by Shandi Boyes
I groan as my dick softens. I can feel blood dribbling down my face, but there’s no chance in hell I’ll ever wear a Band-Aid.
When I say that, Justine’s eyes rocket back to mine, stunned by the menace in my tone. “It’s just a Band-Aid.”
“Exactly,” I snap back, my voice one I haven’t used the past hour. “It's a fucking Band-Aid. I don’t do Band-Aids.”
Unaware this is a fight for two, Ms. Aaronson butts in, “If we don’t cover the wound, it will scar.”
I’m about to tell her I don’t give a fuck if it’s capable of healing my black soul, I’m not wearing it, but Justine’s quick rip of the material surrounding the Band-Aid stops me.
Acting oblivious to the threat I know she sees in my eyes, she snags a pen from the coffee table, pulls the Band-Aid out of its packaging, then jots something down on the no longer sterile strip.
When she pivots the Band-Aid around to face me a few seconds later, I forget we have company when I read what she wrote across the brown strip.
Bad boy.
What did I tell you? The good girls always want the bad boys.
Confident she’s subdued the moody beast inside of me, Justine mutters, “Now it’s not just a Band-Aid. It is a kick ass accessory any man would be proud to wear.”
Although I’m always up for an argument, the fact she called me a man weakens the desire. With most of the men in my industry decades older than me, for years, I was known as the kid. That all changed when my knife showed them how much I hated it. I didn’t have a childhood, so how could anyone give me a childish nickname?
Justine sucks in a relieved breath when I jerk up my chin, granting her permission to place the Band-Aid on the gash above my left brow. I don’t usually give in, but there’s a flare in her eyes advising she’ll pay restitution for my agreeance before dawn.
It, along with my cock, would have me agreeing to anything.
Once Justine has the Band-Aid in place, I shift my eyes to the mirror on the other side of the living room. I stare at myself, lost as to who is peering back at me. It isn’t the brown sterile strip stretched across my brow deceiving my mind. It is the light in my eyes. They’re usually black pools of death. Tonight is the first time they’re appeared the color of the coolness that slides through my veins.
My eyes return to Justine when she asks, “Have you never worn a Band-Aid before?” Her voice is low, panicked as to how I will reply.
My racing heart can be seen in the flutter of the pulse in my neck, but its fast beat isn’t necessarily in anger. I’m more confused than anything.
When Justine arches her brow, patiently awaiting my answer, I say, “No, I haven’t. My father believes scars are medals and dressing wounds is for the weak.”
I learned fast not to hide the scars Vladimir gave me as a child or he would have given me ones I couldn’t hide. Wearing scars on my sleeves saved them from being worn on my face.
“Is that why you wear these with pride? To prove your strength?”
The light in Justine’s eyes fade when I trace my fingertip over a faint scar on her shoulder. It’s larger than the tiny one on her neck, and covered with a generous amount of concealer.
“My scars have nothing to do with courage, Nikolai.” Justine closes the first aid kit with a snap before standing from her seat. “I have them because a man as hideously misguided as your family wanted to teach me a lesson.”
My back molars smash together, but Ms. Aaronson thunderous balk keeps my response hidden from Justine. “They were put there against your wishes?”
I stare at Justine, silently begging for her to deny Ms. Aaronson claim, to say she wasn’t marked by another. A car accident, a boating incident, a wayward fucking missile, I’ll take any of those excuses over Ms. Aaronson assumption she was deliberately hurt. If I find out her scars were manmade, my hitlist will be endless. I won’t just take down the man responsible for her marks. His entire family will become extinct.
Hate so black it scorches my skin burns through me when Justine dips her chin in confirmation of Ms. Aaronson’s question. Just like me, she was scarred by another; just like me, she had her wings clipped; and just like me, she’ll have her revenge.
I’ll make sure of it.
When the tension hissing in the air becomes too much for Justine to bear, she attempts to dart into the bathroom at the back of her living room. I seize her wrist before she gets one step away from me. I’m barely touching her, but I’m confident she can feel the angry current surging through my veins, and the promise it comes with.
We were strangers mere hours ago, but that won’t stop me from protecting her. Friends can become enemies as quickly as a once stranger becomes your everything.
The brave woman in front of me is living proof of this.
“Ahren…” I force out through the anger clutching my throat when she yanks her wrist out of my hold before spinning on her heels and sprinting into the bathroom she was racing for earlier.
The brutal bang of the bathroom door startles Ms. Aaronson enough I’m reminded that Justine’s devastation isn’t solely being witnessed by me.
I hate that.
Acting happy when you’re on the verge of breaking is an admirable strength, but I don’t want Justine to act when she’s around me. The only time she’s been honest with herself today was when her juices were coating my palm. That’s why I’ve been so desperate to get her alone, because I knew I had a better chance of lowering the barriers I’m certain she erected years ago if it was just the two of us.
“Oh, dear. I think I made her upset. I should go check on her.”
Ms. Aaronson’s wobbly strides stop halfway to the bathroom door when I rocket out of my chair to block her with my thumping-with-anger frame.
“I think you’ve done enough.” I didn’t mean for my voice to come out with the fury it did, but I don’t regret it when it replaces the remorse in Ms. Aaronson’s eyes with fear. It stops her from chasing down Justine, and has her at my complete mercy.
Conscious on her earlier threat to call the police, I lower the severity of my tone while bringing out a side of myself I haven’t seen in years: the swooning side.
“Do you know what Justine needs right now?” Ms. Aaronson peers up at me with her big rheumy eyes out in full force. “The type of comfort you can’t get from words. She needs carbs, calories, and c—”
“Chocolate,” Ms. Aaronson interrupts, grinning.
I was going to say cock, but I’ll go with her reply if it ups the ante of her leaving sooner rather than later.
Ms. Aaronson’s pencil thin brow pops up along with her index finger. “And I know the exact thing that’ll bring back the rosy coloring to her cheeks.”
Now I’m one hundred percent certain I should have said cock.
I’m reminded the wrinkles on Ms. Aaronson’s face aren’t lifelines when she says, “Pancakes. Pancakes make everything better.”
I almost dip my chin in agreement, but Ms. Aaronson’s race for the swinging door that leads to Justine’s kitchen stops me.
“Where are you going?”
“To make pancakes, silly.” The ‘S’ of silly whistles through her false teeth.
I race to catch up with her. “Can’t you make them in your apartment?”
She’s continues for the kitchen, but mercifully, her shuffles are so slow, her dated hearing aids have no issues picking up my question. “Can’t. Got no sugar or eggs.”
“Then I’ll get you some.”
Her tattered dressing gown floats across the floorboards when she spins around to face me. “It’s too late for that. The local grocer is shut.”
I choke out a laugh. “This is Vegas. Nothing is ever closed in Vegas.”
Her flabby lips twist, but she doesn’t argue with me. It’s for the best. My patience is stretched thin.
“If I can get you the ingredients needed, can you make them in your apartment?”
Why the fuck am I negotiating? She either does what I ask o
r die.
I don’t barter.
After banding my arm around Ms. Aaronson’s chubby waist, I guide her to the door—forcefully. “I’ll get you what’s needed, then, if Justine is up for it, she’ll join you for a late brunch tomorrow morning.” Late because Justine and I have more than just the issues of my cock to tackle tonight.
I’m not surprised when the opening of Justine’s front door occurs with the shuffling of an expensive pair of black boots. Roman doesn’t back down as readily as my crew. That’s probably more due to the fact he’s my mentor than a solider hoping to climb the ranks. He challenges me as much as I grate his last nerve.
Ms. Aaronson brings out all her tricks when Roman steps out of shadow covering his face. As she takes in his six foot frame, cut jaw, and deadly black eyes, she appears more and more like a lady on the brink of climax. When she drags her teeth over her lower lip, my stomach’s cramps have me grateful I skipped lunch.
“Oh, hello there, young man.” She bats her lashes that are as glistening as much as the sweat mustache on her top lip. “What are you doing hiding out here?”
Roman chokes on his spit when I say, “He’s here to take you to the store.”
I can see the fight in his eyes, smell his wish for an argument on his skin, but since he knows better than to double guess anything I tell him to do, he gestures for Ms. Aaronson to lead the way. “After you.”
She slices her hand through the air, pretending she’s not on the verge of coronary failure before saying, “Sheesh, slow down young man. I need to get my purse first.”
While wiggling his finger in his ear to ease the damage Ms. Aaronson’s high-pitch squeal caused to his hearing, Roman strays his eyes to mine. He doesn’t speak, but I see the demand in his slit gaze. I owe him.
After jerking up my chin, caving to his silent bid, I farewell Roman and Ms. Aaronson by slamming the door in their faces. I’ve barely slide the lock into place when the sense of being watched rains down on me. While watching Ms. Aaronson make her way to her apartment to gather her purse through the sheer curtain on the window in Justine’s living room, I pivot on my heels to face Justine. Her face is as impassive as the blankness in her eyes.
“Ms. Aaronson wishes for me to pass on her apologies for the interruption, and she has assured me it won’t happen again.” The smug prick inside me roars when I mutter, “No matter how loud you scream.”
My eyes sweep over her body, seeking any signs she heard my comment as I intended. Her nipples are tilted upward, begging to be touched, but her eyes remain hollow.
I fucking hate it.
I step closer to her, struggling as to which emotion I should act on first: anger or pleasure.
When several seconds of deliberating gets me nowhere fast, I seek assistance from the source of my dilemma. “I don’t know where to start, Ahren. At the event we were undertaking before Ms. Aaronson arrived, or the secrets your twenty-minute bathroom break was hoping to conceal.”
As her throat works through a hearty swallow, I bridge the gap between us. I don’t race for her like I did earlier. I take my time, allowing her to see the snake standing directly in front of her. She’ll have a better chance of overcoming her fears if she faces them head-on. It just isn’t a physical hazard she needs to be wary of. It’s much deeper than that.
A grin raises my cheeks when Justine responds to the fire roaring in her gut with more intensity than I bargained for. She vaults over the outdated couch Officer Prentice made as worthless as his life, lands a near perfect dismount without so much as ruffling a hair on her head, then charges into the room still housing over two dozen sex toys on its bed.
She slams her bedroom door shut with as much force as she used on the bathroom door earlier, except this time, I fail to hear a lock slide into place.
Curious, I move closer to the door. I’ll never take anything unwillingly given, but that doesn’t mean I can’t snoop. The motto ‘I can look but can’t touch’ works well for me—although I’m tempted as fuck to ignore it when the patter of Justine’s heart resonates through the door.
Once again, it isn’t the thump of someone in fear.
She’s fighting no one but herself.
“After my performance in the foyer, I know you have no reason to believe me, but it’s best for all involved if we pretend tonight never happened. I’m your attorney, Nikolai. Ethically, we can only have a client/attorney relationship.”
I lose the chance to refute her fabricated statement when a flash of amber catches my eye.
Chapter Seven
My blood boils when the winded grunt of the bottom-feeder I have nailed to the brickwork of Justine’s apartment registers as familiar. It’s pathetic and weak even with its owner being a direct descendent to one of the longest serving criminal entities this side of Russia.
Sergei may have Popov blood, but he will never be a true Popov. He’s too weak, too трусливый. After what he did to Rico, his limbs should be feeding fish in the bottom of the ocean, not lurking outside of my attorney’s apartment.
I revel the feeling of his pulse weakening for several long seconds before loosening my grip on his throat. When I fully relinquish him from my hold, he falls to his knees to suck in some much-needed breaths. His lungs are heaving as much now as they did when I stunned him with a quick left, right, left combination before ramming him into the brickwork outside of Justine’s bedroom. I should have killed him, but there were too many onlookers to pretend his death was in self-defense.
“What are you doing here, Sergei?” I sound calm even with my insides engulfed by fury. He was right there, peering through the glass door of Justine’s balcony, closer to her than I was.
That’s unacceptable.
After another three wheezy breaths, Sergei says, “He sent me to check on you.”
“He?” I know who he means, I just want to test where his loyalties lie. If they’re with Vladimir, he’ll die even with witnesses. If they aren’t, I’ll save his death for a few more days.
I can’t say weeks as that’s not a guarantee I can give a man as worthless as Sergei.
Sergei’s life is spared for the night when he mutters, “Vladimir. He doesn’t believe Trey’s recollection of events. He sent me here to check.”
“What did Trey tell him?”
He gasps in another breath before releasing it with half-truth. “That you’re hiding out until Terry Lennox’s homicides dies down.”
It takes me a few moments to recall who Terry Lennox is, but when I do, I can’t help but smile.
Dion must have had plans because Officer Lennox’s death was even quicker than I anticipated.
I fold my arms in front of my chest, fighting the itch to kill while also acting ignorant to the numerous pairs of eyes on me. My face is well known in this town. It’s almost as infamous as my reputation. “Why didn’t Vladimir believe Trey’s story? He encourages silence after punishment.”
I know this firsthand. It’s what he did after sentencing me to be beaten to death at the tender age of sixteen. Ignorance is very much Vladimir’s strong point.
When Sergei kicks the monitoring bracelet on my ankle, I work my jaw side to side. “Daniil is on Vladimir’s payroll.”
I’m not asking a question. I’m stating a fact.
Sergei is too dumb to know that, though.
“Yep. Had him trace the device when you failed to show up at the compound after dusk.”
Now I’m even more grateful at my inability to deny my cock its every wish. If I hadn’t, Vladimir may have discovered the Popov compound isn’t the only facility I’m working. He doesn’t know about Clarks, my off-site complex. No one outside of my inner circle does. Not even Sergei, and he’s technically family. His mother and my mother were cousins.
I say ‘were’ because they’re both dead—victims of the same man. Vladimir.
“How long do I have?” When Sergei appears stumped by my question, I simplify it for the dumb-fuck. “In other words, how many lap danc
es do I need to organize for you at Cliché’s before you run back to Vladimir with your tail between your legs?”
When he smirks, I’m enticed to lower his grin by several inches. “Come on, Niki, even I know she’s worth more than a handful of lap dances.”
Calling me ‘Niki’ already has me wanting to slit his throat, not to mention the gleam his eyes get when they rocket to the glass sliding door of Justine’s bedroom. Since her curtains are made out of lace, and her bedroom light is on, we can see her moving around her room, preparing to go to bed.
If hate wasn’t holding my emotions hostage, I’d smile at the flimsy chair Justine notched under her door handle. Alas, it’s rare for pleasure to come before business—even with my night starting out as a bit of both.
After stepping to the left, blocking Justine from Sergei’s impish glare with my brooding frame, I ask, “If you don’t want the star treatment at Cliché’s, what do you want?”
A gleam I know all too well shines in his soulless eyes when he rubs his hands together. If he thinks he’s getting a slice of Justine, he’s dead fucking wrong. I don’t share my favorite whores, so there’s no chance in hell I’ll share Justine. For one, she isn’t a whore, but even if she were, I’d never share her with a vyperdusch like Sergei.
My outer appearance doesn’t give away my shock when Sergei growls, “Nina,” a few seconds later, but my insides sure do.
Nina was my favorite whore—was being the prominent part of my reply. I haven’t tasted Justine yet, but I have no hesitation in saying she’ll make Nina’s loss worthwhile. I wasn’t lying when I said my cock grew bored years ago. Nina is the equivalent of every Russian man’s wet dream; however, my dick doesn’t twitch at the thought of her lips circling it. Justine’s pillowly lips, though… I’m hard now just recalling how delicious they tasted, much less the idea of them sliding down my shaft.
“Consider Nina yours.”
Sergei steps back, shocked, aware Nina was once off limits. This is different. I’m not sharing Nina. I’m giving her to Sergei.
