by Teagan Kade
My defenses ease. “You fit the mold, though.”
He turns down a side street. “And what mold would that be?”
“The car, the tattoos, the cockiness…” I have to stop short of adding ‘the body,’ but his smile tells me he knows precisely what was going to come out of my mouth next.
“I suppose you’re a saint then, Mother Teresa reincarnated as a hot masseuse?”
I ignore the compliment, allowing that tingly spot between my legs to take it instead. “I’m not who you think I am.”
“No? I think you are. I think you’re as straight as they come. What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done, seriously?”
I think it over. I’m not ready to tell him about that. “I stole an apple from the supermarket last week.”
He seems surprised. “A whole apple?”
I cross my arms, lift my chin. “Yeah. Real gangster shit,” I reply, the cursing strange in my mouth.
He’s not so easily fooled. “You forgot to take it out of your cart, didn’t you?”
Crap. “Maybe.” My smile’s already spreading, and hell, I don’t want it to stop.
We break into laughter, relaxing into it. It’s nice.
He parks in front of a fancy, glass-fronted restaurant and kills the ignition.
“What about you?” I press. “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
It’s impossible to miss the sudden change that comes over him, the injection of serious that fills his features. “You know I was overseas?”
This is not where I wanted this question to lead at all. I nod. “I heard.”
“That should tell you everything you need to know. You don’t join the Army for a vacation, though sun and sand were in copious supply.”
“You don’t have to talk about it.”
His eyes meet mine again. “I will if you want me to.”
I smile and look out the window. The restaurant looks like an art gallery. I can’t even pronounce the name on the window. “Is this where we’re going?”
Chance laughs. “Only if you’re a pretentious ass.” He points to the other side of the street. “No, we’re going there.”
I squint. “The food truck?”
“You haven’t had Cajun until you’ve had Ragin’ Cajun. Wait there.”
I watch as Chance makes his way around to my side, opening my door and ushering me out by the hand. I’m struck by how hot his skin is, the massive size of his hand. There’s a flash, a thought of it closing over one of my breasts, my nipples straining against his palm and I squirm.
We approach the truck complete with crocodile-at-a-barbeque artwork. The owner leans out. “Chance fucking Adams.”
Chance reaches up and takes his hand bro style. “Georgio, my man. What’s cooking?”
“On the grill or in life?”
“Whatever.”
“Kids, cooking—It never ends, man.”
“You?”
Chance fakes throwing a ball. “Scoring, of course.”
Georgio looks towards me standing behind Chance. “Speaking of which, who is this lovely lady?”
Chance places his arm around my shoulder, draws me to the window. “This is Samantha with the magic hands.”
Georgio puts his own up. “Brother, I don’t want to know about your sex life.”
I’m about to set the record straight when Chance steps in. “No, my friend, she’s the team massage therapist.”
Georgio reaches down to shake my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Sam. If this knucklehead gives you grief, you just come see Uncle Georgio, you hear?”
“I will.” I sniff. “Something smells amazing.”
“Shit.” Georgio heads to the back of the truck. I hear something sizzling before he returns to the counter. “You kids want to eat?”
“I’m starving,” I announce.
Georgio winks at me. “I’ve got just the thing.” He looks to Chance. “Usual table?”
Chance nods. “You know it.”
The back of the truck opens and Georgio steps out holding a small fold-up table and umbrella. He sets it up right there on the sidewalk next to the truck, the umbrella a flamboyant shade of neon yellow. The whole thing is hilariously different to the establishment across the road. “Enjoy.”
“I’d pull your seat out,” says Chance, “but I’m afraid it’s part of the table.”
I’m laughing as I sit down. Laughing and smiling more in the last fifteen minutes than I have in a month. Crazy as it sounds, maybe Chance is what I need right now. He’s a quarterback and you’re a… I don’t want to finish the thought. It is a ridiculous notion. Regardless of what swoony moves Chance pulls now, there’s no doubt as soon as he had his way with me I’d be old news, relegated to the archive along with who knows how many poor women who thought they had a chance… with Chance. God, I’m not even thinking straight any more.
“You with me, Sam? You don’t have sunstroke, do you?” he jokes.
I break from my thoughts and smile. “It is hot, isn’t it? They say it’s going to be ninety-five tomorrow, maybe a hundred later in the week.”
Chance licks his lips, leaning on the tiny table, barely a couple of feet between us. “You know what the best thing about a heatwave is?”
Here we go… “What? Walking around naked?”
The smile never breaks, those pearly whites gleaming. “I was going to say Snow Cones, but okay, Anastasia Steele.”
He shakes his head looking down at the table. “Stealing apples, walking around naked… You really are a wild one, aren’t you?”
I slap his hand playfully, the touch enough to elicit a look of surprise. “Stop it.”
“There’s no charm off button, you know.”
“Is there a mute button?”
The smile grows. “Touché.”
I look to the truck, Georgio humming something inside. “How do you know Georgio?”
“We did a tour together, saw some real action. The first thing he did when he got home was buy that truck. My mother had Creole on her side, cooked this kind of stuff from time to time, so I guess you could say it’s sentimental… and delicious.”
Right on cue Georgio appears with a tray, handing down dish after dish onto an increasingly cluttered table. Done, he points at each in turn. “We got a fried shrimp po’ boy there for the lady, jambalaya for my boy, some hush puppies to start and praline cheesecake to wrap it all up. You want some beers?”
God, it does look amazing. “That’d be great.”
Georgio winks at Chance. “My kind of girl.”
“And mine,” Chance repeats, Georgio returning shortly with two beers.
Chance picks one up, taking off the top with a twist of his T-shirt, his accordion abs on display in the sun. He does the same with my beer and slides it across. “Dig in.”
Fancy food has never really been my thing. I much prefer street food like this. Maybe Chance read me or maybe he just got lucky, but from the first bite I’m in food heaven.
“Good, right?” Chance enthuses, tucking into his own.
“Yeah,” I mumble, mouth full, trying to eat my po’ boy as ladylike as possible but failing miserably. “It’s de-we-scious”.
He laughs. “Good.”
We’re halfway through when a blonde woman stoops down to us. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Chance looks up.
This is it—one of Chance’s women come to haunt him, a visage of what I will become, but no.
“I’m such a fan.” She bends down a little, phone in hand. “Do you mind?” She’s ignoring me completely. It’s like I’m not even here.
Chance places his fork down, but he doesn’t take his eyes off me. “Sure.”
Blondie snaps a selfie, a small grin from Chance. She stands beaming. “Thank you, so much, Gunner! Enjoy your lunch!”
She goes off and Chance picks up his fork. “Sorry about that.”
“Gunner?” I’ve never heard him called that.
He shrugs it off. �
�Nickname from way back—the military thing, the football. The fans love it.”
“It’s all part of the job, huh?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“You don’t get sick of random people coming up to you on the street?”
He sits back. “If you’ve done your homework, you should know I’ve wanted to play ball my whole life.”
I nod. I had read something to that effect.
“There was a quarterback for the Cats back when I was about seven or eight, Bobby Garcia. He was a gun, you know? A fucking legend.” He pauses, looks away before returning his attention back to me. “Pops and I were at the Colosseum for a game one day. We stopped for some kettle corn on the way out, and there he was, standing around the corner by himself—Bobby. I was star-struck. I finally built up the courage to go and ask for his autograph. You know what he did? He told me to get lost.”
“Really?”
“I never told Dad about it, even faked his autograph to save face, but I told myself from that day I would become the greatest quarterback football had ever seen, better even than Bobby Garcia.”
“So now you take time out for your fans.”
“I do. It takes barely any effort on my part, but it means the world to them. I sure as fuck don’t want to be Bobby Garcia. The kids—They’re the best. The under-fives never get the pronunciation of my name right, but god damn if it’s isn’t the cutest thing you’ll ever see.”
“You sound eager.”
“I’d like to have kids of my own one day, settle down. Why, are you offering?”
“To have your kids?”
I laugh, trying not to choke in the process. “And there’s the Chance Adams they all love.”
He could, but he doesn’t push it, changing the subject to my line of work. “What were you doing before this gig?”
I’m seriously thinking about opening up to him. I need to talk about it. What harm could there be in it? But I play it down. “I did some work in Vegas after I got my certification. Nothing major.”
“You kind of had quite a,” he scans for the right word, “’strong’ reaction to me when we first met.”
“You were being an asshole. The way you were talking to me. It reminded me of…”
A raised eyebrow. “Of?”
And here’s the turning point. Do I tell him and expose myself or do I keep it bottled up? I make a split decision to go with the former. “I started working for a massage parlor in Las Vegas I thought was reputable, but it turned out to be…” I trail off, but he’s worked it out.
“Oh, shit. I had no idea.”
I nod to myself. “Yeah, stupid, right?”
“You didn’t, did…?”
“No. No, no, no. I figured it out from my first ‘client’ and got the hell out of there before anything went down.” I neglect to tell him the parlor was owned by the Mob, the Mob who probably has someone waiting around the corner to take me out right now.
His cheeks puff out. “Damn.”
“You think I’m naïve, don’t you?”
“You seem like the type who values honesty, so yeah, maybe it was a bit naïve. ‘Massage parlor’ and ‘Vegas’ don’t shout ‘respectable,’ but I’m sure your intentions were good. Besides, if it wasn’t for that place you wouldn’t be here, with me, would you?”
“I suppose not.”
“In a way, that place did you a favor.”
“You’re just trying to make me feel better.”
He comes at me with that cheeky smile the press loves. “It’s working, isn’t it?”
“The food is making me feel better. You’re just a—”
“A what?”
“An extra treat.”
“Now who’s the one with the lines?”
“How was it, kids?” calls Georgio from the window.
I give him a thumbs-up. “Superb.”
“Top notch, my man,” adds Chance.
I run a finger across my lower lip. “So, what now? We’ve still got fifteen minutes before I have to be back at the stadium.”
Chance reels back. “And you think I’m the one coming on strong.”
Again, that wasn’t what I meant at all, but I can’t help but smile. “You wish, Gunner.”
And there it is. Swoon city, here I come.
Chapter 6
Michael
I hate coming down to this place, but it has to be done.
The Don gets fatter every time I see him. He sits behind his desk smiling at me. There’s a blonde kneeling between his legs sucking him off, her head bobbing up and down on his flaccid bee sting of a dick with the effort, the gold hoops in her ears dancing in tune. She’ll probably be at it all day.
I stand with my hands together in front of myself. “You called, Don?”
He smiles, paying no attention to the broad or the grotesque sucking noises she’s making. “Mikey. It’s good to see you.”
“And you, Don. You’re looking well.”
The fat fuck loves his respect. He’s been Don of the Vegas Mob for almost twenty years now, as long as my brother and I have been carrying out hits on his behalf.
He licks his lips. “I’ve got a problem.”
It’s always ‘a problem,’ never a person.
He taps an envelope on his desk. “Everything you need is in there, plus some pocket money for your trouble. I’ll have your usual fee ready when it’s done.”
Eizo, my brother, will be excited. It’s been a while since we had a contract. The money’s nice, but DiLuccas like us? We need to hunt. It’s part of who we are.
I nod and come forward, picking up the folder.
The girl goes to get up, but the Don presses her back down into his crotch. I hope she is getting paid well.
“How’s Eizo?” the Don asks.
I loosen my collar a little. “He’s real good.”
“Still boxing?”
“Of course.”
The Don shadow boxes with fists raised. “You DiLuccas are tough. That’s why I like you boys.”
I don’t know why the Don doesn’t just invite Eizo to these meetings, but then again Eizo isn’t the brains of the family. That’s me. That’s why the Don entrusts me with these contracts, in person. It’s all about trust. Eizo would fuck something up for sure.
I hold the envelope in my hands. In it is no doubt the poor sucker who called the cops on one of the Mob’s massage parlors. I heard it was a girl. I don’t like doing girls, but I’m sure the particulars will attest to her guilt.
Admittedly, I’m finding it harder and harder to stay objective these days. I used to be a ‘no questions asked’ kind of guy, but lately these hits seem more and more random, no rhyme or reason.
“Where are we off to this time, Don?”
He smiles back at me. “Los Angeles, Mikey, the City of Angels.”
CHANCE
I spot Morgan through the heat haze waving me over to one of the exits. Coach nods his approval.
I pull off my helmet as I approach. It’s like coming out of a space suit. “Morgan.”
“Chance.”
He looks at me for a moment, perhaps a little more serious than usual. “I heard you took Sam out for lunch the other day.”
“Nothing sinister. I promise.”
He chews on his lip. “It’s none of my business. Hell, I don’t care if you screw the entire cheer squad so long as you’re putting down the numbers, but I must say I am a little worried about what we talked about the other day.”
“Your PI found something?”
He looks left and right before drawing closer to me. “That’s just it. This guy is dependable. I’ve used him many, many times before. I’m talking daily updates, emails, but this time? Nothing for forty-eight hours.”
I scratch my neck. “Maybe he’s laying low, sick or something?”
Morgan shakes his head. “No, you don’t understand. He always sends through an update—always. If I text him, he gets back to me right away. I’ve tried six times t
oday and still haven’t had a response. It’s odd, completely out of character.”
“The guy’s a personal investigator. I’d think his entire life revolves around odd.”
“I’m worried, Chance. Your instincts might be spot-on.”
I consider the possibilities. So Sam was working at a Vegas parlor. She implicitly said she got out of there before things got too heated, but who knows? The kind of guys who run these places are scumbags, fucking animals who only care about one thing, and it’s not the welfare of the talent. I’ve been in enough clubs to know.
Morgan’s onto me. “She say something to you, son?”
I don’t know how much to tell him. I’m sure Sam told me in confidence, but if it involves her welfare… “She told me she worked for a massage parlor in Vegas.”
“One of those massage parlors?”
I nod. “One of those, yes, but she didn’t know and she didn’t get involved with any clients before she realized what was going on.”
Morgan ponders on it, tapping a closed fist against the concrete wall beside him. “Does she trust you?”
“I think so.”
“Do you think you could ask her more about it, try and work out what the hell’s going on here? I mean, I could do it, but it would be better coming from a pin-up boy like yourself, right?”
Yes, Sam did open up to me, but the last thing I want to do is push her away. In fact, the closer I get to her the more I want to protect her, stop the pain that is no doubt still there right under the surface. “I’ll try.”
Morgan claps me on the shoulder. “Okay. If I hear anything from the PI, I’ll let you know, and vice-versa, okay?”
“Okay.”
Morgan heads back down the tunnel until he’s swallowed up by the shadows.
“How’s the calf?”
I could die a happy man on this massage table, and she hasn’t even gotten to the good stuff yet. “It’s a lot better, actually. You really do have magic hands.”
“At least you aren’t getting excited this time.”
Did she just say what I think she said? I lift myself from the table and look back. She’s beet red, eyes averted, but the smile’s there. Oh yeah she did. “I can’t control him. He sees something he likes and he goes for gold. I can flip over if you like, show—”
