“How many fucking times?” It was like my family tattoo pulsed around my neck. The urge to rip my shirt open and remind him who he was dealing with grew stronger with the anger forming on Mickey’s face. “We start upping our table nights, we become visible. Who’s cleaning that extra money? Whose risk is that? Not only that, I’ve gotta line more pockets to keep us off radar. That is shit you pass by me first.”
I thought I was doing an admirable job of remaining calm, but when I saw Bishop unbutton his jacket, I knew he was getting ready, clearing straight access to the gun holstered from his shoulder.
“Fuck the protection.” Spittle flew from Mickey’s fat fucking lips and landed on the table in front of him. “The law gets what we give them, or they get nothing. Anyway, if we go down, they go down.”
The hairs on the back on my neck started to prickle. I couldn’t believe the utter stupidity of this man and the fact that I was having to explain this shit to someone who had apparently been in the game a whole lot longer than me.
“The law gets what they get because of carefully cultivated relationships carved out fucking decades ago by my father, my family.” On my words I stabbed my thumb into my chest, hoping to hint at just how personally I was taking this affront. “Our agreement stands because we make it easy for them to turn a blind eye. More tables mean more attention. Attention I do not want.”
Mickey’s brow was glistening, the sweaty fat fuck had spent years on my family’s coattails and reaped the benefits of more than just the card tables. He had a thing for young girls, really young. When we picked up a stray outside the clubs that was too young to be sold in our flesh business, he was more than happy to take her off our hands. He slammed his hands on the table, and I wanted nothing more than to shove all of his fat fingers through the cigar cutter lay casually by his side. I eyed it, and Bishop saw me do it.
“So that’s it, we just let those fuckers cross the border and fill the gap?” he asked, more spit gathering in the corners of his lips ready for release.
“No.” I leaned forward and steepled my fingers, knowing I didn’t have much more patience for this and by the way everyone else kept quiet, it seemed they got the message a lot quicker than he did. I glanced at my watch and knew Bailey’s party would be in full swing by now and it did nothing for my temperament.
“There’s room for growth, your father would—”
That did it.
“Don’t fucking tell me what my father would do!” I roared, and because at least some of his brain capacity was functioning, he shut the fuck up quickly. “If it weren’t for my father’s history with you, you wouldn’t be here. Keep this shit up and I’ll see to it that parts of you are spread wide across all of our fucking warehouses as a warning to the rest of you. You do not change schedules, mix stuff up or even cross the road in the wrong place without my say so. I’m the one who makes those decisions. Now shut the extra tables down before the fucking Feds are knocking on our door.”
“But—”
He had the audacity to try and continue, and I was done. I stood up so sharply, that my chair spat from behind me and as I was ready to climb across the table and throttle him for defying me. Bishop stood up calmly, pulled a knife from an ankle sheath and stuck it through his hand pinning him to the table.
“Sit the fuck down,” he growled, and Mickey squealed like the stuck pig he was.
I was unpredictable at best, but Bishop was the opposite, very predictable. If you didn’t take the hint, he gave you a helping hand in finding it. No one around the table moved, a couple winced, but went back to looking on stoically as quickly as they could.
“You pull this shit again and I won’t be so pleasant during the next conversation. You work for me. Do not step out of line again.” And just for good measure, I leaned on the knife handle and pushed it deeper into his hand. “Do you understand me?”
The words, “Yes, boss,” tumbled from his fat fucking mouth as he went to pull the knife out but then rethought that while I was present.
Straightening my suit jacket and running a hand through my hair, I ignored everyone else—they’d got the message anyway—and turned on my heel, heading for the exit. I knew Bishop was following and the fact that no one else piped up or went to help Mickey, told me that I’d gotten my message across and that fuckwit was on a very lonely limb out in the cold.
“Damn, I need to get my fucking haircut.”
“There’d be less of it to pull out, for sure,” Bishop replied, beeping the central locking on the car, messing with my hair had been my tell of frustration for as long as I could remember.
“I also need a fucking drink.”
As I climbed in the back, I saw him reach for his cell, push the buttons and mumble into it without any greeting before climbing in the driver’s seat.
I lay my head against the headrest. “We need to look into what the fuck else he’s been up to. Fuck! I’m so angry.”
“That fat cunt had better not steal my knife, otherwise I’ll make him eat it.”
“Jesus, Bish, he doesn’t need to eat anything else.” I laughed all of a sudden, lightening the mood, and Bishop smiled back at me.
“Already got Ted on that hunt. He’ll come back to me if he finds something.”
“When he finds something.” There was no way Mickey was clean and hadn’t been dipping into the company purse.
Bishop started the car. “Yeah, Z, probably. Late Lounge?” He waited for me to confirm where I planned to get my drink on.
“No. Checkmate.” I even surprised myself by suggesting it.
“Zane, you sure that’s wise?”
I looked back at him, cluing him in that he needed to shut the fuck up, but unfortunately, he didn’t. “Just saying. I’ve had to watch your back tonight already, not sure your temper could take seeing her with—”
“Do not fucking finish that. I need a drink. We’ll go in through the back door, she won’t even know I’m there.”
Checkmate looked fucking incredible and I was only seeing a fraction of it through my security monitor. Whoever she had on staff for events had done an amazing job. The place was packed and had been transformed into some kind of little Havana joint. The atmosphere seemed to be pumping and I was proud of her. Proud as fuck to see her in action, doing what she loved.
Bishop had joined me for a drink as we discussed what else we should probably be checking in Mickey’s territory. With the swell of some liquor in my stomach and the numbing effect calming my tethered temper, I was beginning to relax. I’d kicked back, shrugged off my jacket and had my legs stretched out in front of me. Bishop was in a chair on the other side of the desk, compiling a to do list in his cell. As I flipped my head to the side and looked at the monitor again, I got my first glimpse of Bailey.
Fuck. Me.
Utterly stunning and very fuckable.
She was wearing this crazy little sun dress that looked like it barely had the strength to maintain its structure and keep her tits confined in it. It was tight and strapless, with palm trees and pink flowers all over it. Her tits jiggled and bounced as she moved, and I could see her nipples protruding. If she was mine and wore that out in public, I’d make her ass feel the pain of it for a while after. The worst part of it though was that it just about covered her ass, and when I say just, I mean if she bent over even the slightest inch, her clit would probably feel the breeze. I felt myself getting angry, aroused too, but very angry. Bailey’s hair had been set in big curls, doing wilder things to her already natural curls and she had these hooped earrings that were so big, they were practically resting on her shoulders. Her feet were moving on the dancefloor, her tits bouncing in rhythm with a base I could feel in the walls of my office. For some strange reason my dick got harder when I remembered the sparkly diamonds on her toes that I’d seen the other day. She was the complete package from head to toe.
“What’s wrong?” Bishop interrupted, cutting into my single-minded voyeuristic activities. When I didn’t answ
er, he got up, walked round and checked out the monitor. “Fuck.”
As I was about to tell him it was all fine, I saw the situation change, and all of a sudden, it wasn’t.
A guy in a suit had approached her from behind and was intent on making his presence known. I watched as he ran a hand from the back of her knee all the way up to the ludicrously short hemline of her dress and push himself into the back of her. I tried to stand up, but felt Bishop’s hand on my shoulder, urging me to stay put.
“I’ll deal with it. Have another drink.”
My jaw was clenched tight and just the simple action of nodding in agreement had the potential to shatter my teeth. Within a few minutes Bishop entered the screen from behind the fucker who was touching what should be mine and tapped him on the shoulder. Bailey, who was happily enjoying the fucker’s attention, only noticed that he was missing when he was being led away.
It hurt to see the disappointed droop in her shoulders, but I knew that was short lived when she shook her head and stormed off. It was obvious she’d spotted Bishop escorting the guy out for his own safety.
Five minutes later she came bursting through my office door, slamming it shut behind her and shouting, “Did you do that?”
Her attitude did nothing to calm my nerves or hard on. She was a bit unsteady on her feet and definitely feeling the effects of one too many of her own fucking cocktails.
“Well, no, seeing as I’m in here and Bishop was the one walking out with your friend.”
Slamming her hands on her hips in classic Bailey attitude mode, she barked back, “Don’t get cute with me, Zane Teague. He’s your fucking muscle.”
But I barely heard the words, I just saw legs and tits and fire in her eyes.
Before I could stop myself, I was out of the chair and walking towards her. That was a mistake though, because now I could smell her. She was wearing some perfume that mingled with her own scent, was flushed and I only hoped it was from the heat inside my club and not that fucker who hopefully would have his nose plastered across his face by now.
“I’m looking out for you. That fucker was getting too handsy.”
I stopped in front of her, planted my feet wide and folded my arms across my chest.
“None of your fucking business.” Her skin glistened with a sheen of sweat and glittery lotion, but underneath all of that, she shivered when I moved a little closer to her.
“I will always look out for you, Bay.”
My words weren’t well received.
“I don’t need another fucking brother, Zane!” She shoved at me, only just managing to knock me off balance. “This!” She pointed a finger at the floor. “This is why I never come to your clubs! I can’t hook up!”
“What?” my voice was serious, yet flat and monotone.
It belied my real feelings about hearing those words. I did not ever want to think of her out on the prowl. The last time, I’d had to see the evidence and have my men pick up the pieces of the guys who had gone too far.
“You heard me. It’s alright for you to pick up some piece of ass and have fun but I can’t. And don’t deny you don’t, I know you, Zane, you’re unstoppable when you want something.”
Was I?
Apparently not, she was in front of me and I wanted her, yet I hadn’t done anything about that.
I needed her to stop speaking.
“Two options.” I slid my hands in my pockets, trying to remain neutral. “Go back out there and act the professional I know you to be. Schmooze your crowd and enjoy your night or,” I leaned in, “go the fuck home.”
“Fuck you, Zane, I pick door three.”
Before I could furrow my brow and remind her that she hadn’t been offered a third option, she was on me. I felt her nails rake through my over long hair and drag my head down to hers. When her lips latched on to mine, they were demanding and angry, her tongue explored, and she devoured me. She tasted of cherries and vanilla and I swear I’d never been so hard in my life. This was the magnificence I’d always suspected we could be. Then my senses kicked in, she was drunk, and I couldn’t take advantage of her that way. I did that with other women. Got them utterly obliterated, took them to a hotel and treated them like cheap pussy, good for a fuck but nothing else, before kicking them to the curb.
“Stop.” Pushing her away from me was the hardest, most painful thing ever. “Jesus, Bay.” I looked down at her, her pupils were blown wide and those massive nipples of hers were pebbled begging to be bitten.
“You don’t want to stop,” she breathed, her voice edgy and nervous.
“We have to stop.”
At that moment, my office door flew open and Bishop walked in, thankfully he wasn’t covered in blood and brains, so I figured that was a good sign.
“What’s it to be? Bishop takes you home or you go back out there and do your job?”
Bailey looked at me like I’d slapped her and then pulled it together like I knew she was capable of.
“Fuck you, Zane. When are you going to wake up and realize that you have a choice? Having to stop and wanting to are two different things,” she gritted out and stormed off, ignoring Bishop who held the door for her. She stomped down the hall until I could no longer hear her heels on the tiles.
I rubbed at my chin, like I could still feel her softness through my beard and barked, “Don’t say a fucking word.”
“I was going to say you have lipstick on you.” Bishop said with a grin, prompting me to move my hand up to wipe it. “And, yeah, you need a haircut.”
Turning to look at myself in the mirrored tiles behind the shelved liquor bottles, I saw what he was talking about. It was stuck up in all directions and looked like I’d just climbed out of bed.
Sex hair to the extreme and I wore it fucking well.
Bailey had done that. In her need to get laid, she’d taken her frustrations out on me and I fucking loved it. I wanted more and pushing her away had done nothing to curb my own frustrations.
There was no way I was cutting my hair.
Damn Jameson Roach and his fucking moral promises.
“You okay?” Bish asked in all seriousness.
“No. I need to go out and fuck something.”
I needed to work my rage out, and that girl would feel every inch of my frustration. It was either that or I was going to hunt Bailey down and throttle her for putting temptation in my way.
Chapter Seven
Two long agonizing, ball busting weeks had passed since I’d last heard from Bailey and when I did, it pissed me the hell off. Insultingly, I received a gift basket with some generic thank you card in it from the Roach events team. A millisecond after I read the card, I launched the whole fucking thing against the wall. I didn’t know what I was expecting as I was the one that made her walk away, so it wasn’t like she was going to come apologizing to me. After that, it just got worse; everywhere I walked, her Miami cocktail range was on some bus stop, billboard and freeway bridge and when I switched on the radio, that Havana song by Camila Cabello was being played as part of her advertisement campaign.
There was just no fucking escaping Bailey Roach and if I had to guess, I reckon my mind had replayed the kiss she laid on me at least three million times.
It was akin to the constant battle between an addict and their choice of abusive substance.
I needed to go out more, get drunk and fuck some bimbo’s brains out before I lost my fucking mind or needed treatment for blister burn on the palm of my hand. I had no idea that keeping my old promise to Jameson would result in such a head fuck.
I had to get over her and get on with my life, the problem was I had no idea how to do that.
Bish and Ted had pretty much drawn a suspicious blank when they started to look into Mickey. At first, I was relieved, but then we all agreed that maybe his finances were a little too clean. Ted had never failed to turn up the required information on anyone and both he and Bishop were taking it as a challenge and slight on their skills in that area. Bishop
suggested we pay more attention to Mickey, watch him closely and see what went down, but the animal inside me wanted this sorted.
No one took advantage of me.
It was a small sliver of hope that he was just being entrepreneurial and not a greedy motherfucker trying to take extra coin. I was just going to have to leave Bishop and Ted to dig deeper and come back to me when they had something worth telling me. The only fly in that ointment would be if one of the official’s we paid complained, then things for Mickey Dignos wouldn’t go so well.
Lying in bed on Saturday morning all of it buzzed around my head. As I looked up at the ceiling, I wondered how my father had done it for as long as he had and made it to old age without having a stress related heart attack. I guess he had my mom to thank for his regular dose of sanity, and that much became clear after she’d died because his shit flipped pretty quickly, and he went off the deep end. He’d treated her like shit for as long as I could remember, but when he lost her, it was like he’d lost an arm. It gave me some respect for the old man, like maybe he was sad because he’d realized how badly he’d treated her, but I soon understood the truth. When Ellena Teague died, John Teague lost part of his façade, his expected life, the constant that he’d always had to rely on and fall back on. Somewhere deep down he loved her, but things for him were different growing up in the business and becoming king, and that jaded him towards anything and anyone who got close, my mom suffered the most from that, but her love for him really was blind.
I needed a vacation or break, somewhere warmer than Cali, with a beach and selection of hot girls to relax with. I had so many plates spinning at once that I didn’t even get to take the weekends off anymore.
Disruption Page 6
