by Amarie Avant
“Oh, hell no!” I shout. “Stay your ass in that seat, Trick. Jag, calm your tail down, will you. That was a coincidence most likely. You scared the daylights out of him enough. I’m on my first vacation after two long hard months of settling arguments and listening to South African politics. If I have to settle another one between the two of you, you will feel my wrath.”
Trick hisses, sitting back in the driver’s seat.
A dark ocean of a rage is in Jagger’s eyes when he glances back at me. The baritone in his voice slams against my ribcage much like it would if it were the beat of a fast song in a nightclub. “What if Trick is correct, Kayla?”
“That is a mistake I’m willing to make,” I reply flippantly. I grin at the bad boys and flash an award-winning smile. “Now, that I’ve meet one Harry and dined in the same area of another, can we visit the Buckingham palace? My fingers are crossed that I meet Meghan and the other Harry.”
“Sure thing,” Trick mutters.
An hour later, we have not only crossed paths with my favorite couple, with me squealing like a teen, but I strike poses with Ed Sheeran and David and Victoria Beckham. I find out that Tom Hardy and I are virtually the same height as Jagger denies me the chance to take a picture with him beside me.
“Well, if you don’t want to hop into this action, I will.” Trick hands Jagger my cellphone, which he was using to take most of my photos, and sandwiches me between Hardy.
Jagger gives a listless stare.
“Please.” I beg of him. ”At least take the damn photo.”
He holds the phone up and snaps a picture in a matter of a half second.
“Better be nice,” I grit, snatching the phone from him.
“Or what?” He backs up his response with enough force to scare some desire down my spine.
In response, I do the smart thing, shut my ass up and view the phone. The photo shows: Trick’s tongue sticking out in my direction while I’m pawing at Tom Hardy’s waxy pec, wondering if Madame Tussauds’ museum truly has the ratios on point. The photo is just a smidge blurred from Jagger’s recklessness.
We continue to walk around the building. I’m learning that Trick will act like a human being when it revolves around killing or being a horndog. He gave Gwyneth Paltrow and Rihanna the same dirty attention while I laughed and took a photo. Then we moved on to more stoic celebrities.
“My big bully isn’t having fun yet.” I pat at Jagger’s chest, giving it the same attention that I gave Sir Shrek, the green cartoon character from the movie. “Why don’t you go get a pic with Kim. You were eyeing her ass when I stuck mine out with her earlier.”
I flip the photo to Kim Kardashian, and he rolls his eyes. Truth be told, Jagger wasn’t paying much attention to anything other than the other patrons walking around. He’s still worried about my safety. I lift to my tippy-toes, and our tongues coil in a delectable kiss.
“Can you be in the here and now for me, Jag.” I plead with him, my mouth a fraction away from his. “I’ll make it up to you later.”
“I’m just trying to keep you . . .” His voice trails off as my cellphone vibrates in my pocket.
Jagger had sounded serious, but this ringtone is distinctively for Chumi and I have to answer the call.
“You with MamLalumi?” I start away from Jagger toward an alcove between two lesser known British rock stars.
“Yes, you sound worried.”
“May I speak with her please.”
“She refuses although apologetically, My Queen.” He softens it. “MamLalumi stated that she believes you’re more than capable of handling any situation until you return. She has also indicated that you should be weary of outsiders.”
Heart lurching up into my throat, I begin with, “But—”
His tone curbs, signaling that he’s about to make a statement that he’s said over and over again. “Mikayla, are you certain that you’re safe? I cannot tell you how abnormal it was for you to leave without the protection of your Nivean guards. I simply implore you to return at once.”
“Yeah, you mentioned the guards before,” I mumble. It was a shock to me that Elder Chumi admitted to having respect for Jagger when he practically tossed the allegiance with Prince Fari down my throat. Though he agreed to my holiday with Jagger, the Nivean guard thing was not dropped, and he had mentioned it for days straight when I told him about coming to London. “Yes. I am safe. I respect your advice, Elder Chumi. Nonetheless, my friends are more than capable.”
“Then I shall see you in two days.” The call disconnects.
Without my goofy demeanor, Trick doesn’t seem all that interested in the wax museum either. His eyes are on me, yet a million miles away. Jagger is still searching for impending doom or whatever. He’s even eyeing tiny tourists when they stray too far away from their parents and too close to us. Since Jagger is so busy playing bodyguard, I make small talk with Trick. “Did you used to come here with your wife?”
He sighs. “There weren’t so many,” his hand gestures, “of these then.”
I cannot tell how old he is. There are the faintest crinkles around his eyes, nothing signifying that he’s in his twenties or thirties or more. “How long has she been—”
Trick walks away from me before I can finish my sentence.
“Enjoy your day, Kayla,” he barks over his shoulder, holding a cigarette between his fist as if it’s a middle finger. “I’m going to enjoy a smoke.”
Jagger’s weary gaze turns away from a few prepubescent teens that are eye fucking Kiera Knightly and turns toward me. Somehow steelier and angrier than they just were.
“You asked him about the wife, didn’t you?” Jagger reprimands me with a swat to my ass, bringing me close to him. “Why must you torment that man with something he’d rather not talk about, Kayla. It is rude.”
I scoff. Astonished by his statement, I respond in kind, though in a shocked barrage of words. “Me rude? Same sentence? Out of the mouth of a wolf. He needs to be happy.” Maybe I can interest him in that ballerina chick . . . just find her and not kill her.
“No, he does not.”
I hunch an eyebrow.
“He is not the same man, uthando. The motherfucker whose mourning his dead wife isn’t the same one who loved her.” Jagger grits in a low rumble. “Though he is nice to you, Mikayla, he doesn’t treat other women with the same respect.”
“You know that how?”
“Never mind.” He starts toward Shrek and Fiona again, hands balled in fists, massive shoulders tight.
I hasten to his side since this area of exhibits has a higher level of traffic. “Don’t never mind me.”
Jagger grumbles a little then shrugs. “Ava.”
For the second time today, envy flushes through my veins in the form of volcanic fire. Ava Sinclair was a hitwoman with X-Members, and she was obsessed enough with my man to try and kill me. My legacy and the spirits of my ancestors is the only reason why I survived a fight with a highly trained killer. Had it not been for the spirits, my ass would’ve been toast.
“We never had anything going, Kayla, just sex. And so we’re understanding the same thing, she spoke of her conquests. Much like the greater male species in a locker room. Come to think of it, Ava might have done all the talking so that she could make me jealous,” he says.
Yeah, I can pretty much imagine that, her talking about fucking other men went over his head. When Jagger doesn’t care about a person, he has no feelings, no remorse.
“She mentioned one time with Trick. Aside from bragging about the D/S sex—”
“Wait, what?” I find myself interested. These past few days have been like the three stooges. It would be nice that Trick was happy too—maybe not even in the swirl life—just happy.
“Dom, sub.”
“Oh, so flogging instead of ass slapping. The type of stuff I’m never going to be ‘green’ for?” I chuckle. Yup. No swirl life. We can find him a good old Becky. It sucks a little being the only chick hanging out with guy
s. Just a little.
The second Jagger closes the door to our room, he pins me against the wall, his hand at my throat. I smile, ready for a naughty encore of what transpired before. But his jaw is clinched, and there’s no desire flickering in his gaze.
“Oh no, self-defense lessons,” I murmur, chin held high by the force of his hand along my throat. He squeezes enough for me to grab at his hands. “Fuck you, Jag.”
“I will let you fuck me, once you get yourself out of this position.”
Using all my strength, I grunt, pressing against him. The bastard doesn’t offer an inch of slack. His vice grip around my throat is not squeezing, yet it starts a delicious fear riding through my body. My pussy is aroused by being between a rock and a hard place, though the action I delight in will not come until I’ve saved myself from him. I rack my brain for what he taught me that one time at his house in South Africa.
“You were able to defend yourself against a reverse choke hold,” Jagger had said. “It’s a little different head on.” His forearms were extended as he pushed me against the wall. He was too determined in assuring my defense capabilities.
Jagger continued. “Somewhat of a mental fuck, your assailant will be looking you in your eyes, intimidating you.”
“Well, I can’t use a headbutt like last time,” I responded, even then more interested in being his soul focus. I knew that with Jagger around I’d be safe.
“Try pulling down on my elbows,” he commanded, not taking my tempting bait.
“You’re too big.” Though I played the giving up card, I pressed down at his forearms where his elbows connected.
“That will work with someone who isn’t too much stronger than you.”
I scoffed. And then he taught me a technique in which I made prayer hands, reaching between his outstretched arms. My forearms pressed against his biceps, hands going to cradle the side of his head, while my thumbs stabbed into his eyes, pushing and bringing his head forward into a headbutt.
Lips tensed, I drop about half a foot down, twisting to the left, loosening the tight grip Jagger has on me. The move allows my chin to dip, making it easier for me to breathe. Bringing my right arm up beside me, I bring my elbow down over the center of his arm, then extend my arm, fist flying toward his temple.
Jagger is faster than lightning. When he grabs my wrist, he spins me around until my ass slams into his erection. He nips at my earlobe, his breath tingling my skin. “Fuck, I love a woman that can fight.”
I twirl away from him before he can put me in a bear hug. I hiss at myself. The move wasn’t enough to break his hold on my wrist. Making my hand into a fist, I scoop my arm toward him. Feet spread, fists at my sides, I lift my knee and extend a precise kick up to his groin.
Jagger expertly blocks.
“Damn. You always block those.”
“For your benefit and mine.” He winks, squeezing me enough to make me moan delightfully. Closing my eyes, I lay my head on his vast chest, thanking God for the skills Jagger has taught me and hope that they would never be put to use.
9
Jagger
Next day
During a dinner of fish and chips last night, Trick was called in for an assignment from the sheik of Tavar. There was no declining that sadistic bastard. Granted, if I had had the chance to acquire the Sheik’s first mission with X-Member, I’d be reluctant to postpone it. Probably, I’d be just as jacked up as Trick.
Our psychotic friend sent us off with the keycodes to his armory and home in Amsterdam. Mikayla was glued to my arms, eyes bright as we traveled by train.
When we step out of the station, the sky is a pristine blue. Mikayla cuddles closer to me.
“Should I . . .” Removing my arm from my leather jacket, I gesture for her to take it.
“Awe, thanks, but as long as you’re by my side, I’ll adjust.”
We continue toward a taxi station. Trick had said there’d be a sign when we arrived. He was ominous and vague. My narrowed gaze tracks across the row of tourists rushing to lines of paid drivers then stops on a dude with blond dreadlocks and faded jeans, leaning against the door of a cherry-red 1963 Porsche 356B Karmann Coup. The car has Trick’s name written all over it. Keys are tossed in my direction.
The stranger shoots over his shoulder while walking away, “Trick said the car will only drive for the girl.”
Mikayla’s eyebrows furrow together as she watches him disappear into the crowd. “Ominous. No way I’m driving. I’m sightseeing.”
“This is just your friend’s way of being in control while not in the picture.” I fist the keys, open the passenger side of the two-door coupe for her. Once Mikayla is situated in her seat, I kiss her mouth then close the door. I dump our duffle bags into the trunk and climb into the driver’s seat. There’s no way Trick has modified this classic—even he can’t be that much of an asshole.
“Hey, this must be for you.” Mikayla grabs the sticky note off the dashboard. “Says, ‘I assume you’re riding shotgun as advised, arsehole’—heheheee.”
“Think again,” I mumble, putting the key into the ignition, breathing easy that the ride doesn’t shoot me down—metaphorically speaking—like my truck did with Mikayla during our first encounter by not driving for her. The classic has been treated well.
“Open the compartment for instructions.” Mikayla glances up at me. “Wait, are you falling in love with this car, Jagger Johansson?”
“No,” Yes . . . it’s what I do.
“Maybe I should drive.” Smirking, she folds her arms.
I reach over and grab the letter from the glove compartment that’s folded three times. A doobie falls out when I open it, dropping into my lap.
“Typical Trick,” Mikayla murmurs.
I scan over the words.
Juggernaut—
Ride bikes (not motorcycles) around the canals. Anne Frank House. Van Gough Museum. That was the life Ally and I had.
I pause, eyebrows shooting upwards. He’s never mentioned her.
Or light this joint and take our girl to the place I had in mind for the three of us—I love watching.
Cryptic fuck. I continue reading. The place he has in mind doesn’t open until midnight. He adds that Mikayla’s outfit is in a giftbag in the center of the bed, and that I can take all the credit. My jaw clinches. This asshole bought my woman an outfit? As I continue to read, my emotions avalanche like only Trick is capable of. We can be in the middle of agreeing about a kill-head then wanting to kill each other.
He’s like the brother I never wanted.
I fold the letter, sighing heavily. His last words stick to my ribs not letting go while I drive past an ancient stone building and over a bridge to a much worse part of town.
“Whatever the fuck you do with Mikayla, mate, this is your last night on me. Have a good time. She’s your bloody perfect utopia, your future, you lucky wanker. She’s my reminder of the best fragment of a past that I thought I’d long forgotten. Bugger me for ending this letter on a mushy note. Keep our girl safe. You never wanna know what it’s like living without your better half. Still breathing and dead—I don’t wish shit like this on my worst enemies, mate.”
An hour later, Mikayla watches me grabbing our bags from the trunk. Hugging herself, she says, “This place creeps me out. We’re in a shopping district. We just passed some seriously classy hotels, Jag. This is our last night together . . .”
I rub a hand over the back of my neck. Granting my woman’s desires is what I was made for, but if I wasn’t on my guard the during last couple of outings with Mikayla in London, I would have more action in this area for not being attentive. “We could head back over the bridge, but I have a good number of enemies here, sweetheart.”
She peers over her right shoulder then left, viewing graffiti on the walls in either direction. “Then why are we here? I had a good time on the train, so how about we book it over to Paris? Energy drinks and the Eifel Tower could create a dreamy enough last moment together before
I return to Nivean—I don’t need sleep—I need you.”
I’m game, but that means more time commuting and less time for us. “Aside from being ten feet away from Trick’s armory, which is the type of safety I prefer, this location has more amenities than the one in Vegas. If your counting comforts, he probably has over ten mill worth of assets. Plus, I have a surprise for you.”
“Oh, yeah, I remember all of those guns. I also recall the upstairs was nice.” She heads toward a cage-like entrance gated around a steel door, neither of which I have keys for. The keyring for the classic only has the one.
“And you know how I feel about surprises, Jag, so this better be good.” Mikayla hugs me from behind while I assess the door for another form of security. On the right side of the cage is a tiny box contraption, I open it, pressing my fingertips on the pad. My hand jerks back at the sting of an electric shock. “Fuck!”
“You okay?”
“This is why I fucking hate him.” I gesture for her to try it. Mikayla places her hands on her hips, shaking her head. “If it shocks you, we go to a hotel right now.”
My glower prompts Mikayla to follow the same procedure. The cage ascends up into the building. “See.”
“Dang, I almost anticipated which hotel we should try first. I captured a few photos during the drive,” she murmurs, stepping toward the steel door to complete the same process with yet another security system. The double doors slide open, and we enter a pitch-dark room. Lights from a censor above flicker on, showcasing the front of what appears to be a pawnshop. Junk is scattered to the left and right of us. Ahead is a staircase.
“Similar set up,” Mikayla mumbles, moving past a heap of junk radio from the 70s. “Jag, I’m heading up stairs to see if this place rivals the one in Vegas. If it doesn’t, you can beat me again at a five-star hotel. How about that?”
I chuckle softly at her smart retort, too busy watching her ass while it sways up the stairs to correct her.
