Follow us! Be an alliance of The Unholy!
I’m no better than a used car salesman.
But instead of selling an engine wrapped in plastic and steel, I’m selling dicey deals worth millions. The mental makeup is the same and I’m smart enough to recognize the hustle. He who hustles best, finishes on top.
I should be good at it with Delarte Cristos as my mentor. And I guess I am, but there is no guidebook for what to do with the conscience. No assistance in isolating my fears from the obvious. It’s a seedy world and someone has to do it—sell the bangs to gangs and load the kids to run the candy—and while I’m far up on the totem pole, the responsibility is a burden I don’t wish to bear.
I never wanted to be the kingpin’s son—but in an effort to take down my father—I have become the mafioso’s son he always dreamed of. He isn’t proud of the Master’s degree, but the achievements in my ability to launder money.
Yippee!
It’s all fucked up.
I’ve killed men, and those killings are justified in my eyes. Would their mother agree? Probably not. I’m the bad guy wrapped in a beautiful genetic package. I didn’t ask for it. I put the scars and ink on my skin as an armor to disguise the weakness, vulnerability, and hurt. If I could start over, I’d be an innocent. I’d be the nerd at the front of the class wearing glasses and quietly keeping to myself. I’d have few friends. I’d spend most of my time alone, reading…
Being in the water I crave…hoping to tame the flood before extinguishing my flame.
Not every man bathes in a tub and I understand that. Unless special circumstances present themselves, I’m probably the only member of The Unholy to bathe on a fairly regular basis. Deacon teases me all the time. “Real men take showers.”
I settle into the bubbles, splash water on my face and hair, and lean back to close my eyes. I think about Amber. I think about the promises I made. I think about Kaci.
And I weep.
For my daughter. For Iris. For love.
I hear the door of the room open and Deacon swaggers in dressed in jeans and a crisp white shirt. All he needs is some cowboy boots and a hat. He squats down and lays his hand on my arm as my hands conceal my face. He knows I’m crying, losing my shit from the stress.
I do this—a lot—and he is the only one who knows, but still I refuse to confide the truth. I peer out from beneath the puddles to watch him. He says nothing, rising, and untucking his shirt while he kicks off his sneakers. His clothes fall off hastily and he steps into the water.
He is neither fire nor water, but wind.
I need his breeze to survive as he brings clarity and surges my cinders to a blaze.
With his elbows on the edge of the tub, he steeples his fingers beneath his chin. I feel his legs brush against mine. His toes nudge my ass. “Talk to me.”
“I need answers.”
“For what questions?”
I drop my hands and look him in the eye. He sees the turmoil mounting in my heart and the concern in his expression is one of repairing the damage someone else inflicted. He is protective, possessive, and focused. His jaw tightens to a clear cut line as those sad blue eyes upload more of my emotions than they should. I am his Dominant, not the other way around. I’m supposed to have my shit together.
“What to do with my life.”
He slowly leans forward, barely moving the water. “What do you want more than anything in the world?”
“I want Iris, you, and out of this world we’re in.”
“What do you want most? One thing…”
I pause to think what all the things I want have in common, the universal answer to soothe my tortured soul. “I want freedom.”
“Then chase freedom and don’t stop until you get it.”
“And if I get people I love killed or hurt in the process?”
With a light smile, he snickers, “Don’t fuck it up, Raniero. You got this. You don’t think you do, but I promise, you’re further away from being enslaved that you ever have been. You knew this was going to be tough. You knew it would be a long, hard journey, but you can’t quit and you can’t let up. Keep rising to the challenge and fighting your best fight. It will happen—it is your destiny.”
“… Is this why I keep you around?”
“Partly,” he says, tilting his head. His hands move beneath the shimmer of bubbles to my cock. “And the other reason is this.”
“Are you going to make me come?”
“Not only am I going to make you come, I’m going to soak in it.”
I break into a brief grin. “Only you would bathe in my cum.”
“Naw, I bet there are a few others who would, too.”
“You flatter me.”
“I love you,” he whispers, rubbing his thumb over the head of my cock. “And I will do anything in this world to put a smile on that face.”
Sliding back and easing my hips forward, I allow his access to me. “And what happens when I stop being the one you care about?”
“That,” he contends, wrapping his fist around my erection. “Will never fucking happen.”
8
Use My Gun
“Zach and Zeke wish you well,” Deacon says on the phone as we wait in pre-op two months later. We solidified The Brethren deal. We are now partners in crime. I’m remarkably positive about the experience. I mean we’re still crooked as a barrel of fish hooks, but The Preacher is a bit of a spiritual guru.
Amidst the spinning roulette wheel and kaching-ing noises of slot machines, he understood my Gordian knot. He vowed to keep our ass as clean as possible and swore to not involve our unsavory business in human trafficking.
Dom believed him.
And so, did I.
Mostly because we all knew with the powerhouse offspring we brought in The Unholy, we could gobble up The Brethren in a matter of days if we wanted. We offered our protection in the form of the growing army of Cinco defectors. Pico didn’t just have a gang, but an entire fleet, several thousand strong. We became a friend to his rebuilding efforts and we reaped the rewards of having his ruthless outlaws at our disposal.
His gang was nameless, literally, and Pico wanted it to stay that way. No club. No cut. No trail.
I respected his wishes as Nico started the Nameless moniker amongst us. The four of us were eating grilled prawns, chili hot wings, and tempura fried green beans while sipping on sake, lychee ramune, and chrysanthemum tea at a little Japanese dive. They must have known we were coming because when I asked for bleu cheese for those wings—they accommodated with a smile.
“Did you call ahead?”
Dom smirked. “Would I ever do a thing like that?”
Nico and Deacon laughed.
We spent the evening prowling The Strip like the young gangsters who just scored big. Thousands were dropped on the tables that night and we hot boxed in the limo on the way to the strip club. The strip club was Dom’s idea after I made twenty-five grand sitting at a BJ table.
“It’s time to go,” he said.
And like the good little bitch I had always been for Dom, I listened. He wasn’t wrong. I started with a k; my luck was bound to run out soon. Nico and Deacon played Bingo—I wish I were kidding. I think they made a hundred between them. Regardless of the stash, we had a good time.
At the club, our table was center stage and the girls were all over us. I couldn’t keep my mind off Iris—something about the combination of events, Japanese food and landing the deal, not to mention the strain of ganja got me way too reflective. With Nico and Deacon getting lap dances, I took off needing a breath of fresh air.
And my good Master followed.
“You’re going to be okay,” he said as I lit a smoke on the side of the building. “You’re going to get through this absence and so is she. Pretty soon, you’ll have her grinding on you and talking about making babies.”
Running my fingers through my hair, I gripped and pulled hard. “I just don’t know if I can make it another two plus years�
��”
“You will. You will because you have to. You will because you have no choice.”
I gave a look of displeasure. “And what if she doesn’t want me?”
“Do you honestly think that will happen?”
“I don’t know.”
“Uncertainty doesn’t look good on you,” Dom replied, stepping closer. “Confidence is sexy. Fake it until you make it.”
With my negative rebellion in full swing, I muttered, “And what if I don’t—make it?”
“That is not an option.”
Monday June 20, 2016, I wait in pre-op for my third hand surgery with Dr. Tristan Kerris. It’s been 366 days since I’ve tasted coffee; 267 days since I’ve had my girl on my tongue.
I chose Nebraska because I knew there was no way in hell my family would come out. Deacon and I drove my Raptor out with one of his bikes in the back. We plan on leaving both vehicles here.
The thought of Emily wanting to ride in my truck, or worse—drive it, is too close to picking at an infected wound. Though she hated the idea, I insisted Emily stay behind. I would only be gone two weeks, and I would need serious assistance when I returned to Boston. I didn’t want her exhausted before the real challenge of taking care of my ass began.
Overall, I’m a good patient.
But there are days when I like to bite the hand that feeds me.
Three days later, I’m in Nebraska, recuperating in the living room with Deacon and Swain swapping stories in the kitchen while they cook dinner. I have one reclining chair, a sofa, and a 65-inch flat screen with baseball on.
My hands are in fixators for the next two months. After which, the good doctor informs me, I will be in 3D casts another month. I can do nothing—again. And it fucking sucks. Almost worse than the first time I did this.
Tristan wanted to clean up some of the surrounding scar tissue I developed while in the pen to help with mobility and cramping issues I developed at night. I wasn’t exactly perfect behind bars and had a lot of slippage in the joints and bones.
I’m expecting Jas and Georgia when I hear the key slide into the lock on the front door. I was right about half of it. Jas proudly strides in with a girl to turn my sulking into a smile.
“What are you doing here?”
Allie leans down, kisses my cheek, and sits on the edge of the coffee table. “I cleared my schedule for the next few weeks. I would have been here sooner but with Tristan gone, I was doing double time. How are you?”
“Grumpy,” I answer, watching Jas disappear into the kitchen. He passes by Deacon bringing my dinner. “What is it?”
Allie glances over and smiles. “Hi, I’m Allison Randall.”
“The hand therapist,” he gruffly mumbles. “Angel hair with lemon chicken.”
“You’re spoiling me,” I say before he feeds me a bite. His eyes scrutinize over Allie, and I know by the look, his words will not be kind.
“There is food in the kitchen,” he abruptly mentions with a scoff as Allie takes the hint and leaves the room. “Why is she here?”
“Why what?”
With a snarl, he asks, “Do you need her to take care of you?”
Holy shit.
He’s jealous.
“I do not need Allie. She came because we are friends. Calm down.”
He scoops up another bite and holds the fork between us. “Am I going to find her on your dick later?”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Cruz…”
“Just be honest.”
“You’re just like your mother,” I reply, leaning forward and taking the bite. I chew and swallow as steams fumes out of his ears. “You’re such a damn caregiver…”
“Exactly my point!” he yells, a little too loud. “And I don’t want anyone messing with my routine.”
“I’m not here to mess with your routine,” Allie interjects, carrying a small plate of food. “I came because I thought I could help.”
“I don’t fucking want any damned help!” Deacon bites. “I need everyone to stop making such a big deal of this.”
I’m not sure when Deacon Cruz became a possessive monster over me. Maybe he always has been and I just failed to see it in action until now. He’s downright mean to Allie and I won’t tolerate it despite my incapacitated state.
“Stop, Cruz.”
“Make her leave,” he rattles out. His gravelly voice is stern and serious. I’m starting to fear for her life if she stays here much longer doing these innocuous things like checking in on me. “Make her go away.”
“… Why?” I bravely ask. “You don’t even know Allie.”
“I know every time she is around you, you end up in some lulled state of sedation. She gets your head on right, you feel better, and you end up screwing. I’m not going to be here to watch it.”
“Because you think she is your competition?”
“Because I know she is!”
Allie sets her plate on the coffee table and turns to grab her purse. “I’ll leave. This is silly.”
“No, it fucking isn’t silly,” Deacon confronts, standing up. “It isn’t silly because there is a girl out there who loves this guy—all the time. She doesn’t flop around like some fish out of water that only shows up when his mental state is down.”
“What does Iris have to do with Allie?” I question as Georgia opens the front door and quietly steps inside.
With one shake of his head, Deacon’s nostrils flare. “You want to tell him, or should I?”
She tries to smile but tears fill her eyes. “During my time in college I worked for the man who created Entropy. I served as his assistant for about six months. I met with all eight candidates.”
I toss my head back against the recliner, trying to process what all I know. I peer to Deacon. “… And you knew about this?”
“Only because Iris told me when you were in the slammer.”
“You’ve known for over a year?” I ask him, not allowing his time to answer before I go in on Allie. “And did he send you to watch over his version 2.0?”
“I left the project long before I ever knew about you,” Allie confesses, knowing this may be the end of the friendship we’ve both held so dear. Her arms cross over her chest. “But I knew Kaci. She called me.”
“Before or after she caught us fucking in the pool?” I shout as Deacon and Allie glance away. “Answer me, Allison!”
“Before…”
“Get out!” I boom as Jas and Swain appear in the kitchen doorway. “Get the fuck out now! Both of you!”
Deacon tosses the plate of food on the table. The plate shatters and angel hair pasta goes everywhere. “What the hell is going on?” Georgia asks, stepping up to defend me as Jas and Swain dart into the room. Deacon says nothing, grabbing his backpack and cut before leaving. I hear the bike start up and know he’s gone. Where is anyone’s guess.
Allie follows but stops past Georgia and says, “You can look him up. You can do the research. His name is Atticus Huit. He goes by Spider.”
Not one to be easily knocked off her game, Georgia’s mouth opens. “Atticus Huit created Entropy?”
“Yes,” Allie confirms before leaving.
“Who the hell is he?”
Georgia is floored, unable to speak or move, as Swain cleans up the mess of my dinner. Jas grabs his tablet, punching in letters with lightning speed. “He’s a hacker.”
“He’s not just a hacker,” Georgia whispers, still dumbfounded. “He is the hacker who started the Gray Market before it was the Gray Market. He sold it off for millions. It was only a side venture. The guy is infamous on mind control, trigger implantation, and basically—soul destroying. He is not a guy you ever want to meet.”
“It’s certainly not going to be easy to find him,” Jas adds, swishing his finger over the screen. “There is nothing on the net.”
“Get into Sibyl. I want a complete rundown on where this guy has been, who he knows, and what access he still has to Entropy. I want to know what he had for breakfast two weeks
ago. And if he’s stuck his dick in a hole, I want to know.”
“Sal,” Georgia calmly says as I bark out orders from my chair. “What you are asking for is going to take some time.”
“Call June to come take care of me. I don’t give a rat’s ass how long it takes to build his bio. I want to know everything.”
“And then what?”
“I’m going to hunt his ass down,” I snap, grinding my jaw. “And we’re going to have lattes and chocolate croissants while we discuss the sins he’s about to pay for.”
“You cannot be serious. Meeting Atticus, with your mind the way it is, is…dangerous…deadly.”
“And I am the phoenix.”
“If he kills you, you won’t be rising from the ash…”
“The Spider won’t get the chance.”
A few days later, I’m sitting in the kitchen with my foot propped on the table while June runs a line of sutures in my heel. Everyone else has gone to do my bidding, leaving my ass in the company of the best looking Mistress in Nebraska.
With her hair piled into a messy bun, she bends forward, peering over the top of her glasses between the wound and me. “You need to be more careful in this old house. It bites.”
“So, do I…”
“I wouldn’t let the nails know that,” she says as I take her words and apply them to my train wreck of a life. “They might decide you’re going to melt them down and form an alliance.”
I know it seems strange, and maybe it is just my belief in fate. Everything happens for a reason. June is right. If they—anyone from Immortal to my father to The Spider knows I’m coming—then I may as well not bother. The element of surprise gives my ass an advantage.
“Are you staying for the fireworks?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
She smiles at my use of manners, even when being jabbed with a needle, but it doesn’t surprise me. She’s been humored by my charms since I met her in a bar.
The ink had barely dried on the contract to buy the house in Nebraska when I drove down to Scottsbluff to buy some basic supplies from the home supply store—fire alarms, fire extinguisher, garden hose, small tool kit, some trash bins, etc.
Every Minute I Love You (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 3) Page 7
