I notice my phone lighting up in my clutch. I kneel down and pick it up like it’s a snake. A picture of my dad from ten years ago smiles at me from a circle on the front of my phone. I don't know why I haven’t changed the picture. It just reminds me how much he has changed, how much worse he has become.
“What is it, Dad?” I ask.
My hostility rolls right off him like always. “Just saw you on T.V.”
My stomach flutters a little. “You did? What did you think?”
“Yeah,” he says distractedly. “You’re like ten yards from Ronnie Fucking White, Aubs. Do you know what his signature is worth?”
I deflate a little. Of course. He wasn’t calling to say something nice or encouraging. He smells money. “I’ve told you before, Dad. It’s not professional for me to ask players for autographs.”
“Fuck professionalism!” he says, suddenly angry. “Look, that money you gave me on Wednesday is all tied up in an investment and they’re going to shut off the water and the cable if I don’t pay by tomorrow.”
Investment. That has been his long-standing codeword for booze. I pinch the skin between my eyebrows, pacing around the field, wishing I could just hang up. I take a few deep breaths before talking. “I gave you five hundred dollars. Do you know how many sacrifices I’m having to make to keep giving you money like this?”
“Oh sure. Big T.V. Woman can’t get new shoes this week, woe is me.”
“Please,” I say through gritted teeth. “Give me a reason to hang up on you.”
“Go ahead. If you try to call me in a few days and I don’t answer, it’s because I’m sitting in my dark fucking apartment with no working outlets to charge my phone. By the way, when are you sending over the money for my next payment? I went over on my data this month and it’s going to be an extra fifteen dollars.”
I hang up the phone and barely resist the urge to hurl it into the middle of the field. He’s unbelievable. The part that pisses me off most is that I’m going to give him the money. When Mom died, he was all I had. He did a shit job of raising me, but he’s still my dad, and I can’t just ignore his problems, as much as I might want to. I pull up his AT&T account on my phone and pay his bill. Then I pull up New York Electric and pay that too. Two month’s worth of late payments. $164.27. I do some quick mental math and come to the conclusion that I’ll be eating ramen and beans again this month.
I want to kneel down and rub my heel, which is actually killing me, but I think of Jerry’s slimy grin. Fuck you, Jerry. In a silent act of spite, I refuse to take off my shoes or rub my feet. Instead, I move along the sideline, trying to find Aria. In the constant shitstorm that is my life, Aria often feels like the only shelter. I know she’ll be here because she never misses a chance to use my credentials to get on the sidelines. Of course, she has no interest in the game. She just loves being close enough to check out the players.
I find her near the Jet’s quarterback, Ryan Fitzpatrick, who is throwing warm-up balls with Geno Smith. She’s doing a laughably bad job of looking inconspicuous as she twirls her golden hair, leaning forward over a divider so that her cleavage is scandalously visible. She sees me coming and her cheeks flush. She straightens and clears her throat, moving to give me a tight hug.
“Aubs!” she says when her head is nestled in my neck. When anyone else tries to call me that, it boils my blood, but I’ve known Aria for so long that it doesn’t bother me. She’s been calling me Aubs since we were kids.
Her hair smells like the vanilla sugar scent she loves so much. I give her a knowing smile. “Getting any inspiration?” I ask.
She pulls back from the hug, cheeks getting even more red. “I have no idea what you mean. I’m just trying to stay out of the way and enjoy the on-field experience my best friend in the world got for me.”
I smile wider, looking over my shoulder at the quarterbacks. “He does have a nice ass.”
“Don’t you have reporting to do?” she asks.
I’m about to answer when something catches my eye.
Two men in suits emerge from one of the VIP access doors, strolling across the field, looking incredibly out of place, not because of their clothing necessarily, there are plenty of business types on the field who are executives working for the stadium or the team owners. They are out of place because of the way they carry themselves. There’s no false bravado to them like I see in so many wealthy businessmen, the sort of manufactured stride that is wide and attention-seeking. These men strut across the field, looking at ease in their expensive suits and backhanding each other’s chests as they exchange jokes. They make me think of mobsters I’ve seen in movies.
I watch closely as they get the attention of one of the Jets players on the sideline. After exchanging a few words, they all walk back toward the VIP entrance together.
The investigative journalist in me can sense a story from a mile away. I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s big, and I know it’s dirty, maybe even the kind of story that launches careers. Aria sees the look in my eye and follows my gaze. She gives me a level look, shaking her head slowly.
“Aubs, no. You can’t always go chasing people around and snooping. Especially not now. You may not think so, but you have a really fucking good job. Besides, those guys look like criminals or something.”
I put my hands on her shoulders and meet her eyes. “I’ll be like...two minutes. No more. I just want to check it out.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Two minutes?”
“Two minutes,” I promise.
“If I have to come after you, I’m not going to be happy,” she says, casting a glance toward the quarterbacks again.
I move as fast as I can in my heels to where the men in suits and the player just went. I think that was Ronnie White, the star wide receiver, but I was too caught up to notice his numbers. Once I’m sure no one is looking, I let myself in the door.
There’s a long hallway inside lined with air-conditioned rooms. I move slowly, trying not to look suspicious and probably doing a terrible job. The place seems deserted though, so I keep moving down the hallway, listening hard for any sign of them.
Then I hear voices, to my surprise, one of the doors is ajar. I creep closer, looking through the crack. I can see a Jets uniform and someone’s back. He’s wearing a suit and talking in low, threatening tones.
“...made a fuckin’ deal. You do not want to piss him off.” It’s one of the men in suits talking. He has a slight italian accent and a cocky lilt to his voice.
I can see the football player’s numbers now. Number seven. Holy shit. That’s Ronnie White, one of the top ten players in the entire NFL. If he’s involved with something, the story could be huge. Gigantic.
Ronnie rubs the back of his neck, pacing around the small but well-furnished room. “I just don’t know. Coach has been like a father to me lately. I don’t know, man.”
“You know what I fuckin’ know? You don’t follow through with the promise you made us, and you’ll fuckin’ regret it.”
Ronnie’s eyes harden and he looks toward the man in the suit. “I can find the money. Just let me play out the next few games and I’ll get the money.”
The man in the suit wags a finger. “That wasn’t the deal. Two hundred large if you help your team lose. Simple as fuckin’ pie, Ronnie.”
“I just can’t do it. I can’t let my team down. I thought I could, but…”
A new voice speaks this time and I realize there must have been a third man waiting in the room. I see him pass into my view through the crack and I have to put my hand over my mouth to keep from gasping out loud.
Before I can even take in the details, he swallows the room, demanding attention. Demanding respect.
He wears a fitted, charcoal suit with a crisp white shirt underneath and a silky gray tie. His hair is thick and wavy, pushed aside with a careless ease. His dark eyes burn like coals, seeming to cut through any and all bullshit. A scar on his cheek adds even more intensity to his face. The
suit he wears is the perfect compliment to his body, exaggerating the wide spread of his shoulders and the taper of his powerful back to his waist. God, I’ve interviewed a lot of famous athletes and dealt with a lot of people, but I’ve never seen someone so completely perfect in person.
Perfect? No. He’s not perfect. Not on the inside, at least. I can sense something about him, a darkness. There’s a devil inside this man and it’s just barely below the surface. It’s in the way he moves and the way the men in the room react to him. So why does it feel like someone just shocked me? Why is my chest getting so hot? He’s clearly dangerous, maybe the most dangerous person I’ve ever seen. My brain is screaming for me to run, but my feet aren’t going anywhere.
I try to tell myself I’m staying for the story, and not for the man in the charcoal suit.
3
Vincent
I move closer to Ronnie until I’m right in his face. I don’t particularly enjoy being a prick and making threats, but I also don’t fuckin’ like when people make my job complicated.
“Let me make this crystal,” I say slowly. “You stick to the plan, and you don’t get hurt. You don’t? Well…” I shrug, cracking my knuckles. “I just got a new pair of bolt cutters last week. I bet they could snip those long fingers off pretty easy.”
Ronnie pales, licking his lips. It’s a look I’ve seen before. No one really wants to have to be dealing with me, but they’re all big fuckin’ boys who can make their own decisions. Professional athletes are harder to break than the low-lifes I used to deal with when I was still making a name for myself, but they break just the same.
Ronnie’s shoulders slump and he nods his head slowly. “If I do this one game, I’m done?”
I pat him on his shoulder pads. “Let’s just focus on one game at a time. We can talk about interest later.”
His face gets even whiter, but I can see in his eyes that I’ve got him now. Then I hear a stifled cough outside the room. I’m at the door before the others have even had time to react. I yank it open, heart thumping in my chest. If anyone heard any of that and repeated it to the wrong ears? We’d be royally fucked. I slide my hand to the .45 holstered at my hip, stepping into the hallway.
I see a wide-eyed woman backing away slowly. Her chest is heaving and she looks like she’s trying to speak, but no sound is coming out. I lunge for her, grabbing her by the arm and yanking her back in the room. I press her against the wall, locking my eyes on hers.
“Everybody out,” I say, still not looking away from her. My voice is Arctic.
“Wait. What if she heard something?” asks Ronnie.
“You don’t ask fuckin’ questions. Go out there and do what you’re told. I’ll handle this.”
I signal for Jimmy to clear the room. The door closes behind them and the sound of her heavy breaths are suddenly deafening.
It’s just me and the girl. My blood is boiling. I slam a fist into the wall beside her face and she cowers. I get my first real look at her. She’s knock-out beautiful with a face that’s all big-doe like eyes and perfect kiss me lips. Just looking at her hardens my cock, but that’s a dangerous line of thought. She just overheard business, and a dangerous amount of it. I should put a bullet in her and call the cleaners, but God damn. I want to squeeze that fat ass and hear her beg for my cock first.
I can be a real asshole, but even I wouldn’t fuck a girl and then have her killed. I pace restlessly, watching her carefully. I can usually read women like books. She looks scared, but there’s something else behind it. Defiance? Anger? Lust? Fuck. I need to stop trying to figure her out. In my world, the only way to survive is to be careful. And rule one of being careful? If someone has dirt on you, they get shut up.
I clench my fists, moving closer to her until I can smell her scent. It rises up from beneath her perfume, raw and primal. I feel like an animal, driven nearly wild by the sight and smell of her. This girl is going to be trouble for me. Big trouble.
4
Aubriella
I’ve never been more terrified in my life. I’m going to die. This is how I’m going to fucking die. I think I’m hyperventilating. My chest is rising and falling so fast and my heart is pounding so hard I think it might burst.
“Please…” I manage to say in a shaky voice.
The hardness in his eyes slowly changes to something that I don’t quite recognize.
“Please what?” he asks. His voice is all gravel. There’s a hint of danger in his words, as if the question is a threat.
“Let me go. I won’t say anything.”
“Right,” he says, smirking with a cocky confidence. He reaches and lifts my name-tag, fingers brushing the soft flesh of my breast as he does. “My name is Vincent Citrione. Now that you know who I am, I can’t just let you walk out of here…” There’s smoke in his voice. Fire. It’s full of all the wrong kinds of promises.
It’s like electricity pulses through me at his touch. Heat blossoms in my chest and my core clenches. Seriously? This guy is going to fucking kill me and I’m getting horny? I don’t care if he looks like he stepped out of a GQ magazine, I need to get a grip and start thinking. Fast.
He cocks his head as he reads the name tag. “Aubriella…”
Hearing my name come from his perfect lips gives me another wave of chills. Jesus. It’s like my body’s betraying me. I know I should run, scream, fight back—something—but all I can do is stand here like a scared child, looking into his dark eyes. I can lose my problems in those eyes. The heat and danger in them overpowers everything else. There’s a promise of power and control, of possessiveness, as if he’s some dark angel who could save me from my problems—for a price.
“This is a media badge.” He holds the badge in front of me with two fingers. Some of the casual ease leaves his face. His features take on a hard edge as he slaps a palm to the wall beside my head and leans in closer. “You’re a reporter? A fuckin’ reporter!” His palm slams the wall again, punctuating his word.
“N-no,” I stammer. “I’m just the sports girl. I-I just,” a shiver cuts my words short. I close my eyes, shoulders pressing in toward my ears.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t put one between your eyes, right fuckin’ now.”
The contempt in his eyes ignites something in me. Maybe it was Jerry Washington or my dad or any of the other fifty minor-disasters in the last week, but I’m overcome by a dangerous level of don’t-give-a-fuck. I’m tired of assholes walking all over me and if I’m going to die, I don’t want it to be while I’m sniveling and begging. I want to bring him down a notch, to stand up for myself and show him that I don’t care if he’s a big bad mafia man. He’s not going to intimidate me.
“Fuck you,” I say. The words come out with a little less enthusiasm than I’d planned, and I have trouble holding his gaze as he glares back at me with so much heat that it’s like looking into the sun. But I do it. I don’t look away. I don’t even blink. I think he might actually kill me right then.
He breaks his glare with an easy smile, stepping back as if to get a real look at me for the first time. He prowls in front of me, tilting his chin down to look at me appraisingly, the predatory grin never leaving his face as he paces back and forth with a languid ease. “Fuck me? Is that a request or a declaration, doll?”
I flush under his gaze, pushing back the irrational desire to feel his touch again. I can’t believe I’m still craving his hands on me when I know he is probably trying to decide if he should kill me or not. Something about the danger gives me a thrill I can’t seem to get enough of, though. Maybe it’s the same craving that has always made me want to step in the middle of chaos to find the story.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I retort, even as my body reacts to him and his manly musk, begging me to reach for him and feel the heat of his skin.
He smirks. The dim lighting casts his features into darkness, making his perfect face like that of a vengeful god. “You sure?” He’s closer now, I can feel his breath against my face.
/> I swallow, forcing myself to look up at him. The arrogance in his features pisses me off and turns me on at the same time. I want to shut him up, to prove him wrong. Before I have a chance to think of how, his mouth is crashing against mine.
It’s like no kiss I’ve ever had before. There’s no tenderness or hesitation in it. His large, possessive hands roam my body, cupping my breasts like he already owns them, gliding down my back and squeezing my ass. My world closes in around the sensation of him against me, his rough hands claiming me and the wet heat of his mouth against mine, the slickness of his tongue. I kiss him back.
What the fuck am I doing? For a minute, I try to convince myself that I’m only trying this because I think it will get him to let me go, that I don’t really want it. The closeness of his body is doing things to me that no amount of logic can overcome. No, I don’t want to sleep with him. I want him to take me. To fuck me. The thought makes me feel ashamed, but the feeling is somewhere distant, somewhere less urgent and pressing than right now. I just want something real in a life that has been full of bullshit.
He steps back and my stomach sinks.
He’s going to shoot me now, or call me a slut for letting him kiss and grope me, or tell me I’m not good enough for him. God, I’m such an idiot. It surprises me to realize how much I need him to want me. It’s not just about right now or him. It’s about everything, the shitty card I’ve been dealt with a deadbeat father who uses me like a personal ATM, a long line of worthless ex-boyfriends, money trouble…the list goes on.
“Take off your clothes,” he demands.
5
Vincent
My cock is struggling against my pants as I watch her hesitate. She only waits a second before reaching up to unzip her skirt. She’s wearing a typical newscaster outfit—some relatively cheap looking business skirt and top. If she was mine, I wouldn’t let her walk around in shit like that. I’d buy her the best fucking clothes money could buy. I don’t have time for commitments though, so I push the thought from my head. She’s not yours, Vince. She’s just a quick fuck. Ever since I felt her tits against my skin, I’ve had an uncontrollable hunger to fuck her into submission, to watch her give in to me. And then when she showed she had some bite? God, I thought I was about to blow my fuckin’ load right there. Finally, a fuckin’ girl with some backbone. It’s going to make breaking her in all the more satisfying.
His: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Citrione Crime Family) Page 2
