The Brit

by Jodi Ellen Malpas

  “The only way to get shit into Miami undetected is through this boatyard or Byron’s Reach. We’re here. Byron’s is being watched twenty-four/seven. Nothing is coming into this city without me knowing about it.”

  Chapter 2

  ROSE

  * * *

  He grunts and pants, his stomach slapping against my ass as he clumsily pounds into me. “Yes, Perry. Oh God, Perry. Oh, please, Perry. Harder. Yes, harder, Perry.” I can hear myself. I sound convincing, and I must look like I’m in ecstasy. But I feel nothing. I don’t even feel filthy anymore. I close my eyes and wish myself away from the luxury of this hotel room and away from this moment. A moment I have no control of, being a woman I hate. But then, in my darkness, I find myself in the only other place I belong. With him. The conflict within twists my mind daily, because if I’m not being a pawn—albeit being lavished with gifts, living in luxury, being treated like a goddess—I’m a prisoner. A puppet. A punching bag. A slave to anything he so desires. Whether in hell or sent to some delusion of heaven, it’s all out of my control, and that makes me hate each cruel element of my life. Except those stolen moments. The moments I’m not being used as a weapon and he’s distracted with business. The moments I can hide away and immerse myself in the luxury of alone time. When I can binge-watch any old thing on Netflix and pretend I’m not me and I’m not trapped in this godforsaken world. When I can soak in the tub, laze around in my robe, eat junk food. When I can let my barrier down and switch off my brain. When I can be the me I like, if only temporarily. Those moments are rare and precious. They are what I live for, along with the memories I keep locked deeply away, safe from the twisted part of my mind. Safe from contamination. But even those tranquil moments snatched in time are tarnished by the knowledge that they are fleeting. Respite. Nothing more than a tease of what could be if I wasn’t me. But I am me. Twisted, damaged, and trapped. Beyond hope and help.

  I stare blankly at the headboard, the rhythmic pounds of him against my ass zoning me out.

  I know the moment he comes. He sounds like a cat being strangled, and I take it as my cue to join him, finding my voice and screaming. And then his body splatters across my back, flattening me to the mattress. “You’re a goddess,” he whispers in my ear, nuzzling into my neck like a child seeking comfort. I mask my shudder as I laugh lightly, squirming to get him off me.

  “I need the ladies’,” I tell him, and he rolls off and flops onto the bed, still puffing, panting, and sweating.

  I get up and wander to the attached bathroom in the hotel room, pushing the door closed behind me and flipping the shower on. I don’t look at my naked form in the mirror, unable to face the woman I am.

  “I feel de-stressed already,” he calls, following his declaration with a small chuckle. How easily pleased he is. “You’re doing wonders for my drive.”

  I’m giving him what his prim, perfect, wholesome wife can’t. Or won’t.

  “I was meant to find you in that bar, Rose.”

  Yes, he was meant to find me. But fate played no part. “And I’m so happy you did.” I step under the spray and reach forward, pressing my finger to the glass and dragging it across the slippery surface, breaking the solid film of mist, cutting up the perfection of it. Now it’s just like me. Ruined.

  “I hope you know how special you are to me, Rose.” The sound of his muffled voice from the bedroom brings an ironic smile to my face.

  I’m special to him. He wants me to feel special too. So I’ll keep fucking him. But I’m not here to feel special. I’m here as bait. I’m here to seduce him while his wife is off around the world doing charity work to strengthen her husband’s campaign to become the mayor of Miami. She’s clean-cut. Two-piece suits. Wholesome. A smile that never wavers.

  She is everything.

  I am nothing.

  I clean myself and grab a towel to dry off, hearing Perry Adams talking in the suite. A phone call? I creep toward the door, peeking out, and listen.

  “I need to get him that marina or I’m a dead man, and my campaign is nothing without his blood money rolling it. I hate to say it, but I’m broke. I need him.” His ass drops to the bed, his hand wiping over his sweaty forehead. By the look of him, I’m guessing he’s not feeling de-stressed anymore. “Being in The Brit’s pocket isn’t ideal, but if he says you’re doing business with him, you’re doing business with him. That’s how it is. I have another six days to get him Byron’s Reach Marina or give him back fifteen million. The money’s been spent. I don’t care what it takes, get the Jepsons on a plane back to the States so they can sign the contracts.” He hangs up, and I quietly push the door closed, biting my bottom lip. The Brit? The marina? Perry’s campaign is being bankrolled by Danny Black? I’ve never seen the man. Wouldn’t want to either. He’s notorious. Deadly. Kills for sport. The son of Carlo Black is, apparently, heading the mafia family while his father recovers from an unknown illness. Nothing much surprises me these days, but Perry Adams, the respected, likable lawyer, in bed with a man like Danny Black?

  I shoot to the mirror when I hear him making his way to the bathroom, picking up my toothbrush and shoving it in my mouth. The door opens. I look at him in the reflection. He’s trying to hide it with a dazzling smile, but he looks troubled.

  “Rose.” He puts himself behind me, his chin on my shoulder. “I have to leave.”

  I pout, feigning disappointment. This suite is luxurious and all mine when he’s not here pummeling into me like a depraved sex-starved animal. I’m free to indulge. But I’m never really alone. Never really free. “When will I see you again?” I ask, because that’s exactly what I should do.

  “I’ll be back later this evening.”

  My jaw tightens. “Perfect.” I turn into him and lay a kiss on his cheek. “Look forward to it.”

  He leaves the bathroom, and I hear him close the suite door behind him a few moments later. Now would be a perfect time to seize one of those rare and precious moments. To draw a bath. Pig out on the in-room dining. Scroll the channels and watch something mind-numbing. But . . .

  I head into the bedroom and settle at the desk, plucking the camera from behind the lamp. Then I call him.

  “Rose.” His voice has my tongue thickening in my mouth and my throat closing up on me.

  “I have more videos.”

  “We have plenty of videos. What I need is information. You’ve been there for two weeks and have nothing but footage of him fucking you, which I can’t use without breaking your cover. Go out with him. In public.”

  “He’s too careful. He won’t risk being seen.”

  “Find a way.”

  “I ca—” There’s a knock on the suite’s door, and I swing around on my chair. “I think he’s back.”

  “Answer the door, Rose. I sent you room service.”

  I stare at the wood, breathing out my nose quietly so he doesn’t hear the wariness escaping me. Room service? Sure.

  Not since the day this man bought me has he ordered me room service. He’s done nothing for me without a personal motive. That’s never going to change. I stand, holding my towel to my body, and make my way to the door, opening it to find a trolley cluttered with platters and silverware. “Thank you,” I say down the line, looking up to the guy who’s delivered my room service. I stare him straight in the eye as he draws his fist back, and then I turn away as he launches his punch, sinking his fist into my back. The air is knocked out of me, and my body folds in instinct rather than to stem the pain. For ten years, I’ve been at the mercy of the man on the phone. Bruises, cuts. Pain has been my constant companion. Physically? I’m not sure how much more I can take. Mentally? Mentally, I’ve been a nonentity for too long to know. There is only hopelessness.

  I straighten and return forward, knowing that’s what’s expected of me. A sick sense of gratitude or something equally ludicrous. “I heard him on a call,” I say down the line. “He spoke of The Brit and a marina. Black is funding Perry’s political campaign.”

&
nbsp; “That’s more like it,” he says, his voice dark and deadly. “Let’s keep up the good work.” He hangs up and his minion turns and walks away, leaving the trolley behind.

  I lift the lid from a platter.

  And stare at a photograph of a boy. My boy. He’s riding his bike in the park. It’s a reward for my compliance. But then I see him. The black-suited man in clear sight. He’s not alone. He’s not really safe. My boy’s security is an illusion—a reminder that he controls me. And as long as I conform, my son will be safe.

  As if I needed reminding of why I’m in this hell.

  I fold to the floor and hug my knees, trying to stem the pain. The mental pain.

  Chapter 3

  DANNY

  * * *

  It takes me a week to read his will. A week to find the strength. I still haven’t got the strength now, but the half bottle of Scotch has helped.

  His coffin should be oak like the doors in our mansion. The inside of the lid should be engraved to match the wooden swirls of his office door. If he’s dead, he wants to stare at his office door when he’s dead. He wants to feel like he’s at home.

  He wants me to carry him into the cathedral. Brad, Ringo, Uncle Ernie, and me. I’m to take the front right. He wants the Lord’s prayer to be recited. Twice. Once at the beginning of the service, once at the end. I’m to ensure that every single person in the cathedral says every word. Both times. If they don’t, I’m to put a bullet in their head. I can hear him telling me, “No second chances.” The bastard. God, I miss him.

  Apparently, I get to warn the congregation in advance. If Uncle Ernie so much as smiles at the irony, I’m to put two bullets in him. One in his gammy knee, the other in his temple. I laugh to myself, knowing Uncle Ernie has read all of this.

  He wants me to speak. Say a few words. And he wants me to give the church one hundred grand after the service. If any FBI agents show up, he wants me to stab them in the heart with a crucifix. I turn the page and read on. He wants to be buried in the cathedral’s graveyard with one hundred peace lilies surrounding his headstone. I laugh. Awkward fucker. That graveyard hasn’t seen a burial in over fifty years.

  But reading on, I note that arrangements have already been made with the priest. My father was many things, and prepared was one of his best traits.

  Everything is left to me. His empire, his assets.

  His deadly reputation.

  It’s all mine.

  I look up, dropping the papers on my desk, as Brad walks in. “It’s been a week.” He tells me what I already know, taking a seat in the chair opposite me. He looks hungry, ready for a killing spree. My right-hand man is a close second to me in the animal stakes. He’s the only man left in this world who I can trust. The bloke is a rock, has been by my side from day one. He’s family, my cousin, son of my father’s dead sister. And he’s been a loyal friend to me, even as kids when we barely knew what loyalty stood for. He took the rap when I beat the shit out of a boy five years my senior, because Brad knew if the cops got hold of Carlo Black’s son, they wouldn’t let go. He’s a good friend.

  “Actually”—I look down at my Tag Heuer—“he has one minute left.”

  “I don’t think Perry Adams is gonna make it from Vegas to Miami in one minute.” Brad tosses a stack of photographs on my desk, and I pick up the pictures, browsing through the first couple, seeing the corrupt prick laughing at a poker table. Has he forgotten that he’s got a cold-blooded killer to satisfy? His head is tossed back where he sits with stacks of chips in front of him. “Looks like he’s having a whale of a time too,” I muse, dropping the pictures and leaning back in my throne, stroking my cupid’s bow in thought.

  “He’s avoiding my calls.” Brad adds to Adams’s list of wrongs. “What’s his game?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit, wondering how any man could be so fucking stupid. He’s been falling all over himself to get me Byron’s Reach and take my money to fund his efforts to become mayor. And all of a sudden he doesn’t give a shit?

  “We need that marina.” Brad hates anyone stating the obvious, so when I raise a brow at him, he rolls his eyes. “We should go straight to the Jepsons.”

  “You can’t legally buy land without a lawyer. Besides, I want Adams in power too. I’m fifteen million down, and so far I’ve got fuck all to show for it except a thirst for his blood.” I want to slam my fist on the desk. But I don’t. Never show your frustration. Looking down at the pictures, I ask, “When were these taken?”

  “A few hours ago. He’s still there. Had it confirmed by the Aria’s security.”

  I stand, fixing my jacket. “Get the jet ready.”

  Chapter 4

  ROSE

  * * *

  The dress isn’t my taste, but it’s what he likes. Short. Revealing. Strapless. Nothing like his wife would wear. Or could wear.

  The style is a far cry from what my tall body feels comfortable in, because at five foot nine, a short dress is shorter on me than the average woman. Not that I’m here to feel comfortable. I’m just here. In a tarty red dress. I hate it. It screams whore. But that’s what I am.

  The fire red is definitely me, though. I’ll keep telling myself that. It’s a way of accepting something that’s out of my control. My whole life is out of my control, but this red? I would have picked this color. Against my tan skin and mahogany hair, the shade looks like it was made for my coloring. It may well have been. Perry Adams is nothing if not lavish with his money when it comes to me. But I don’t want his money. I don’t want his gifts or his attention or his sweaty body pounding into me. I don’t want to be here, and as soon as Nox has what he wants, I’ll be out. Well, away from Perry Adams, anyway. Who knows who my next target will be. Now he’s brought me back to my homeland, the possibilities for him are endless.

  “You look gorgeous, Rose.”

  I look up to the mirror as I secure a diamond in my ear, calling on the smile he loves so much. “Thank you.” I turn and rest my backside on the dresser in Perry’s hotel suite of the Aria. He’s wearing one of his signature navy suits. His power suit, that’s what he calls it.

  He approaches, and I quickly locate the invisible barrier and pull it down so that when he touches me, I won’t shudder. The tip of his finger rests on my forearm. “I’m not sure how I feel about you out on your own while I’m taking care of business.”

  Perry Adams is not a stupid man. He insisted I accompany him to Vegas where he’s gambling with the best of them, rubbing horns with other political types, however, outside of this suite, we won’t be seen together. But he needs to know I’m close. Needs to fuck me to make him feel even more powerful after he’s been busy fighting legal battles by day and aiming for mayor of Miami by night. And maybe I’m here because he’s possessive. He doesn’t want me back in Miami where there’s no one to watch me. Where I could potentially meet someone closer to my twenty-five years. Someone single. I laugh inside at the very notion. It’s a ridiculous notion. If I ever feel like drowning with a weight tied to my ankles, I might entertain the idea of meeting someone off my own back. I long ago accepted that this is my life. Looking pretty. Doing what I’m told, because I don’t have a choice. It’s the only way I have to survive, to function, and now it’s all I know. My life isn’t my own anymore, but at least I’m still breathing. And at least my son is safe.

  “I love you,” Perry whispers, pressing his chest into my front, his lips on my neck. “I had no idea that I needed you in my life until I found you all those weeks ago. And I hate that I can’t be with you properly. But you understand, don’t you, Rose?”

  “I understand.” I close my eyes while he sucks and slaps wet kisses all over my throat. “We don’t want to make you late for your game.” If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Perry Adams, it’s that he’s a stickler for promptness. He has ten minutes to make it to the casino floor.

  “I love how you know me so well.”

  Because it’s my job to know you so well, I think, but say,
“Of course,” pulling a lavish smile from nowhere. For a man who is supposedly in love with me, he doesn’t know me very well. He doesn’t realize the smiles are fake. The orgasms are fake. There’s no way he’ll ever know my whole fucking life is fake. That I’m simply a tumbleweed, the wind controlling where I go. A powerful wind . . . an invisible force. The Devil.

  “Terrance will walk you down when you’re ready.” Perry pulls away and takes my hand, kissing the top. “And no taking the stairs.” He cocks an eyebrow, reaching for my back and rubbing at the bruise there.

  “I’m just a little clumsy.” I smile mildly. “It’s nothing.”

  “You knocked yourself up pretty bad. It’s been a week and you’re still black and blue.” He gives me another kiss before taking a call and strolling out of the swanky suite. “We have a new investor,” he says as he goes, piquing my interest. He does? “They’re getting me the cash to pay back Black. The Brit can go fuck himself.”

  Perry has a new backer? The moment he’s gone, I look around for my cell, thinking I need to call through this news. But Terrance coughs, winning my attention, and motions to the heels by my feet. Later, I tell myself. Call it in later.

  I slip them on, taking me nearer to six foot. Perry Adams is playing with fire, and it seems I am not the only flame. Danny Black can go fuck himself?

  When we make it downstairs, I’m escorted to the bar and handed a glass of champagne. The good stuff. I see Perry in the distance at the blackjack table being lavished with attention by various men, all obviously politicians. He’s smiling, lapping it all up—the smacks on his back, embracing the onslaught of well wishes. Word has it he’s practically won already, the past few weeks campaigning being a huge success. Miami loves him. But if Black can go fuck himself, who will be funding him now?