by Smith, Maren
“What the fuck are you talking about? What the hell did my family do to yours? I can’t imagine what you think they did, especially something awful enough for you to take out your revenge on all of the people I’ve ever cared about.” I pushed away all the anger and additional questions. I needed to get the gun away from Antonio.
“It ain’t worth my breath to tell you, Kade. You’re just a worthless son-of-a-bitch pretty boy. You don’t mean nothing to no one,” Antonio mumbled, but his eyes never left Caitlyn’s. “Beg for your life, girlie.” He laughed. “You had this coming just for getting in my way.”
“Didn’t you already try to kill me when you set fire to Joe’s Pizzeria?” Cate pursed her lips. “I mean, let’s call it what it is. Haven’t you been wondering what happened to me?”
“You worked at Joe’s?” Antonio asked in an incredulous tone. “Well, isn’t that an interesting little tidbit. Nope. I had my own beef with, Joe. It’s a shame you didn’t burn right along with him, but I’ll take care of you tonight.”
“Your goons shot at me!” Cate threw a heated glare at me, but I shot one back. There wasn’t time to hash out past crap but their exchange granted the opportunity for me to move closer to Antonio. He noticed the movement and pulled another gun which he sighted on me.
“Hey! You stay still, punk.” He ignored Caitlyn’s outburst. “This little thing mean something to you? I’ll bite. Take another step and I’ll make her watch you die first.”
Fuck. How the hell had Antonio gained the upper hand so quickly? For a dumb ass he wasn’t wrong in his observation. I needed to play my cards right.
“You’ve been saying you’ve wanted to take me out for a while. Go ahead, Antonio, but do it like a real man. Put the gun away and come fight me.” I gestured for him to advance.
Antonio sneered. “I don’t fight. I don’t like freaks in my city and the two of yous are freaks with a capital ‘F’.”
“I’m a freak too, Antonio,” Sheila Delgado shouted as she sashayed through the door. “Why are you wasting your time on these two losers, baby? We have lots to talk about.”
“Sheila? I thought you was hiding out at one of Daddy’s mansions.” Antonio lowered the guns. “Have you changed your mind, baby? You wanna get hitched?”
“They got nothing on you.” Sheila pointed at Caitlyn and then toward me. “Once we’re in charge of the city, baby, they won’t have a pot to piss in.” She grinned. “I’m so sorry I ran off. I just got cold feet, but I’ve thought about it. Everything you told me about the business proposals and the network being established is something I can get behind. Let’s do this.”
“If we’re going to do all that, then let me just wrap up this unfinished business. I can’t have it hanging over my head.” Antonio brandished his gun in my direction. “I’ve waited a long time to take out this punk.”
“Listen, honey muffin,” Sheila cooed. “I don’t care about this trash. We got big plans to lay out. Come on, they won’t be any more trouble for you. I’m impatient, baby. I want to write up the papers tonight. I can’t go through another minute of my life not being Mrs. Antonio Morelli.”
“That does have a nice ring to it,” Antonio agreed. “And you’d have a nice ring to go with it.” He smirked. “But I need to wrap this up.” He aimed one of the guns at Caitlyn again. “Say good-bye, freak.”
“All right, babe. You go ahead. Take them out. Wrap up your unfinished business. Add a pretty red bow and then shove it up your ass,” Sheila scoffed.
“What?” Antonio blinked, and in that split second the gun seemed to have an intelligence all of its own. He watched in horror as his gun was pulled from his hand forcefully and spun around to face him. Antonio was too shocked to scream when the gun fired point blank, and he fell to the ground, his mouth opened in a silent scream.
Caitlyn covered her mouth with her hands and she sank to her knees. I rushed to her side and helped her to sit back on the arm chair. I wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and then glanced over at Sheila. A few moments of silence passed while we all took a collective breath.
“Did you know anything about his involvement in the death of my parents?” I asked Sheila with sincerity. Maybe her family knew more than I did.
“I wouldn’t take his words with more than a grain of salt, Kade. He’s known about their untimely demise about as long as I have, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he simply wanted to get under your skin. My father would know better than me. I can ask him later, but we’ve got to move.” Sheila surveyed the room as she spoke, and then she poked her head out into the hallway. “Hey, girlie. You okay? She looks a bit green. We gotta get her together because those thugs will be on their way.”
“I’m okay, I’m okay.” Cate squeezed my hand, and I helped her to stand. She let go of me and shook out her limbs. “I’ve never seen something so violent, but I’m not upset.” She set a hand on each of her hips. “Why should we believe that you’re on our side, Sheila?”
“I don’t like Antonio any more than you did. He thought I’d give into his asinine bargains. Please.” Sheila raised her eyebrows. “He’d have my father dropped off the pier as soon as we tied the knot.”
“Okay, but I’m not sure if we can trust you. How did you do that thing with the gun?” Caitlyn glanced between the two of us.
“Eh, I don’t really know. How’d you throw Antonio across a street? I bet you don’t know how you did it either.” Sheila snapped her gum. “Anyhow, I don’t like owing people favors and I owed you the biggest. You don’t understand what you saved me from the night we met out in Devil’s Park.” Her posture was badass and her overall attitude held a nice cool calm. No one would ever fuck with her again. “So, we’re even. Do we, uh, form some sort of team now? The three of us. Like, is that how this shit works?”
“How do you know about Kade?” Cate looked at her incredulously and then glared at me.
“I’d say not to get your panties in a twist, but you ain’t wearing any. Louisa and I were really close in high school. Someone had to help her through her ordeal after she lost her parents. I’ve never seen anyone as sick as Kade in my whole life.” Sheila crossed her arms over her chest. “Louisa couldn’t leave her brother’s side so I was making funeral arrangements.”
“You didn’t say all of that before,” Cate huffed.
“Relax, Superhero Barbie. We got at least fifty thugs out there on deck. It’s not the time to hash out whatever it is you were about to get into. I don’t want your pretty boyfriend.” Sheila poked my arm. “I like ‘em bigger and burlier.”
“It’s complicated, Caity-bug, but we’ve never been a couple like I’ve said to you before.” I ran my hand down Cate’s back and rested it on her ass. “We’ve got some bigger issues to deal with, so let’s push all of that away for right now.”
“Fine, so who is in charge now that Antonio is dead?” Caitlyn heeded the warning; she wasn’t about to rack up another punishment.
“Giovanni Morelli. He’s Antonio’s younger brother. He’s an even bigger dick in some matters than Antonio, but not as power hungry. He’d never touch a woman. Things is gonna change around here. Not a fucking miracle overnight, but you know? Better.” Sheila rolled her neck on her shoulders. “You both ready to do this? We need to get off this boat.”
“I’m Caitlyn. I won’t break your bones, but I can.” She held a hand out to Sheila who shook it and then released it.
“Real reassuring, Caitlyn. I can break your bones with my mind, you know? But, I won’t.” Sheila scoffed. “Anyhow, we need to work together to get out of here.”
“I’ll hear their thoughts which should pinpoint their basic location before any of us can hear them with our ears.” I inhaled deeply and let it out. “Are you ready?”
“Hey,” Sheila returned to the middle of the room. “Who made you the leader, Kade?”
“Ask Caitlyn about it.” I winked and took my girl’s hand in mine. “Don’t you agree, sweetheart?”
“You ser
iously don’t want to question him on this point.” Caitlyn rolled her eyes. “Trust me.”
“Then it’s settled. Let’s go.” I led the two of them out of the room, hoping we’d be able to face whatever challenges we were about to encounter. Caitlyn and I were together, and Antonio Morelli was dead. Everything else would fall into place.
THE END
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Daddy Shark
by
Maren Smith
About Maren Smith
Fortunate enough to live with my Daddy Dom, I am a Little, coffee fanatic, administrator at my local BDSM dungeon, resident of the wilds of freakin’ Kansas (still don’t know how I ended up here) and submissive to the love of my life. An International and USA Bestselling Author, I have penned more than 160 novels, novellas and short stories, and am the author of the Masters of the Castle series.
I also write under the names of Denise Hall, Darla Phelps, and Penny Alley.
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Copyright © 2019 by Maren Smith
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including, but not limited to, photocopying or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, locales, and events are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, and events are purely coincidental.
Edited by: Maggie Ryan
Chapter 1
Ommin Jones never meant to be a superhero. Of course, he never meant to go through life with a name like Ommin, either. His mother was to blame for that. Consequently, she was also to blame for twelve years of school-age hell, during which all his classmates called him Ommin Top Ramen. Twice he’d let it slip that he was really named Omen, like the movie, in the hopes they’d take to calling him that, or maybe even Damien, which would have been infinitely more preferable. But no, Ommin Top Ramen had a nicer ring and that was the name that stuck. It could have been worse. As dazed and exhausted as his mother had been after forty hours of labor, had the nurse faithfully copied down the first thing Mira Jones replied when asked, “What would you like to name your newborn son,” Ommin would have wound up “PortendOfThingsToCome Jones.”
So, yeah. Ommin was squarely his mother’s fault.
That he was now labeled a superhero, well… that was all on Ommin. And his superpower, which seemed to have less to do with shark skin these days and more to do with showing up in all the wrong places at all the right times.
Oh, and he could shape shift. Into a fish. Try winning over the girls with that one.
What the hell was he doing here?
The waiting area of KJMN’s morning broadcast show was alive and bustling. The recording studio was closed, the red light above the picture window showed it was On-Air. He had no clue who the announcer was. He didn’t listen to talk radio and was only here because of the call he’d received. Or rather, the calls. There’d been dozens of them. Perhaps hundreds, by now. He didn’t know; he’d lost count. Constantly running from, ducking, and dodging the gaggles of reporters camped outside his San Francisco apartment could do that to a guy. Not that he had anyplace to run to. His face was all over the TV. Everywhere he went—the grocery store, the movies, the bus stop, for God’s sake—people stopped, pointed, stared, and one little boy on the sidewalk last night had even asked for his autograph.
His autograph.
Like he was a movie star or something. Ommin wasn’t. He was just a guy who happened to be perched on the outer edge of the Golden Gate Bridge, exactly halfway across where the bridge stood the highest and the stormy water below ran the deepest, at the exact same moment when a leg swung over the railing beside him and down climbed a young dark-haired man with that look in his eyes.
“Oh, hey, man, don’t,” was about all Ommin managed to say before the other simply let go of the bridge. He fell more than jumped, but it was in that minute when he released his grip that Ommin saw something change in his face. For the sparsest of seconds, the mask of hopelessness broke and Ommin caught that bittersweet glimpse of instant regret.
It was already too late. Gravity had him the second flesh and steel parted ways. There was no grabbing the bridge back again. He fell, his eyes locked on Ommin and filling fast with panic.
Ommin jumped after him. Because, of course he did. Not that the ocean wouldn’t kill him, too. It would. Oceans were fickle that way, and there was a storm coming in. One that had been brewing for days, turning the waters choppy around the massive support structures and crashing wave after dark, frothy wave against the rocks that locked the bridge in place. But when a guy thought he was the only one there who could help, sometimes a guy did damn-fool stupid things.
Ommin was still thirty feet up when the salty mist peppered his skin, forcing his change. It hurt. What was shark skin, really, but a bazillion tiny teeth suddenly growing out through his flesh. But by now, he had felt this same hurt so many times—the skin, the teeth, the spiny fins sprouting from the bones of his forearms and down the ladder of his spine between his shoulder blades—it was almost a secondary sensation. One felt at the very back of his mind. An inconsequential thing no worse than the snap of a rubber band against his wrist, and instantly soothed by the welcoming wet of the sea.
The young man saw it happen. Seconds before he hit the water, he screamed.
A smarter person would have held his breath.
A sane person wouldn’t have jumped in the first place.
The young man hit the ocean back first. Ommin made himself straight as a needle. He hit toes first, but it was still like diving three-stories into a brick wall. His shark-skin strengthened him, absorbing the worst of the impact, but his toes and ankles both buckled under and snapped. Thank God for accelerated healing. By the time the suck of the water had pulled him under as far as it was able and grudgingly let him go again, his bones were already mending. That first kick did more than sting like a rubber band, but without his healing factor, it would have been a hell of a lot worse.
The young man now caught in the rushing flow of the ocean current had nothing to help him and that bubbly underwater scream as he was swept into blackness would stay with Ommin for days. It was with him now, echoing in the back of his mind as Ommin sat in the busy waiting room on a chair three sizes too small for a man of his size, watching that solid red On-Air light and waiting for his turn to be interviewed.
What was he supposed to say, anyway? Thank goodness the guy hadn’t died? He hadn’t. Sharks knew how to use the ocean currents. So did sharkmen, for that matter. Ommin caught up with him in seconds and, hooking the man in both arms, lugged him back to the surface. Where an entire line of people he hadn’t realized were gathering, erupted into cheers. He could see cell phones. He could see camera flashes. Then the spotlight of the rescue boat already arriving pinned Ommin in place amongst the rough waves, and he was caught.
Within minutes the Coast Guard had both Ommin and his survivor out of the water where everyone could get a good look at him. After a lifetime of hiding who and what he was, Ommin had no choice but to stand in full view on that boat, fighting not to flinch under their gaping stares the whole way back to shore.
Where news crews were waiting, not just to catch sight of the shark that had saved a man, but to capture on camera the immortal words of the paramedic who said, “I don’t care what he is. That shark’s a fucking hero. This man wouldn’t be alive without him.”
The papers paraphrased his statement—because, of course they did—and turned it into the headline of the next morning’s paper. It was the leading story on every television and radio
news station from six o’clock to midnight. Ommin couldn’t count the number of times he heard that paramedic’s voice interrupted by that telltale bleep while he was at the hospital, wrapped in a blanket and waiting for his hair to stop dripping so his skin would shift back to normal. Waiting, one leg jiggling rapidly up and down, to see if he was going to be arrested, shot, or whisked away for study in some secret underground laboratory, where no one would ever hear from him again. And that was kind of sad because, for all the hours that he sat waiting, he tried to conjure up a list of just how many people that would be. He came up with one: his landlord, Mr. Giannelli, and only because eventually his rent would come due.
No machine full of cogs turned quite as slowly as a hospital waiting room in a city of more than 800,000 people. Inevitably, someone drew the short straw and they had to take care of him. Led into the back, Ommin took every step just knowing SWAT had to be waiting from the shadow of every doorway and around every corner.
They weren’t. Nobody leapt out at him.
He took a seat in a curtained off examining area no bigger than the gurney that occupied it, absolutely convinced he was going to get a surprise stab to the neck with a paralyzing injection, but that never happened either. After another forty minutes of waiting— probably for a re-match on the short-straw draw; come on, man, best two out of three… please!—a doctor finally arrived.
His vitals were taken, all except his blood pressure—they couldn’t get the pressure cuff around his bicep. They checked him over, pronounced him fit as hell, and just before the doctor left for his next patient, he shocked the shit out of Ommin.
