by Kim Jones
“You never asked me my name.”
I want to smirk, but I hold it in. “That’s because I already know it.”
Her brows draw together in confusion. I watch as she fights hard to remember when it was she told me. Before she says anything else, I put her out of her misery.
“Good night,” I say, finality in my tone. My voice drops slightly before I add, “Diem.”
The last image I have of her is with her mouth slightly open, shock on her face and a flash of heat in her eyes.
And my newfound knowledge was worth every dime I paid Mick.
* * *
“There’s not a fucking thing to eat in this house,” Rookie told me the last time he was over. He and Tank had been slamming cabinet doors in my kitchen, looking for food. I guess they thought the more noise they made, the more likely they would find something. Dumb-asses.
“I mean you ain’t even got a loaf of bread or a can of beans,” he’d continued. “Beer and water. How do you survive off that shit?” It was late and there’d been nothing open within fifty miles. I’d felt guilty about my brothers going hungry. I’d been there before.
So today, I’m at the grocery store, shopping for what is probably only the fifth time in my entire life. I usually live off of takeout. Mostly because nothing makes a man feel more like a domesticated pussy than pushing a buggy alongside a shitload of soccer moms.
I’m in the cereal aisle, grabbing random boxes and tossing them in my cart, when my knees nearly buckle from the impact of a buggy hitting me at my ankles. Turning slowly, I expect to see some snaggletoothed, snot-nosed kid with a Kool-Aid ring around their mouth. What I see is Diem.
“Oops,” she says, giving me an apologetic smile that I know is fake. “Didn’t see you there.”
“Really?” My eyes center on her blue mouth. Well, I got the Kool-Aid stain right. She’s leaning on her elbows, holding a blue snowball in her hand. When she wraps her lips around the ice and sucks the juice from it, I suppress the urge to groan. A part of me wonders if she did that shit intentionally. “What you buying?” She walks up to me, leaning over and surveying the contents of my cart. “Cereal, bread, peanut butter, and canned beans. Hmm. Sounds delicious.” She flashes me another blue smile and my lips twitch. Although she’s annoying, I find her interesting.
Turning, I glance into her cart. “Juice boxes, nabs, NyQuil, frozen pizzas, and Popsicles. Well,” I say, with a smile. “The kids will be happy.”
She gives me a disgusted look. “No kids.”
“What about a husband?” I ask, in my shitty attempt to pry into her personal life.
Shaking her head, she takes a bite of the blue ice before answering. “I killed him.”
“With your cooking?” I smirk, and her eyes narrow on me.
“I’m actually a really good cook.” Sure she is.
With challenge written all over her face, she smirks at me. “Let’s make a bet. If you can guess what my favorite dinner is, I’ll cook it for you.”
Well, that’s hardly fair. “Don’t I get a hint?” I ask, wondering why in the hell I’m playing along with her silly game in a supermarket. Not to mention, I’m actually enjoying it.
“It’s on that aisle,” she offers, waving her hand toward the next aisle over. I look up and see the sign that reads “Pasta.” Judging by the items in her cart, I’m sure her skills are limited—leaving only one possible answer. Well, that was a little too easy. She must really want to cook for me.
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes in my pocket, and Diem is forgotten as I push past her and take the call from Nationals.
“I need some information,” Chaps, our national enforcer, tells me.
“And I’ll get it,” I respond, grabbing a pack of Gatorade as I round the corner.
“Ever heard of a guy named Fin?”
I search my brain, then remember Fin is the sergeant at arms for Death Mob. He’d given Rookie some shit once in Houston, but I haven’t seen him since then.
“I know who he is,” I growl, remembering how disrespectful he was and how badly I’d wanted to kill him.
“Get me everything you got on him. We’ve heard a rumor that he might be building an army.” Stupid fucker. Did Death Mob really think they could fight us and win?
“I’ll have it to you tonight.” Hanging up, I see Diem at the end of the aisle bending over to grab something from the bottom shelf. Her round ass is barely concealed by her shorts and I’m practically salivating at the sight.
I usually like long legs, but there’s something about her small, toned ones that send my dick into overdrive. They’re petite, but perfectly proportional. Even her ankles are sexy. Damn. I need to get laid. I’d kissed her twice, so we were halfway there already. I had work to do tonight, so dinner was out of the question. But maybe she’s up for a quick fuck in the parking lot.
Walking up behind her, I see her still struggling with whatever it is she’s trying to get. All I would have to do is wrap my hands around her waist and lift her just a little to have her centered on my cock. Shaking the thoughts out of my head, I squat down beside her.
“Lose something?” I ask, and she jumps at the sound of my voice.
Glaring at me, I can see her pulse beating rapidly against her throat. “You scared the shit outta me,” she hisses, grabbing her chest dramatically.
Rolling my eyes, I duck my head and peer into the bottom shelf. We’re so close I can smell the blue raspberry on her breath. My cock becomes aware of her too, and I mentally tell him to back the fuck down.
“It’s stuck on that thingy,” she says, pointing to the last fifty-pound bag of sugar shoved all the way to the back of the shelf.
“What the fuck do you need with fifty pounds of sugar?” I mumble, attempting to grab the bag while she stays in my personal space. I turn to look at her, our lips a little too close for comfort. “Well, sweetheart, if you’ll move, I’ll unhook it from the thingy.”
She backs away and I give the bag a jerk. It releases, and I effortlessly pull it from the shelf and set it in her cart. Dusting the granules from my hand, I brush them down the front of my jeans. I feel her eyes on me and glance up from beneath my cap to find her staring at my arms in appreciation. Maybe we’ll be having parking lot sex after all.
Giving her my best panty-dropping smile, I pretend to wipe something from her lip that really isn’t there. “Need anything else?” I ask, praying like hell she’s picking up what I’m putting down.
Snapping back to reality, her back straightens. It’s hard for her to look intimidating and like a Smurf at the same time, but I give her an E for effort. “No, I’m good.” I bet she is.
“See you around, Diem.” I start to walk away, but I want to remind her just how good I really am. And that I don’t need to pay anyone for information. “Let me know how that spaghetti turns out.” I wink, feeling a sense of satisfaction when I notice the look of shock on her face. And I’m pretty sure she’s a little turned on too. She’ll probably be moaning Zeke’s name tonight while she touches herself.
“Sure will, Zack.”
Or maybe she won’t.
* * *
As soon as I’m home, I gather all the information on Fin I can find and send it to Cleft, who is heading up my job while I’m away. I instruct him to give it to Nationals and to call me if he has any questions. Then, I invite Rookie over for dinner. He declines because Carrie, his longtime girlfriend, is in town, so me and my Fruity Pebbles are left all alone.
My thoughts keep going to Diem, even though I try to think about anything else. She couldn’t even remember my fucking name. When was the last time a woman had forgotten me? I must be losing my game. I’d have to fly back to Jackpot this week and visit the club. Surely the women there remembered who I was. If I couldn’t fuck Diem, I might as well fuck her out of my system.
* * *
Things in the club were going smoothly. My help wasn’t needed, so I spent the next two weeks living like a caveman—pouring over all my research to perfect my next kill. When the walls started to close in, I decided it was time for a break. So, I’m in Concord at some upscale restaurant that promises me the best lobster on the East Coast, when I’m approached by a beautiful woman with skin the color of dark chocolate and legs longer than my own. I drag my eyes up her body, lingering longer on her cleavage than any gentleman ever would.
“May I?” she asks, already pulling the chair out and taking a seat. “I’m Ebony.” She reaches her hand across the table, nearly blinding me with the diamonds that cover her fingers.
“I’m Ivory.” My joke is funny to her. Too funny. I suddenly have flashbacks of the last time I visited Jackpot. The club whores laughed too hard at my jokes. Even when they weren’t that funny. They’d do anything to get in my bed. I’m sure she’s not a club whore, but I’ll definitely have her in my bed if that’s what she wants.
“I was sitting all alone at the bar when I saw you. Since you were all alone, I figured we could give each other some company.” She winks at me, giving me her best seductive smile.
“Really,” I say, bored beyond measure. “Can I buy you a drink?” My voice is lacking in enthusiasm, but she doesn’t care. At my offer, her hand goes up and the house wine she’s sipping on is forgotten. When the waiter appears, she asks for a cabernet that I know is the most expensive wine they offer. Oh, and two shots of Patrón—at twenty-six dollars a pop.
I was wrong. This lady is a whore. And by the looks of her, she’s a damn good one.
“So, what brings you here to Concord? Business or pleasure?” she purrs, toying with the tiny, diamond-encrusted necklace at her throat.
“Both.”
I engage in her forced conversation with lines of bullshit that I’m just making up as I go. She doesn’t care. I could tell her I’m a serial killer and she would just smile and tell me how awesome that is. That’s what whores are supposed to do. I’m sure she prefers the term escort over whore, but they’re all the same to me.
My bill has probably exceeded three hundred dollars when the offer to get out of here nears. She’s making advances, biting her finger and licking her lips. I almost want to lean over and tell her the overkill isn’t necessary. I’d be happy to fuck her. There’s no need to try and convince me further.
I summon the waiter, and she starts to get excited. She excuses herself to the restroom and I’d bet she’s going to snort a line. That’s fine too. I plan to smoke a blunt while she gives me head. Who am I to judge?
“Hot date tonight?” I look up from my bill that is a hell of a lot more than what I’d predicted to find Diem smirking at me. Ebony might be beautiful, but Diem is a vision. Her short, jet-black hair is perfectly smooth except for her bangs that are wildly untamed and lay over her left eye. The dress she wears is candy apple red, matching her heels that are at least six inches tall. All she needs is a pitchfork to complete her evil, demonic, sexy-as-fuck look.
Her skin seems to glisten like she bathed in baby oil, and I want to run my tongue and hands across every inch of her tiny body. People are staring. They are as captivated by this devil as I am. Damn, I want her.
“What do you want?” I ask, completely unaffected by her beauty. Or at least pretending to be. She raises her eyebrow inquisitively at me before turning her eyes to Ebony, who is walking toward us. The world seems to stand still a minute. The only thing happening is the unspoken conversation between the two women as they size each other up.
Jealousy flares in Ebony’s eyes. It’s not that she wants me; she just doesn’t want to lose a client. Diem looks amused. Her gaze focuses back on me, her eyes dancing with laughter. She’s definitely entertained by this and I don’t know why.
“You know she’s a whore, right?” Diem laughs, and now it’s my turn to be amused.
“You jealous?” I challenge, enjoying the roll of emotions as they cross her face. She narrows her eyes, clearly pissed at my question. Then, as if the idea to fuck up the first possible piece of pussy I’ve had in weeks suddenly occurs to her, she takes a seat.
“I don’t think your services are needed today, honey.” She plasters a fake smile on her face as she looks at Ebony, who’s looking at me.
“Do you know her?” she asks, dabbing her nose with a napkin.
My eyes drift to Diem, who is completely relaxed. She feels like she’s in control of the situation. I could prove her wrong, but if I had to pick one of them to occupy my bed tonight, it would definitely be Diem. So I play along.
Without a glance in her direction, I dismiss Ebony. “Sorry, doll. Looks like I have other plans.”
The smile that lights up Diem’s face is more genuine this time as she looks up at the tall woman. “Bye, now.”
“Fucking bitch,” Ebony mumbles under her breath.
Diem’s smile is gone. The sparkle in her eyes is lost in the darkness that fills them. Her body straightens with lightning speed as she reaches out and grabs Ebony’s wrist.
“Say it again,” she demands, her voice low and threatening. The air seems to crackle around her and I shift uncomfortably. And maybe just a little turned on.
Ebony snatches her wrist away, narrowing her eyes on Diem. She tries to play it cool, but I can see the fear written all over her face. “Whatever.” Then with haste, she leaves the restaurant.
I keep my focus on Diem, watching as she regains her composure. Grabbing my beer, she tosses it back, then snaps her finger for the waiter, who appears out of thin air. “Jack Daniel’s. Double.”
He nods and disappears, leaving me all alone with the confusing, infuriating, lethal woman sitting at my table. This bitch is eight kinds of crazy. And I’m so fucking intrigued that I can’t leave, even though something inside my head is screaming that I need to.
“My mother was a whore. She was faithful to my father long enough to have me. After that, she fucked everything she could. Mostly his friends, family, business associates . . . It’s not the act of sex for money that’s so degrading. It’s the disregard for all the hurt that is caused from it.” She speaks like she’s reading from a book. Like she rehearsed this line over and over. Hell, maybe she did.
“Did someone important say that?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah. Me.” She’s daring me to laugh. To ask her who she is. To feign shock at the possibility of her being someone of importance. Truth is, I don’t really care who she is. “Do you have a wife, Zeke?” She’s not judging, just curious. And she really does know my name.
I start to lie just to get a rise out of her, but there are way too many forks on the table. I’d hate to have my eye gouged out by a woman half my size. What would I tell people? So I answer truthfully. “No.”
“So you came here looking for a whore?”
“I came here for the lobster.”
She smiles a little and leans back, seemingly pleased with my answer. “So who are you, Zeke? You seem to know so much about me.”
“I’m nobody important.”
She laughs, her dark eyes sparkling once again. “I doubt that. You know, I’m pretty good at reading people too.”
“Is that so?” I recline further in my seat, ready to hear what she’s got. I already have my predictions as to what she’ll say, but I’m anxious to hear it anyway.
The waiter shows up, bringing me a refill and the drink she ordered. He looks at me and I nod. Hell, what’s another twenty bucks.
She raises her glass to me. “Thanks. Don’t worry. It’s cheap whiskey.”
I smirk. So she thinks I’m poor.
“Let’s make a deal.” Great. Another fucking deal. “For every correct guess, I get a point. For every wrong one, you get a point. Best three out of five. The loser has to do one thing the winner wants.” She leans forward, dropping
her voice. “Anything.”
“What if I lie?”
“You won’t.” She’s so sure that she offers her hand, wanting me to shake on it. Her trust in me is sweet. But not as sweet as she’s going to look on her knees in the bathroom.
I take her small hand in mine. “Deal.”
“You’re hurting.”
My brow draws in confusion at her words. Was that an assumption?
At my bewilderment, she smiles. “Point.”
“Half a point. That could mean a lot of different things.”
She shrugs. “Fine, pussy. Half a point.” Taking a sip of her drink, she takes a moment to study me. I give her a lazy, challenging smile. She won’t catch me again.
“You’re hurting, because you just lost someone. Someone very close to you.”
I swallow at the reminder, but keep my face expressionless as I manage, “Point.”
“Hmm, let’s see.” Her eyes fall to my hands that are folded in my lap. “You’re into fighting. Not MMA or anything, but like jiujitsu or martial arts.”
“My point.”
She frowns, clearly thinking she had that one in the bag. “Okay, I’m adding a clause. If it’s something I really believe to be true, then you have to explain it to me if it’s not.”
I shake my head. “You can’t just add a clause.”
“You added the half-point rule,” she argues. And she’s right.
“I grew up in a rough neighborhood. I’ve been fighting all my life. But I’m not a trained fighter, just a street kid who learned to defend himself. You happy? Pussy?”
She ignores my throwback as she scans my body thoroughly, then studies my eyes, my clothes, and finally my tattoos. Her confidence builds as the next theory forms in her mind. This one, I probably will have to lie about.
“You’ve done time. And I’ll even go a step further and say it was for something you really didn’t do.” Her eyes soften with sympathy. I have to fight to control my laughter.
“My point.”
“Shit!”
