Kissing the Killer: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Barone Crime Family)

by Hamel, B. B.

  I walked out front and paused at the door.

  Normally in movies, I’d reluctantly open the door and find a beautiful woman standing there. Her long blond hair, full lips, and killer tits would all make me want to let her in, even though she reeked of desperation. She’d give me some crazy job that I knew I shouldn’t take, but I’d take it anyway.

  Eventually, I’d fuck her rough, bent over my desk. I’d make her come again and come, her tight pussy wrapped around my cock as she screamed my name.

  I pulled the door open. Standing there was a woman in her mid-fifties, short and round and dark-skinned with brown hair and brown eyes.

  I sighed. Real life was never like the movies.

  “Mister Wright?” she asked. “Private detective?” She spoke with a Spanish accent, which didn’t surprise me. Mishawaka had a large Hispanic community, and I had done a lot of work for them in the past, mostly because I could speak passable Spanish.

  “Please, come in,” I said.

  I ushered her inside. She looked nervous, like most people I found at my door did. I sat down behind my desk and she sat in front of it, frowning down at her hands.

  “What can I do for you, Mrs. . . . ?” I trailed off.

  “Suarez,” she said. “Please, Mister Wright, you must help us.”

  “Call me Easton,” I said in Spanish. “What can I do for you?”

  She instantly looked more at ease as she switched into her more comfortable language. “I live with my family on Maple Avenue, in the apartment buildings at the corner of Maple and Brown. Do you know them?”

  I nodded. “Drove by them yesterday.”

  She looked a bit more comfortable. “Yes, well, the landlord is a very bad man. You see, many people from my home country live there, and many of us are just poor, hard-working immigrants. He constantly threatens to throw us out on the street and to raise our rents.”

  “I can’t do anything about a rude landlord,” I said.

  “But that isn’t the problem. You see, he never does his job. We have rats, bugs, the trash sits outside our apartments for weeks, and the washing machines are all broken. He does nothing for us, even when we complain.”

  I sighed, shaking my head. It was a pretty common story. “And what do you want me to do about it?”

  Her face fell slightly. “I heard you can help. With problems.”

  “Mrs. Suarez,” I said, sitting forward, “it sounds like this landlord is breaking the law. Go to the police first, maybe even find a lawyer.”

  “We cannot afford a lawyer,” she said quickly. “And if we go to the police, he will know.” She paused, frowning as she stared at me intently. “Please, you have to help us.”

  I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. This was the hard part, the part I fucking hated.

  “I cost fifty an hour plus expenses. I need one day of work up front.”

  She looked down at the floor. “Mister Wright, I cannot afford that.”

  “Please,” I said, “it’s Easton. What can you afford?”

  She opened her purse and pulled out an envelope, sliding it across the desk. I picked it up and counted about three hundred dollars.

  It wasn’t enough to cover even two days’ worth of work on this. I did need the money, but I also needed to be able to work real, paying jobs and not be stuck sidetracked on some hopeless landlord shakedown.

  Then again, I knew about the place where Mrs. Suarez lived. It was notorious in town for being an awful shithole, and the landlord was well known as the kind of man who would take advantage a well-meaning older woman like Mrs. Suarez.

  “This is plenty,” I said, already regretting it.

  Her face lit up. “Oh, thank you so much,” she said and began to talk quickly in Spanish. I only understood about half of it, but I was pretty sure she invited me to marry whichever one of her daughters I wanted, or even a son if that was what I preferred. No judgment.

  I held up a hand. “Please, Mrs. Suarez. I can’t promise results, but I will do my best.”

  “Rosario Mendez said you are the best, Easton, so I will trust you.”

  I nodded, remembering Mrs. Mendez well. I had helped her track down her drug addict son and get him straightened out. That one was pro-bono.

  I stood up. “Come back in a few days and I’ll let you know what I find,” I said.

  “Thank you so much,” she replied as I ushered her out of my apartment.

  Once the door was shut, I leaned up against the jamb. Another quick job done on the cheap. When was I going to learn that I needed to take serious jobs? I couldn’t keep doing damn charity cases, or else I was going to be out on my ass at the end of the month.

  Still, three hundred helped. It meant food and whisky for the week, at least. Plus, Mrs. Suarez seemed like a nice lady.

  And I fucking hated scumbag landlords. Hated them almost as much as I hated killers. The bastards all preyed on the weak because inside, they were weak too.

  Real men helped those that needed help.

  I walked into the back room and poured myself more whisky. Suddenly, I found myself remembering my new stepsister and the way she had first looked at me. I knocked back my whisky and then pulled my phone from my pocket. I dialed a number and let it ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Susan, it’s your son,” I grunted.

  “What can I do for you, Easton?”

  I hesitated. Did I really want to bring someone into my fucked up world, especially some naïve college girl?

  But then her body, her look, flooded my mind again.

  “Tell my stepsister to be here by ten tomorrow morning.”

  “Thanks, Easton. I’m really glad you’re doing this.”

  “Don’t make me regret it.”

  “You won’t. She’s a really bright girl.”

  I grunted something vague and then hung up the phone. I already felt like it was a bad idea, but I poured another whisky instead of dwelling.

  I had an envelope full of cash and a case. And apparently I had some unpaid labor heading over to help out.

  Tomorrow was looking like a decent day.

  3

  Laney

  I felt oddly nervous as I walked up the stairs toward the third floor.

  His office was in a pretty nondescript office park in the middle of town. It looked pretty much like anything else in Mishawaka, and I briefly wondered how he even got any clients. I wasn’t sure if I was dressed appropriately, or even what I would be doing, but I was determined to find out.

  I had hoped for some more time to get used to being home. Instead, Susan told me to show up at this address at exactly ten in the morning. I was a few minutes early, but I figured that wouldn’t matter since he probably opened up at nine anyway.

  I kept thinking about him, my stepbrother. He seemed too young, too attractive to have been an FBI agent. Nobody would say why he had left the bureau, and the curiosity was practically tearing at me. Maybe he had gone rogue or something like that, or maybe he was totally incompetent.

  Finally, I found his door. In the glass, a few sentences were etched in fancy lettering. It read, “Easton Wright, Private Eye. Ring the bell if you need help.”

  I tried the knob, but it was locked. I hit the bell and heard it buzz on the inside.

  Nothing happened. I bit my lip. Maybe he hadn’t heard? I hit the bell again and listened to it buzz, and part of me thought that it sounded a little louder.

  Again, nothing. I waited for almost five minutes and didn’t hear a peep from inside. I was beginning to wonder if I had came at the wrong day or time, but I was positive Susan had said today at ten.

  I rang again. Inside, I heard what sounded like breaking glass and a muffled curse.

  “I’m coming,” someone yelled. “I’m fucking coming. Hold on.”

  More muffled cursing. I stood back from the door, my eyes wide, my heart pounding. What the heck was going on?

  Finally, he opened the door.

  I stood there st
aring at him, my mouth open. His shirt was unbuttoned and his pants were hanging loosely from his hips. His defined chest was covered in tattoos, and I watched as they snaked down around his cut hips. My eyes came back up and stared at his square jaw, the stubble on his chin, the red under his piercing eyes, and his tousled hair.

  Instantly I felt my heart begin to beat faster, and a slight heat spread itself between my legs. He looked incredible, like he had just woken up.

  “It’s you,” he grunted. “You’re early.”

  “Susan told me ten,” I managed to say.

  He kept staring at me for a second. “Yeah, that’s right,” he said finally, and he moved back from the door. “Come in and sit.”

  I followed him inside and he pointed at the chairs in front of his desk.

  “Uh, did I come at a bad time?” I asked.

  “You’re fine. Just give me a second.” He disappeared into the back and I heard more muffled cursing.

  This was the famous FBI agent? The front room was pretty sparse, with his degrees and credentials hanging on the walls and a big filing cabinet pushed against the wall. He had a laptop on his desk but nothing else, no pictures, no personal items, not even a pen.

  It was a little strange, actually. I craned my neck to get a peek in the back room and caught sight of a coffee table with a half-empty whisky bottle in the center just before he blocked my view.

  “Welcome to work,” he said.

  I stood up. “Thanks for having me. If this is a bad time, I can come back later.”

  “It’s fine. Sit back down.”

  His pants were fastened and his shirt was buttoned and tucked in. It looked like he had run his fingers through his hair but hadn’t bothered with much more. He looked tired, and I thought I smelled alcohol, but despite that he looked pretty incredible.

  “So, Laney,” he said. “What experience do you have?”

  I watched as he sat down at the desk and leaned back in his chair.

  “Well,” I said, “not much if I’m honest. I’m a criminal justice major back at school, and Susan thought I could help out around the office.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “And did Susan say why she thought that?”

  I paused. “Probably because you need some?”

  He laughed. “If you should know anything about my mom, it’s that she doesn’t do anything that doesn’t benefit her.”

  “Okay. What does that have to do with us?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  He was silent while he looked at me, and something clicked.

  “You didn’t want me, did you?” I asked suddenly.

  He looked a little surprised. “Why do you say that?”

  “It’s obvious.”

  A little cocky smile played at his lips. “Go ahead and explain then.”

  “Well, you’re clearly hungover, and I probably woke you up. No, let me keep going,” I said quickly as he tried to protest. His cocky grin got bigger, but he didn’t interrupt. “You didn’t seem interested when we ran into each other yesterday. I know your mom is a big shot, and I suspect she doesn’t love her son working as a private detective. You left the FBI for some mysterious reason, probably making the relationship with your mom even more strained. So I suspect she’s forcing this on you, especially based on what you just said.” His grin was huge by the time I was finished talking. “How close am I?”

  He stared at me and slowly started to shake his head. “You ever been on a stakeout before, Laney?”

  “Excuse me?”

  He stood up. He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a pistol tucked into a holster. He pushed the holster down the back of his pants and walked over to a coat rack, grabbing a light jacket.

  I stared at him the whole time. I had just been really brazen in saying all that, and I mostly expected him to throw me out. He should have been pissed, and honestly I wanted him to be. I was annoyed that he wasn’t taking me seriously, annoyed that he had answered the door looking the way he did, annoyed that he was hungover.

  Instead, he was acting like nothing had happened.

  “Come on,” he said, opening the door. “Let’s go.”

  He disappeared outside. I quickly stood up and followed him. “Hold on!” I said, catching up. “Wait a second. What are you talking about, a stakeout?”

  “You know what that is, right?”

  “Yeah. I’ve seen movies. Are you serious?”

  “Of course I’m serious.” He paused at the stairwell entrance. “Scared?” he asked teasingly.

  I bit my lip. “I thought this was an office job.”

  “It’s whatever I want it to be.”

  I took a sharp breath. I realized he was testing me, seeing how far I was willing to go.

  And there was something about him. True, he was gruff and rude, but also he seemed completely in control. I could feel myself getting swept up.

  “Okay, fine,” I said.

  I followed him down the stairs. I had no clue what we were doing or where we were going, but I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to find out what this guy’s deal was. I wanted to know him, even if he was already totally on my nerves.

  “First rule of being a private detective,” Easton said, “is never do anything fucking stupid.”

  He made a sharp right and I gripped the door handle like my life depended on it. Easton drove like a psycho.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Second rule is, do exactly what I say.”

  “Seems like a bad rule for most private detectives.”

  He laughed. “These are just for you.”

  “Okay, fine. Are you going to teach me anything useful?”

  “Maybe. But for now, you do nothing but listen to me. Got it?”

  “Fine,” I grumbled.

  “This isn’t like your CJ classes at school. This is the real world, kid.”

  “Don’t call me kid. We’re almost the same age.”

  “How about I call you sis, then?”

  “Not much better,” I mumbled.

  “Third rule is,” he said, not missing a beat, “if you think you’re in trouble, run the fuck away and call the cops.”

  “Really think that’s going to happen?”

  “I have no fucking clue what’s going to happen,” he said, suddenly pulling over to the curb. “That’s why this is so much fun.”

  He killed the engine and I looked around. We were at a boring, normal corner across from a bank. There was a shopping center to our left, across the street, and an apartment building catty-corner. Up ahead and to the right was a little park and playground area.

  “What are we doing?” I asked.

  “Watching,” he said.

  He reached across me. I felt his closeness suddenly, could practically smell him. He popped open the glove box and pulled out a pair of binoculars. He moved back slowly, and I wanted to lean into him. Or maybe I wanted to slap him away. I wasn’t exactly sure.

  “Okay,” I said. “Who are we watching?”

  “Landlord,” he said.

  I sighed, frustrated. “Are you going to actually tell me anything?”

  He looked through the binoculars. “When you need to know, sure.”

  I rolled my eyes, annoyed. I sat back and turned on the radio, idly flipping through the channels while he looked out through his binoculars.

  Ten minutes passed. Easton barely moved, just kept watching the front of the building. It felt like time had slowed down to a crawl, but that was just because I was stuck in a car with a mute asshole.

  Suddenly, he perked up.

  “See something?” I asked.

  He brought the binoculars up to his eyes, watched for a second, and then sat back in his seat. “Nah. Nothing.”

  “Is this what a stakeout is like?”

  “Pretty much, yeah.”

  “It’s boring as hell.”

  “Welcome to the life of a private eye, kid.”

  “Don’t call me kid. We’re
basically the same age.”

  He gave me a sideways grin. “Maybe, but you’re practically a toddler compared to me.”

  “Why, because you’re some hotshot FBI agent?”

  “Not anymore,” he mumbled.

  “Really, what makes you think you’re so much better than me?”

  He stared at me for a second. “You really want to know?”

  “Go ahead.” I was so annoyed at how full of himself he was being.

  “You may be about my age, but I’ve seen way more than you can even imagine.”

  “You don’t even know me.”

  He laughed ruefully. “Maybe not, but let me give it a shot. You did well in high school, had some close friends, but didn’t get into any trouble. Then, as soon as you could, you got the fuck out of Mishawaka. Went to some city school, learned a thing or two about life. You probably work hard to pay your bills, but you still take cash from daddy every month.” He paused and raised an eyebrow. “Am I close?”

  I clenched my fists. “I don’t take his money.”

  “Maybe not, but you’re still sheltered.” He looked back out toward the building. “I’ve seen some shit, kid, shit you better hope you never have to see.”

  I sighed and tried not to curse him out. He was being obnoxious on purpose, I could tell. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to test me or if he just wanted to push my buttons, but I wasn’t going to let him get the best of me.

  “Does this have to do with why you got kicked out of the bureau?” I asked him acidly.

  He flinched slightly but didn’t look at me. “Yeah, it does.”

  “And why is that?”

  He didn’t answer, just kept watching the building. After a few minutes, I got the hint that he didn’t plan on answering, and so I went back to fiddling with the radio.

  What an obnoxious jerk. He came at me out of nowhere, just because I wasn’t prepared to be sitting around in a stinky car all day with him. He didn’t even bother to explain to me what we were doing. He just expected me to follow and obey without question.

  But then again, he had been incredibly close in his analysis of me. I didn’t feel like I lived in a bubble, but I hadn’t really experienced any difficult hardships in my life. Sure, I worked hard to support myself, but other than losing my mom, that was it.