by Eddie Jakes
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
Call to action
Join the List
About the Author
NEFARIOUS HEROES
Malevolent Prisoners Book Two
Eddie Jakes
Copyright © 2016 by Focus Pulp Publishing. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
Click or visit:
www.eddiejakes.com
Remember Matthew …
CHAPTER ONE
After an hour with no text, it was evident to Trista that she was being blown off yet again. It was starting to become a regular thing with all the men she’d met. They'd hit it off pretty well during the initial impression, have a couple harmless flirtations, and finally make plans for a more formal date. The few men that would actually show up, typically ended up being complete jackasses once they had a couple drinks in them. Or they would be so shy and awkward that just the thought of any kind of move toward something more permanent or—at the minimum—a second date seemed unimaginable.
At least the bar he had picked out was decent enough. It was on the more upscale tip with comfortable chairs, well-dressed bartenders, and music that was mood enhancing but not so loud that you couldn't hear yourself think, or hopefully talk to potential companions. The talking, as it seemed, wasn't going to happen that night anyway, so a few drinks with Trista's own subconscious would have to suffice.
It was such a shame, too. Trista wasn't at all conceited but from her own judgment, she was looking kind of hot. She had picked out her favorite dark blue dress—short but not too short—and matching shoes with just enough sparkle in her jewelry to show that she was both sexy and classy all wrapped up in one package.
Your loss, Trista thought to herself.
After taking the final sip of her martini, she raised the glass to the bartender. He was a decent looking man with perfectly cropped hair and just enough stubble to suit her fancy. Perhaps this fine fellow would be interested in a little company? That would show him, wouldn't it? No reason she should have a bad day because of one inconsiderate asshole.
With liquid courage surging through her system, she put on her best smile and casually shook the empty glass in the air. The bartender returned her smile and walked over to serve her, stopping for a brief moment to look her in the eye and then place his perfectly manicured hands down on the bar.
"What can I get for you, miss?"
Trista took a quick breath before responding; her eyes jumped away from his for an instant while she thought of the perfect line to open with. She wanted to pique his interest, but she didn't want to seem forward either. After racing through a million scenarios in a few seconds, she saw something that completely dashed her dreams of a passionate liaison with the sexy and well-groomed bartender.
A wedding band.
"I guess … I will just have another dirty martini please."
"Coming right up, miss."
Trista hated being called that. It seemed like such a sad title for the single women of the world. Not that she would label herself lonely by any means. She never had problems meeting men, it was keeping them that was the issue. In her heart, she considered herself to be a serial monogamist, but her brain liked the freedom of being able to live a more polyamorous lifestyle. She wasn't a slut and was very selective about partners, but being tied down to one was a real challenge for her. Most of the men she met weren't fond of the idea of having to share their partner with other men, and the few that got down with it only seemed to be in it for the kink of it all.
All Trista wanted was something real. A relationship that would help her to find inner peace with it all and ground her. Did that kind of love even exist anymore? She wanted the kind of love her grandparents had had. They were together right up until the end, and the fire never died for them. They still went out on dates, saw movies, held hands and—she imagined—found the passion for making love even at the age of eighty.
The sound of a fresh martini clinking down in front of her brought her attention back to the real world. She smiled at the frosty glass of gin and vermouth with the three olives dancing at the bottom.
At least I can count on you.
"That is quite a potent cocktail you've chosen," a voice stated, breaking through the smooth jazz playing in the lounge.
A well-dressed man with slicked black hair and a well-trimmed goatee placed his long coat onto the back of the seat next to Trista. He seemed older but well-aged, and the low, seductive tone in his voice was only matched by his flawless good looks. He stopped for a moment and gestured toward himself and then the chair. Smiling, she nodded in affirmation.
"My apologies if that was too forward of me. My name is Charles, and who might you be?"
"Trista," she replied. "And yes, I do enjoy strong cocktails. I'm a bit of a gin aficionado … if you can call it that."
"Impressive. I prefer wine myself, but on occasion, I do enjoy single malt scotch."
"Equally impressive."
Charles chuckled at the harmless sarcasm.
"So what brings you to this lowly little lounge of isolation, Charles?"
"I enjoy the atmosphere. It's never crowded. I prefer the music selection. Helps me to unwind after a long day of lectures."
"Lectures?"
"I am a professor of Mythology, and I do some lectures on theological topics as well."
"A teacher of gods both real and fake, huh?"
"Indeed," laughed Charles. "I could see how one would make that connection."
"You're a man of faith then?"
Charles just smiled.
"So you are."
"Let's just say I have faith in some things that cannot be explained by science."
Trista took a sip of her martini and smirked. "So you are spiritual, but not religious? Is that what they call it?"
"You could put it that way. Yes."
"Well," said Trista, "Mr. Charles, professor of gods and legends, my biography is not as exciting as yours. I'm a media consultant for insurance companies. I spend my days coming up with flashier ways to get people to buy products that they are required to have by law, and will no doubt screw them over financially in the long run."
"Sounds like you don't like your chosen career."
Trista took a longer sip of her drink before answering. "I wouldn't say it was chosen by me per se. It was just an internship in college that ended up becoming a paying job which brought me into the six-figure income tax bracket."
"Sounds like a generous compensation for something you are skilled at
."
"It's good money, sure."
"But … you are unfulfilled with your work."
"To say the least."
Charles motioned the bartender with his hand, who seemed to know what he wanted and placed a full glass of red wine on the bar. Cradling it gently in his hand, he began to sip from it.
"I didn't hear you order," said Trista, confused.
"Oh? I come here all the time. I always order Italian Merlot."
"I'm probably just a little tipsy.”
"You are fine. So tell me, what would you rather be doing career-wise?"
Trista swallowed the last of her martini and popped an olive into her mouth, chewing slowly. She shook her head dismissively.
"Don't want to tell me?" inquired Charles. "Too embarrassing for you?"
"No, it's just stupid. I wanted to be a graphic designer for movies. You know, design ad campaigns and one-sheets. Work on stuff that people actually liked."
"Why don't you do it now?"
"It's too late in the game for me to pack it up and head to Hollywood. Besides, I've been so out of the artist loop, it would be impossible to get my swagger back."
"Swagger?"
"Yeah. Swagger. My groove? Get my groove back."
"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I'm not familiar with groove or swagger. Is this a foreign language you studied?"
"Wow," laughed Trista. "You really are an intellectual stuffed-shirt, huh?"
"I suppose I am, but I am also a magician."
Trista looked at him skeptically.
"Would you like to see some magic?"
She couldn't stop chuckling at the idea.
"I am quite serious. May I have that stick with your olives?"
"Sure," Trista replied, rolling her eyes.
He grabbed the toothpick from Trista’s drained glass and held it in front of her face with his left hand.
"Watch carefully now."
Taking his right hand, he curled his fingers around the olives, obscuring them completely from sight. Then with a quick puff of his breath, he opened his hand, revealing nothing but the empty toothpick in between his fingers.
"Bravo," said Trista, smiling.
"Hold your applause because there is more."
Trista watched as Charles closed his eyes and began to hum to himself quietly. His face became more intense, and the sound of his humming grew louder before ending with another puff of his breath. A big grin spread across his face as he looked into her confused eyes.
"What the hell—"
Trista could not get the words out; her mouth was full with the familiar taste of gin-soaked olives dancing on her tongue. She happily began chewing and giggling.
"Now you are the one which is stuffed," said Charles, sipping on wine.
"How did you do that?"
"Slight of hand, slight of magic, and some great company. That is the secret."
"You are sweet."
Trista was overcome by the charm of her new friend. The night was turning out to be a success after all. She didn't know if this would be another one-night stand or the start of something more, but whatever it was going to be, she knew she wanted it. He was well-spoken, quite attractive, and fun to be around.
"Would you care to join me for a walk? The weather is lovely tonight."
"Absolutely," she replied. "Just let me square up my tab and we can go."
"That won't be necessary. The bartender will put it on my account. Let's not waste time and enjoy what is left of the night."
Rising from his chair, he extended his hand to Trista, who eagerly took it before they exited the bar together.
The spring breeze was cool against Trista's flushed skin. The slight chill was sobering but not so much that she couldn't enjoy the pleasant intoxication she had achieved. Two martinis were definitely her limit. Anything more would have certainly left her stumbling drunk and unappealing to the alluring gentleman she had been lucky enough to have met.
Through some turn of events—that neither of them was actually paying attention to—they had begun to hold hands as they walked down the sidewalk. At first, Trista was apprehensive to move that quickly, but there was something about this man. Something was putting her at total ease and making her feel less vulnerable. The intimacy they were sharing felt good, and she was going to just let everything happen that was meant to happen.
Charles turned to look her in the eyes. They seemed synced up in a way that each other just knew when the other was stealing glances. It was a back-and-forth dance routine between the two of them. First, she would look, and he'd turn away. Then vice versa.
"I'm having a splendid time," said Trista.
"That pleases me to hear."
"I just thought I'd let you know. You know, in case you were wondering."
"Just a little farther to a beautiful view of the water. We can look at some of the lovely yachts and listen to the ocean."
"I think that would be terrific, sir."
Trista felt Charles gently tug as he brought the back of her hand to his lips. His kiss against her flesh was tender and arousing. He continued to lead the way to a secluded spot overlooking the docks, and as promised, there were many beautiful boats at the pier.
"I enjoy coming here when I need to think."
"As a professor I imagine you do a lot of thinking."
Smiling, Charles nodded.
"And what do you think about this?" asked Trista.
Charles was caught off-guard by the advance of Trista, and soon they were locked in a deep kiss that seemed to last forever. She enjoyed the sweet taste of his tongue, which had a hint of merlot still lingering on it. There was no doubt in her mind that she wanted this man in the worst way, and she wanted him immediately.
"Not to sound like a bad romantic comedy," said Trista, as she licked the taste of his kiss from her lips, "but shall we go to your place or mine?"
"I don't live far from here. I would be honored to be your gracious host."
The two of them could barely keep their hands off each other the whole walk back to Charles' apartment, and by the time they had made it halfway to his bed, their clothes were everywhere. Their first lovemaking session lasted for an hour, followed by shorter—yet still intense—fucking sessions.
Trista's hip flexors were starting to give out, and her insides were sore beyond anything she had felt since high school. She gave it a few more gyrations as Charles let out another release of pleasure before collapsing onto his sweating chest. As much as she wanted to continue there was just not enough gas in the tank to push forward and she waved the flag of surrender.
"That was fucking fantastic," she murmured.
"I don't think I've ever managed to perform like that before. You definitely have a gift for seduction, my dear."
"You are so proper," chided Trista. "Can't you just tell a girl that she's a good lay and leave it at that?"
"Some things are better left unsaid. But yes, you are quite skilled in the bedroom."
"That's better."
Charles held onto her hips as she tried to slide off of him. He didn't seem to want her to leave him, but she insisted that she could not take him any longer and rolled to her back. The dawn was starting to peer in through the windows and Charles leaned up to stare at her physique, which was quite defined.
"You have a well-developed body. You take care of yourself, I assume."
"I like to work out. I come from a family of all boys, and all of them are athletes. Being the only daughter was challenging."
"So you participated in sports activities?"
"I ran track and played soccer, but none of them really interested me that much. Did it mostly to prove to my family that I was just as capable. My family could be a little sexist sometimes."
"Most disheartening, I imagine."
"It was, sometimes, but it's all in the past."
Trista propped herself up enough to steal another kiss from Charles. He returned the affection by pulling her head closer and more passio
nately. They stayed locked into each other for a few seconds before coming up for a deep breath.
"Oh my," said Charles and wrinkled his nose.
"Was that for me? Shall I put on some more perfume?"
"Not you at all. I, on the other hand, could use a shower. Would you care to join me?"
"I'm still trying to heal," she laughed. "You mind if I just bask in the glow of your manhood for a while?"
"Certainly, make yourself comfortable. I won't be long."
Charles slid off the bed and over to his closet where a gray silk robe was draped over the corner of the door. He quickly covered his nakedness and gave Trista a quick smile before walking across the floor of his studio loft to the bathroom. After a few seconds, the sound of rushing water filled the apartment and steam started to flow from the bottom of the bathroom door.
She hoped that she hadn't ruined it by sleeping with Charles so fast, but everything seemed to fall into place and guided her into that direction. Even if this was the only time she would see him, it was well worth it. Her aching genitals were a reminder of the mind-blowing sex that had occurred throughout most of the night. It painted a smile on her face that was of both satisfaction and deviant misconduct.
You can be such a slut sometimes.
Charles' apartment was pretty nice for a professor's salary. He had beautiful furniture, an incredibly luxurious bed with down comforters, and lots of fancy bookcases filled with old manuscripts. It was strange, though, that she could not see any pictures or plaques on the walls. Professors usually hung their degrees and certifications for all to see, didn't they? Perhaps he kept them at his office at the university he lectured at.
What university did he say he worked for?
Curiosity was starting to take a hold of Trista, and she forced her stiff legs to slide off the bed. She gasped in shock when her feet touched the cold floor. Her shoes had been discarded somewhere close to the entrance she imagined. In the heat of the moment, neither one of them paid much attention to where garments were being tossed. Her lover's shirt was lying at her feet, however, and she immediately put in on.
