by Marlee Wray
When I emerge from the bedroom, he’s pacing with a frown on his face and his phone to his ear.
“It’s his choice. I’ve gotta go.” He ends the call. The phone rings immediately, and he shoves it into his pocket, scowling.
“What was that about?”
He shakes his head.
The phone vibrates in his pocket. He looks like he’s barely keeping his emotions under wraps.
“Are you all right?”
The phone rings again, and he grits his teeth. He pulls it out and swipes the screen. I can hear a woman’s hysterical voice. C listens, saying nothing. The voice continues for several moments, begging him for something.
When there is finally a pause on the other end, he says, “I told you I’ll send someone.”
A fresh round of crying pleas begins.
“I have to go,” he says and ends the call. He shoves the phone into his pocket.
I go to the suite’s kitchen and take a lime from a basket of fruit. I slice it and make him a Jack and Coke. The ice swirls against the sides of the glass when I stir it. I cross the room and hold the glass out.
“Thanks,” he murmurs.
He turns to the window as he takes a drink. I slide my arms around him from behind and rest my cheek against his shoulder.
“Heavy is the head that wears the crown,” I whisper, then fall silent again.
After a few moments, he sighs and holds the glass over his shoulder.
I take a couple of small sips.
“My guy who was wounded in the van robbery? His wife is losing it. He’s taking pain pills and is unsteady on his feet. He took a tumble getting out the shower. Twisted his ankle. She wants him to go to an emergency room. He says no. She wants me to order him to go.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“No, she doesn’t want him to know she called me. So I’m supposed to pretend to be calling to check on him about the gunshot wound. He’ll know that’s bullshit. Plus, I don’t lie to my guys. We have to be able to trust them, and that means they have to be able to trust us too. I might hold things back that are none of their business, but I’m not going to outright bullshit them.”
“Is he a pretty reasonable guy? If he needed to go to the hospital, would he?”
He’s silent.
“No, then?” I ask softly.
“He wouldn’t go for the gunshot wound. Hospitals have to report that to the cops. But for a regular twisted ankle he could go if he thinks he needs it. He obviously doesn’t.”
“Is his wife the hysterical type usually?”
“I don’t know her. Only met her when I went to see him after he was shot. She was calmer over that.”
I’m silent a moment, thinking back. My dad was a tough man. My mom had to convince him to go the hospital when he had left arm pain. It turned out to be a heart attack. He lived because of her.
“What if we went to see them?” I say.
He turns. “We?” he asks, looking at me.
“My people are theater people. Hysteria doesn’t freak me out.”
“We’d have to drive back,” he says with a question in the inflection.
I shrug. “I don’t mind.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah, let’s go.”
* * *
Connor
I do not want to deal with the noise from Little Joe’s hysterical wife. I’m tense as I knock on the door to their apartment. I can hear a baby crying.
His wife, Manda, has dirty blonde hair that’s greasy and falling from a clip. She looks wrecked compared to the other times I’ve seen her.
“Mr. McCann,” she says, shocked. “Oh, my God, thank you.” Then she bursts into tears.
Zoe pushes into the apartment. “Hi, Manda. I’m Zoe, a friend of C’s.” Zoe wraps an arm around the girl’s shoulders. “Let’s go get some water.”
“Cecile’s cryin’,” she mumbles.
“Can I get her?” Zoe says, practically pushing Manda into a kitchen chair. “I’ll get her,” she says in a calming, but firm voice. She squats down in front of Manda’s knees. “Don’t let her see you cry though. It’ll scare her. Take a deep breath. Deep breath. Good. Just like that. A couple more. I’ll be right back.” Zoe strides past me.
“Where’s Joe?” I ask.
“Bedroom,” Manda says, wiping her eyes and pointing.
I go to the door and knock a couple of times. There’s no answer, so I finally just push the door open. I don’t like strutting into a guy’s bedroom without an invite, but I’ve come to see him and I’m going to. The air’s stale and musty. I flick on a light, and it’s already no good.
Little Joe’s a skinny guy normally, but he looks like he’s lost ten pounds in a few days. His ribs stick out like he’s been through a famine. He’s wearing gray boxers, and his head’s on a damp towel. The pillows and part of the sheets are bunched up against the headboard, like he’s been fighting demons in his sleep. The bandage around his thigh where the gunshot wound is dry at least, not saturated with blood. The ankle though is bad. It’s swollen and purple, the foot’s ballooned too. The skin on one side of the ankle is stretched tight, like white knuckles.
The baby’s crying stops, which is a relief. I don’t get how he’s sleeping through the noise in his place and the pain in his leg that’s now doubly wounded.
“That’s broken,” Zoe says softly.
I glance over to the doorway where she’s standing and nod.
“The bone’s trying to push through the skin. The skin will die if the bone’s not straightened right away. It happened to someone I know. He didn’t have insurance, so he waited too long,” she says.
I lean over and give Little Joe a hard shake.
When he recognizes me, he tries to straighten up, but he can’t manage it. He grabs his leg and groans. His words are slurred and confused. He’s clearly doped up on pain pills. No wonder he fell.
I stalk to the dresser and dig through the drawers until I find a pair of sweats. “I’ve got this. Tell her if she wants to come, get dressed. Or if she doesn’t want to bring that baby to the hospital, they can stay here, and we’ll call her from the ER. And tell her not to worry about the money. C Crue will cover this bill.”
I get Joe dressed and come up with a cover story for the thigh wound. I drag him over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry and take him out to the Rover. The cold air sobers him some. His eyes are a little more focused when I strap him in his seat.
Zoe, to her credit, opens and closes doors, but is otherwise silent. When we’re strapped in to the front seats, I exhale my frustration.
“She didn’t say he was out of his mind on narcs,” I say, shaking my head.
“She was out of her mind with worry and terrified of calling you,” she says. “I think he didn’t want to go to the hospital because he thought they might see the thigh wound. She was afraid you’d say he couldn’t go to a hospital period because that’s what he’d said. But she couldn’t even get him up after he fell. He crawled to the bedroom, screaming from the pain in his ankle. It took almost thirty minutes to get him into the bed. She didn’t know how she would even get him back to the bathroom when he needed to go.”
“Fuck,” I say, feeling guilty. I’d never imagined that Little Joe wouldn’t at least call to say he needed a hand at his place. There are plenty of guys I could’ve sent over. Any of them could’ve gotten him in his damn bed and then sent me a picture of his ankle and asked for orders. “My people shouldn’t act like they’re on their own. We call it a crue for a reason.”
“They’ll know now,” Zoe says. “You’ve shown them.”
My gaze slides to her. She’s taken no credit for getting us here. No credit for calming his wife and toddler. No credit for her patience in going on this ride-along to a hospital for a stranger.
I’m sure now that she wasn’t involved on any level in the hit on the van. She didn’t hesitate an instant in going to the home of the guy who got shot in that robbery. She didn’t flinch wh
en she held his crying wife or saw what a healthy twenty-four-year-old man had been reduced to from being shot during that robbery. No one’s that good of an actress.
“Z?”
“Yes?” she asks, turning her head.
“Thank you.”
She smiles. “I didn’t do much, Connor.”
“Yeah, you did.” I know now what I’ve sensed all along. She’s the woman for me.
Chapter Twelve
Zoe
Three days later, we go to Slattery’s Pub. It’s a local hangout in their neighborhood and it’s crowded, but Connor is acknowledged with a nod that says he can choose his spot. I wear a boysenberry-colored dress that dips in the front and plunges in the back. His palm is on my bare skin, making it tingle as we head up a back staircase. My heels click against the worn wood, which creaks underfoot.
Things are tense because I’ve been pushing to go home, and he’s not willing to let me leave his place.
“What if I stay somewhere else? At one of my friends’ places?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Sanders knows your friends. Frank probably does too.”
I scowl. “Dennis isn’t a threat to me. And Frank would be a lot less angry if I stayed with a friend than if I stayed with you.”
“When I know it’s safe for you to be out without protection, I’ll let you go wherever you want.”
“When will that be?” I demand.
“Can’t say.”
“People have been asking where I am. I don’t like lying or evading their questions. It’s awkward.”
“Who’s been asking?” he asks.
I look away.
“Sanders? Frank?”
“Among others.”
“What did Sanders say?”
“That he’s been by my place. That he wants to talk to me about something.” I put a hand on C’s arm. “I could meet him and help to settle this.”
“No.”
“Why? He’s much more likely to confide in me than in Trick or Anvil.”
“No, he’s not.”
My eyes narrow. The only way he’d confide more in either of them would be if they threatened or hurt him. I don’t like thinking that they’ll do that. Dennis and I are close, and he’s been supportive when I’ve needed it while working on the show. That’s not to say that I think it’s okay for him to go around robbing C Crue or being present when one of their men is shot. I just believe that things might have gotten out of hand. Did the C Crue guys pull their guns? If Dennis was there, did he panic? Or did his partner? I sigh. I really, really wish I could stay out of the middle of this.
“I need some time to think, C. So this is the last night I’m staying at your place. Tomorrow I’m going home or to stay with a friend.”
He doesn’t answer, and I don’t know if that means he’s agreeing or just tired of talking about it. We reach the upstairs game room where Trick and Anvil are playing pool.
Connor’s hand rests on my ass. I have mixed feelings about it being there. On the one hand, deep down the possessive feel of it excites me. On the other, it signals what I am... a sex toy to be fondled in public. My cheeks flush.
“Hey, C,” Trick says. “You play pool, Zoe?”
This relaxes me, making me feel like I’m being invited into an inner circle, the way a girlfriend would be. Do these guys have girlfriends? They definitely get laid a lot, but I’ve never heard of them being linked to one girl. Still the friendly invitation makes me happy because at least he’s not looking at me like I might have knowledge about the van robbery.
“No, but I wouldn’t mind learning,” I say with a friendly smile.
“I’ll show you,” Connor says, giving my ass a slow squeeze.
Trick winks.
“Go sit, Zoe.” C nods at the couch.
I retreat to a cozy corner, mostly because no other action makes sense.
The three men move into a tight circle, and I can’t make out what they’re saying in low voices. A minute later, Anvil sets his pool cue against the wall, and he and Trick leave.
“What was that about?”
Connor leans against the pool table, watching me. “Doesn’t concern you.”
“You sure?”
He arches a brow.
“Because I have a right to know if it does.”
“Is that so?” He shakes his head, answering his own question. He drags his thumb over his stubble thoughtfully.
“I’m losing patience, C. Your business is your business, but my life is my business! If you’re not going to talk to me, I might as well leave now.”
“Come over here.” He sets his phone on the table next to him and starts a playlist, turning up the volume.
I walk over, and he pulls me against him, whispering low in my ear. “Are you sure you want to know more than you do? Do you want to hear that your redheaded boyfriend with his man-bun was at the theater with Frank and one of his captains? Do you want to hear that Sanders has been spending money he didn’t have last month? Or how about the fact that he’s lying low, not staying in his apartment, not going to the places he normally hangs out?”
My eyes widen. “He’s not staying at his place?”
“Hasn’t been there in days. So yeah, he’s suspect, and we’re looking for him. And until I get to the truth, I don’t want you meeting him or anywhere near him.”
“But he’s been to my place.”
“I know. He wants to get to you or the money he stashed or both. Now, are we done talking about this?”
After a beat, I nod.
“Good. Then go bend over that couch and raise your dress.”
“What?” I ask, my gaze darting around the room. We’re alone, but anyone could walk upstairs.
The corners of his mouth curve up. “Make me wait, and it’ll be my belt across that juicy ass of yours.”
“C, anyone could come up.”
“Then you’d better hurry before someone does.”
I stare at him, frozen for several moments. He points at the couch.
I shake my head.
“No one will come up. And if someone did, they’d never talk about what they saw. Trick owns this bar. People know me here.”
In other words, they’d know better than to gossip about the kingpin.
“I shouldn’t have raised my voice. I know you’re trying to resolve this.”
“Over the couch.”
“Can’t this wait until later when it could lead to other things? Wouldn’t that be more satisfying?”
He unbuckles his belt.
My heart races. I lick my lips as the belt slides free.
“The longer you wait, the harder the punishment.”
Reluctantly, I move to the couch, my heart already racing excitedly. Bending over it and presenting my ass immediately starts a hum in my body, my pussy tingling.
“Lift your dress out of the way.”
Very slowly, very hesitantly, I slide the silky fabric up to my waist. Now there’s only a thong.
Connor joins me, fondling the curvy globes. “I love your firm, round ass.”
My heart continues to thud so loudly it echoes in my ears.
“Some night, I may spank it for show,” he says, squeezing me slowly.
My face flames. “For show?”
“If you’re bad, I might bend you over and punish your ass in front of the guys.”
My breath catches and my pussy clenches, humiliation and arousal warring at the thought.
“You can’t do that!” I protest.
“I can’t, huh?” he asks, amusement in his voice. “You hate that idea? That’s why you push your ass up and out when I mention it?”
Even more embarrassed and now slightly pissed, I start to stand up.
He puts a hand on my back and pushes me back into position.
“Easy, beautiful. We’re not done yet.” He strokes the lowest part of my back, just above my ass. Then I feel his lips on my skin. The kiss is slow, his
tongue trailing down. I shiver. “Gonna be a good girl?” he asks in a husky voice.
Mine is equally husky as I reply, “Yes.”
His palm comes down against my ass in slow, hard swats. Heat washes over me.
“God,” I whisper, unable to resist the sexy spiral I’m caught up in. How can I be half enjoying this?
He eases my panties down, and lust consumes me. I want him to touch me everywhere. I want some part of him inside me.
The slap of the belt makes my breath catch. I suck in air as the sting sinks in.
“Connor,” I groan.
“Hmm?” he asks, fingering the hot stripe from his belt.
“I’m not sure about this.”
His fingers dip into my pussy, which is weeping with pleasure. “I think you’re sure.” He slides his finger against my clit. My body vibrates with need, and I ease my legs wider apart. My mind hisses a protest, but my body ignores it.
He pulls his hand away. Then the belt whistles through the air and slaps my skin. I groan softly. He continues until the rhythm of the belt heats my skin to a feverish degree, and I edge away and rise up.
“I can’t,” I say, though my body’s still on the edge between pleasure and pain.
He drapes the belt over the back of the couch and unzips his fly. “Back over,” he says, tapping the couch cushion.
I drape my body next to his belt. He flips up my skirt. My underwear is still down around my thighs, which are damp with excitement.
He slides into me, his thick cock hard and unrelenting. “Mmm,” he says, squeezing my flaming ass.
I whimper, but push back, taking him all the way inside.
He grips my hips with callused hands and begins pumping into me. I’m breathless, my belly full of knots. How can I want it this way? But I do.
My backside is sore as he bangs into it. That drives me higher. I’m tight and wet at my core, and he seems to know just how to angle his thrusts.
“Connor,” I rasp.
He thrusts deep and pauses, holding me in place so my ass is pressed against his trousers, the cool fabric comforting my overheated skin.
“What, Zoe?” he asks. He shifts his weight, throbbing inside me.
I shake my head.
“Tell me. Pull out? Or keep going?”
