12. Conquest
RICKER MULLENS was a free man, and damn, freedom felt good. He sauntered down State Street with his hands in his pockets and a cigarette dangling from his lips, thrilled by the looks of fear he elicited in passersby. Every time some bitch yanked her child to the other side of the sidewalk, a frisson of domination electrified his dick.
The Chicago Loop. He’d missed the energy, the depravity. What a travesty for a man of his stature to be stuck in that Gurnee hellhole for so long, with only his minions to entertain him. Steven had cried pussy tears at his release, of course. That boy would probably get shanked without his protection. His other boy would be fine, though. Bunky’s fine mouth would certainly get him places in life.
But another lanky boy now caught his attention: coming toward him about forty meters away, with a baseball cap slung low over scruffy brown hair. That teen slouch turned him on every time, and he wished the boy would show his face, but his eyes stayed on the concrete as he shuffled forward. Just as the boy passed him, Ricker shifted to the left and knocked into his shoulder.
“What the fu…?” The boy blinked up at him.
Sweet Jesus. Big blue-green eyes, only a few zits, a sorry little scruff of facial hair, and the cutest pair of dimples.
“Watch where you’re going,” the boy said.
He laughed. His tongue swept across his lower lip. “Where you headed, sweetie? I’ll cum with you.”
The boy’s eyes got huge. “Stay away from me!” He took off at a run, his red Chuck Taylors slapping on the sidewalk.
He sighed as he stared after him. Normally he’d give chase—perhaps teach the boy a thing or two—but he had more important prey to catch. Older, hotter prey. Prey with the prettiest blue eyes…soulful, vulnerable eyes…
He shook his head with disgust. Where was that fucking Grant Madsen? Ricker’d been out of the clink for two days already, with shit to show for it. No Madsen found on apartment or employee records anywhere in the city. That piece of ass was still on parole, but he hadn’t shown to meet with his officer as far as he knew.
Tank had told him it would be easy to track down Madsen, but apparently he was going to have to shift to Plan B. And drumming up sexual interest in an adult woman—an essential element of that plan—was always a challenge.
“Fuck Plan B,” he muttered, tossing his cigarette to the concrete and grinding it under his shoe. He’d much rather grind Madsen.
Nevertheless, forty-five minutes later, he strolled into an Asian fusion restaurant. He paused to check his reflection in the mirrored wall as he entered. His mother had always said he cleaned up well—when she was sober enough to notice her surroundings, anyway.
“Fuck me…” he muttered to his reflection. He rocked this black suit. It molded around his muscular torso, adding an inch or two of height, and no one would know he’d bought it off a thrift store rack minutes before—one of his first purchases with Mafia money, and it wouldn’t be his last. He’d toss the constricting black tie the second he ditched this place, though.
“Do you have a reservation, sir?” the hostess asked.
He’d spent his time checking out the restaurant as he waited for the crowd in front of him to clear, and he had a pretty good idea where Plan B needed to take place.
He gave her what he hoped was a sweet smile. “No wonder you’re the hostess. They put all the pretty girls up front.”
A blush spread across her ample cheeks. Score. The fat chicks always ate up his compliments.
“No reservation, no,” he continued. “But it is only one for tonight. No one to share my meal with. You must have a table for a bachelor who just left a funeral, right?”
Her face fell. “A funeral? I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. My wife and I used to sit by the windows, and I would like to honor her by dining there tonight.”
She drew a hand to her mouth. “Your wife just died?”
He let out a heavy breath and looked down, giving a slight nod.
“I’ll find you our best seat, sir,” she promised as she scanned the seating chart.
When she marked off his table and grabbed a menu, he grasped her wrist and looked deeply into her eyes. “Thank you. You do not know what this means to me.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
After Lardass left him with the menu, he unrolled his utensils, marveling at the heavy cloth napkin. Gurnee hadn’t even bothered with paper napkins. He glanced around to see if he could spot the blonde who would be his waitress, and his fingers curled around the knife. It felt so satisfying to hold real silverware, instead of a motherfucking plastic spork. The handle of the knife fit so easily in his palm too. He remembered watching Enzo stick that shank into Tank, the oozing sluice of blood—
“What can I get you to drink?”
With a flinch, he looked up into blue eyes framed by wavy blond hair. Her eyes held the hint of shadows, but she seemed to possess a sense of optimism and perk he hadn’t expected.
“Um…” He searched for words.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
He waved her off. “Not your fault at all. I am…distracted. I will try to get with the program.”
“Take your time.” She smiled.
After he scanned the menu, he said, “Wine. Red wine. And lots of it.”
“Seems like you’ve had a rough day?”
“You could say that.”
The blonde’s fidgeting puzzled him until she leaned in. “Listen, maybe you wanted to keep this private, but Wendy told me about your wife. I’m so sorry.” She straightened again. “I understand why you need some wine.”
“Wow.” He shook his head. “Such unexpected kindness from strangers.” His lips trembled as he drew one hand to his heart. “I am overwhelmed, truly.”
“We treat our guests more like friends than strangers.” Kindness filled her voice. “Now, which wine would you like?”
He peered at the list. “Would you choose one for me?”
“Of course.” She pointed to a moderately priced selection. “I like this Australian Shiraz, but my more sophisticated diners prefer this Bordeaux.”
Naturally she’d chosen the most expensive bottle on the menu. Goddamn greedy servers, working me for a hefty tip. “Only the best for tonight. Please bring a bottle of the Bordeaux.”
“Right away, sir.”
As she headed toward the bar, he zeroed in on her ass. Whoa. Tank hadn’t told him she had such fine melons hiding under that black skirt. Quite squeezable and smackable—much tastier than the scrawny backsides of his boys. Maybe Plan B wasn’t so fucked after all.
They performed the little wine-tasting ritual—he hoped he was doing it right—and he let out a sated moan when the wine slid down his throat. “You have excellent taste,” he told her and watched her light up.
Having no clue what to order from a menu without a hint of sauerkraut or spätzle, he let her select his entrée as well. And knowing the Thai were dirty pigs, it surprised him how much he enjoyed the noodle dish. Of course, anything would be better than that Gurnee glop he’d forced down for several years.
“Your hair is schyn…beautiful,” he told the waitress after sipping from his third glass. It had been months since he’d ingested anything other than a bit of smuggled alcohol in his cell, and he knew he’d better hit the brakes on the booze if he wanted to pull this off. “It looks so soft, so smooth.”
“Thank you.” A pleasing blush spread across her face. “I have to admit I was admiring your hair too.”
“You were?”
She blinked several times, seeming embarrassed. “I like blond men.” She shrugged. “Just something about them. They seem…more honest or something.” When her blush deepened, he was shocked to feel his zipper tent with the beginnings of an erection. “And I like how your hair spikes up,” she added. “It suits your face.”
“Such kindness from…friends.” They shared a conspiratorial smile, and he noticed with a sigh
that the sickening sweetness of it all had made his cock go limp. “I will pass along your compliment to the barber. He just cut my hair yesterday.”
“For the funeral?” she asked.
He tightened his mouth. “Yes.”
“You know…” She leaned her hip against the table, almost sitting that perfect ass right next to his knife. “Wendy said you often sat here with your wife, but I’ve worked this section for a few years now, and I’ve never met you.”
She was playing right into his fucking hands. Plan B was glorious! He leaned in an inch. “You’ve been so nice to me…you deserve the truth. My wife and I did come in here together, years ago. But then…” He tried to suck down a sob. “I found out she was cheating on me, and we got a divorce.”
The waitress stared at him, seeming to judge every word, so he rushed ahead, “I attended her funeral today. My ex-wife’s funeral.”
She nodded slowly.
“And I try to make people understand how devastating it was to say goodbye to her, but nobody understands. She was my ex, but she was my everything. I never fell out of love with her.” Please, please, cry. Let a tear fall right now. “And now she’s gone. I will never have another chance with her.”
The waitress nodded more vigorously.
He felt a burning in his nose, no doubt aided by the wine flowing through him, and he managed to squelch a victory dance when his eyes filled with tears. “But how do I explain this to others? My friends do not understand why I am so heartbroken…so bereft. ‘She cheated on you,’ they tell me. ‘She does not deserve your grief.’ But I lost the love of my life, and I will never find another. Nobody understands.”
“I understand,” she said softly.
He looked up at her through his tears, and she slid into the chair across from him. She took a deep breath, seeming to steel herself. “My ex was murdered eight months ago.”
He flinched with feigned horror and seized the opportunity to capture one of her hands in his. Her skin was so soft, so delicate.
“And we’d never married, so nobody understood what that was like for me. But my son lost his father…” She abruptly sat up, yanking her hand away. “I’m sorry. Here you are having an awful day, and I’m blabbing on about my problems.”
“No, please. Your pain is so much worse, dealing with a, a murder.” He spat the word like it disgusted him. “And left all alone as a single mother. You seem so devoted to your son.”
“He’s a teenager—he can drive me crazy sometimes.”
“Ah, teenagers. Too bad my wife and I did not have children before we divorced. I’ll never have that chance now.” His head shook. “Your son…Is that why you work such long hours?”
She nodded.
“I just realized…I do not know your name. I am Hans. Hans Fuchs.”
She took his proffered hand and shook it. “Ashley. Ashley Frederickson.”
“It is an honor to meet you, Ashley.”
***
From her perch in the stands, Sophie surveyed the quiet swimming pool. There was a break in the meet for diving, and two lifeguards dragged the lane markers away from the boards to make room.
“Do you think you’ll swim next year, Ben?” she asked as she dug around her handbag for an elastic band. Damn, it’s hot in here. “Ah!” She worked her hair up into a ponytail and fanned the back of her neck, wishing she hadn’t frittered away her swimming career over a battle of wills with her father at age twelve.
Then she noticed he hadn’t answered her question. She turned and found his gaze glued to the other side of the pool deck where some of the girls’ team had gathered. He had his eyes on Lindsay again. “Ben?”
He shook out of his trance. “I’m sorry, what’d you say?”
“I asked if you plan to swim next year.”
“Hmm.” He played with the zipper of his warm-up jacket. “Maybe not. It is kind of tempting never to swim the hundred ’fly again.”
“Oh, c’mon, you love it.”
He snorted. “I definitely don’t love the practices from hell.” His eyes drifted back to Lindsay. “But I guess this sport’s not all that bad.”
“Particularly since Lindsay will be a senior on the team next year too.”
He gaped at her, and her only reply was a knowing smile. “Jeez,” he groaned, massaging his temples. “Am I that obvious?”
“She’s a great girl,” she said. “She’s a good student, a fantastic swimmer—a really sweet girl. You’d make a lovely couple.”
He looked down. “’Cept she doesn’t want anything to do with me.”
“That can’t be true.”
“It is,” he said. “Dylan went behind my back and asked her if she liked me. Apparently she said I’m a pothead.” He held up curled fingers to perform air quotes.
“That’s ancient history. Just because you smoked weed doesn’t make you a pothead.”
“That’s what Dr. Hunter said.”
“No wonder I like him so much.” She smirked. “What did he suggest? Did he encourage you to ask her out?”
“Don’t remember. I think we got sidetracked.”
“Talking about what?”
When he hesitated, she said, “I’m sorry. I’m being nosy.”
“Yeah, you are.”
The sounds of divers bouncing on the board to warm up filled the air. She forced herself to be quiet.
He spoke after a few moments. “Then I found out Lindsay’s dad is a police officer.”
“He is?” She scanned the stands as her heartbeat accelerated. “Is he here?” The po-po, as Roger had referred to them, still made her uncomfortable.
“Nope. Dylan said her dad hasn’t made it to any meets this year, ’cause he has to work.”
“How does Dylan know so much about Lindsay?” She looked over and saw Dylan whispering in a girl’s ear. “Oh. Dylan’s dating Olivia, and Olivia’s Lindsay’s best friend.”
“You catch on pretty good.” He studied her. “So what’s it like to swim with a bunch of high schoolers? Are you sick of the drama yet?”
Once she’d set Coach Bob straight on the fact that she was very much in love with Grant and very much off the market, she’d really enjoyed the practices. “It’s actually a lot of fun,” she said. “Especially spending time with you—getting to see your world. I love getting to know you better.”
He ducked his head.
“Ben? What’s the big deal if Lindsay’s dad is a police officer?”
“She definitely won’t want to be with me now.”
“Why not?”
He widened his eyes and cocked one eyebrow. “Uh, helloooo…my last name? There’s no way she’d date a Barberi.”
“Oh.” She’d had the same conversation—several times—with Grant. Vicenzo Barberi had surely infected the lives of several generations of descendants. “You know, Grant has tried to convince me over and over that he’s tainted and unworthy because of his family.”
Ben looked straight ahead, feigning disinterest.
“And I wouldn’t believe him,” she continued. “Not for one second. Because I know him. I know the good in him.” She waited for him to meet her eyes. “Just like I know you.”
“But he’s a Madsen. He doesn’t have to use this stupid name.”
“So change your name. You could do that, you know. Take your mother’s name…Frederickson, is it? Benjamin Fredrickson.”
He scowled. “That sounds like shit.”
She laughed. “Ben Frederickson?”
“But I kind of like Ben Barberi.”
She nudged his shoulder. “I do too.” She thought she saw a hint of blush on his cheek.
As the first round of diving began, a hush fell over the meager crowd.
His knee jangled. Then his fingers tapped a beat on his thigh. Finally, he whispered, “Sophie? Dr. Hunter wanted me to tell Grant something. But I don’t know if I should.”
“Okay?”
They watched another dive, which elicited polite applause d
espite the girl’s resounding splash.
“Sophie?”
“Yeah?”
He chewed on his lip. “Lindsay’s right. She shouldn’t get involved with me.”
She sighed. Hadn’t he heard anything she’d said?
“I sold drugs.” The words flew out of his mouth and his eyes bore into hers, daring her to show a hint of judgment. “I was a dealer.”
“I see,” she said, maintaining a neutral façade. “That must have been, um, frightening for you. When was that?”
He swallowed. “Last year.”
“Are you still selling drugs?”
He shook his head.
She kept her voice low. “What made you stop?”
“Um…my dad dying, I guess. And my mom’s stupid drug tests.”
The request he’d made the night before ran through her mind. “So you’re grounded now, after you told your mom about selling drugs?”
“Yeah.” His cheeks flushed. “Can you believe she’d do that?”
She’d never been so proud of Ashley’s parenting. “Sucks.”
“Yeah.” He watched another horrible dive and snickered. “That was a fail.” Then his expression sobered. “So, um, how do you think Uncle Grant would react if I told him?”
“Well, I think he’d be upset and worried about you.”
“Would he…hate me?”
“Absolutely not. He committed a crime too. I bet he’d want to make sure it didn’t happen again, though. Is it possible you’ll get pressured into using or selling in the future?”
“No.”
She watched Dylan and Olivia playfully shoving each other. “Dylan wasn’t involved in this, was he?”
“He chickened out.”
Thank God. “He seems like a good guy.”
“Nick and I made fun of him for wimping out.” He cringed. “I was kind of a jerk last year.”
“We all make mistakes.” Particularly me. “You haven’t talked about Nick much. Why didn’t he join the swim team too?”
He blew out a breath. “He just got out of rehab a month ago. His dad found drugs in his backpack and went ballistic. His parents, like, kidnapped him and forced him into treatment right away.”
“Wow.” She tapped her chin. “I’m not sure about the legal definition of kidnapping, but I don’t think parents can be charged with kidnapping their own son.”
On Best Behavior (C3) Page 15
