by Holly Hart
You can’t fight cancer, least I can’t. None of these fancy doctors can, neither.
“Get me to my seat, Mac,” he grunts hoarsely at my younger brother, before fixing me with another cold stare. “As for you – that’s enough of that, Dickie. Your ma and I taught you better than that, I thought. I look like shit. I feel like shit. So you better cut your lying, boy.”
“Still got your temper,” I laugh. The joke falls flat. I didn’t expect anything different, not when it’s so clear that our father isn’t long for this world. I look around and see misery written on each of my brother’s faces, and it mirrors what I’m feeling inside.
“And not owt else,” he grumbles, settling onto a creaky wooden chair. “So let’s get this over with.”
It’s obvious no one wants to be the first to speak. I get it. We got nothing but bad news, and da’s had enough of that recently to last a lifetime – his lifetime. I go first. I’m the eldest, and the way things are going it’ll be my job soon enough.
“Things ain’t looking good.”
“You’re telling me, boy,” da’ laughs – but it’s an awful, painful, hacking sound that makes me wince. He stops and waves me on, fishing inside his wool jacket for a handkerchief to mop the pink spittle from his lips.
All of us brothers share a look. I bet da’ sees, but he pretends he doesn’t.
“They’re tooled for war, and what with your condi –”
“My cancer,” da’ says with morbid finality.
“Your cancer,” I nod, “they’re getting bold. We already know they’re nibbling on the edges of our territory. They’re only going to get more confident. We need to bloody their noses before they do –”
“We need to make a deal,” da’ croaks, and the suggestion hits me harder than seeing him like this ever did. Da’ in his prime never would have said a thing. He would have thrown the first punch and feck the consequences.
“Da’ –” I shout, along with Kieran, and maybe my younger brothers too.
“You can’t –”
“Think about what you’re –”
Da’ slams his palm on the table, and my pint ripples. “I want you to set up a meeting, Dec,” he orders with some of his old fire, but I see how much it costs him, “with Micky Morello.”
I don’t like it, but I’m still his son; so while he lives, I will do what he says.
Chapter Seven
Casey
A thick layer of foundation and a healthy dose of rouge on the opposite cheek did enough to hide Lenny’s blow for me to keep working. Not, I guess, that any of the clients in a place like this would care even if they knew. I’d bet any money that each of them beat their wives and girlfriends, maybe even their children.
“You been crying, bitch?” He sneered with an evil grin.
“No. Why?” I stammer, hoping against all hell for him to not notice the missing plank of wood.
“Your makeup’s all smudged. You look even more of a whore than you did before.” He leaned in, and I got another hit of rotting breath. “I like it.”
I blink back the memory and stumble out of a thin metal door at the rear of the warehouse. I’m exhausted and desperate to lie down, to sleep – and forget that any of this ever happened.
That is until tomorrow comes.
I dread to think what Vince and Lenny will dream up for me. I know where this path is heading – it’s a long road, and winding, but it’s only going down. If Lenny doesn’t get his filthy hands on me, Vince will. If they don’t, I’ll be selling my body by Christmas. Not that I’ll have any say in it.
They are predators, and I’m prey.
The realization comes to me simply, and without any of the emotional heft I would have imagined.
I’m going to die here.
Maybe not today, or even tomorrow; maybe not even at Lenny’s hand. But no matter what … it will happen. Perhaps I’ll be the one to do it. I can go out like Luke did … pumped with drugs, but chemically happy.
It’s more than I have now, at any rate.
My breath fogs in the late-night October air. It’s too dark to make out much sign of it, but I can feel the tiny particles of water misting onto my face. I hang by the door, suddenly wary.
It’s dark and it’s cold, and I’m a half-naked girl wrapped in a scruffy winter coat.
If someone was to do something to me here, tonight, I doubt the police would bother investigating too hard. I’ll be a number on a toe tag, a nameless headstone in a city grave.
The ground is packed earth and cracked stone. I’ll hear if anyone tries to sneak up on me … I think. I look left, then right. I keep making quick, hurried glances that reveal nothing except shadows and mystery.
“Three, two, one,” I whisper, like a kid building myself up to cross a dark, monster-ridden hallway to get to the bathroom. Right now I’d give anything to go back to being a kid. Not that my childhood was anything special, but it was better than this.
“Go…” I whisper, and my knee draws up almost to my chest as I start to sprint. My feet kick up gravel that skids on the solid packed ground, and a piece of grit announces its presence in my shoe. I don’t stop to fish it out.
The adrenaline’s flooding into my system, and it’s creating demons in the darkness. I don’t know if they’re real or just –
I misjudge the distance and slam into my car, and my hand jumps to my hip as what little breath remains in my lungs explodes out from my lips.
“Shit…” I groan. “That’ll bruise.” The pain distracts me just a second too long, and my attention fixates on the ache radiating from the top of my thigh.
“I didn’t know you were a runner,” a voice threatens from the darkness. At least, in my panic it sounds that way to me. “You got the ass for it, I guess.”
Fear consumes me. I’m stuck in the middle of the fight or flight reaction, and just like a second ago, my traitorous brain isn’t kicking into gear. I’m stuck, and it takes a monumental effort of will to break out from the panic and fear.
“Get away from me,” I cry to my unknown assailant. “I’ll call the police!”
Why won’t this end?
I pull out a can of mace, and then drop my bag. I hold the pepper spray out in front of me and spin round on my heel, searching for any hint of the man in the darkness. But he’s a pro. I can’t detect any sign of him. It’s too dark, and all my ears are picking up is the blood pounding inside them.
I try to master my panic.
Deep breath in, deep breath –
“Gotcha,” a voice whispers into my ear.
Into my ear; but I didn’t hear him move.
How can that be?
He’s behind me. This is the end.
I try to break free, but his arms encircle me and grab the can of mace and toss it into the darkness. It’s my only weapon, and it’s lost. I go old school, trying to scratch and bite, and kick at every inch of unprotected skin I can find.
“Jesus, Casey,” the man grunts. “It’s me! Stop. Fucking. Kicking!” He punctuates each of the words with a squeeze around my ribs, holding me tighter every time.
Casey?
He said my name.
“Who are you?” I squeal. “How do you know who I am?”
The man chortles. “I dunno. How many guys have you slept with tonight?”
“Declan?” I whisper. “Is that you?”
What a stupid question.
“The very same,” he says with a flourish, and even in the darkness I can hear the smirk in his voice. He lets me go, and my whole body goes limp with relief. God knows how, but I know he’s not going to hurt me. He just likes to play with my freaking mind…
I rest my arms against the hood of my car and force my breathing to return to normal. He crosses his arms and rests beside me.
“You’ll die here, you know that?”
He says it conversationally, like it’s the most ordinary subject in the world to bring up. Doesn’t he know that he’s talking about my life? Does
n’t he know I already know that? I’m a gladiator in the tunnel, but I don’t need to be reminded of my fate.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?”
He waves his hand.
“It’s not the trt uth thayou should be worried about,” he says, “it’s what you’re going to do about it.”
I have to restrain myself from slapping him again. The only thing that holds me back is the knowledge that he’s a whole lot stronger than me; and I’ve already failed at fighting him off once tonight.
I don’t think he has any plans to attack me … But I don’t want to push him, just in case.
Every man has limits.
Even so, my breath escapes in a hot, frustrated bark. “What the hell do you think all this is about?” I rage. “I’m not just sitting around for the tooth fairy to make everything all better. I’m –”
He cut me off, and it’s his calm, cocky certainty that pisses me off most. “No, you’re not.”
He pauses.
“This, what you’re doing, it’s coping, nothing more. You’re like a raft that’s been cut loose, Casey. You’re stuck in an eddy for now, a side stream, but a storm’s building. You think you’re equipped to survive it?”
My mouth opens and shuts like a goldfish. He speaks so much sense, but every damn word makes me want to scratch out his eyes.
He’s right; I know he’s right. I am just rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic as I slowly sink into the ocean. But what choice do I have? I can’t just rustle up fifteen grand. I haven’t got the money to run. Where would I go if I did?
“So … what?” I say, in little more than a defeated sigh. “Are you going to stand up to the Morello family for me; or maybe even Vince Amari? I don’t think so. So why bring this up – why rub salt into my wounds?”
He takes off his hat and smooths back long strands of black hair. Mostly black, I should say, because a shock of white hair runs across his left temple. He looks at me expectantly. The longer the silence builds, the less I understand what is going on.
“So … what?” I finally ask. “Are you balding prematurely, too?”
A spark of a smile flickers across gray sweatshirt’s face. “Funny. You seriously don’t recognize me?”
“Should I?”
“You been livin’ under a rock or somethin’?” He asks with faint disbelief written on to his face. “It doesn’t matter. Tell me how much you owe.”
The change of topic takes me by surprise, and this time I answer him. It’s not like it matters anyway.
Hell, it’s kind of nice to have someone to talk to who isn’t drunk, slobbering all over me, or pockmarked like the craters on Mars. “They want fifteen grand and change: at ten percent.”
“Monthly?”
I shake my head. Saying it out loud brings it home how screwed I really am. “Every week.”
He whistles.
“What if I could make that debt disappear? Now – what would that be worth to you?”
My life.
“Why are you asking?” I say, studying him through narrowed eyes. He’s a wolf, just like the rest of them.
What happened earlier was the only proof I needed of that. I said no: he said yes; he won out. His will prevailed, not mine. It didn’t matter that in the end it was the best fuck I’ve ever had. It didn’t matter that I probably won’t walk straight for days.
No. This isn’t a man I should trust.
The cloud of breath in front of his mouth glints as a shaft of moonlight peeks through scurrying clouds. I watch him closely. I can’t deny that he’s handsome – goddamn handsome. His face looks like it’s been carved out of solid rock; his teeth are perfect and his body … Well, I know all about his body.
But he’s still a wolf.
Just one wearing sheep’s clothing.
“What are you worth, Casey?” He whispers. It’s too dark to see his rainbow eyes in this light, but I feel them boring into me nonetheless. He’s hungry. But is it for me, or just my body? I can’t tell. I suspect the latter.
The breath catches in my throat, but I push it out anyway. I’m walking a fine line here, and I feel like one misstep could send me tumbling down, and crashing against the rocks.
This man – in front of me, whose full name I don’t even know, there’s something about him. It’s some kind of … aura. It’s electric; intoxicating; it draws me in when I should be running away.
I let the words leave my mouth at their own slow pace. As they’re coming out of my mouth, I know that I’m hitting the nail on the head. The question isn’t why I want his help: that’s obvious. No, it’s what does he want from me –
– And, why?
“I think,” I say, “I could ask you the same thing. What am I worth – to you?”
A smile crinkles his cheeks, and I expel the last of the breath in my lungs faster now. He keeps me waiting, and I study his face anxiously, eyes darting from side to side. My knee won’t stop bobbing up and down. It does this whenever I get nervous, and this feels like the worst job interview of my life.
“You shouldn’t ever play poker,” he says. His Irish lilt makes it sound more like he’s singing to me, or crooning than speaking. I want to close my eyes and melt into it, but I know I can’t.
“I can read you like a book. But you’re smart, Casey, I’ll give you that.”
I bite down on the urge to fill the silence. People try and speak when they’re anxious. They fill the silence, because it sounds awkward. But sometimes it’s best to let it linger.
He nods, apparently amused by my unwillingness to cooperate. “Okay, Puss – I’ll bite. Four months.”
Four months? What the hell does he mean by that?
“Four months of… what exactly?”
He rests his hand on my thigh and my entire body flinches at the unexpected heat. He just leaves it there, and suddenly I can feel my blood beating in my eardrums, hear my breath pushing in and out of my lungs, and smell his sharp scent on the evening breeze.
I wonder if I should brush it off, somehow take back control of my own body, because I know what he’s doing.
It’s a power play. He’s showing me who is the boss, and I’m letting it happen. Maybe he’s showing me something else, too; a slice of what lies in my future.
He slides his hand up my leg…slowly…inch by excruciating inch. My skin crackles and burns underneath it, and every millimeter it climbs, the abandoned space below cries out for more.
“Four months of you, Casey,” he whispers, grazing his stubble against my cheek. I close my eyes and let out scraps of a deep, shuddering breath. He cradles my chin, scraping his fingers down my neck until he’s holding it in a light, gentle choke.
“Four months of your mind.”
His other hand slides further up my legs, and my thighs part, letting him do whatever he wants. He strokes me in a place he only just vacated hours before, yet my body cries out for more.
“Four months of your body,” he growls, grinding his palm against me. The heat radiating off his skin feels like summer sun burning on mine. I push my hips forward, into his hand and gasp with pleasure.
He tightens his grip on my neck and lowers his mouth to my ear. His fingers pass in between my swollen lips, and a lone finger dances across my soaking pussy. I’m panting now, and I can barely hear him over the sound of the blood pounding in my ears.
He slides a finger inside me.
“And four months of your soul, Casey. I want every part of you: every hour; every minute; every second. I want all of you. I want you for my own.”
He pulls his finger back and out of me as quickly as he slipped it inside, and I let out a choked whimper. I feel empty again, bereft of his touch.
To my shame, I feel like begging him to put it back, to take me here and now on the hood of my beat up car. I hear my cries of pleasure as clear as if it was already happening.
My stomach’s clenched with embarrassment, cheeks flushed with heat. He’s got me wound tighter than a spring, on
edge – waiting for whatever he does, or says next. It could be anything. He’s a maverick, a wildcard, and I don’t know how to deal with it. Hell, I don’t even know his whole name.
His voice returns to a conversational tone – not cold, just businesslike: brisk. He’s playing with me, I know that; but I’m playing right into his hands.
“So, what do you say?”
I don’t know what to say. I suddenly understand the game he’s playing. He wants to buy me. Not just for an hour, or a night – but for four whole months.
And what does it say about my fucked up mind that the thought of what Declan has planned just doesn’t scare me. It excites me more than I’m prepared to admit.
His question echoes in my mind.
“So – what do you say?”
Chapter Eight
Declan
“I will have certain rules you must follow; at all times. I won’t ask for much, but when I do, I expect your absolute obedience.”
“I haven’t even made up my mind yet,” she says.
“You’re sitting in my truck.” I point out over the low rumble of the engine.
My point is mild, my tone even more so, but it is clear how hard it hits home. Casey slumps back in her passenger seat, brings her knees up to her chest, and rests her head against the window with a bump. She doesn’t even seem to register the pain.
There’s a crack of space at the top of the glass, and the wind whips and pulls at her red hair whenever I round a corner. Hell, every time she looks at me with those greens, it does things to me I can’t explain.
Well, that’s not exactly true. I can explain some things.
I can explain that just the thought of her makes my cock twitch.
I can explain that this is the dumbest shit I’ve ever done. She might not be Vince Amari’s girl, but she is his property.
Keep your eyes on the road, Dec.
“Why are you doing this?” She whispers over the sound of the whistling wind and her hair dancing. “Why can’t you just leave me be?”
