Shadow

by Nadine Nightingale

  No hesitation, no questions. They get up and haul their pretty asses to the small, private bar.

  “Sit,” Deveraux orders.

  I deliberately pick the armchair rather than the spot next to him.

  He roams my face, studying me like Tiffany said he would. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”

  I shrug lazily. “I don’t have to like you to win fights for you.”

  “True.” He sips his champagne. “But you will have to respect me.” There’s the calculated, ice-cold businessman my assistant mentioned. The dude who doesn’t take shit from anyone.

  “Respect is earned,” I counter, aware I’m treading on thin ice. Pushing him too hard could lose me the gig. It could shatter my hopes to find and kill Shadow. Being too obedient, however, would have the same result.

  “Fair enough.” He puts his glass on the round table. “Let me pave the trust-road and start by introducing you to a dear friend of mine. He organizes most high-profile fights and is willing to put you in a few.”

  I meet his gaze. “Sounds good to me.”

  Deveraux eyeballs his golden Rolex. “He should be here any minute. Until then, I’d like to set some ground rules.”

  My face slips into a frown. “In case you haven’t heard, I don’t play well by the rules.”

  “I did hear.” He laughs. “Word on the street is you assaulted your boss at the CIA and got kicked out of the navy for using excessive force on an enemy combatant.” Tiffany may keep her engagement ring after all.

  I lean back, legs crossed. “If that’s what they’re saying, it must be true.”

  “This isn’t the navy, and I’m not my father.” The way he says it tells me he hates being compared to him. His voice is bitter and cold. “I only have three rules my employees need to follow.”

  “Yeah?” I pull my brows up. “What’s that?”

  “One: Don’t ever go behind my back.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m more of a tell-it-to-your-face guy.”

  He smiles. “I did notice, and I like that about you.” He shifts closer. “But I needed to be sure we’re on the same page.”

  “We are,” I assure him. “So, what’s rule number two and three?”

  He smiles. “What happens between us stays between us.”

  “Whoa.” I make a face. “Are you hitting on me? ’Cause I’m playing for,” I point at his harem, “their team.”

  “Fuck.” Deveraux cracks up. “I really do like you, Boulder.”

  “It’s my gift,” I retort.

  He grows serious. “Well, it’s not your only one. You’re a terrific fighter with the looks of a young god. And that, my friend, brings me to rule number three.”

  “Never screw more chicks than the boss in one night?” I joke.

  He narrows his eyes at me. “Never take what’s mine. Unless I say so.” He’s generalizing it, but a braindead would understand what he’s saying. In case you need a translation: Don’t Fuck My Bunnies.

  I tilt my chin at some chick. She straddles a grandpa across the room, but fucks me with her eyes. “I got my own supply of pussy.”

  “I can see that,” he murmurs, and I swear there’s a trace of jealousy in his voice.

  Deveraux’s attention turns to the door. A beer-belly-rocking dude in his early fifties walks in. He wears a royal-blue designer suit, a purple button-down, and an ugly dotted tie. His blond hair is combed back, kept in place with plenty of gel and hairspray.

  “Ah,” Deveraux gets up, “there they are. Right on time.” He waves at Beer-Belly Dude. “Dimitri?”

  Dimitri spots us right away. Together with his muscles—five dudes about my age—he walks toward us.

  “Will, how have you been, my friend?” The Russian accent is unmistakable. Add the don’t-fuck-with-me-or-you-end-up-with-cement-on-your-feet aura, and you understand why the dude strikes me as shady as hell.

  Dimitri kisses Deveraux’s cheeks, left and right. Then he scans the harem. “Where’s Dasha?”

  Who the hell is Dasha? Tiffany never mentioned her. Here’s one thing America’s Favorite Son and I have in common. We don’t like surprises.

  Deveraux smirks. “She’ll join us later.”

  Looks like I’m going to find out soon enough.

  “Dimitri.” Deveraux gestures at me. “I’d like you to meet Markus Boulder. He’s—”

  “The man who took down one of my best fighters in less than a minute,” the Russian cuts in, sounding rather impressed. “Pleasure to meet you.” He extends his hand for a shake, and I make a mental note to buy some sanitizer on my way home.

  “I hear you’re the man who can organize more fights for me?” Why beat around the bush? He seems like someone who gets straight down to business.

  “I am.” His gaze darts to a bald, short dude. I didn’t see him earlier because he got lost between Dimitri’s bodyguards. “Alexei already arranged a new fight for you.”

  Alexei nods. “Tomorrow night. We’ll text you the location.”

  I fake excitement. “Sounds good.”

  Deveraux pats my back. “Told you I could get the ball rolling.”

  “Looks like you can,” I reply dryly.

  Dimitri nudges Deveraux. “There’s something else we need to discuss, my friend.”

  “Of course.” Deveraux meets my gaze. “Markus, why don’t you take my girls,” he points at his harem, “outside. I’m sure they’re dying to shake their hips.”

  That, ladies and gentleman, is code for: Get the fuck out of here, I need privacy.

  “She’s the apple that got Adam and Eve kicked out of paradise, the tempting snake, and the angel offering redemption for all the sins you want to commit with her.”

  Markus

  Sin fills up quickly. Women, men—they all want a piece of excitement with a hint of sex on the side. They look like they don’t get much of it during the week. Dare I say, none? It blows my mind. I mean, you don’t need to wait for Friday to hit a club in Miami. The city is blazing all day, every day.

  Deveraux’s harem has gathered on the small, stage-like dance floor, moving their well-shaped bodies to raunchy music, attracting plenty of wanted attention.

  I remain at the bar, sipping my second glass of water. Sweaty bodies and the scent of sex make the air dense and hot. A button-down wasn’t Tiffany’s best idea. The fabric sticks to my skin, suffocating me.

  “Are you sure I can’t get you a real drink?” The masked waitress points at my glass. “Something that’ll loosen you up a little?” You don’t have to be a genius to see I’m out of my comfort zone, and she’s trying hard to make me feel less out of place.

  “Nah.” I wink at her. “I’m good. But thanks.”

  She shrugs. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

  “Will do,” I promise her.

  She stalks off to her next customers. A young couple, feeling up their even younger nanny. How do I know she’s the nanny? She’s got orange stains on her blouse, wears sneakers, and has a stuffed animal in her bag.

  The guy—he’s got the shady lawyer look down—orders a couple of drinks and smacks the waitress’s ass. Once she’s off to get his shit, he returns his focus on the poor kid sitting on his lap. She’s swamped with the whole situation, hates her boss’s hand on her thigh, and doesn’t know what to do with the woman’s attempt to kiss her either. Yet, she goes along with it. For fear of losing her job or to gain some experience? I can’t tell.

  “Markus.” Ms. Asia pulls at my shirt. “Dance with us?”

  “Nah, I’m good.” I have two left feet. Wouldn’t want to ruin her fancy shoes.

  She purses her pink lips. “C’mon,” she begs. “Don’t be a party crasher.”

  Women like her aren’t used to “no.” They’re accustomed to guys who’d do just about anything to get a piece of such a lovely ass. I’m not immune to hot asses. They’re tempting as hell, but when it comes down to burying my dick in her ass or catching Shadow, I don’t need to think
twice. So, yeah, touching what’s Deveraux’s is out of the question.

  Bending down, I breathe against her neck. “I’d rather watch,” I whisper, my tone sulky and dark. “So, why don’t you go back up there and show me what you got, baby?”

  Inching closer, she bites her lower lip. “And what do I get in return?”

  “My attention,” I say, pressing my glass against her left nipple. Hey, technically, I’m not touching her. The glass is.

  Ms. Asia licks her lips, evidently enjoying the ice-cold glass hardening her nipples. “Attention,” she moans, massaging her other tit. “I think I like that.”

  She spins on her heels and heads to the stage to put on the performance of a lifetime. All for—

  Me.

  “Pour Some Sugar on Me” blares through the speakers. Ms. Asia lets her long black hair down. The way she rolls her narrow hips, swings her curls…it’s intoxicating.

  Over the course of the whole song, her eyes remain on me. They study me when she runs her hand over her tits, down her belly to the waistband of her skirt. They wonder how aroused I am when she moves to the silver vertical pole, sliding her back down and exposing her pink V-shaped panties. And they light up like a firework when I have to adjust my pants. Hey, just because I won’t fuck her, doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate what she does for me.

  Besides, I’m in good company. The whole club is looking at her, taking in her performance, fantasizing about her sweet, wet pussy thrusting against them like she thrusts against the pole.

  Songs come and go, but she remains the center of attention. Until—

  The black velvet curtain draws back, and all eyes turn to the goddess who just walked into the land of temptation and sin.

  Black six-inch heels, a figure-flaunting emerald silk dress caressing the skin on her thighs, cherry lips, a perfectly sculpted heart-shaped face, and flaming red hair. She’s the apple that got Adam and Eve kicked out of paradise, the tempting snake, and the angel offering redemption for all the sins you want to commit with her.

  The goddess walks into the club like it’s nobody’s business. Head held high, shoulders straight—fearless. The crowd parts for her. Men and women alike eye-fuck her. Can’t say I blame them. At the risk of sounding cheesy as fuck, I’ve never seen a woman as beautiful as her.

  I forget all about Ms. Asia as the goddess moves toward the bar, stopping right next to me. My dick continues to slam against my zipper, but it has nothing to do with sleazy dances and everything to do with the way this woman murders everybody in this club.

  The young bartender swallows his lust. “Th-the usual?” he stammers, trying hard not to look at her perfect cleavage.

  One side of her mouth lifts. “Yes, please.”

  She leans against the counter, facing the crowd. Her fiery curls cascade down her shoulder, accentuating her porcelain skin. I should look away. Fuck, I need to look away. I can’t. She’s an addiction, and no amount of therapy can cure the desire to stare at her.

  “Vodka tonic,” the bartender says, placing her drink on a napkin.

  She looks over her shoulder and winks. “Thanks.” Goddesses like her are more often than not bitches. They think the world’s their playground. But she doesn’t give off that vibe when she smiles at the bartender. She appears sweet and nice instead.

  I have no clue how long I watch her sipping her drink. But the longer I drink her in, the less I can shake the feeling I know her. Those eyes—hazel and beautiful—look all too familiar.

  By the time the DJ plays “Don’t Be So Shy,” she’s clearly had enough of my stares. “You could at least buy me a drink first,” she says, eyes on the dance floor.

  I act clueless. “Huh?”

  The goddess looks me in the eye. “Isn’t that how it works? Buy her a drink first, fuck her later?” She sounds so casual, no one would believe she just accused me of fucking her.

  Who am I kidding though? I am fucking her. Since I laid eyes on her, I’ve been taking her on the counter, against the wall, on the goddamn floor.

  I ripped off her dress, laid her down, and buried my eager cock inside her sweet pussy. The others watched me stretching her good, listened to her pleas for more.

  The heat on her skin, my name on her lips—heaven. She took me to heaven, only to burn me with hellfire.

  Say something, you idiot! I inch closer, my elbow touching her arm. “In case you haven’t noticed, everyone is fucking you.” No kidding. You should see the way those starving motherfuckers look at her. As if she’s the cure for famine.

  She smiles. “Who says I haven’t noticed?” She’s confident, beautiful, sweet—hell, I’d spent all my nonexistent fortune buying her a stupid white dress that I’d rip off quicker than she could say “yes.”

  I take a deep, much-needed breath and extend my hand. “Markus Boulder.”

  “I know,” she replies, ignoring my hand.

  She does? “Looks like you have the upper hand.” It was supposed to come out playfully. Instead, I sound like a hurt child.

  Sparkling hazel eyes pierce mine. “I always have the upper hand.” Yeah, I have no doubt about that. She can make the world bow before her with the bat of her lashes. “Now, are you going to get me that drink, or what?” She has the slightest accent—Eastern European or Russian maybe—barely audible if your ears aren’t trained.

  Ordering her the same of what she already has, I try to get a grip on my racing heart. Something tells me she can smell my desire, and unlike Ms. Asia, she doesn’t appreciate it. “That was a dick move,” I admit, shoving the glass toward her.

  A small smile plays on her lips. “Fucking me or not buying me a drink first?” The edge in her voice softens. Maybe I didn’t screw this up just yet.

  I pull my shoulders up. “Both?”

  She puts her empty glass down, grabbing the new one. “You’re forgiven.”

  Contemplating my next move, I focus on something other than her. Dog-lady, the nanny-threesome, Ms. Asia—anything is better than letting my imagination run wild. Hell, I go as far as picturing grannies in their underwear to calm my dick. For the record, I don’t usually get hard when a beautiful girl walks up. Ms. Asia’s dance, the sex-filled atmosphere at Sin, and the goddess in the emerald dress can make the best of us hard.

  “No drink for you?” she asks after a while.

  I tilt my chin at my water. “I’m good.” I’m really not. My insides are electrified, my heart is in overdrive, and I can’t for the life of me find the brakes to put a stop to this madness.

  Unlike most folks, she doesn’t laugh about my choice of refreshment or judge my booze abstinence. She simply nods.

  “Hey.” Ms. Asia stands beside me. I didn’t even see her coming. “You sure you don’t want to dance?”

  “I…” Can’t take my eyes off her, how can I dance with you? Yeah, no. Can’t say that, can I?

  “C’mon.” She tugs at my arm. “I—”

  “He’s busy,” the goddess cuts in. “You should head back to your friends.”

  Ms. Asia’s gaze drops to the floor. Her whole demeanor changes from confident to shit-why-the-hell-did-I-come-over. I’d probably feel the same if a goddess talked to me like that. “Sorry,” she murmurs, backing up. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  The goddess stares ahead. “But you did. Now leave us.”

  She makes a quicker escape than Harry Houdini.

  “Sorry about that,” the goddess apologizes. “Some girls just can’t take a hint.”

  Who the hell is she? “And you can?”

  A full-on smile plays on her lips. “Let’s just say, I can tell when a guy wants to lick someone else’s pussy.”

  And I’m hard again.

  It’s not my fault. She reminded me how badly I want to eat her up. Images of her legs over my shoulders, my face buried in her wetness, my tongue slipping inside her—they rush back, overriding my system.

  I turn to the counter, hiding the bulge in my jeans. “You’re pretty sure of yoursel
f, huh?”

  She leans closer, her warm breath beating against my neck. “Am I wrong?”

  I took this job to take out Shadow. I found a way to get close to Deveraux, and I’m on a good way to find the road to redemption. Playing tease and release with a goddess isn’t on my to-do list.

  What was it Tiffany said? Be a player, be an asshole. So, running isn’t an option. How about less sex talk and more small talk? It should take my mind off her pussy, right? “What’s your name?”

  She sips her vodka tonic. “Why do you care?”

  “Why wouldn’t I care?”

  She shrugs. “Because you’re not really interested in my personality, are you, Markus Boulder?”

  She’s drop-dead gorgeous, and addictive like meth. The reason I can’t just walk away goes beyond her looks. The fire in her eyes, the kindness she showed the bartender, her dirty mouth, and how she plays me without putting up much effort? Interesting as fuck. “You have all the answers, don’t you?”

  “Actually,” her daring eyes meet mine, “no. I have no idea why an ex-soldier spends his time beating up poor bastards.”

  Was she at the fight? Did she see me take down Dimitri’s fighter? Did she hear the terrible gossip London spread about me?

  “Maybe it’s true.” She traces the edge of her glass. “Once a killer, always—”

  “Dasha!” Deveraux shouts over at least a dozen heads and pounding music.

  Dasha? I search the crowd for that ominous chick.

  Then I spot Deveraux’s hands on the goddess’s hips and search no more. He claims her cherry lips, depriving her of air and honor. There’s no chick in Miami who hasn’t dated the douchebag’s tongue.

  Something cracks inside me, releasing the green-eyed monster I always believed to be a myth. It’s real, though. I feel its claws digging into my chest, searching for a way to my fucking heart.

  America’s Favorite Son tightens his grip on her hips, pulling her against him like he owns her. “You’re late,” he says, breathless.

  She rests her forehead against his, feeling up his chest. “Maybe you’re just too early,” she teases, voice sweet and tender.