“Hello, Mason,” I said. “It’s been awhile. You’re looking hot. How’s the lover-slash-lawyer?”
Hopefully dead. I hated that whiny little bitch of a man. And for the record, when I call someone a bitch of a man, they might as well be a fucking eunuch. ‘Prison Bitch’ has been my nickname in the Family ever since my first round in the slammer, when I paid the guard a hundred bucks to bring some Monet prints to decorate my cell with. Because God forbid a man like some still ponds and floating flowers in his life.
I held back a smirk as Mason’s cheeks went red at my touch, her hand gripping mine tight enough I thought my fingers were going to snap as she shook my hand.
“Luke’s fine.” She cleared her throat, tugging her hand away and shifting from foot to foot, obviously out of her depth being here and actually speaking to me. We’d had quite a few confrontations over the years, but very few of them involved interaction directly between the two of us. There were usually lawyers, cops, or bodyguards keeping us apart. Sometimes all three at once.
“He still having trouble getting it up?” I said, unable to resist the shot. Take that, Limpy Luke. You know who’d never had a problem getting it up? That would be me, motherfucker. As proven by the way I was reacting to Mason’s mere presence right now.
Her eyes narrowed. “I still can’t believe that Christy told you how we met.” She shook her head, oh-so-kissable lips pursing together. “I can’t believe you talked to my best friend at all.”
I shrugged, the thought making me smile. Poor, naive Christy hadn’t even known she was talking to her best friend’s self-proclaimed enemy. She’d been desperate to get off her chest how her crazy best friend went on a date with an erectile dysfunction client, and I’d run a good con pretending to be a gay man called Fabby who responded to her every thought with ‘like, seriously?!’ It’s amazing what women will tell you if you urge them on with an ‘oh my god!’ or ‘like, for real?!’ And yes, I did learn that in spy school. Like, for real.
No, physical spy schools don’t exist—though that would make an awesome comic book—but the world is full of independent contractors who do the shit that government-trained recruits from places like Quantico and Camp Peary can’t do. Someone has to do the missions that involve wetwork or treason or torture or rape. Because it’s such a tough business, seasoned indie contractors often take on recruits to join the so-called Family at a young age, seeking out kids they think can handle the violence. Kids like my six Brothers and I. I don’t trust most of the Family—we aren’t any more connected than one car salesman is to another—but I trust the Brotherhood with my life. Our training together gave us that.
“She worked at my prison. I was required to talk to the social worker before release. Don’t blame me for your girlfriend spilling the story of you meeting your man when he bought over the counter erectile dysfunction meds from you. I see you’re looking for new work, though.”
“I honestly wasn’t sure you’d see me for this interview,” she said, obviously not interested in thinking about her shitty sex life with Limpy Luke. I bet the poor woman hasn’t orgasmed in years.
“Me? Refuse to see you?” I said, chuckling at the idea. Considering who my Brothers were, visiting me in prison was not an option for anyone close to me. During the two years total I spent in Attica, Mason was the only person to visit me other than Interpol agents wanting tips and FBI agents making threats. Mason may have visited so she could gloat, but what she didn’t realize was that I counted down the days to see that superior little smile of hers and hear those silly little taunts that just bounced off a man like me. I’d been through Interrogation Training. It took more than dropping the soap jokes to make me cry.
I flashed her my biggest smile. “What, just because you were arrested in front of my apartment for peeing on my doormat six months ago? Life’s so much more interesting when you’re around.” I smirked. “You realize I got that one on tape. Security cameras, you know.”
Oh, wow, who’d have thought that her face could get as red as her hair?
“I heard that your last assistant was fired.”
Whoa, quick change of subject there. And an interesting one, as well. “Fired, huh? I suppose that’s one way to put it. I prefer ‘terminated.’”
Mrs. Cho let out a snort as she flipped through a military surplus catalog, checking out scopes. Joey Schumer probably wished I’d let Mrs. Cho off him by the time he ate bullet. She would have done it with a rifle from two hundred yards away. Mr. Jones was more up close and personal.
“Tell me, who did you hear about this job from?” I asked, curious if she might let slip who the hell was behind whatever her pitiful little plan was. I say ‘pitiful’ because by coming here, she might as well be wearing a sign saying ‘I have an agenda!’
Mason shrugged awkwardly, looking everywhere but in my eyes. “I just overheard some of your lawyers talking about it.” God, she was a terrible liar. As someone trained in how to literally make lies and truth the same in my mind, watching her try was almost painful.
“Hm,” I said, nodding as if I believed her and gesturing toward the hall. “Shall we?”
I started down the hallway with her trailing a few steps behind. I glanced nervously over my shoulder, really hoping she was looking at my butt and not planning to put a knife in my back.
The metal detectors would have caught that, right?
We climbed the stairs up to my office, and I made a note to tell Conner that if he didn’t stop sticking dildos into my bonsai tree pots, I was going to shove them all up his butt.
Or I could stick them up Mason…
Nope, nope, nope. I was not going there. We’d get through the interview, I’d hire her so the hacker didn’t start worrying we were on to him, then the Brotherhood would get together and decide what to do with my new personal assistant/wannabe grifter. She probably wouldn’t even end up working for me, much less fucking me. Of course, I could always add the bonsai tree dildo scenario to my nighttime fantasies…
Mason paused just inside the office door, glancing around almost like she was surprised. I guess she didn’t expect me to have taste? She seemed particularly drawn to my half-brother’s rendition of our gardener and his wife under a donor heart with the name ‘Felicia’ across it.
My childhood had been far from a fantasy, and the gardener was the closest thing either my brother or I had to a father, considering that our real father viciously abused my illegitimate brother, making me watch while said vicious abuse went on. Neither one of us came away unscarred, but while I puked at the sight of blood, was a professional criminal, and spent most Friday nights binge watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer instead of having a life, my brother had a severe mental disorder, was obsessed with pleasing his abusive father, and lived in an assisted living facility for the mentally ill.
I gave her a tight smile and said, “My half-brother painted that for me.” My voice came out softer than I meant it to, and for a moment the memory of him handing the painting to me left tears prickling in my eyes and my masculinity begging for mercy. I quickly shoved the thought away. “I don’t see him much.”
Or ‘talk to him much’ might be a better description. I visited him weekly and went religiously to our monthly family therapy sessions, but he rarely actually talked to me.
“How come?” she said, and I hid my grimace at the question.
“He’s scared of me.” I gave the words a careless, almost joking feel, hoping it would steer her away from the topic. I liked the fact that Mason hated me for the bad things I’d done that any man could do and not for the things I’d done which could only be defined as the kind of evil that devils do. Like watching my brother tortured by my own father.
She pursed her lips, once again looking sexy as hell. “Well, you have been arrested for assault and battery something like ten times—and have been in prison twice.”
I almost laughed at the idea that this was a valid reason to be afraid of someone. There hadn’t been a singl
e man in that concrete box I’d been afraid of the entire time I’d been there, and it had nothing to do with my size or my strength and everything to do with the way I saw the world.
“Three times,” I corrected, giving her a wink. “The third time was only for two weeks. In France.” Interpol trying to make me crack and tell them who purchased the shipment of missiles they’d had their eye on busting. Fortunately, the American government was my client on that one, so my jaywalking trial had been expedited and my ass hauled back to the States.
I crossed my arms over my chest, eyeing her. “While we’re on the topic of prison, would you like to explain to me why you’re applying as the personal assistant of a man you despise? Because if you have plans to murder me, there are much better ways. Ones that don’t involve being arrested ten minutes after the bullet leaves the gun and enters my skull. I know people who can give you some tips.”
Not that I really believed Mason had the balls… er, tits?… to off me. She wasn’t the type, but I was tired of pretending that she was actually here for a job.
She tensed up, breasts rising and falling as she sucked in big, nervous breaths. Her eyes were wide as she looked me up and down, obviously evaluating what my plans might be.
“I don’t want to kill you,” she snapped, and while I could see a little longing at the idea of seeing me dead, I knew she wouldn’t be coming at me with a semi-automatic and a bodybag anytime soon.
“Then what do you want?” I replied. “Not to work for me, that’s for sure.”
She bit her lip, obviously thinking, and my cock managed to get even harder. Her mouth should be illegal.
“I want information,” she finally said. “On you. Things I can use against you. What better way to find out your secrets than to work for you?”
I nodded slowly. That did make some sense—well, Mason-sense, anyway. As a professional criminal, it was officially the stupidest fucking plan I’d ever heard in my entire life. Find out what information? I was a well known black market criminal, killer, and former spy who ran a billion dollar corporation. What information was there in existence that Mason could possibly use against me? The goddamn FBI couldn’t even find anything usable in court and they practically had their dicks up my ass, they stuck so close to me. But from Mason’s point of view, I could see how sneaking around the office, looking through my filing cabinets and listening in on my phone calls might seem like a fantastic way to find out super cool things.
I lifted my palm to my computer screen, letting it scan my fingerprints, and the desktop opened to reveal the image of Grumpy Cat with Mason’s face edited onto the head. Looked like Valentine had time to do some research on my girl.
I double clicked her face, and a note appeared:
Yo Majesty, did a BG check on miz mason & shes looking as good as ever. Just her arrests for breaking into ur place. Still dunno who shes working with but am going thru security cam feeds from her place and shit. Her resume is in ur email. i tripped her in the lobby and snatched her phone when she fell—dont give me that look, I was nice enough to catch her b4 she went ass first in the fountain. I cloned it & its in ur desk drawer. Her bf’s dick pics r on it & man, u got NO competition.
Peace luv & necrophilia
THE Saint
‘Thank you, Saint, now please delete his penis from your computer,’ I typed back before clicking open my email and pulling up her resume, which was total bullshit obviously put together by someone who didn’t realize the actual extent of my stalking when it came to Mason. Seriously? I’d gone to that Whole Foods when she worked there, and she was not in the marketing department.
“I have your resume here. Looks good,” I lied as I scrolled through the crap. “You sold Viagra at your last job, right?”
Her face went red, and I held back a chuckle. I worked at a pharma company. Did she really think ED pills weren’t daily discussion here? Those things made me a fortune every year. Hell, I made more money off them than AK-47s and grenades combines.
“An off-brand kind. Over the counter ED stuff. Telemarketing and door to door.”
“So you have some experience in medical sales,” I said, nodding. “And a biology degree? From Mercer County Community College?”
“Yeah, I know it’s not exactly Harvard, but it’s something.”
Please. I’d known plenty of losers at Harvard. “You should have seen how useful my Ivy League law degree was in prison. Eddi the Crocodile and J-Man Jitters had to teach me how to make booze in a Ziplock bag.”
Actually a very useful skill.
“Why the hell would someone call themselves Eddi the Crocodile?” she asked, and I shrugged, amused by the question.
“I dunno, because I never asked. Half of the men in there had names that sounded like they came from either picture books or porno movies. I think it’s a prison culture thing. They told me their names; I smiled and nodded.” Not that I could talk about weird names. Mercenaries, forgers, hackers, spies, grifters, and assassins had some of the worst ones, usually given to them by FBI or Interpol agents with too much time on their hands.
Speaking of mercenaries, forgers, hackers, spies, grifters, and assassins…
“Have you ever had anyone approach you about me?” I asked, and Mason stiffened again, putting on her ‘I’m about to tell a ginormous lie right now’ face.
“What does that mean?” she asked, the words coming out about two octaves higher than she normally spoke. Dear God, this woman was so normal that it was mind blowing to someone like me.
“I have a lot of enemies,” I said, looking at her seriously. “It wouldn’t surprise me if you’re working with someone to get inside my company.”
The terror on her face was clear, and it made my heart sputter—normal women always seemed to end up scared of my wuss ass, and I never understood why—so I quickly added, “Which would be fine, if I thought you knew what you were getting into. Unfortunately, I know that you don’t. So before I hire you—because I am going to hire you—I just want to warn you to be careful. You may think you’re in charge of whatever you’re involved in, but I guarantee that someone is using you to get to me.” The question was, who? “You are correct that I am a very bad man, but I am much, much worse than the man you think that you know, Mason, which means my enemies are equally as bad. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
Mason stared at me with fear in her eyes, but something else, too. Or maybe the glimpse of lust hiding away amongst the terror was just wishful thinking by a black market billionaire who’d love to be seen as something other than a criminal and a killer now and then.
“You’re hiring me… even though you think that I’m working with an enemy of yours?” She sounded so confused. It was adorable. “Why would you do that?”
Because it’s better to have your enemy sitting next to you every day than to have them hiding in your air vents with a high power rifle.
“I think you’re beautiful,” I said, which was true and would probably freak her out less than the rifle in the air vent thought. “Never hurts to have beautiful women working in your office.”
She blushed, then looked embarrassed that she was blushing, which I’m pretty sure made her blush more. I hid my laughter.
“Plus this way I can keep an eye on you instead of having to look over my shoulder.”
She nodded slowly, that point obviously making sense to her.
I frowned, pretending to think. “The question is whether or not I should take the vase you knocked over in my apartment last year when you filled my shampoo with rotten milk out of your paycheck. My insurance refused to pay on it since I didn’t press charges on your clumsy ass.”
“You had insurance on a vase?” Mason snorted, like having insurance on a 15th century piece of artwork was the most insane thing she’d ever heard. She’d probably laugh about my prison cell Monet prints, too.
“It was Ming Dynasty,” I said, and she shrugged, making it clear she was clueless when it came to art. Yeah, well, I could cl
ear up the confusion for her.
“It was appraised at half a million dollars.”
I smirked as she choked then began to gasp for air, slapping at her chest. “What?! You can not take that out of my paycheck! I wouldn’t have a paycheck for, like, a decade!”
I couldn’t stop my laughter at this point. “No worries. It was a fake, anyway. My buddy made it. He is damn good, though, and no one had a clue it wasn’t real.”
A lie. It was actually the real vase—Kit had borrowed it to make the pieces he sold—but I didn’t want her feeling too guilty about it. A half a million dollars meant nothing to me, and I had several other Ming Dynasty pieces.
“You really think you could have gotten an insurance payout on it?” she asked, sounding shocked. I guess as your average lower middle classer, she’d assumed that insurance was for cars, houses, boats, and grandmas.
“Oh, I definitely would have received the payout if I’d called the cops on you. Of course, my insurance investigator is always suspicious of me, so she would have tried to find another reason to stop the claim. She’s an ex-girlfriend.”
My only ex-girlfriend, actually. I’d never dated before Salem, and I didn’t think I’d ever date again after her. Talk about broken hearts.
“I’m pretty sure she only fucked me for the chance to prove my Maserati is stolen. Which, for the record, it is not. My Hummer is, but I wasn’t the one who stole it—I bought it from a lot that deals in very second hand vehicles. I’ll have you know I felt extremely violated when I found out what she was and why she was giving me such amazing head. This is why I prefer prostitutes.”
“Because they don’t try and mess with your insurance scams?” Mason said, looking at me like I was out of my mind.
“Exactly,” I said, nodding. Well, that and the fact that my doctors said there was no way I’d live past 45, and I didn’t think it was fair to go looking for love when my life was a bomb on a timer.
Heart Thief (Black Market Billionaire Book 1) Page 5
