Mobster: Romantic Suspense

by Lily Harlem

  A tremble of need went through her. Damn, that had been hotter than she’d thought it was going to be—the last few seconds before he’d come and she’d him under her control. A big, strong guy who could easily overpower her had been at her mercy. There was a certain sense of female satisfaction about that.

  He was breathing fast and staring at her mouth.

  She smiled and reached for her towel, then drew it up around her torso again.

  He balanced his glass on the arm of the chair and tucked himself away, quickly doing up his buttons and straightening his top. He then finished off his brandy and stared at the TV again.

  It was as if it had never happened.

  Why did that bother her?

  She’d paid her dues, settled her debt for the meal, the bath and the overnight stay. It shouldn’t matter any more.

  He used his empty glass to gesture to the bedroom. “You sleep in there. I’ll use the couch.”

  She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. “If you’re sure.”

  “Yep.” He didn’t look at her.

  She scooped up the new clothes and went into the bedroom. The duvet was tangled atop a creased navy blue sheet. The pillows were thin and still held the dent of Roper’s head. It wasn’t the Ritz, but it was certainly better than a cold doorway and a cardboard box.

  After pulling on the leggings and the t-shirt, Beth snuggled down. The sheets smelled the way Roper had tasted, and the sensation of having a soft pillow beneath her head was bliss.

  Within minutes, sleep wrapped around her. She drifted into it, allowing the darkness to steal her away. She wanted numbness now, in her mind. She didn’t want to think of anything, be aware of anything. If Roper was going to murder her in her sleep, then so be it…she just needed to sleep.

  When Beth woke, she was still in the same position. Her back ached and so did her legs where they’d been drawn up, fetal-like, but she didn’t care. Waking up and not having to touch her extremities to make sure they were still there and not chewed off in the night by rats, was a novelty.

  She blinked. It was light, and sunshine poured through the thin striped curtains.

  “Finally. You’re awake.”

  Roper was leaning against the doorframe with one leg crossed over the other. He held a mug, which he lifted to his mouth and sipped from.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice hoarse. “What time is it?”

  “Past noon.”

  “Shit. I’ll get out of your way soon.” She’d overstayed her welcome. It was time to hit the streets. Luckily, it appeared to be sunny, so maybe she’d stay warm and dry until nightfall.

  “Nah, I’ve got something I need you to do,” he said, stepping into the room. He wore the same jeans as the day before, but now had on a deep red sweater that highlighted his stubble, making it appear darker and denser than before.

  Damn, he was even bigger in the light of day.

  She swallowed. A blowjob obviously hadn’t been enough. He wanted more. But jeez, he looked hot for an old guy, and she couldn’t help wondering what he could do with that big cock of his. It would be interesting to find out. See what techniques he had up his sleeve, what tricks he knew when it came to between-the-sheet skills. She’d bet he was more competent than her other lover, who’d fumbled until he’d hit the spot more out of luck than judgment.

  Trouble was, the thought of finding out scared her a little.

  “I paid my debts,” she said, sitting upright and keeping the duvet close. “Last night.”

  “You did?” He raised his eyebrows. “How’d you do that then?”

  She tutted. “I sucked you off. I reckon that’s payment for a few pancakes and a bed.”

  “You do?”

  “Yep.” She glanced around the room. It held one closet—door ajar— and a chest of drawers littered with more mugs, beer bottles and a stack of porn DVDs. It was time to get out of there.

  “I didn’t ask for that,” he said.

  “So?” She paused. It was true…he hadn’t. “But I didn’t hear you complaining.”

  “What kind of guy would I be if I refused a blowjob from a sweet girl?” He chuckled.

  She tilted her chin. She wasn’t a girl; she was a woman, all woman. “Pass me that sweater.”

  He didn’t move.

  “I’ll go now.” She flung back the duvet and stood.

  Suddenly, he was in front of her. “No.”

  She went to step around him, but he blocked her way. “I told you I need you to do something.” He lowered his face to hers. “It’s not what you think, though.”

  “How do you know what I’m thinking?” She refused to be stared down by him despite the fact she felt engulfed by his size.

  “Well, as your currency is sex, I’m guessing you think I want to ram my dick into your scrawny ass.”

  “Fuck you.” She shoved at his chest.

  He didn’t budge, just continued to stare down at her. She wondered if she’d pushed it too far, but then he laughed and stepped aside. “I’ll make you a coffee, then we’ll go.”

  “Go where?” She frowned.

  “Brooklyn…we’ve got a delivery to make.”

  “What kind of delivery?”

  “You don’t need to know.”

  Roper retrieved a sleek black Kawasaki Vulcan from a garage around the back of the diner. It was so shiny Beth could see her reflection in the tank.

  “Nice ride,” she said, fastening her jacket, which he’d thrust at her on the way from the apartment. He’d cleaned it; the leather was now shiny and smelling of polish.

  “Get’s me about.” He jammed on a helmet, sat astride it and revved the engine. There was a glint in his eye. He clearly loved his bike.

  The roar that followed rattled around the small space, bouncing off the brick walls, hurting Beth’s eardrums. She pressed her hands to the sides of her head. “Hey, cool it.”

  He laughed. “Hop on.”

  “No helmet for me?”

  “It’s not far.”

  She shrugged and did as instructed, swinging her leg over the stiffly cushioned seat, then sliding up against him. Riding pavilion wasn’t a new thing for her. Samuel, her cousin, had loved his bikes and taken her out many a time.

  “Zero to sixty in less than four seconds, baby, so hang on.”

  Slipping her arms around Roper’s waist, she wondered at the size of him again, and just what she was letting herself in for by going riding with him.

  The Kawasaki lurched forward, sending her scooting back on the seat.

  She clutched tighter, pressing her cheek to his soft leather jacket and pincering her legs to the backs of his. Within seconds, they were storming up the street, dodging parked vehicles and slipping between moving ones. The wind raked her hair behind her, and a gasp of delight, the first in months, burst up from her chest. She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed bikes.

  He took a bend, dipping to the right, then shot past a delivery van and a bus.

  She held on tighter. The sidewalk was a blur, pedestrians and shop windows mere flashes of color. On and on they went, over the Brooklyn Bridge and into the suburbs. More weaving through traffic into an area where she’d never ventured, but hey, she wasn’t a native New Yorker, so why would she have?

  Eventually, they pulled up by the riverfront. A row of what looked like abandoned warehouses lined a garbage-littered parking lot that had weeds growing from deep cracks in the tarmac. Gang graffiti and tags were scrawled on every wall, and several gulls flapped and cawed as they lined the rim of a skip overflowing with trash.

  “Classy,” she said, leaning back.

  “Would’ve thought it was your comfort zone,” he said. “Make you feel right at home.”

  “Jerk,” she muttered, as she climbed off.

  He chuckled and killed the engine.

  “I haven’t always lived rough, you know. My family were, once upon a time, well off and respected.”

  “Once upon a time?” He swung his leg over
the seat and stood tall. He flipped up his visor.

  She pressed her lips together, not wanting to give away more than she already had.

  “Is that why you’re on the streets? They lost all their cash?”

  She shrugged and pointed at the warehouse. “So what we doing here?”

  “Ah, that.” He touched the pocket she’d seen him slip a handgun into before they’d left the apartment. “We should get a move on.”

  Guns didn’t bother her; she was used to being around them. Her whole family had carried, even to church on Sunday—not the women, though. That wasn’t considered necessary because the menfolk would protect them.

  Yeah, right. That had really worked out.

  Roper flipped the lid on the storage compartment of the bike and pulled out a small, pale blue, polystyrene box.

  “What’s in there?”

  “Something for a guy who hangs around here,” he said, pressing his hand over the top and tapping his fingers on the side.

  “What, though?”

  “It’s a message to stop fucking with me and my brother.”

  “So why don’t you just tell him that?”

  “Men like him don’t listen to words. They need to see consequences.”

  She frowned.

  He touched her chin and lowered his face to hers, his eyes narrowing through the window in his helmet. “You don’t need to know any more than that, baby. All you need to do is give it to him.”

  “If I’m giving it to him, I want to know what’s in there.” She pulled away.

  “I don’t think you do. Come on.”

  “Is it drugs?”

  “Nope, not this time.”

  Not this time. Great. So sometimes it was. Talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire.

  They walked toward a large yellow door. The paint was peeling on the metal work and the handle rusting. A small window with dark glass was set two thirds up.

  Roper banged it with his fist, then stepped to one side. “When some answers, tell them it’s a delivery for Kusso.” He passed her the box.

  “Okay.”

  A few seconds later, a round face appeared at the window.

  “Delivery for Kusso,” Beth said, working her best bored expression.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Just the messenger,” she said, trying not to look at Roper, who was standing at her side. “So don’t fucking shoot me, okay.” She held up the polystyrene box.

  The guy scowled, and opened the door.

  He was short and round and had a stain down the front of his brown t-shirt. It looked like mustard, but she wasn’t sure. His face was weathered and wrinkled.

  “Kusso,” he yelled over his shoulder, “some chick with a delivery.”

  “If she’s got nice tits, send her in.”

  Mustard Guy stared at her chest and swiped his tongue over his bottom lip. “Bit fucking small, boss, but you know…can’t be too choosy.” He jerked his head. “That way, messenger.”

  Beth swallowed and stepped into the gloom of the warehouse. All her instincts were telling her not to walk forward, to go the other way, but Roper had asked her to do this and, for some crazy reason, she felt obliged to.

  It was a much smaller room than she’d thought, and behind a desk was a guy she presumed was Kusso. He was puffing on a cigar, and the air was filled with the swirling toxic fumes.

  “Well, well, well, what have we here?” he said in a heavily accented voice and swiveling his chair from left to right.

  “No idea,” she said. “I was just told to bring this to you.”

  “By who?”

  She shrugged. “Some random guy.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  He turned and spat into a bin. “I don’t fucking believe you, and what’s more, I don’t like you.”

  “I needed cash. He needed a job doing.” Beth beat down a wave of nerves. This guy was a nasty bastard; she’d bet good money on it if she had any. It was time to get out of there. She didn’t owe Roper that much.

  She set the box on his desk, then retreated backward, narrowly missing Mustard Guy. “I hope it’s something you want.” She pushed on the door, relieved when it opened.

  She wasn’t sure, but she thought she heard the rumble of the Vulcan.

  Kusso reached for the box and flipped the lid.

  His expression turned thunderous. His eyes darkened and his brow creased. He gritted his teeth and glared at her. “You fucking bitch…”

  Suddenly, the box was flying through the air toward her. When it hit the floor, the contents fell out and rolled her way.

  A wad of tissue and a finger.

  A human finger with a frayed, bloody-red end and a large square nail.

  She yelped and dashed through the warehouse into the sunlight.

  “Get her,” Kusso shouted. “And whoever the fuck she’s with.”

  She spotted the glint of a gun.

  Mustard Guy lunged for her.

  She dodged him and rushed forward. She hit something hard.

  “Jump on.” A strong arm wrapped around her. Roper was right there, on the bike. “Hurry the fuck up.”

  She didn’t need telling twice and leaped behind him. “Go, go…”

  A shot rang out. She buried her head against him. The bike roared, the engine vibrated beneath her and the ensuing acceleration nearly sent her flying off the back end.

  Another shot.

  Shouts.

  Curses.

  Roper twisted. The blast of a gun sounded right next to her. Roper was firing, too, as he drove. “Don’t mess with us, Kusso,” he yelled. “Or your fingers will be next.”

  More shots. One flew past her ear.

  “Ah, fuck!” Roper cried out.

  The Vulcan wobbled, almost uncontrollably. He righted it, then took a left going way too fast. He dodged a black van with dark windows by bumping up onto the sidewalk. He steered around a man pushing a shopping cart full of garbage.

  The shots faded behind them as they tore up the street. She knotted her fingers about his waist and tried to catch her breath. She wasn’t out of puff from exertion, just from fear and adrenaline.

  She closed her eyes and saw the revolting image of the finger rolling toward her.

  “What the hell,” she shouted over the blast of the wind, “was that all about?”

  Roper didn’t answer. Instead, he flew onto Brooklyn Bridge, the bike leaving the road surface for a split second as he hit a ramp.

  Again, she hugged close, pressing into him and hoping he was as damn good at riding as he seemed to think he was.

  Chapter Four

  Roper slowed the bike when they reached Lower East, and Beth took the opportunity to glance behind. All looked as it should, but she had no idea if they’d been followed or not.

  “We lost them, right?” she asked.

  “Yeah, they didn’t even track us to the bridge. Dumb-assed fuckers.”

  “Good.”

  He turned just past Metros and pulled up by the garage he used to store his Vulcan.

  Beth jumped off. She was twitchy with unused adrenaline. Her heart was pounding and her breaths still coming quick. What the hell had just happened? She’d delivered a finger, got caught up in a gun battle, and had a crazy fast ride across the city.

  It was the most fun she’d had in months.

  She hopped on the spot, wrung her hands together and couldn’t help the smile that spread on her face.

  “What’s up with you?” Roper asked, climbing off the bike.

  “That was…” She couldn’t find the words.

  “Don’t tell me that was your idea of fun.” He studied her.

  “Well…I didn’t hate it, but a bit of forewarning about what was in that box would’ve been nice. Scared the fucking crap out of me.”

  He chuckled and rolled the bike into the garage. He took off his helmet and shoved it on a shelf next to several more.


  As he shut the door, he winced.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered pressing his hand over his right upper arm.

  She noticed a tear in the leather. “Shit. Did they get you?”

  “Flesh wound. They’ll pay for it.”

  Beth rushed up to him. “Let me see.”

  “Don’t fuss.” He frowned.

  “But…”

  “Don’t.” He stepped away, toward the back entrance of the diner. “I can’t fucking stand fussing women.”

  She followed him. “You should go to the hospital.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Okay, so she knew that was never going to happen. Men like him didn’t pop up on hospital reports unless they were heading six feet under. “See a doctor at least. We can get one off the books.”

  “If it was going to kill me, it would’ve by now.” He headed up the stairs to his apartment.

  She followed, her legs pumped full of energy, removing her jacket as she went. She was hot. “Can I see it?”

  “You’re fucking fussing,” he said, opening the door and stepping inside.

  She quickly did the same, then shut the door and hung her coat on the hook.

  “Did I invite you in?” he asked, turning. His face was full of belligerence, and his cheeks were flushed.

  “You shouldn’t be alone, not if you’ve been shot.” She pressed her back to the wood of the door, wondering if maybe she should make her escape. But damn, he looked hot when he was mad and shot and staring at her like that. She didn’t want to go anywhere. “You might need me.”

  “What you gonna do? Give me another blowjob to make me feel better?”

  She didn’t answer.

  He stepped closer. “Well?”

  Reaching out, she pushed his jacket from his shoulders and slipped it down his arms.

  He drew in a sharp breath and wrinkled his nose as it went past his wound.

  “Sorry.”

  “You will be.”

  The jacket fell to the floor.

  There was a tear in his sweater exposing a bloody gash. Beth had seen enough to know the bullet had grazed him and not embedded itself. “Wrecked your sweater,” she said, relieved the wound wouldn’t take much patching up.

  He took a hold of his sweater and peeled it up and over his head, exposing his wide chest coated with dark hair.