Deadly Seduction

by Selene Chardou

  She sat up and lit her tenth cigarette for the day. “Then when will you be ready? Christ, Gisela, get over it! Relationships end and you made an awful mistake when you were a teenager but what is your great plan? Will you punish yourself forever and never allow yourself to feel a shred of happiness? Do you honestly think a selfish, sociopathic prick like Cillian thinks about you? Do you think he has any sleepless nights with that fuckin’ skank he chose over you?”

  I didn’t know what to say to that comment because it cut too deep and I felt like I’d been wounded by a knife. “I honestly don’t know.” I could barely get the words out and there I was, tears streaming down my face like that lost sixteen year old girl again.

  I was twenty-nine fucking years old. When did I plan to move on from my turbulent past? I hated how much that man could affect me, even now.

  And yes, I wondered whether he thought about me at all or was I nothing but a memory? Someone he thought about occasionally or maybe not at all. That hurt if it was the truth because I could never stop thinking about him and I hated him with a burning passion. I hated how he took my girlhood away from me and I despised how he left me.

  There was one thing to be said about Cillian Cox: he didn’t arouse feelings of apathy in anyone he met. They either loved or hated him. There was absolutely no middle ground with him and once I’d loved him so much, I would have given the very air from my body to allow him to breathe. Now, he wasn’t worth the effort of pissing on if he was set on fire.

  “Well,” Kyra exclaimed in an elated voice as she stood, walked over to her private bar and made herself another drink, “I’m going to set up that date for you with my brother. You’re going to go out and be free and happy. You’re gonna live a little and stop concentrating on work for at least five minutes.”

  “Jesus, you’re incorrigible and a younger carbon copy of my mother. There is absolutely nothing wrong with being a twenty-nine-year-old single woman. I’m not interested in a man right now and I certainly don’t want one I have to constantly look over my shoulder while we’re together.” I finished my Pinot Noir and set the empty wine glass on her coffee table.

  “I don’t understand you at all. You’ve lived around crime your whole life and now, no one in our circle is good enough for you? If you feel that strongly about how we live, and why our way of life is so wrong, why didn’t you become a prosecutor?”

  “Because life isn’t black and white but various shades of gray and I didn’t want to prosecute criminals when the really big ones are all in Washington, D.C.” I stood and the wine hit me immediately.

  I’d drank way too much and would have a hangover from hell come tomorrow morning. Fortunately, my bed was calling me in the worst way and I was beyond exhausted.

  Thank God tomorrow was Friday, I thought casually. At least I would have a whole weekend of working out followed by take-out and the latest releases on DVD waiting for me to devour.

  That, to me, was my idea of a good time. Not going out on a date with a biker when I knew what the culture was like and I would never make a good old lady. I was too mouthy and much too bossy. I liked to be in control and that lifestyle didn’t fit the image I’d worked so hard to cultivate in the various social circles of Northern Nevada.

  I was never meant to ride on the back of a Harley with the wind whipping through my hair and my arms wrapped around a man as I held on for dear life. The feeling of excitement mixed with the danger of all that power between our legs a pure rush of adrenaline straight to the brain.

  I’d been there, done that and owned the motherfuckin’ tee shirt.

  Never again.

  Those days were behind me and as dead as the relationship I’d had with Cillian Cox. Like him, they were a flash of a long-ago buried memory. A time so innocent and pure when neither of us knew anything about life. We were blissfully and ignorantly unaware that our actions would have consequences.

  I couldn’t go back—ever.

  Unfortunately for Kyra, she would have to find another woman for Evan because I’d taken myself off the market permanently. I had absolutely no intention of ever turning back.

  Regret wasn’t in my vocabulary and I constantly strived to look forward in life because there was no rewind or re-set button. Thinking about the past was a waste of time, and didn’t do a damn a bit of good for anyone.

  I was Raymond Jackson’s daughter, and if he’d taught me anything, he’d instilled a steel-spine and strength in me most women didn’t have. I was strong enough and had enough gumption to withstand the worst life offered me, come back for seconds, and still, I’d weathered the storm.

  “Are you heading home?” Kyra sipped from her scotch and soda before she glanced at me with face filled worry and concern.

  “Yes…and please stop looking at me like that. I’m not a total nun. I have a regular bootie call when I need to get off and really, I prefer it that way. No love, no complications—just sex.”

  “Yeah, Cillian is a regular fuckin’ Romeo. He’s ruined my best friend for life and there is nothing I can do about it. I’m mad enough to stalk him down and cut his dick off.”

  We both laughed out loud at this statement. “Listen, I told you I would be fine so stop worrying about me. See you tomorrow at work.”

  “See ya,” Kyra sing-songed as I reached her door, opened it and closed it behind me. I didn’t leave until I heard her slide the bolt lock and walked through the carpeted hallway. I lived just down the hall, cater-corner to Chiara Bassi, one of the only other people besides Kyra I would consider a friend. She was three years younger than me and worked for my father.

  It was my bad luck I dropped my keys after I fumbled them out of my designer hobo bag and knelt down to pick them up. Chiara’s door opened and she wore a black silk robe that clearly outlined her naked body beneath it. She pressed her lips against a man’s lips and I knew exactly who he was from the way his silky brown hair fell and the tattoos on both his arms.

  For some reason, he’d yet to get a tattoo on his chest—as far as I knew—but he did have the Lucifer’s Saints insignia on his back: a sneering skull with six horns while the body was a motorcycle surrounded by licking flames.

  What was he doing here?

  I knew he was one of her regulars but I was surprised she’d brought him home to her place. She usually entertained her whole clientele list in Reno at one of the luxuriously built, designated hotels. I suppose he was considered special, and therefore received the royal treatment.

  I turned around and my eyes wandered toward hers. They met her gorgeous face and her olive skin immediately turned crimson in color as her amber eyes widened in surprise and the shame became palpable as her shoulders slumped and she began to play with her long silky dark hair to hide her face from me.

  I quickly looked away, embarrassed by the awkward encounter myself, bent down to retrieve me keys and quickly slid the key into the lock but not fast enough.

  Chiara whispered, “Night. See ya next time,” and closed the door in his face before he could say anything further.

  I was too drunk to do anything with any grace and I immediately smelled him before I sensed him behind me.

  He’d showered and smelled of expensive body wash for men and Camel cigarettes. My heart thudded in my chest and my breathing became erratic. I didn’t want to be this close to him. It’d been a long time I’d been this close to him at all.

  This sucked and there was nothing I could do about it especially when his hand touched mine and I snatched it away as if he’d burned me. Cillian easily turned the key and opened the door to my condo.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled as he took the key out of the lock and held my keychain in his hand.

  He wouldn’t give them back until I faced him and I didn’t want to do that. I couldn’t do that and hope to live with myself. There was too damn much history between us and we’d both caused one another pain. Why did he want to fuel the fire? Did he enjoy hurting me—and himself in the process—that much?

&
nbsp; I tried in vain to calm myself down as I whipped around to face him and my chignon, barely holding itself together, drooped. Cillian reached out and undid the pins from my hair before it fell around my shoulders and back in long waves.

  “Where’re youse comin’ from at this time of the night, Ms. Jackson?” he inquired in a brogue Irish accent he’d picked up from the five years he’d stayed in Belfast.

  It was actually kind of funny because Belfast changed the both of us but his was much more apparent than mine. He’d gone from a lanky, all-American teenager to a grown man with all the mannerisms of a genuine native to Belfast.

  “Kyra’s,” I explained though I didn’t owe him any explanation at all. “I had one glass of Pinot Noir too many but I’m fine. What the fuck are you doing here with Chiara? Don’t get me wrong—I know you’ve been seein’ her on the sly for a while now. What? Are the Saint slappers not doin’ it for you anymore you have to pay to get laid, Mr. Cox? I honestly never thought I would see the day you would have to pay for pussy. It’s quite funny in a twisted, ironic way.”

  Cillian filled my doorway with his presence as he looked me up and down with clear crystal blue eyes. “She knows what I like and I enjoy her company. I’d actually be with any woman—no matter the cost—if she helped me forget about you for five fookin’ minutes and Chiara does that quite well.”

  I’d suddenly gone from being hot and bothered to ice-cold within two seconds flat. “How nice for her. What do you want and can you please vacate my condo so I can close the door?”

  He leaned in closer to me and I looked at the rings on his fingers that were an “L” and an “S” in sterling silver, one on his middle finger and one on his ring finger. He’d never worn a wedding ring though everyone knew he had an old lady and a skanky one at that who should be a Saint Slapper instead of married to the VP. However it wasn’t any of my business and everything between us was murky, dark, diseased and polluted water under a sagging, dilapidated bridge.

  No use trying to change the past now when it is etched into me like the silly tattoo I have left like a scar on the small of my back.

  “I would love to get out of your space but one, I’m not in your condo and two, I need you to invite me in.” His blue eyes searched my face though I refused to look at him directly because to be honest, I couldn’t.

  My short, manicured nails dug into my palms as I balled my hands into fists. “Just…leave it alone and go home, Cillian. You shouldn’t be here.”

  “Listen, I would go home and I realize you hate me but…we have to talk.”

  The tone of his voice pulled my eyes back to his face and it’s only then I witnessed the pain and anguish within him. He looked miserable as hell and although I despised him with all my might, I knew I never had a choice to begin with if I was being honest with myself.

  “Fine, come in,” I reluctantly said before I turned my back on him and walked to my bedroom as I heard the door slam and the deadbolt click into place.

  Chapter Three

  Cillian

  Cillian knew how odd Gisela found it for him to be in her condo but he needed to get all this shit off his chest because if everything went down the way he thought it would, he would need a good attorney. He’d have to convince her beforehand to represent him and that in turn made her an accessory to his future crime.

  He hadn’t gone to law school like she had but he knew enough about the law to know what he was doing was highly dangerous for the both of them. This was a seductive game of cat and mouse and he wanted her so badly, he would have her anyway he could get her, even if it was under the worst circumstances.

  The position he would place her in couldn’t be much harder than worst case scenario and he hated what it would do to her but she needed to know.

  Cillian looked around her condo and noticed the hard wood floors with liberally spread Persian carpets, understated yet elegant furniture and a view to die for though there wasn’t much to see at the moment except the twinkling of lights that barely illuminated the McMansions on this side of the lake.

  Beyond the lake were trees and the wind blew outside, bitter and cold. Soon, there would be snow and he wasn’t looking forward to that. It was a bitch to ride a motorcycle on snowy roads and he would have to rely more on his truck to get him around unless it was official Club business. However, even then it wasn’t safe to drive them and better to load his in his Ford F-150.

  He didn’t even have to turn around to know she’d walked back into the living room. She was barefoot and wore a pair of silk pajamas. Her breasts were freed from the bra; he could see her nipples harden as she avoided his gaze and grabbed an ashtray from the kitchen counter.

  “Take your shoes off and sit down. Obviously, it’s serious and this is gonna take a while.”

  He took off his shitkickers and left them next to the front door before he strolled to the wrap-around sofa and sat beside her but made sure he kept his distance. The last thing he needed to do was spook her.

  Her amber eyes looked into his own as she grabbed a joint out of her cigarette case and lit it. She dragged from it before she handed it to him.

  “When did you start smoking bud?” Cillian knew he didn’t have any room to judge her—he wasn’t known as “The Killer” for nothing—but something about her was different and it was the first time he’d been able to notice it up close and personal.

  It wasn’t like they never saw one another. There were various functions each year that brought them into one another’s vicinity but at the same time, neither went out of their way to talk to the other.

  Gisela wasn’t the angry and loud type. She’d always been quiet, innocent and so dangerously beautiful. He felt touching her, he’d tarnished her somehow because he wasn’t fit to breathe the same air as her. She was, without a doubt, an infinitely better person than he could ever hope to be.

  It never stopped him from fucking her every chance they’d gotten when they were teenagers and he had to have every inch of her. He needed them to be connected in every way and they were whether they wanted to admit it or not. They shared a child and at one time, they’d been inseparable but that seemed like a lifetime ago.

  “Don’t worry about my chronic habit.” Her voice was feminine yet strong. “I don’t do anything harder and I’m not going about flashin’ my pussy to every available man so mind your own fuckin’ business. I already have a father—I don’t need a second one.”

  Cillian couldn’t help but smile before he dragged from the joint and held the smoke in his lungs as long as possible before he exhaled.

  “I didn’t mean to raise your hackles, darlin’. You were another person when we were together—”

  “Yeah that was long motherfuckin’ time ago, Cillian.” She smiled wryly as she mispronounced his name on purpose.

  The first time they’d met, she stared at him as if he were the devil himself and wondered out loud, “You’re Cillian Cox? My dad would kill me if he knew you were offering me a ride into Pine Bluff.”

  “My name’s pronounced Kill-e-an,” he’d told her. “It’s an old Irish name and I get shit from the teachers all day pronouncing it with a soft ‘C’ when it’s pronounced like it would be spelled with a ‘K.’”

  Those were fun times, innocent times but certainly not the present. He handed her back her joint.

  “Listen, I know you didn’t come here for sex because obviously you and Chiara did more than talk…what’s goin’ on?”

  Cillian needed to do something with his hands. He reached into his pocket and grabbed his pack of Camels. After he freed one from the pack, he lit it with his Zippo and dragged hungrily. “Are you sure you want to know? I mean…I don’t even know why I’m tellin’ you when…you could be disbarred.”

  “Then don’t tell me.” Gisela stood; he reached out and grabbed her arm with sheer instinct.

  Her skin was warm, soft and she smelled delicious, like vanilla and amber mixed together. Her scent was so palpable, he could smell it over th
e cigarette and marijuana smoke.

  “Spit it out, Cillian. Is it Club business?”

  He nodded as he exhaled cigarette smoke from his nostrils. “I gotta tell you somethin’ and I know you’re bound by attorney-client privilege—”

  “The Club employs Jackson and Hughes but I’m not your attorney.” She dragged from her joint and sat back down. “What’s up?”

  Cillian reached into his pocket and peeled off twenty one-hundred-dollar bills. “It’s all the cash I have on me.”

  “Fine, I’m now your attorney and whatever you tell me falls under attorney-client privilege.” Gisela glared at him with annoyed amber eyes. “So, what the fuck is goin’ on?”