Temper: Road Roses MC

by Ada Stone

  Like this homegrown kid had apparently done.

  “So we hired him to do a little work for us, right? Good, paying work. Just needed someone to come in a put up some new framework. Some structure. That old hovel isn’t working anymore. We need better. So we hire him to put up a new business home for us and you know what he does?”

  I knew for a fact that he was talking about a sort of unofficial headquarters for the mob, a place where they could hold meetings and discuss “delicate things” amongst themselves without any prying ears. And I also knew that no one would call it a hovel except for Vinny. It was bigger than the library in New York City and it was just as beautiful. But they had a rat problem recently, and I wasn’t talking about small rodents.

  “He steals from us.”

  And there it was. Why I was here.

  There were three things you didn’t do where the mob was concerned. Go to the cops was number one, which I was pretty certain applied to any sort of criminal organization, period. Go to other mobs—the Italians or the Irish, for example—and give them your business. That was pretty straightforward, too. The mob was all about loyalty, and going against your own people didn’t get you in good with the other people anyway, so no one fucked with that one much either. But the last one, was the one people had a hard time with. It was also the one that very quickly got you killed, regardless of who you knew.

  Number three was stealing, and you never got away with it.

  “Do you have a name for me?” I asked, my accent slightly thicker since I’d been spending the evening with Vinny, who took pride in sounding as Russian as possible. Mostly a show since I knew his English was near perfect, but he was from the Motherland, so it wasn’t exactly fake either.

  He slid a piece of paper across the table. Before I even opened it up I knew that it would have two things on it: a name and a number. The number was the price Vinny was willing to pay and the name would be the homegrown corn fed Iowa or wherever middle state he was from boy I was to kill.

  I opened the paper and saw it: Christopher Ferrars. One hundred thousand. Not a bad price in the slightest. The kid must have taken a lot of money from Vinny for him to be willing to pay that much for his head. I noticed that beside the number there was a little plus sign and an additional number, fifty thousand. My eyebrows rose slightly in surprise. This was clearly a bonus; it must have been for doing it in a timely manner.

  “You have a date for me?”

  Vinny nodded. “Three months. Anything longer and the deal is off. Anything sooner and you get the fifty.”

  “Alright.” I agreed to the deal because I didn’t like to go too long without working and the money was good for a relatively easy kill. Vinny wasn’t paying for difficulty; he was paying for time and for his own money. I could appreciate that.

  “There’s been a sighting of him,” Vinny continued, leaning back in his chair as I held the note between my fore and middle finger and placed it over the lit candle. It burned, ashes falling to the deep red tablecloth as Vinny spoke. “A bar, local. Selene.”

  “How much money was it?” I asked before I get up to leave. I knew where Selene was; I’d been a time or two.

  Vinny studied me for a long moment, as though debating just how much he should tell me. Finally, he said, “Six point five million. And I want it back.”

  I nodded once and then I was gone.

  ***

  Selene wasn’t exactly seedy, not in the true sense of the word. A seedy bar was one of those places where the bathrooms were disgusting and the beers were overpriced, even though they were cheap everywhere else. They were the kind of places where people went for fights and brawling and just getting tossed because their lives were just that meaningless and empty.

  This was not quite that.

  Selene was located in an older building. It had a small redbrick facing with a black door and a red light above it. Upstairs was a strip club, amongst other things, but even that was “fancier” than just that. Inside was dark, only dimly lit with tones that ranged from red to blue to purple. The tables were all booths, tucked into corners with leather seating. The bar was well taken care of, the bartender wore a button-down shirt and a vest, and the glasses were clean. It was a nice place—except it wasn’t very nice. Dangerous people liked to come here and I’d seen more than a handful of girls dragged through the doors, so far gone that they were more being carried than walking. Some were escorts, but many were just young women pretty enough, and unfortunate enough, to catch the eye of some local man with too much money and not enough dick.

  Not that every woman who was in there didn’t want to be there. In fact, a lot of women came there hunting specifically for the “right kind of man,” which equated to a lot of money and a short lifespan if possible. I didn’t care so long as they were hot and game to go to bed.

  I didn’t do relationships.

  Not that any of that mattered tonight. I was on the hunt for Christopher Ferrars and this was the last place he’d been seen—which told me that Vinny was on the mark; the boy had stolen a lot of money.

  After my meeting with Vinny, I’d done a little research. Strangely enough, research started with Google and Facebook these days. All that free online information just floating around, waiting for crooks like me to mosey along and take what they need. It was a damn shame really, and one of the main reasons I would never get a profile page online. Not for anything. I did have a fake one for a beautiful woman who didn’t exist for the purposes of adding people or searching the web. I had noticed that beautiful women were much more likely to get responses than hit men were.

  I’d gotten some good information at least. Christopher was just under six feet, had blond hair and blue eyes. Apparently, the only shirt he owned was a plaid button-down, and he was known to wear cowboy hats. If he got any more country, I’d have to assume his dog died and he spoke with a twang.

  He’d moved to the city not too long ago and had a younger sister in college. She didn’t appear in pictures, at least none of the ones I could view, but I did a quick look to make sure that he wouldn’t be hiding out with her. As far as I could tell, he wasn’t. Probably she had nothing to do with any of it, so I’d focus on the boy first and go to his little sister only if absolutely necessary.

  I didn’t like dragging in people who weren’t responsible, though sometimes that was just part of it. I didn’t like killing women either, but I would make exceptions for those who’d done the same dirty deeds as the men I killed. Why be a misogynist like that? But I didn’t think she was involved, so I’d do my best to keep it that way. Especially since I had this little farm girl in my head with pig tails and rosy, freckled cheeks, only four years old, even though I had found out she was in her twenties.

  Sometimes that was just how I pictured people until I got a real image of them in my head.

  My eyes scanned the room, searching him out, but wasn’t having much luck. There were no plaid wearing, cowboy clad blondies in the room as far as I could tell. In fact, I wasn’t seeing a whole hell of a lot of blond at all tonight. Well, not on the men anyway. There were definitely a lot of busty bottle blondes with fake tans and probably fake boobs, too. Not that I minded. Fake boobs felt good, too. A little weird at first, but nice and heavy in the palms and always with erect nipples. There was a lot to be said for that.

  I spent the next three hours at that bar, just waiting. Watching as people came and went, I mentally compared their faces, clothing, and body type to the Christopher’s. No dice. Finally, it was starting to get late and I was beginning to think this was all a bust. Christopher might have been here at some point, but not tonight. Not now.

  Frustrated, I gave up and waved down the bartender.

  “Sir?” he asked politely. He recognized me, but didn’t know me by name. Probably, he had sense enough to not want to, either.

  “Vodka, neat,” I told him, and the man nodded before pulling out a clear bottle of the good stuff. Ah, a little taste of home. The bartender pu
t the tumbler down on the counter in front of me. I swirled the clear liquid around quickly, then downed it in a single gulp. I tapped the counter, indicating that I wanted another, and the bartender obliged quickly.

  This one I sipped at, my eyes going over the room again automatically. I was still half looking for this Christopher guy, though by now I’d accepted I wasn’t likely to see him. Wherever he was, he was long gone from here.

  Still, I couldn’t help but be vigilant as I drank.

  That was why I saw her. She was a pretty little thing, her curves proportionate, but just naturally like that instead of filled in by surgical procedures and shaped by doctor’s hands. She was born that way, developing into the kind of woman men salivated over. Which they were doing right now.

  Her hair was a soft blonde, closer to wheat or honey than the platinum color you could only get from a bottle. It was long and thick stopping just above her hips, straight as a wooden board. Her hips were full, more noticeable thanks to that tiny waist which slowly flared upwards into two perfectly round, perky tits. I lingered on those soft orbs longer than the rest of her, indulging in the small press of cleavage that was visible beneath her dress. A soft white summer dress that stopped not far above her knees. It was a spaghetti strap, but otherwise it was really quite modest. Too modest for a place like this in fact. As were her flat, ballerina style slippers. She looked like she belonged on Broadway performing Swan Lake, not slinking around some bar to take shots.

  Her round, apple cheeks were flushed and dotted with a dusting of adorable freckles. I suddenly wondered if those freckles were elsewhere, too. My eyes slipped down the long column of her neck, searching now, until they once again landed on her full breasts. I thought I saw a few freckles there, too, and I couldn’t help but grin slyly into my glass.

  I’ll bet they’re between your legs, too, sweetheart, I thought to myself.

  She walked around almost shyly, her eyes blue and bright, searching out the deep corners of the place, examining faces and expressions and clothes like she’d never seen any of it before. She was smiling so widely that her cheeks probably hurt, showing barely shiny pink lips and a row of pearly white teeth.

  Sweet, that was finally what I came to as a word to describe her. Sweet. Not usually my type, but for some reason I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. She was so unlike everyone else in the room, so out of place.

  She eventually made it to the bar. “Um, excuse me?” she called out, trying to get the bartender who was at the opposite end. He either didn’t hear her or didn’t care that she was calling; she didn’t look like she had a lot of money. Leaning over the bar farther to get his attention—I noticed the way her breasts sat heavily on the counter, pushing together until even her modest little summer dress couldn’t completely contain them—she waved at him again, “Excuse me, sir?”

  She was so polite and I found that it irritated me that he continued to ignore her attempts to get his attention. It was hardly her fault if she didn’t look like the other prima donnas in the room.

  Leaning over to her, I asked, “What would you like?” I let just a little bit of my accent roll over across my tongue, because I knew that women went for that sort of thing. I had intended to just be gentlemanly, but now I was rethinking it and considering other, darker things. Dirty things.

  Surprised, she glanced over at me. Her face flushed brightly and I saw her chest heave as though she had just taken a heavy breath. Her long eyelashes fluttered before she looked down shyly. “Um, I’m not sure. What’s good?”

  I laughed a little at her, good-naturedly. “Oh, don’t drink much?”

  She giggled a little and ran her slender fingers through her long hair self-consciously, as though she had a thing in the world to feel self-conscious about. “I, um, don’t drink a lot,” she admitted.

  My eyebrows rose in surprise. Could she be serious? I didn’t know there were people in the city who didn’t drink. “Well, then you need to get the best, of course.” I waved the bartender over easily and ordered her a vodka to match my own, though I added a little ice for hers. I thought she might appreciate it.

  “Oh, um, how much?” she asked, reaching into her dress pockets—which seemed odd to me, but then I realized that she didn’t have a purse.

  I placed a large hand on her wrist, stilling her movements. She flushed at the contact and I smiled sweetly at her. “No, I insist. He’ll put it on my tab.” And the bartender nodded and walked away before she could even think about arguing.

  “That’s…that’s really sweet of you.”

  Sweet? Not likely, I thought, but kept that to myself. I certainly had other motives—like getting a handful of those tits at some point tonight. Even if that was all I got.

  The bartender put another tumbler on the counter next to mine.

  “My name is Alexei,” I introduced myself, offering her a large hand.

  She sucked her full lower lip into her mouth, worrying it between her teeth, making me wish that I could slide my tongue over that lip and into her mouth. “Susanna,” she answered me, placing a tiny hand into mine. I swallowed it whole.

  “Here alone tonight?” I asked, mostly because I wanted to make sure I wouldn’t have to beat some asshole up if I wanted a taste of her. I wasn’t one to get into some feud with a man over a woman. There were plenty of fish in the sea, after all.

  She nodded her head, her thick hair tumbling around her bare shoulders. “I didn’t really have anyone to go with,” she admitted shyly.

  I laughed. “I find that hard to believe.”

  She blinked at me in surprise. “Why?”

  Smiling, I leaned closer to her to answer. “Because it amazes me that a woman as beautiful as you would ever be alone.”

  A blush scorched her cheeks as her eyes went wide. That blush trailed lower, though, moving down her neck and across those perfectly perky breasts, and probably dipping lower than that, too. I wanted to trail it with my hands and my mouth.

  “You’re so sweet.”

  It was the second time she’d called me that, but I didn’t correct her. Instead, I lifted my glass and she mimicked me. We clinked them together and I watched the glass go to her lips, liquid spilling across her tongue. She took only a small sip, then made a puckered face. I laughed; she definitely didn’t drink much.

  “No, no,” I told her, smiling not unkindly. “You need to take it all at once.” I wondered if she caught the innuendo, wondered how she could miss it with the husky lust lacing my tone, but maybe she did. “Let it slide past your tongue in one swallow. It’ll be easier.”

  Doing as I suggested, she tipped her head back and downed the whole thing at once. She coughed a little bit and her eyes watered, but she didn’t have much trouble. After a moment, she laughed. “You’re right; it was easier.”

  “Would you like another?” I asked her thoughtfully, tilting my head to the side to examine her better.

  She thought about it a moment, then nodded. I waved the bartender over again.

  Susanna didn’t make it through the second drink and I realized quickly that one was enough. She was suddenly very giggly, her face flushed and her eyes bright with liquor. Apparently, she had no tolerance at all, though I wouldn’t have called her drunk, just a little tipsy. I didn’t push her to drink any more, not wanting some sloppy drunk girl.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  I raised an eyebrow at her. “What?”

  She leaned forward, letting her hand slide over my chest. I felt a singe of heat race through me, but then realized that she was trailing a finger over my medallion. “Saint Nicholas,” I told her huskily. “He protects me in my…endeavors.”

  “Like a guardian angel?” she asked innocently.

  I smiled. “Yes, like a guardian angel.”

  “Where are you from?” she asked me, leaning towards me so that I could see deep down her dress.

  “Originally, Russia, but I’ve spent most of my life in the States now,” I told her easily, lett
ing my eyes roam over her form freely. She didn’t seem to mind.

  “I thought that,” she told me, the added, “I mean, the Russia part. ’Cause of the accent. But it’s only a little bit—and it’s sexy anyway, so that’s good.” She was rambling a little bit and must have realized it, because she let out a sweet laugh. “Sorry. You don’t want to hear me rambling.”

  I shook my head. “You’ve got a beautiful voice. I’d love to hear it say all kinds of things.”

  She licked her lips, then laughed again. “Are you flirting with me, Mr. Sexy Russian Alexei?”

  It was my turn to laugh. “How can I help it? When a woman as beautiful as you calls me sexy, I can’t turn down a perfect opportunity, now can I?”

  “You think I’m beautiful? Like, really?”

  I raised a single eyebrow. “Of course. I meant it when I said that I found it hard to believe you’re here alone. A woman like you should never be alone.” Getting bold, I reached out for her, my hand finding her leg just above her knee. It was bare thanks to the way she’d crossed her legs to sit on the bar stool and her dress riding up slightly higher than it would normally fall.