Dirty Debt: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance

by Teagan Kade

  I hold my chest. “It burns.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  I put the tumbler down, clearing my throat. “What do you think our chances of finding Rick are?”

  Max holds the glass up, looking at me through the whiskey. “Good. Guys like your boy only get so far before something catches up with them, and I intend for that something to be my fist.”

  I lower my head before looking up at him, leaning forward. “I wanted to thank you.”

  He takes another sip. “For what? Taking you hostage?”

  “For saving me from…” I don’t know what I’m trying to say.

  “A beating? It probably would have been easier that way.”

  “But they’d still come after me, right? For the money?”

  He sits back into the sofa. “I’m afraid so. I’ve worked for Saul for a long time. He’s not the type to let this kind of thing go.”

  “I figured. I didn’t sign anything, you know.”

  “Lover Boy forged your signature.”

  “I think so.”

  He places the tumbler down on the bench. “It doesn’t matter to Saul. This is only going to end for you once that debt is paid, and trust me, you don’t want to be the one paying it off.”

  “Why do you do it?” I query.

  “This job?” He lifts his shoulders. “Fuck knows. I’m big, I can fight—it seemed like a natural fit.”

  “But you’re working for a criminal.”

  He rocks forward. “I am a criminal. Besides, we’re all working for criminals in one way or another. I’m just doing it out in the open.”

  “You can’t honestly believe that?”

  “With no degree, no high-school diploma? An ex-con? What do you think I should do? Flip burgers at Wendy’s?”

  I don’t miss the convict part.

  He holds up his hands, the knuckles still broken from earlier. “These hands were born to break things, to cause pain. It’s just the way things are.”

  “Do you have any family?” I ask, cautious.

  He picks up his tumbler and sits on the couch beside me, holding it with both hands between his legs, nodding down into it. “No.”

  “But you had a family growing up, right? Parents?”

  “I had Pops. Now, he was a boxer, a fighter to the end right up until the cancer took him.”

  I’ve gone too far. “I’m sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago. I’ve moved on.”

  I look around. “Clearly.”

  I notice something on the coffee table, a folder. I reach forward.

  “Wai—” but I’ve already opened it.

  There are sketches inside, designs. They’re for tattoos, and they’re good. I recognize the tribal design off his arm. “You drew these?”

  He sits back and I get the impression he’s embarrassed. “Yeah.”

  I leaf through them. “These are good. I mean, they’re really good.”

  I wasn’t expecting this giant hulking mass of muscle to be creative, but it seems like ‘Maximus’ here is full of surprises.

  He takes the folder from my hands, closing it and placing it underneath the table. “Do you want to call your friend? I don’t mind.”

  Poor Noel. I shake my head. “No, you’re right. The less she knows, the better.”

  I reach for my tumbler but knock it off the table. We reach for it at the same time, his hand hot on mine, rough and waxy—broken.

  It stays there as my eyes lift to his, our breathing occupying the same space while the whiskey seeps into the carpet, the woody smell of it rising.

  I want to kiss him. Why, I have no idea. There’s no logic in it, but I feel it all the same, the hot pull urging me to move towards him, open my mouth.

  We break apart.

  The moment is lost, his hand leaving mine.

  “Sorry,” I stammer.

  He takes the tumbler and stands, heading to the kitchen. “Don’t worry about it. It was cheap stuff, anyhow.”

  “What do I have to do to get the good stuff?” I joke, realizing with horror it sounds like the world’s worst pick-up line.

  He laughs. “I have a feeling it would be wasted on a fragile thing like you.”

  “I’m not fragile.”

  He eyes me from the kitchen, head titled to the side. “Let’s see, Dorothy. Have you ever been in a fight?”

  Damn him. “Sure.”

  “A real fight, with skin and bones and blood so fresh you can taste the iron in it?”

  “Does Facebook count?”

  He laughs again. It’s refreshing to know there’s a human being inside that hard body.

  I can’t deny he’s attractive in a brawny, save-the-damsel kind of way, but he should realize I’m no damsel, contrary to recent events. I’ve had my share of hard times too.

  It’s insane. Maybe the emotion is getting to me, but I want to be with this man. I want to see what those hands can do.

  Do you really think that’s wise, Dawn? He’s a criminal. He didn’t exactly deny it.

  Bad boys are not my thing. I’ve always wanted a prim, proper Yale type with impeccable fashion sense to take home to Mom. I didn’t exactly picture Mr. Right looking like Dwayne Johnson. Max is the polar opposite of my fantasy, so why the hell can’t I stop thinking about him, that dirty mouth of his doing dirty things between my legs?

  You’re not thinking straight. This is an unusual situation. You’re bound to be skittish.

  Skittish? I’m horny—pure and simple, as Max would say.

  After he’s cleaned the carpet, wonderfully close to my legs—so easy to run a hand between them—he stands and announces he’s taking a shower.

  I keep my mouth shut, even if my body is screaming out to join him.

  Stockholm syndrome, Dawn. It’ll pass.

  I nod and sit there quietly listening to the shower turn on, the door swinging open, all the while picturing his naked body, what his cock would look like unveiled, the heft and size of his shaft, if I could even take it.

  Dawn! Get with the freakin’ program!

  I consider my options. I have to admit, they are few. I could leave right now. He didn’t lock the door, but I’m not familiar with this neighborhood. It doesn’t exactly strike me as the set of Friends, what with the bars on the windows and the potential drug dealer we passed in the stairwell.

  Max took his cell into the bathroom, so that’s out, not that it would do me any good either. If this was a movie, going to the cops was always the worst idea.

  This isn’t a movie. This is your life.

  The urge to flee builds again until I remind myself that, for the time being, I’m safest here with Max, a man I barely know. But that’s the thing, I do know people. I always have. Mom says it’s one of my superpowers, the way I can measure someone up in seconds, and I see good in Max. It might be buried for the moment, but it’s there. If I can appeal to that, I’ll stay alive.

  There’s a loud gunshot. I hear feet pounding up the stairwell beyond the front door. A sudden and all-enveloping fear grips me. “Max!” I shout, but there’s no answer.

  I picture men in black coming up the stairs, guns in hand, guys from the butcher shop or worse.

  “Max!” I call again, but the shower continues to run.

  You have to warn him.

  I stand up and run for the bathroom.

  I knock on the door, but it’s not locked, swinging open to reveal Max, completely naked, stepping from the shower.

  He sees me but makes no attempt to cover up.

  My eyes shift to his crotch. Try as I might I can’t pull them away from… that.

  Holy big penis, Batman.

  I thought his fighting skills were impressive, but the weapon between his legs looks just as concussion-worthy.

  He reaches for a towel, droplets of water spilling down cut arms and legs. “Is everything okay or did you just want to see me naked?”

  Eyes up, Dawn.

  “Ah, I heard a gunshot, outside, people
in the hall,” I splutter, and I swear my legs are actually shaking.

  He wraps the towel around his waist. I note he hasn’t got just a six-pack. No, he’s got the whole damn case. He wraps the towel around himself casually, cinching it off at the side. “It’ll be Lenny going out on a booze run. That shit-box of his is always backfiring, and the footsteps in the hall? Kids from upstairs most likely, playing around on the stairs. I keep telling them they should get some air, play outside, fly a fucking kite, but you know kids these days.”

  “Oh.” It’s all I can say. I stand there feeling incredibly foolish.

  And then it happens.

  I lose it.

  I start to ball, tears running hot and free down my face. I stand there blubbering and lost, no idea where this sudden outburst has come from. I’m a second away from peeing myself, all bodily functions lost.

  “Hey, hey.”

  He comes forward and wraps his arms around me, pressing my head against his wet chest, his heart thumping hard against my ear. “Christ. It’s just kids.”

  “I’m. Just. So. Scared,” I cry, and I don’t know what’s more embarrassing—telling myself I’m strong and turning into a human ocean at a car backfiring, or bursting in on Max naked and going all magnet eyes on his twig and berries.

  He holds me away, and there’s a moment, barely a second or two, where we stand there staring at each other.

  My lips part, poised, salty tears drying on his chest.

  Now.

  Chapter 7

  Max

  We should kiss. God knows I want to, but I pull back just before our lips touch, scratching my head. My cock’s sticks out like a fucking Maglite against the towel, but I ignore it. “We should rest.”

  She looks down, blushing again. “Yeah. You’re right.”

  I feel like such an asshole.

  What the fuck are you doing? I’m telling myself. She wants this and you’re running with the ‘rest up’ routine?

  But I can’t. Not yet. It doesn’t seem right. I have to be sure of her motives first. My dick would disagree, but too many men have died because they listened to their manhood instead of their head. I don’t want to become another statistic no matter how tempting she may be standing here so wonderfully vulnerable.

  Seconds—that’s all it would take to get that dress off.

  I shake my head, trying to block it out and pushing past her. I catch her scent as I pass. It’s almost my undoing. “Goodnight,” I tell her.

  “Goodnight,” she replies, standing there lost in the doorway. I step into my bedroom, one hand against the back of the door.

  Your loss, big boy.

  My back hurts. My shoulder hurts. It turns out my couch doesn’t make for the world’s comfiest mattress. It’s not like I could sleep anyhow knowing she was just down the hall, my own personal angel. I tossed and turned all night, finally taking my cock in hand and jerking off in the bathroom. Fucking pathetic.

  You could have been in bed with her. You could have been inside her, fucking her hard.

  Again, I stifle the thought. Not now.

  The airport is suitably bustling. I get nervous every time we walk past a security guard or cop, but Dawn remains quiet. I see her eyes shifting. She’s thinking about it too. She could call me out, run, but she doesn’t. It’s a small show of trust, but one I’m extremely grateful for.

  I grab us both coffees as we wait in the lounge. I hand Dawn’s over as I sit. “I must say, I had you pegged for a mocha, maybe a latte.”

  She takes the espresso off me and sips, lifting her eyebrows seductively. “Hang around me long enough and that’ll be the least of the surprises.”

  I can only dream. She’s wearing a new black dress purchased ten minutes ago from the only fashion store we could find in here. The top’s sheer, with a web-style design, the skirt midi length. My fashion knowledge might be lacking, but I do know every hot-blooded male in here has their eye on her.

  I watch the planes taxi outside. “Do you do much flying?”

  She almost chokes on her espresso. “If by ‘much’ you mean ‘once’ when I was five, sure.”

  “Where did you go?” I ask.

  “Fiji. Family holiday… in cyclone season, so I’m sure you can surmise how that one worked out.”

  “Worst. Holiday. Ever,” I mock.

  She sits back, eyebrows knitted together. “Wow, you do that a little too well. You haven’t got some kind of strange, Mrs. Doubtfire thing going on, do you?”

  I laugh and grab my crotch, hoisting it up much to the horror of the woman sitting directly opposite us. “In short, no, but I’m sure you worked that out when you so unceremoniously barged into the bathroom last. You know, if you wanted to see it so bad, you only had to ask.”

  I don’t miss the way she crosses her legs, her thighs shifting together underneath her skirt. I’d give fucking anything to be between them right now.

  An airport security guard passes by. He looks twice at me, eyes moving over my tatts. I could wear a pink polo and chinos and still look like the dictionary definition of trouble.

  The guard continues walking no doubt satisfied I’m not about to tear the place apart with my bare hands.

  A boarding call comes across the PA.

  I stand and pick up the duffle bag, hoisting it over my shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  Dawn looks confused. “The call was for First Class.”

  I can’t help but smile. “You think I travel Coach?”

  She looks me up and down. “Well, yeah, I kind of do.”

  I hand her a ticket. “Come on, Dorothy. The Emerald City awaits.”

  “A literary reference. Impressive. Maybe there is a brain up there in that thick skull somewhere.”

  I push her forward smiling. “Move.”

  We’re seated right up front of the plane. I stow the duffle and help Dawn into her seat, sitting myself and hunting for the seatbelt as the other passengers pass by looking over us with envy.

  I sit back and pull in a breath.

  It doesn’t go unnoticed. “You okay?” she asks.

  I shrug. “Flying’s always made me nervous. What can I say? I hate putting my life in someone else’s hands. I like to be in control. That’s actually why I wanted to be a pilot when I was seven, so I could fly myself around, picking up my school buddies, tour America’s best theme parks. But no girls. Strictly no girls.”

  Dawn’s smiling, eyes bright. “So, what happened?”

  I shrug again. “Life, lock-up, not to mention the neighborhood I grew up in wasn’t exactly churning out society’s brightest.”

  I notice a businessman in a pressed suit is watching us intently further along the aisle. He’s watching Dawn, I think, ogling her. A sudden hot flare of jealously runs through me. I snap sideways, eyeing him back.

  I’ve never seen anyone look away so fast.

  Dawn places her hand on mine. “You do stand out a little.”

  Her naivety is endearing in a way. I just hope it remains intact. This world, my world, is no place for a girl like her.

  I bring my shoulders back and try to relax. “Is it the ink or the cauliflower ears, you think?”

  She laughs, fastening her seatbelt. “I don’t know. Maybe the fact you look like you just ate a bag of nails?”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “‘Brooding’ doesn’t even begin to describe it. Tom Hardy would be proud.”

  “Who?”

  “Tom Ha—” She sees me smiling. “You’re joking.”

  “I am.”

  “There you go. See? Isn’t that better than the whole Bruce Wayne, damn-the-world thing? If you ask me, it’s kind of sexy… a little, maybe.”

  She’s blushing hard.

  I look at her, drowning in the sea-green of her eyes. “I’m smiling for you. No one else.”

  We’re pulling together again when a flight attendant stoops down to interrupt us. “Can I get you anything before the flight?”

  A thrum runs under my
feet as the engines start to spool. “Whiskey. Make it a double.”

  The attendant focuses on Dawn. “And you, ma’am?”

  Dawn smiles. “Water, thank you.” She looks out the window beside her. God she looks fucking beautiful lit from the side like this. For the first time, I notice she’s not a straight brunette. There’s gold in there, copper even—beautiful alchemy.

  She turns still smiling. “It all looks so small from here, doesn’t it?”

  “New York?”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty.”

  I humph. “If you think New York is ‘pretty,’ you clearly haven’t seen enough of it.”

  She looks back to the window. “I don’t know. There’s beauty everywhere if you look hard enough.”

  “Not where I’m from.”

  She lets it go. I try to change the subject. “So, you really want to be a fashion designer? That’s your thing?”

  She turns back to me, brushing her hair over her ear, her doe eyes darting upwards into mine. “Yeah. That’s my ‘thing,’ my dream.” She looks down, a sudden sullenness filling her features. “I was on track, too, until Rick.”

  “You can still do it.”

  “Can I?” she continues, watching me again. “He’s more or less sealed my fate here if you didn’t notice. Why do you think I’m working at my friend’s store? And that’s just to pay the bills he left. I didn’t know about this huge debt until a day or two ago.”

  I place my free hand over hers and squeeze. “I won’t let it come to that. You have my word.”

  “The word of a criminal.”

  I breathe out, but it’s fair. I am a criminal.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “That was too much.”

  I remove my hand. “No, you’re right, but criminal or not, I’m a man of my word. We’ll find Rick and we’ll sort this out, even if I have to fuck him up five ways to Sunday.”

  Armani’s watching us again down the aisle. “Why don’t you take a fucking picture?” I shout.

  Conversation stops around us.

  Dawn’s soft fingers fall on my arm. “Easy, Max. Let’s not get kicked off the plane before it’s taken off.”

  I exhale, long and deep, trying to expel all this nervous energy from my lungs. “I know, I know.” But I’ve got a mind to follow Wall Street there when he decides to take a bathroom break, give him a taste of New York’s finest knuckle sandwich. My fist closes and releases. It needs action.