rejection, but after I stepped out and stared at my reflection in the mirror, it became clear last night wouldn’t disappear as quickly as the man responsible for the hickey on my neck the size of my fist.
Bastard.
That’s not the only parting gift he left behind though, Stryker was generous, bruising the insides of my thighs ensuring I remembered him with every step I took.
Worst of all, I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror, specifically my eyes. They may be a part of me but after last night my green eyes belonged to the stranger in the bar I took home with me. The stranger named Stryker. The veteran biker, covered in tattoos who made me feel like I was the prettiest thing he ever laid his eyes on.
For the first time in my adult life I felt like I didn’t have to compete with a man, that I could be myself and not prove my worth. For one night I was just a girl. A pretty girl. I trusted him with my body, surrendered control and allowed Stryker to lead.
One night.
Now it’s over and done with.
I pushed the thoughts of Stryker from my head, put my game face on and drilled it into my head that it was a new day. Every dawn of a new day meant it was time for this girl to make moves. I’m a paper chaser, I don’t like feeling vulnerable and I have no time to waste on feeling sorry for myself. I strutted into the office, wearing a turtleneck and chalked it up to a great night, great sex and a good memory. Yes, a turtleneck. Not very fashionable and uncomfortable as all hell, but I wasn’t about to play into the jabs my co-workers would likely deliver. After all, they watched me leave the bar with the mysterious, dirty talking biker; the proud owner of a dick designed to make a woman question everything she thought she wanted.
It was a good plan.
Forget Stryker and his magical dick, pierced nipples and dirty promises.
Ignore my co-workers.
Invest enough portfolios to buy myself a new Chloe bag, and the pair of Giuseppe Zanotti heels I’ve been eyeing.
All in a day’s work.
My plan turned to shit the minute I stepped into Wurther & Sons Financial. Not only was I teased about going home with ‘Jax Teller’, but I had left my briefcase, containing the signed multimillion dollar contract, at the bar. Which leads me back to Stryker, who promised to have one of his biker buddies retrieve it and bring it to me.
Yeah, li
ke I said, my plan turned to shit.
Goodbye Chloe.
Until next month Giuseppe.
The day progressively became worse and on my way home I thought the universe was finished fucking with me. What else could possibly happen that hasn’t already?
The universe wasn’t done.
Not at all.
The express bus pulled up across the street five minutes early and I had to run across Fifth Avenue. Of course I was too impatient to wait for the light and jaywalked behind a bus, burning my leg on the exhaust.
Fuck you, universe. Fuck you.
I needed a burrito, an order of guac and chips, maybe a taco or three and a bottle of wine. Some girls turn to ice cream, this girl turns to Qdoba. Lucky for me there is one on the corner where the express bus leaves me. I loaded up on my comfort food and trekked the two blocks home, my heels clicking along the concrete streets of Brooklyn as I round the corner to my apartment.
I lift my eyes and peer down the tree-lined block and immediately spot the motorcycle parked in front of my brownstone. I’d be a liar if I told you seeing that sleek piece of machinery on the curb didn’t excite me and brighten my day.
However, as quickly as my heels pound the pavement in a rush to get home and the smile spreads across my lips, it’s gone because it’s not Stryker holding my briefcase.
It’s his friend.
Talk about kicking a girl when she’s down.
Unbeknownst to him, I watch from behind him as he peeks through the glass door. After a moment of allowing him to be a peeping tom, I clear my throat.
“Can I help you?” I snap as he turns around and checks me out.
No thank you.
One mistake is enough.
He smiles slyly, like a little boy with his hand in the cookie jar and lifts my briefcase with both hands, dangling it like a peace offering.
I take it with my free hand and he stares at the Qdoba bag in my other hand.
“It’ll never work.”
“Excuse me?”
“You and me, we’ll never work,” he says pointedly as he lifts his gaze from the bag to my face. “I could never get with a girl who eats from Qdoba.”
“Pity,” I bite back, shoving my way past him to dig for my keys.
“It’s a step up from Taco Bell,” he continues.
“It is not,” I argue.
“Sure it is, they both leave you in the bathroom for hours.”
“Too much info,” I say, scrunching my nose as I fit the key in my door.
“You got a craving for Mexican then you need to hit the Crazy Taco in Staten Island,” he advises. “That shit is the bomb.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I reply, holding back the urge to roll my eyes as I walk inside.
“You’re welcome,” he calls over my shoulder.
Spinning on my heel, I stare at him and press my brain to remember his name.
“I’m sorry…” my voice trails off.
“Linc.”
“Right. Well, Linc thank you for bringing this over,” I say, holding up the briefcase as I stare at the patch sewn to his leather vest.
“No problem, sweets,” he replies, rocking back on the heels of his Timberland boots. “He’s fucked.”
“Excuse me?”
“Stryker. He’s fucked,” he supplies simply. “Don’t know him long, but I know him well enough to know he’s seen some shit…shit people like you and well, even me don’t know a damn thing about. He’s fucked,” he repeats, cocking his head to the side as he bites the inside of his cheek. “I’m a gambler, got the bankruptcy papers to prove it and it’s taken me a long time to learn what a sure bet is. I’d bet everything, every dollar I have to my name that Stryker wanted to bring that briefcase here to you.”
“Well, he didn’t,” I say quickly. “Truthfully, I never expected him to deliver it anyway.”
He looks at me unnervingly as if he’s calling my bluff and I learn Linc truly is a gambler. He’d go bankrupt on that bet though because what I said was true. After Stryker left, I expected nothing.
“Right, well, you have a good night,” he says finally, turning around and heads down the stairs only to pause midway.
“Crazy Taco,” he calls over his shoulder. “You should try it some time. Thursdays are a good night to go. Half price margaritas all night.”
I tear my eyes from the Knight on his back and look down at my hands.
A briefcase in one.
Takeout in another.
Strong.
Independent.
Fierce.
Successful.
All the things I wanted to be.
All the things I am.
But there is one thing I didn’t bank on being.
Lonely.
I’m that too.
-Eight-
Gina
Leaning over the vanity, I pucker my lips and bring the lip gloss wand to them as the doorbell rings. I smack my lips together, rubbing the color from top to bottom and lean back to give myself another once over in the mirror.
It was a rare occasion I ever dressed down, most of my social engagements were business dinners that required the classy clothes that took up half my closet. It felt good to squeeze my curves into a pair of skinny jeans and trade my pumps for riding boots. The bell rang again and I ran out of the bathroom, grabbed my leather jacket from the bed and slipped my arms into it, covering the cold-shoulder sweater I was wearing.
After the biker fiasco I had an epiphany of sorts. It was time for me to put myself out there and not to score a deal but to make a life for myself. I was all work and no play, a recipe to become the old lady with six cats and a closet full of shoes she never wore. I needed to have fun, mingle some and let lose.
I needed a wingman.
But working twelve to eighteen hour days didn’t leave much time to make many friends. The close friends I had were business associates, men who taught me the ropes of a business I conquered at twenty-seven.
I had cousins.
A ton of them.
But there was only one I actually still spoke to, and that was my cousin Celeste. She was my father’s brother’s daughter, and they were the only members of the family that didn’t engage in illegal activity. Uncle Sal was a mechanic and Aunt Nancy was a para in an elementary school. They didn’t run in the same circles the rest of the criminals in my family did. In fact, Uncle Sal disowned my low life father.
Rocco Spinelli Sr. was a drug lord. Yep, he even got deported back to Italy when I was a kid. Of course my mother being the devoted wife she was packed me and my brother up and forced us to live in Italy. One would think being deported would’ve been a wake-up call for my old man. His crimes had been the forcing hand that uprooted our lives, but that didn’t matter to him. He was selfish as the day is long and a greedy bastard who took and took until karma kicked him in the balls.
Karma came dressed in a suit with a flock of men behind him, and his name was Umberto Gallo. Gallo was a notorious mobster in the town my father was born in and he didn’t like the idea of my dad selling heroin on his cobblestone streets. My father was shot forty-seven times and his death became our freedom.
My mother moved us back home to New York, shutting out the rest of our family including her sister Grace and my uncle, mob boss, Victor Pastore. Her reasoning was the mob killed my father and though some might say he deserved it, the woman who was blinded by love did not agree. The mob would never touch what was hers again and for that reason alone she disowned her sister.
My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer not long after we returned to America.
My father never earned a legit dollar in his life. All his money was cash, never paid taxes and sure as hell didn’t invest in an insurance policy. My mother was a single mom, worked as a waitress and raised us on her tips. We had state funded medical insurance and Slone Kettering didn’t accept Medicaid. Not that it mattered if they did. She never would’ve lost a day’s pay for treatment. Where would
that leave us?
It left us motherless.
She passed away and my brother, Rocco, went to my Uncle Vic and asked him to help us pay for her funeral. Two months later I was living in a dorm in Pennsylvania and my brother was living in a condo in Miami. I graduated college with a bachelor’s degree in business and Rocco graduated from the school of hard knocks.
Rocco could’ve been anything, but he chose to throw his life away. He claims he’s trying to make a name for himself, one that isn’t associated with the disgrace and dishonor my father left behind, but no good will ever come from him working for Uncle Vic. Especially now that he’s rotting in prison for the rest of his life and my brother is running his interests in Florida. It’s only a matter of time before the mob bleeds into the legit lifestyle he claims to live.
It probably already has but then again, I wouldn’t know. We don’t speak.
Not for lack of trying on my behalf.
He calls on holidays, sometimes on my birthday if he remembers, but always on Christmas. And on our mother’s birthday he always flies in and visits her grave.
Aside from Celeste, I’ve got no one, and Celeste isn’t really a party animal. She’s a single mom of a one-year-old and a full time nurse. Her story isn’t for the faint of heart; in fact, her story is what Lifetime movies are made of.
I should’ve known she’d show up early, and I bet tonight she’ll be staring at her phone all night waiting for it to ring. She’ll make an excuse that Skylar needs her when Aunt Nancy probably already has her tucked into bed for the night.
She needs to let loose just as much as I do, if not more.
Tonight.
Tonight we’ll be two girls who don’t carry the weight of the world on their shoulders. Tonight we’ll be fun, carefree and let the night take us wherever we’re meant to be.
Determined, I pull open the door and grin at my unsuspecting cousin.
Only it’s not my cousin standing in front of me.
It’s my brother.
My fucking brother and he’s dressed to the nines—well, except for the dress shirt that’s halfway unbuttoned. The last time I saw Rocco was in Miami and he was wearing linen pants and a wife beater tank top.
The Nomad Series-Collectors Edition Page 7
