by Maria Luis
Revenge delivered swiftly was never as satisfying, but, goddammit, it would feel good.
“You don’t have the balls, son,” Ambideaux said, voice as even as if he’d been discussing a play by play of the weather and not staring down the barrel of a pistol, “put down the gun.”
I put the gun down all right—dragging it down the center of his face, over the slope of his straight, aristocratic nose, until it settled against the pulse beating at his neck like some sort of hickey of death. Only when Ambideaux’s right eyebrow twitched tellingly did I growl, “It wasn’t enough for you to just let me die, was it?” The mouth of the .19 dug in a little more, my finger resting on the trigger guard. “Nah, you had me driven out to the Atchafalaya and tossed in as fuckin’ gator meat like the rest of them.”
I met his dark eyes. Felt the way he struggled to swallow with my gun jammed against his throat. The grin that spread across my face was one born of vengeance. “What was it you told me right before you pulled the trigger? Oh, yeah.” I leaned in, breath coasting across his face, finger lifting off the trigger guard. “I won’t think any less of you when you piss your—”
Arms clamped around my throat, squeezing off my oxygen supply, dragging me backward.
Pft! Pft!
Splintering glass echoed in my ears as my gun went off before being torn from my hands. Vision swirling, I gasped for breath and let instinct take over, driving an elbow into the body behind me. My attacker was big, but I was bigger, and I dug in my heels and wrapped my hands around his forearms, fully prepared to flip the asshole right over my shoulder and put the .19 at my ankle to good use.
There was always a benefit to being a walking artillery.
With my full weight, I arched my back to get momentum and then snapped my body forward like a slingshot, thighs clenching, knees tight, core flexing. I felt my attacker’s feet come off the floor behind me as I assumed his full weight, and I buckled down, tightening my muscles, ready to—
Cold metal to my forehead stilled the fight in me, and I glanced up, past the barrel of my own weapon, to Ambideaux. His slicked-back hair was disheveled, his pristine suit rumpled, his expression ambivalent.
“You done?”
A sneer caught in my throat, even as gravity dropped the bastard on my back, back onto my kitchen floor. Not even a second passed before he’d readjusted his grip, massive arms binding me once again.
Ambideaux twisted away, setting the Glock on the table, out of my reach. “Sit his ass down and make sure he can’t move.”
Ambideaux’s lackey shoved me into the chair I’d just vacated, then snapped handcuffs around my wrists, the click-click-click of metal sliding into place a completely unmistakable sound. “Benefits to breaking and entering a cop’s house,” he grunted brusquely, “you made this way too easy for me.” He drew up another chair and positioned it behind me. A half-second later, familiar cold metal touched the back of my skull. “We’re all set, boss.”
My fingers flexed in the restraints.
Ambideaux planted his ass on the edge of the table, arms crossed over his chest. “You’re still a hothead, Lincoln.” He shook his head with a low laugh, like I hadn’t just been seconds away from ending his life. “Once a hothead, always a hothead. Damn, but I wish I’d been there when you punched Little Hampton. Would have made my year.”
Grinning at my expense, he added, “Actually, you would have made my life a hell of a lot easier if you’d just”—he mimicked slicing his throat open—“finished off the deed.”
When I opened my mouth to speak, the pressure point at the back of my skull increased. Narrowing my eyes, I gave that pressure right back, leaning my weight into that gun, challenging the owner to get on with it and shoot me.
After a moment, the pressure slackened, and my chest hitched with minute relief.
“I’m going to assume you didn’t bust in here to reminisce about the good old times or talk about how much you want Hampton’s kid dead.” I eyed the gun on the table, then redirected my attention back to my old boss. “So why don’t we cut to the chase and get this over with? Fill in the blank for me. You’re here because of . . .”
“Impatient still, too.” Ambideaux’s mouth quirked up in a humorless grin. “It’s like the last twelve years haven’t existed, wouldn’t you say?”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from mouthing off. I wasn’t a hothead, not in the way he remembered. “Just answer the question, Jason. You’re here . . . why?”
“I heard about your suspension.”
Just like that, my heart threatened to leap out of my chest. I yanked forward, caught back by the handcuffs, and then grit my teeth. “It’s not happening.”
Ambideaux sank to his haunches before me, and then the gun at my head angled forward, leaving me no choice but to dip my chin and keep my eyes on the real estate mogul. If he were closer, I’d drive my foot into his chest hard enough to send him sailing backward.
But Jason Ambideaux hadn’t spent years working toward being one of the three most feared men in New Orleans without learning a thing or two. He squatted just out of reach, one hand on his knee, the other on his inner thigh as he watched me.
“A deal is a deal, son,” he murmured, looking not even a little remorseful about playing puppeteer with my life. My mother’s life. “We agreed that for however long you were on the job, I’d leave you alone, but you’ve never been good at stepping back from playing hero.” His dark eyes roved over my face. “Tell me, did you feel like a champ to know that you saved that poor girl from being raped? Or perhaps the other one, too . . . the one a colleague of mine spotted you with outside of the station last week?”
My vision flashed red, my chest heaving with labored breathing as the implication behind his words hit me.
He grinned wolfishly. “Ah, you’re just figuring it out. Good, that’s good.” He tapped his knee as though debating on giving up information. “In case you’re still concerned, Casey’s doing quite well. I believe she opted for a gift card in exchange for her troubles, but I had something more sentimental in mind.”
Sentimental, my ass. Visions of the poor girl sinking into the Atchafalaya Basin etched across my retina, and it was like I was sixteen all over again, feeling the urge to retch after tossing my first dead body into the swampy marshlands. My scars prickled with memories better left forgotten, and I swallowed the bile rising in my throat.
“You’ve always been such a saint, Lincoln,” Ambideaux said in a contemptuous tone, “but you can’t save them all.”
Between clenched teeth, I ground out, “I won’t help you. Put a bullet in the back of my head if it’ll make you feel better, I don’t give a shit.”
“And leave your mother as she is? No, I don’t think so.” Knees popping as he stood, Ambideaux picked up the Glock and stared at it, his gaze almost wistful. “A deal is a deal, Sergeant, and you’ve already paid in blood. I agreed to leave you be for as long as you remained with the NOPD, but it seems that you’ve recently been suspended.”
There was no end to the hatred that thrived in my veins. It pulsed, and, like poison, spread through me like an infection. “You fucking bastard,” I spat, “you organized all of this. You really think you can—”
The pistol came out of nowhere, but holy hell, I felt it.
My head whipped to the side as the barrel made contact with my scarred cheek. The metallic taste of blood spurted in my mouth, pain erupting in my tongue as the impact forced me to bite down.
And all the while, the gun at my skull never wavered. If anything, the pressure increased, forcing me to look down completely, chin to my chest.
Like I was bowing to Ambideaux, no matter the fact that I was still slouched on the chair, hands handcuffed behind my back.
The longer I sat there, the drowsier I became. It wasn’t my first concussion and I knew the symptoms well.
Stay awake. You need to stay awake.
It’d be easy to surrender to the darkness, to slip into the abyss a
nd ride out the numbness of my existence until everything went black. Permanently.
Ambideaux had other plans.
His fingers sank into my hair, pulling my head up. I blinked and then blinked again, but no matter how many times my lids fell shut and opened again, he remained a hazy mirage that wouldn’t sharpen.
“This is how it’s going to work, son,” he said, voice chipper for the first time since I’d walked in to find him drinking my Scotch. “I’ve got a little list that I need you to take care of for me. Knowing you, you’ll get it squared away for me before you’re back to work. And if you’re not”—his fingers tightened their grip on my hair and I swallowed a hiss—“I’ll just make sure your suspension ends up being just a little longer. How’s that sound?”
He let me go and set the Glock on the table again, only to ferret around in his suit jacket. He revealed a spiral-bound notebook that he tossed at my feet. “Two are already done, which means that all that’s left are three Basin runs . . . once you’ve taken care of business, of course.”
My gaze latched onto the compact notebook, my stomach turning at the sight of the familiar names. Two dead—Josef Banterelli and Micah Welsh. I hadn’t seen them in years, but I’d still felt a pang of remorse over old times’ sake when I’d heard about their deaths on the news. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask why Ambideaux had chosen the Mississippi River as their final resting ground, but the momentary concern was swept away under the frustration bubbling under my skin.
Twelve years. I’d spent twelve years putting this shit with Ambideaux behind me, and even if I’d done runs recently for a few people, nothing had ever been as bad as what Jason enjoyed tasking his “employees” with.
“I should point out that if you’re hoping to get out of this, I’ve left an identical one of those notepads in your desk at the station.” Grinning widely, Ambideaux straightened his suit and turned for the door. “And as we all know, Sergeant, you aren’t allowed to set foot on NOPD property for the length of your suspension or risk being permanently terminated. What a predicament you’ve found yourself in, wouldn’t you say? At the risk of working for me permanently, I suggest you take care of what I’ve given you. Your mother will thank you, I’m sure.”
The door swung open and Ambideaux strolled out, whistling like a damn lunatic.
Another ten minutes passed before the bastard at my back stepped away and flashed me a gold key that he set on the table—on the other side of the table—before following his boss out.
Leaving me alone to my past that was, once again, my present and my foreseeable future.
The sinner.
The executioner.
The man who belonged in every circle of hell.
12
Avery
He was here.
Surprise snapped my back straight, twining up my legs as my feet ground to a halt by the bar, sending my cocktail up, up, up, until the straw fit between my teeth and I’d guzzled half a Hurricane.
“You going to slow down there, girl?” Katie asked from behind the bar. Unlike mine, my roommate’s shirt was tugged down low to show off the goods to the patrons, and with every shake of the cocktail mixer, her breasts shook almost as much for the crowd.
Meanwhile, I looked like a nun in comparison—jeans paired with ankle-high boots, topped off with an oversized sweater that did nothing for my figure. All that I was missing was the chastity belt and we could call it a day. My lack of sex appeal had never bothered me, and it hadn’t bothered me as I’d waltzed out of the Sultan’s Palace and walked the three blocks to the club with Katie.
Now it bothered me.
Because of him, I wanted to tie my sweater up around my ribcage and prove that I could be just as enticing as the women gyrating on the bar tops. Him—Lincoln Asher. New Orleans police sergeant. Arrogant asshole. Almost-kisser of women up against brick buildings when they weren’t expecting it and were hardly prepared to get in on the whole kiss him back bit.
To say nothing of his ill-timed phone call.
My cheeks flamed at the memory, and even though it’d been only a little over a week since then, I could still feel the grain of the brick scraping against the backs of my arms, as well as the constant, on-loop realization that Asher had smelled acutely like aftershave and hot male.
I finished the Hurricane and set it on the bar. “I’m good,” I told Katie, ignoring the way she eyed me skeptically with a once-over.
She’d wanted me to come tonight and live a little. You need to pick up a guy, Avery, she’d said, fluffing her hair in the mirror as we got ready. An orgasm will un-crankify you.
I hadn’t come tonight with the plan to find myself an orgasm, but I hadn’t expected to find Asher here either. And if there was ever a man who looked like he whipped up orgasms for a living, it was him.
It was now or never. I’d managed twenty-five years without feeling an attraction for a man, and if I didn’t hop on the opportunity now, there was a good chance I’d go another twenty-five years without feeling this all-consuming need again.
You never cared about orgasms before you met him.
I thrust the thought away, burying it deep, as I waved off Katie’s concern. “I’m good! All good. You go do your thing.”
Tossing a garnish into a margarita, she shoved it at a patron and took his card. “You sure?” she asked me, turning for the cash register along the back of the bar. “You hardly ever drink. Hold on, let me get you some water.”
“Katie.”
Over the din of the crowd and the DJ playing a song from the latest Top 100, she cut me a look and then gave a self-deprecating roll of her eyes. “Okay, yeah, I’m mama-bearing right now. I’ll chill.”
Wanting to perk her up, I said, “I can’t find myself an orgasm in this crowd if you’re hovering.”
The guy to my left winked at me and then grabbed his junk. “I know where you can find one.”
I smiled sweetly. “I’d rather eat nails.”
Face contorting with displeasure, he snatched his drink off the bar and disappeared into the crowd, only for Katie to place a plastic cup of water in front of me a second later. “Guess he wasn’t the one?” she asked, right brow arched high.
Not even a little.
“I’ve got someone else in mind.”
Her left brow rose to meet the right, but a guy hollering at the other end of the bar cut her response short. With a behave-yourself finger wave in my direction, she grabbed a rag off the counter and slung it over one shoulder before hightailing it down to the customer.
I waited, giving her a moment to get lost in the frenzy of a weekend night in the French Quarter, and then I craned my neck, seeking another glimpse of the man determined to drive me insane.
The only man I could envision between my legs.
Fingers grazed my left hand, shockingly warm in comparison to the ice-cold cocktail I’d just sipped, and I pulled away from the unfamiliar touch.
I didn’t get far.
A strong hand wrapped around my wrist, stalling my flight, and then it was his voice that I heard next to my ear, rustling the strands of my hair, enflaming me as though my body operated on his command.
“Goin’ somewhere?”
It was the same question he’d asked when we’d first met in Jackson Square. The same gravel-pitched voice. This time, unlike the last, I was in no mood to run away.
I wanted what he’d offered me in a dark alley against the police precinct a week ago. I wanted what I hadn’t been bold enough to take then—pleasure, sex, the mutual understanding that it was a one-time deal only.
Simple. Uncomplicated.
Perfect.
And, yes, maybe curiosity still lingered as to why he’d had that notebook in his desk drawer. The one with Tabby’s name on it . . . along with the names of two dead men. Getting up, close, and personal with Asher killed two birds with one stone.
Though right now the only bird I wanted to know more about was why, of all people, he was the one to f
lip my proverbial switch.
He stood so close that my shoulder grazed his chest when I turned toward him. My gaze lifted from his black, ribbed sweater, past the thick column of his throat to his rugged face. Under the bar’s florescent lighting, the jagged scars across his cheek might as well have been a calling card for DANGER AHEAD.
My entire life had been spent sequestered in the shadows, and I didn’t know what it said about me that I was willing to step into that danger now, to hell with the consequences.
“Following me again?” I asked boldly.
“I was already here.”
He said it casually, with absolute conviction, and I was suddenly thankful for the shadows, which hid my flush. Flirting wasn’t my forte, and it figured that I couldn’t even manage a decent conversation starter with him.
Of course, he’d been here. I’d spotted him along the back corner, seated at a table with someone I didn’t recognize, minutes after I’d entered the club and taken a seat at the bar. I should have turned around then. Walked out. Gone home.
Instead, I’d downed a Hurricane for fortitude and waited for Asher to notice me in return.
Now, his hand skimmed my forearm, my bicep, not stopping until his palm settled on my neck, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin of the underside of my jaw. Goosebumps flared to life on my arms as I buried a swallow, worried that he might sense my spiking nerves. A guy like him—if he caught even a scent of my inexperience—would move on to the next girl in seconds.
I forced myself to meet his gaze casually, like my body wasn’t turning into liquid fire at the barest hint of his touch.
“You’re nuzzling my hand like you’re regretting us stoppin’ the other night, Avery.”
Shock filtered down my spine, jerking my shoulders at the truth. I was nuzzling his hand. Shamelessly, too. Briefly, my eyes squeezed shut. If I hadn’t seen him tonight, if he hadn’t appeared here as though my dreams had sketched his muscular build into reality, I wouldn’t have sought him out.
