BAD BOY'S KISS: A Dark Bad Boy Mafia Romance

by Naomi West

  But for how long? And is he really mine, if he was forced into this?

  She undressed and crawled into bed beside him. Fought to get the elastic out of her hair, and ran a hand through her dark curls, massaging her scalp as she did. She rested her head on the pillow and tried not to stare at the bedside clock.

  Mom, I need you. Where are you?

  She tried to close her eyes. They flew open again after a few seconds.

  Mom, I’m scared.

  Her throat tightened as she remembered her mother’s face, her smile. Her mom used to take her to the regional baseball park when she was little. They’d watch the local team play. One game, Katrin’s favorite player hit a foul ball that flew into the stands. Katrin had seen it coming toward her, had extended her small hands, ready to catch it. It had dropped straight toward her, like this was fate, meant to be — and then at the last second, the guy with the beer belly sitting behind her had leaned forward and snatched it away from her.

  She’d stood there, stunned and angry, unsure what to do. Her mother had turned to the man, and said, very calmly, in a voice that was firm but without rancor, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

  The guy had called her mom a bitch, and Jess Smith had said, just as calmly as before, “I feel sorry for you.”

  Then she’d turned and gone back to watching the game. Had taken Katrin’s hand and squeezed it. Katrin hadn’t said anything. Had decided that if the man wasn’t worth her mother’s time, then he wasn’t worth Katrin’s either. It was just a stupid baseball, after all.

  But after the game, as they’d made their way between the bleachers toward the exit, Katrin had felt a tap on her shoulder. She’d turned, and there was the man with the beer belly, grimly holding out the ball to her. “Here,” he’d muttered.

  She’d gazed at him, at his salt and pepper stubble, his milky blue eyes. “You can keep it,” she’d said.

  He shook his head. “It’s yours.”

  So she’d taken it. It was still warm from his hand.

  Later, in the car, her mother had said, “Well, he did the right thing in the end.”

  “Yeah,” Katrin had agreed. “He was probably just having a bad day.”

  She hadn’t missed her mom’s strangely sad smile. “A lot of times, if you’re kind to people—firm, but kind—they’ll fix their mistakes on their own. Gentleness is usually better than anger.

  “Okay,” Katrin had said, turning the ball over in her hands. It was dirty from the field — the red stitching brown in some places.

  “But sometimes…” Her mom had let out a long breath. “You have to know when to fight.”

  Katrin glanced at her again. “You didn’t fight with the man.”

  “No. I didn’t need to fight with him. But there will be people who…situations where…” Another sigh. “Just remember, you don’t always have to be nice. If someone hurts you, fight back.”

  She was staring at the clock, but the red numbers were blurry. She was crying. Silent tears streaming down her cheeks, wetting the pillowcase.

  What if the person hurting me is someone I love? Dad’s all I have left in the world.

  Maybe not.

  She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling instead. Now the tears ran along her temples, getting lost in her thick hair. She tried to stay quiet, but a couple of soft sobs broke from her throat.

  Pistol shifted beside her, and she fought harder to stop crying. But after a moment, she heard his voice in the dark. “Kat? You okay?”

  Kat. Like they knew each other. Like they were friends, or lovers, or both. That made her cry harder.

  He rolled over to face her. “Katrin?” He sounded concerned. “Katrin, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she managed between sobs. “I’m sorry. I just … can’t sleep.”

  He edged closer to her and wrapped an arm around her, tugging her against him. She resisted for a moment, then buried her face in his chest. He didn’t say anything, just held her for a long while. Stroking her back, kissing her hair.

  Finally, she drew back enough to see his face. She half laughed, half sobbed. “I need some tissues. He reached for the nightstand on his side of the bed and grabbed a wad of tissues. She took them and wiped her face.

  He held her again. “Is it something … I mean, is there anything I can do?”

  She shook her head. “Just missing my mom,” she said, taking a chance on honesty.

  “Oh,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

  She shook her head again. “Nothing to be sorry about. Sometimes I just need her, and it’s hard not having her here.”

  He stroked her back absently for a moment. “What’s your favorite memory of her?”

  Katrin tensed a little in surprise. “I’m not actually sure. There are so many.” She paused. “I remember her taking me grocery shopping when I was five. She’d let me inspect the fruit to make sure it was good — no bruises or rotting spots.”

  He smiled at her in the dim light.

  “But really,” she continued, “I just remember how brave she was. How smart and kind…”

  Pistol reached out and stroked a tear from her face. “You’re definitely her daughter, then,” he whispered.

  She tried to swallow around the lump in her throat. She finally choked, ducking her head.

  “Hey, hey…” he murmured. “I’m sorry.”

  “No,” she said. “No, that was so nice of you. I don’t always know if I’m … if I’m doing her proud.”

  “Of course you are.” Pistol sounded very certain. She wanted desperately to believe him.

  “When she was dying, I was in school.” Katrin let out a shuddering breath. “She kept telling me not to come home. That my studies were too important. I wish I’d come home.”

  Pistol gathered her even closer, until she was crushed against him, feeling his warmth and solidity. “It’s not your fault,” he murmured into her hair. “It’s really not.”

  “I know.” Her voice was muffled against his chest. “But I could have been there.”

  “Shh. It’s all right now. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  It was such a relief to hear those words. Even from someone who couldn’t possibly know whether she’d done anything wrong. Even from someone who didn’t really knowher.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Sorry for waking you up.”

  “My God, Katrin. Of course you can wake me when you feel like this.”

  She drew back again, wanting to see his face. His eyes glinted in the fragmented moonlight. But he looked so tender — that expression was one she’d never have imagined him capable of based on their interaction in the bar. But he did care about her. He was, in many ways, a very kind man.

  “What was your mother like?” she asked softly.

  She thought she saw his expression darken. She hadn’t meant to drag up bad memories for him, but she wanted to know him. Wanted to know him the way he was trying to know her.

  Pistol didn’t speak for a moment. Then he said, “Nothing like yours.”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” she whispered.

  “No. I can… I just try not to think much about her.” But something in his voice told Katrin he thought about her quite a lot. “She was a drug addict. Heroin. That made it hard to have a meaningful relationship with her, sometimes.”

  “Oh God.” The room seemed hushed, waiting. “That’s so hard, Pistol. I know. In my pre-med program, we met patients who were addicts. It was heartbreaking.”

  “Yeah, well. She was hooked and didn’t want to get better.” He shifted. “My dad died when I was ten. Which sucked. I really needed him around.”

  She placed a hand on his shoulder. He almost seemed to flinch.

  “Ten years old.” Her voice was soft, hoarse.

  “Guess it kind of fucked me up, huh?” he said tightly.

  She ran her hand down his arm. Slow, steady movements. “I don’t think you’re fucked up.”

  “
Then you don’t know me that well at all.” But there was no harshness in the words. Just resignation.

  “I know you well enough.” As she said it, she knew it was true. She didn’t know him intimately, but she knew him enough to see that there was a good man underneath the flaws.

  She stroked his face, thumb running along his stubble. “You needed someone there for you.”

  He seemed like he was fighting the urge to pull away. She didn’t let him. “I had the club,” he mumbled.

  “How old were you when you found them?”

  “Sixteen.”

  Six long years without a family. With a mother who couldn’t take care of him. “They’re my family,” he said firmly, as if reading her thoughts. “They’re all I need.”

  What about me? Could you ever see yourself needing me?

  “You’re brave,” she told him finally. “You’re strong. You matter, Pistol.”

  He swallowed. Eyes blazed for a moment with what looked like anger. She knew the feeling: the certainty that you were to blame for every bad thing that had happened in your life.

  Could you ever trust me with your secrets? Ever trust me to know how to make things better. I may seem like a good little girl. But I can fight, when I need to. I can fight for you. For both of us.

  Neither said anything for a while. Eventually, the twined their arms around one another and fell asleep in an embrace.

  Chapter Twenty

  Pistol was happier than he’d been in a long time.

  Despite his uneasy feeling that he’d revealed too much to Katrin when he’d told her about his mother, he continued to open up to her, and she to him. Some part of him trusted her. Trusted her more than he’d ever trusted anyone. Even Kong. Some part of him missed her when he went to work. When he came home to find that she was out running errands.

  Some part of him felt that, against all odds, this marriage was … working.

  He didn’t know what to make of that feeling.

  “How did you fall in with the Souls, exactly?” Katrin asked one evening as they lay in bed together.

  Pistol tensed, then made himself relax. This was the hardest part of his new relationship. The sex, he could do. All day every day. This getting-to-know you stuff? Terrifying.

  “I was sixteen. A real punk-ass kid.” He swallowed.

  C’mon, just tell her. This shit’s all in the past. If you’re still getting sentimental on it, that’s your problem. You need to grow a pair.

  He continued. “I finally left my mom’s house.” He didn’t tell Katrin about the promise. About the way his mom had gripped him and begged him to stay. “I left her a note saying I’d send some money when I could.” He could still see her face, pale and hollow. Her wild, desperate eyes.

  Katrin squeezed his hand. “That must have been really tough.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, well. I did it. I left. I didn’t have anywhere to go, so I’d couch surf for a while. Just find people in my area and pretend I was a backpacker. Spent most of my time in bars. Getting drunk and looking for fights. Got my nose broken more times than I can count.” He grinned, but Katrin didn’t. His smile faded. Damn the pity in her expression. He didn’t deserve it. “Anyway, one night, I picked the wrong bastard to mess with. Middle-aged, black hair, porn star mustache. Tons of tattoos. I just started slurring stuff at him. I don’t even remember what; I was drunk off my ass. He stayed quiet, ignored me—until I came at him.” He shook his head and shifted on the mattress. “Shoulda known something was up. The bar had gone quiet—none of the whoopin’ and hollerin’ you usually got if a fight was goin’ down. But little prick that I was, I just kept going. Took a swing at him.”

  Katrin’s brow had furrowed with concern. “What happened?”

  “He had me on my ass so fast I didn’t even have time to blink. I got up, came at him again, and he spun me around, and pushed me over the pool table. Twisted my arm up like he was arresting me. Told me to think carefully before I took this any further.”

  “Let me guess. You took it further.”

  “Hell yeah, I did. Fought like a wildcat. He just kept blocking my blows, shoving me away. And finally, he got me in a headlock. Drove a fist right into my stomach. I couldn’t get away. He was strong as fuck, and I was drunk as fuck … and I started to panic.”

  “You thought he was going to kill you?”

  Pistol shrugged again, trying to be nonchalant with his next words. “It was more than that. I guess I kinda… It reminded me of my mom. Just … she used to beat the shit out of me. Hold me down, and just… I know it makes me sound like a pussy, that I didn’t fight back. But I didn’t want to — to fight her.”

  “Pistol.” Katrin sounded shocked. “Not wanting to hurt your mom doesn’t make you a pussy. I hate that word, first of all. And second of all, you were a child. You shouldn’t have had to fight back against the woman who was supposed to be taking care of you.”

  He stared at her grimly. He didn’t want to think about this shit. He couldn’t believe he was telling her all this. Pouring out his fucking feelings like some teenage girl at a sleepover. “Well, at any rate. I went nuts. This guy was holding me down, and I didn’t — I didn’t beg or anything; thank God I hadn’t lost my balls completely. But I guess he could tell I was panicking. That I wasn’t fighting out of anger anymore. I was fucking terrified. He said, ‘If I let you go, are we cool?’ I nodded. He said, ‘will you come outside and have a smoke with me?’

  “I didn’t answer. But he let me go. I staggered back, yanking my shirt straight, doin’ all this punk fronting. But I did go out with him for that cigarette. He pulls his smokes out of the saddlebags of this giant Harley. Introduces himself casually as Pedro Ortiz, and suddenly I get why everyone in the bar thought they were about to watch a slaughter. This was Kong Ortiz, President of the Blackened Souls motorcycle club. And I’d just fuckin’ tried to fight him.” Pistol laughed in disbelief at the memory. “A notorious criminal, with a whole gang at his disposal. I mean, these guys were legends. I just kept thinking, ‘Even if I make it through tonight, I’m gonna get taken out in the next few days. No fuckin’ doubt about it.’”

  Katrin smiled, looking more than a little nervous. “But you didn’t.”

  “I didn’t. Kong gave me a cigarette. Clapped me on the back. Told me I ought to go home and sober up. I made some dumbass comment, like ‘the night is young.’ He saw right through me. Asked if I had anywhere to go. I guess I waited just a second too long to answer.” He rubbed a hand over his chin, caught up in the memory. “So he took me back to the clubhouse. At the time, it wasn’t much. I mean, it still ain’t much, but back then, it was pretty much one big roach nest. Still, part of me felt like I’d just been invited to Buckingham fucking Palace, you know? I crashed on a couch there. The other guys, they gave Kong some crap about bringing a kid in there. ‘Don’t expect me to change his diaper’ — all that. But Kong told them to back off, and they did.”

  “And you stayed?” Katrin asked.

  “Sort of. Kong said I could stay as long as I needed, as long as I pitched in with chores and stuff. Found myself a job. I didn’t much like being told what to do, so I’d wander away, stay gone for two, three days at a time. Turn up stinking drunk with my face busted up. Finally, Kong took me aside. Said if I stuck around, he’d teach me to ride. But if I kept going out and drinking, getting in fights, then he wouldn’t hesitate to kick me out on my ass.” He sighed. “So I buckled down. Started kicking in around the clubhouse wherever I could. Got a job at a fast food joint. Kong taught me bikes. Ford taught me guns. They took me to this tattoo parlor where the guy didn’t give a shit how old I was; just started inking me up.”

  “And things were better, after that?”

  “Yeah. Things were better. Until I turned seventeen.”

  “What happened then?”

  Pistol didn’t particularly want to get into this next part. He took a few seconds to get a handle on the anger that coursed through him at the memory. “Got a
call from my mom on my birthday. Begging me to come home. She sounded so bad. I mean, just … sick, and…” He swallowed again.

  Did you go to see her?”

  “No. I hung up on her.” His throat tightened. “I guess that call stirred up some shit. I went out drinking. Came back with a split lip. Kong said that was it. That if I really valued the brotherhood, I wouldn’t keep jeopardizing myself. Said I could pack my stuff and I had two days to find somewhere else to go.

  “I packed and got out that night. Stole one of the bikes from the clubhouse garage. Stole a gun from the safe. And rode to San Antonio.”