by Tara Janzen
At a clear place between a couple of cars, he pulled over to the curb and put the Cyclone in neutral before engaging the parking brake and reaching into the backseat again.
“You should have this, too. The more of it you can get down, the better you’re going to feel. I can guarantee it,” he said, bringing up an eight-pack of a bottled sport drink.
Electrolytes, just what she needed.
She let out another small sigh, watching him pull a bottle out of the plastic ring harness and unscrew the lid for her.
“Thank you,” she said and took a sip-grape, her favorite.
This was crazy.
He lifted the red pack out of her lap and unzipped the main compartment, revealing an incredibly well organized first-aid kit, of all the darn things.
Watching him, she screwed the lid back on the bottled drink, curious as hell.
“Blowout kit?” She read the label off a sealed plastic pouch in the pack. The pouch was only slightly smaller than the MRE.
“In case one of the good guys gets hurt, me included,” he said, moving aside a package of sterile bandages set above a number of elasticized bands and pockets, each of them fitted with some kind of medical supply.
“What about the bad guys?”
He let out a short laugh. “I don’t spend a whole lot of time worrying about saving the bad guys.”
A little harsh maybe, or maybe not-MREs, blowout kits and first-aid supplies, a pistol he carried concealed in a shoulder holster, for crying out loud, and the way he had of taking charge… especially the way he had of taking charge.
“Do people get hurt a lot in your line of work?”
“Sometimes, yeah,” he said, unzipping one of the kit’s mesh pockets.
“And what is that exactly? Your line of work, I mean.” They’d been rolling through lower downtown pretty much at a dead run for the last hour together; she figured it was time to ask, probably past time.
He gave her a brief glance, and without missing a beat said, “I’m currently between assignments.”
Oh, right. Between assignments. Sure. She’d been there.
Well, actually, she’d never been between assignments, but she could see how some gangster from RiNo could end up “between assignments.”
Bull.
He’d just given her a perfect example of misinformation by omission if she’d ever heard one-and she’d heard plenty. Some days in the private investigation business were just chock-full of all the things people weren’t telling you.
“You’re not one of the Locos, are you?” She just couldn’t get that to line up, him being a street thug, a gang member. It didn’t fit with what she’d been seeing since he’d walked into her dad’s office, no matter how easily he’d fit in with those guys in the alley off Delgany.
He pulled two small brand-name packets out of the mesh pocket and held them up. “Aspirin or Motrin? What do you want?”
“An answer to my question.”
He held her gaze, and, after a moment, handed her the aspirin packet. The Motrin went back in the kit. Then he took the MRE out of her lap and ripped open the top.
“Drink more of your drink,” he said, pulling a tightly sealed package out of the MRE and ripping it open as well.
She unscrewed the lid on her bottle and took another sip, and when he handed her a four-inchsquare cracker, she took a bite.
“They’re a little dry,” he warned.
No kidding.
When she had about half the cracker washed down, he nodded at the aspirin packet she still had clutched in her hand.
At any time during the exchange, she could have told him that she didn’t really have a headache, but she was rather ridiculously enjoying his attention- emphasis on the ridiculous.
She took the aspirin, and when she was finished swallowing, she let her gaze slip to his mouth.
She was doomed.
It had only been a kiss, she told herself, a kiss that made her want more and more, until the more became more than just a kiss.
Her gaze drifted lower, down the strong column of his throat, down the gray T-shirt covering his chest, to his lap, to the zipper on his jeans. It had been a long time for her, since she’d been with someone, which she was absolutely positive would never have come into play tonight-except he’d kissed her, and now everything was in play, especially her response to him.
He’d grown quiet on his side of the car, and when she looked up, she found him watching her, his gaze darkly serious, his attention focused on her face.
Another wave of heat washed through her. Johnny Ramos, all grown-up, the promise of what he could be completely eclipsed by what he’d become- harder, calmer, with a solid confidence she felt coming off him with every breath he took. He wasn’t running wild anymore. He wasn’t running dice in the school parking lot or dope on the corner for the Locos. His world had gotten much bigger, whether he was between assignments or not.
“You don’t answer to Duce,” she said, so sure of it. He didn’t look like he answered to anyone who wasn’t at least as mentally strong and physically tough as he was-which she knew for a fact narrowed the field down to a couple of very specific skill sets, law enforcement and the military. He was either a cop or a soldier. It was in his bearing. She’d been picking up on it since her dad’s office, but she hadn’t put her finger on it until now. The businessmen she dealt with didn’t move like he did. They thought tactically, but their tactics revolved around making money, not survival. Lawyers jockeyed for position in court, not on the street. Accountants, like Pete Carlson, the guy whose office was next door to her dad’s in the Faber Building, or even her own accountant back in Seattle, spent their time anticipating the cost-benefit ratio of tax laws, not threats like Dovey Smollett.
Johnny moved like Dax, who would have seen Dovey zeroing in on her in a heartbeat.
“No, I don’t answer to Duce,” he admitted, handing her the other cracker from out of the package.
She took the cracker, but what she noticed was the ink peeking out from under the cuff of his shirt.
“Oh,” she said, surprised, but then quickly remembering. “I’d forgotten about that one.”
She reached out, her fingers making contact with the letter L inscribed on the inside of his wrist. Almost as quickly, she felt the warmth of his skin.
“This was before Dom got killed, wasn’t it?”
It took a moment, but when he answered, it was in the affirmative.
“Yes.”
“Can I see it?”
She glanced up, and after a moment, he silently obliged, unbuttoning his cuff and pushing up his sleeve to reveal the word “LOCOS.” The letters were styled in Old English, all capitals, ornately strung along a knife blade with “XX2ST” and “C/S” written on the hilt, all of it inked into his skin, the tattoo going from his wrist to his elbow.
Oh, yes. She remembered this.
She slowly ran her fingers up the inside of his left arm. “You were fourteen when you had this done,” she said. “We were both in Mr. Hawthorn’s American Literature class that year. I remember asking you if it hurt, and you told me no.”
“I lied.”
“Yeah, I figured as much.” A grin tipped the corner of her mouth. His tattoo was elegant, professionally done, far better than what some of the other boys had put on their bodies. “I thought you were so tough.”
“Still am.”
Her smile broadened. “C slash S,” she said, reading the hilt. “Con safos, you told me, protected by God, and the XX2ST is for Twenty-second Street.”
“You remembered.” He sounded somewhat surprised.
She remembered everything about him, not that he would know it, and if at all possible, she was going to keep the news flash to herself.
“I think everybody who grew up around here remembers that the Locos started on Twenty-second Street.” His skin was soft, his arm so hard to the touch, the veins running down the length of it a confluence of strength underlying the elaborate design
and stylized script of his tattoo.
He’d been marked hard by his heritage.
“Yeah, way back in the day.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Back in the day.”
Silence fell between them again, a silence underscored by the low growling rumble of the car- and anticipation. She felt it descending like a curtain, hot and silky, around them. He’d kissed her, and she wanted him to kiss her again-Esme the Desperate.
Oh, babe. Johnny looked down at the top of her head where she was bent over his arm, her fingers still warm on his skin. She had no idea how beautiful she was; she never had. Being smart, that had always been her personal claim to fame, and she’d completely missed what everybody else understood-that she was gorgeous.
She didn’t know it, but Kevin Harrell hadn’t been the first guy he’d fought for her. A number of young punks had set their sights on her over the years, la rubia, the blonde, starting way back in seventh grade. He didn’t know about the jerks in grade school, but he’d never doubted for a second that there had been a few. Lucky for them, he’d been at St. Catherine’s while Esme had been at Bennington. The playground had been safer for it.
Despite his chosen profession, violence wasn’t ever his first choice for conflict resolution, unless it was armed conflict-then violence came swift and hard. Winning was the only parameter in armed conflict, in combat. But the whole guy thing with girls was so physical it naturally lent itself to physical confrontation. Guys always wanted to get in a girl’s pants, and other guys knew this, and that’s why they got so pissed off. So when a thirteen-yearold cholo at Campbell Junior High had started talking like he’d had her in the band room, Johnny had called him out. It hadn’t taken more than a little half-assed scuffling to solve the problem, but a pattern had been set.
There was more than one reason she hadn’t had a date in high school. Most of it had been her reluctance, and her shyness, and her holier-bettersmarter-than-you attitude, and the rest of it had been him. He’d traveled the world with the U.S. Army, but from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her, in Ms. Trent’s class, his reaction had been pure barrio boy, and he’d never outgrown it, not where she was concerned.
Esme Alexandria Alden, the Unattainable One- when he’d left her in the car in the alley at Duce’s, he’d made it clear to the Arañas not to touch her. Next time he would be adding “Don’t breathe on her.” Those cholos had been breathing all over her by the time he’d gotten back to the Cyclone.
Yeah, he knew exactly why he’d followed her into the Oxford. He knew exactly what he wanted.
And now here she was, so damn close he could smell her, and not just the honeysuckle and summer garden scent of her perfume. He could smell her-the underlying female scent of warm skin and soft breath, of the back of her neck and the lace of her lingerie, a push-up bra and panties curved around just about everything he wanted to get his mouth on.
And she wanted to be kissed.
With Solange rumbling beneath them, and desire building between them, with the night in front of them, and long years of fascination behind them, she wanted to be kissed.
Geezus. He didn’t know if he had it in him-to kiss her. To just kiss her. He’d done it in the alley, but he’d barely touched her, and this time she was already practically in his lap, the heat of where she was touching his arm quickly and inexorably spreading, covering the whole front of his body, a good portion of it settling in his groin, which wasn’t going to do either of them any good parked at the side of the street with traffic going by.
And yet… and yet if he tilted his head slightly to one side he could see down the front of her jacket, and there wasn’t a barrio boy alive who could resist such a beautiful pair of tetas.
She was so lovely, the lace demicups of her bra working overtime, the nape of her neck exposed, golden tendrils of hair sliding loose from her up-twist and lying like a path to be followed across her skin.
He lifted his free hand and cupped the tender line of her jaw, but this time when he lowered his mouth he pulled her close, really close, meeting her more than halfway across the console and sliding his other arm around her waist, under her jacket, and yeah, he had to skirt her shoulder holster, and yeah, he was being damn careful, but he was also kissing her flat-out, tongue to tonsils, baby, his mouth angled over hers, teasing her, and tasting her, and sucking on her just enough to let her know this was not finished between them, not tonight.
Geezus, she had a beautiful mouth. He loved the way her teeth fit together. He loved the softness of her tongue. He loved the way she was kissing him back.
Yeah, she’d grown up in the years since they’d gotten hot and heavy in the mighty Roxanne. She knew where they were going this time, and from the way she was clinging to him, she knew he was the guy to take her there.
First, though, dammit, he had to get her up to Genesee, and get the cash to neutralize Bleak. But in between Genesee and Bleak, he was taking her to his place in Commerce City.
Yeah, with a soft, hot blonde by his side, with Easy Alex next to him, he could face it. He could face going home.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“That goddamn Cyclone sleeper, you mean?” Bleak said into the phone. “Yeah, yeah, Dovey, I’ve seen it running through Commerce City. Hell, it’s been in this town longer than I have. I’ve seen it parked at that damn garage over on Vine and Hoover. What the hell is Esme Alden doing in a big old Merc like that? Who’s this guy with the car?”
“His name is Johnny Ramos, Mr. Bleak,” Dovey said. “He’s one of the Locos. His brother, Dom, used to run the gang.”
Not what Franklin wanted to hear.
He swiveled around in his chair, taking his feet off the desk and planting them firmly on the carpet.
“Is she fucking him, Dovey? Is that what you’re telling me?” That some-fucking-how, this little bit of information about Burt-fucking-Alden’s daughter being the girlfriend of one of Baby Duce’s boys had not been unearthed some-fucking-where along the line?
This was not good. Crossing Baby Duce was out of the question. That was how guys got whacked.
“I don’t know, Mr. Bleak. I didn’t get a clear look at him until they got to his car, and then I recognized him, and yes, sir, maybe they’re dating or something. They used to have a thing going in high school, and he sure grabbed hold of her and started hauling her around like she belonged to him.”
Not what Franklin wanted to hear.
He sliced his gaze to the photograph of Katherine Gray on his desk. She was a first-class looker. There wasn’t a man on earth who wouldn’t recognize her for what she was-a grade-A, first-class looker. But maybe a piece of late-night cable TV ass was going to be pricier than Bleak was willing to pay.
Not that it mattered now. Goddammit. He was already into this deal up to his neck, whether he got to have lunch with Katherine Gray or not. The Chicago boys were going to be pulling up in front of his damn warehouse at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, and Franklin needed to be waiting for them with cash in hand.
Which he had, except for Burt Alden’s eighty-two thousand dollars.
Goddammit.
“Mitch and Leroy are on this car now?”
“Yes, sir. They caught a look at it on Market, then lost it, so I told ’em to head over to Delgany, to Duce’s, and just see if that’s where Ramos had gone. He’d sure been heading in that direction, and it’s Friday night, still early, time for the homeboys to check in.”
Franklin pushed out of his chair and walked over to the windows overlooking his betting room.
“The car was there, in the alley, but I told them not to take her at Duce’s,” Dovey said.
No shit, Franklin thought. The last damn thing he needed was a confrontation with Baby Duce and his damn Locos, especially on their own territory. But he needed that damn girl.
“And now it’s parked a couple of blocks from there,” Dovey continued. “They’ve still got eyes on it, but I told them to hold off, until I talked to you.”
Dovey with a brain, it was a miracle.
“Good, Smollett. That’s good thinking.” Mitch and Leroy were driving one of the Bleak Enterprises vans, and that’s how guys got whacked. A couple of wiseguys tumble out of a van with your goddamn name written all over it and rough up one of Duce’s boys and steal his girl.
Deader’n a doornail by dawn. Oh, yeah, Franklin could see that happening. He wouldn’t have to worry about the damn eighty-two thousand dollars then.
But Franklin Camilo Bleak didn’t go down that easy.
“You follow them, Smollett. You still got Bremerton with you, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’s a big guy.” From out of town. “Use him. You follow that damn sleeper until you can get it pulled over someplace outside Duce’s territory, then send in the Chicago boy to get the girl. He’s packing a damn.45. Tell him to use it.” The last thing Denver would ever miss was another damn gangster. The city was crawling with them, all of them swinging pistols around and killing people.
Yeah, that was a great idea-to let the Chicago guy kill Duce’s boy and just keep the name Bleak out of the whole damn mess.
Esme Alden dating a member of the Locos, somebody should have known that. Somebody should have figured that into the night’s plan.
Well, it was figured now.
“You do this right, Smollett, and it’ll look real good to me. Real good.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Bleak.”
“You bring me that girl, Dovey, and there’ll be something in it for you.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Bleak.”
“Just bring me the girl, Dovey.” He ended the call, and speed-dialed Mitch.
The guy picked up on the first ring.
“Yes, boss?”
“Dovey’s on his way to pick up the tail on the Cyclone. When he gets there, you get the hell out of there. I don’t want Baby Duce seeing my van crisscrossing his goddamn neighborhood all night.”
