Black Queen, Dark Knight: A Bad Boy Romance

by Amarie Avant

  It’s the type of hit that some people don’t recover from. I expected his spine to dislocate but Trick spits out a mouth full of blood, front flips to his feet, and grabs a sword from the rack at his side.

  “Stop!” I shout. Jagger has no weapons, and he left his two Magnums inside the dashboard of his truck.

  Trick welds a second sword. “Don’t fret, gorgeous, I’m not that angry to be awakened from my sleep and accused of bullshit by some barmy arsehole.”

  “Do not call her gorgeous.” Jagger’s stormy blue eyes glance around for a weapon, but the rows of custom cabinets are behind Trick.

  “I get no respect in my own establishment, Juggernaut?!” He weighs the two swords in his hands. “I had a mission last week.” Trick charges forward, jutting both swords outward, but Jagger has now jumped over the steel table I slept on. “Then I get a call that you require a whole new wardrobe,” the swords clank against the table, conjuring sparks, “because you don’t have time to return home from kidnapping Gorgeous here. Sweetheart, you put Sinclair to shame,” he glances me up and down, in my shimmery tee and skirt, while thrusting the swords out again. “Now you’re accusing me of… what? I do not know! Gorgeous, the best of the British to you for sticking around this blinkered fucker!”

  “Yeah? And I’m going to fucking kill you, now, too,” Jagger grunts, slapping his hand down onto the flat side of the blade. Trick swings his other arm, Jagger ducks and growls while blood pours from his hands.

  “St…stop!” I screech.

  The men stare at each other, Jagger holding tight as the edge of the blade twists within his fingers. Jagger finally lets go. His hands are a crimson mess, I can’t tell the extent of the damage.

  So far, my bet is on Trick. What he doesn’t have in solid muscle, he makes up for in speed and accuracy. Add that to the fact that he’s slicing at Jagger, who is unarmed, injured, and now pressed against the wall.

  Jagger grabs and yanks at the curtains. I taste blood, now realizing the fact that I’ve been anxiously gnawing on my bottom lip, for how long? I close my eyes, what the hell is Jagger going to do with curtains? We’re not in Spain, and Trick is not a bull!

  The sound of clanking forces my eyes to pop open. Jagger’s holding a stainless-steel curtain rod.

  “Oh!” I jump.

  “I thought you and I were on the same team, Gorgeous?” Trick sounds rather disappointed.

  “I was until I realized you don’t even know my name!” I shout, having been called ‘gorgeous’ too many times. “It would be nice for you all to stop and chat,” my voice increases as Jagger’s rod forces one of Trick’s swords from his hands.

  The blade zips in my direction. Jagger’s frozen as he stares at me. Or is he telling me to duck? His mouth is moving in slow motion. His eyes dark with rage. Trick is screaming in sequence with him, yet I’ve gone deaf.

  “Duck,” they have to be shouting for me to, “Duck.”

  My legs root to the ground. With my eyes locked onto the sword, I can only watch. The sharp, long blade zips over my shoulder. It takes Jagger a fraction of a second longer to recuperate from the shock of my entire head almost being sliced off.

  Out of nowhere, Trick is holding another sword. This one with a curved edge. He presses it against Jagger’s abdomen.

  “Oh, you want to accuse me of bullshit, Juggernaut?” Trick taunts as Jagger grips his neck. His leather house shoes rise from the ground. While Jagger chokes him, he holds the knife steady.

  Why doesn’t Jagger snap his neck! My stomach churns as I figure that there’s another trick up Trick’s sleeve. “Just stop, please,” I beg.

  “Gorgeous, this blade here, is coated in the venom of the Indian Taipan, deadly enough to murder 100 men, or one barmy fucking Juggernaut. You might always be victorious in battle, but it’s been years since I was so wrongfully accused of something!”

  Rage radiates from Jagger as he holds the collar of Trick’s pajama shirt. No amount of begging on my part ever worked before. Once again, the odds seem in Trick’s favor. But, he’s got to be worse off than Jagger, in fact, Trick is turning gray.

  A spark of defiance lights in Jagger’s eyes as he slams a stiff hand onto the side of Trick’s neck, which forces the knife to slide into the left side of Jagger’s abdomen. His friend’s face brightens with shock—as if he actually was just calling Jagger’s bluff—before he falls, with Jagger going along with him.

  Trick is knocked out cold from the blow to his brachial cluster, located along his neck and shoulder.

  Jagger’s muscles tense like a sports car revving its engine.

  “You are too crazy,” I say, seething, eyes prickling with a fresh onslaught of tears as I cling to him. His usually hot skin is clammy.

  “Get the…” Jagger’s large frame is breathing heavily now, “medicine cabinet…” His face falls into my lap. With no idea what to do, I brush my lips across his bristled jaw, and then I’m crawling. Standing up, my hands shaking, I search around the room for any sign of a drug box or some type of antidote. A rapid succession of anxious questioning flood through my soul:

  How long do I have to save him?

  I’m not that level headed. After all the years I’ve dreamt of becoming an emergency physician—

  Where would I hide the anti-venom!

  I was four years old, and rivers streamed down my cheeks as I sat watching the vast golden land before me from the grain and potato crops behind Lulami’s home. Singing and dancing surrounded Lulami, the beautiful Naviean who cared for me when my parents would be away, dealing with the South African Government or working with our people. Lulami was being adorned with a tall furry hat on her head. Women dance around her, calling on the spirits.

  “That is an isihokolo (headgear). It helps center the mind.” A familiar, strong voice whispered in my ear. My father wrapped his arms around me, and kissed me on the forehead, telling me not to cry, in Xhosa. He was still learning the language, so his clicks weren’t as defined and swift like the rest of our people. He stumbled over them at times, especially with the ‘c’. Some of the elders—who didn’t make my spirit feel uncomfortable—laughed when saying father and daughter were learning the language together. I didn’t care, because they were right. I was sitting, clinging to the strength of him, my head is nestled on his chest.

  I looked up at him. His face was upside down due to my position, but man, was he handsome. Silky hair, a goofy smile that made me stop crying and start to giggle. And women would turn their heads to watch him, not in respect like any of the other Kings, but with a look I didn’t understand. They did it so much that I’d narrow my eyes and frown. My father had lighter skin, like me, actually lighter still. The King and princess didn’t look like the rest of the Navieans. And Lulami told me that it was okay. That my father was an Austronesian from Madagascar—whatever that meant—and that the elders and King Regent consented to this union when my mother met him at college. So everything was okay…

  “Utata,” I cry out ‘father.’ “I don’t like this,” I say, though the singing was soothing, good spirits were here. I usually loved the spirits, but not now. Lulami was leaving me.

  “Lulami has an ubizo (calling). She is one of the youngest, uthando lwami, it is an honor for Lulami to be called as a young woman. I am sorry, beautiful, but she can no longer care for you, she is becoming the umkhwetha (trainee) as a amagqirha (diviner).”

  My cheeks puffed out. Abayomi, my best friend, had tried to explain it, but I wasn’t having it, so I asked again, “What is an amagqirha?”

  He sighed as if he’s grown tired of repeating himself, and then smacked another kiss on my forehead. “As a amagqirha, Lulami no longer only keeps you safe, but all our people as well. She protects everyone against enemies and evil forces.”

  “But we have fighters. She doesn’t need a spear.”

  “No, she doesn’t use a spear for fighting but to dig for medicines and herbs,” his laughter contracts his abdominals and I shake in his lap. �
��If you keep asking questions, we cannot be a part of this ceremony. Your umama (mother) is waiting for you. MamNcozo, our principal healer will be very sad that you—”

  “MamNcozo,” I straighten up. Looking at MamNcozo, a plump woman with thick, long white hair that contrasted perfectly with her black licorice skin. She was respected by all. She held an ishoba (traditional stick). Aside from my umama and Lulami, MamNcozo was my favorite person. I was just a toddler, but I could remember having earaches so badly and only she could heal me. But Abayomi taunted me about Lulami not being able to watch me any longer. Abayomi said that he would keep me safe. Even at the age of four, I knew he couldn’t. He was a warrior’s son, but Abayomi’s head was big and he had straw for arms and legs. He was the skinniest of all his brothers. I didn’t believe Abayomi, because he said we’d marry and that he’d make the perfect King. I began to sniffle again.

  “Lulami, can’t keep me safe anymore…”

  And once again, I’ve stalled my father, the king, from joining in on the ceremony. He rubbed my shoulder and kissed my head again. “MamNcozo calls upon our spirits to guide us, she sees visions that have kept us alive. Lulami is becoming pure right at this very instant, she will help keep us safe too…”

  The memory is dashed from my mind in seconds, taking away every image and young conversation I’ve ever had with my father. I’d forgotten how much he loved me. How warm and unconditionally loved I felt in his arms. Every moment in my nation has disappeared from my mind. The King of Nivean, my own birth father, is unknown to me once again. And my mother, I didn’t even glimpse the queen in my vision. But what’s left from the shedding of that one single memory is an urging from the spirits.

  ‘The antidote is not in the cabinet with the guns…’ It’s not spoken in words or a thought in my head, but a pull that moves me.

  I hurry to where Trick stood when the curved knife appeared in his hand. He was standing parallel with the steel table. I reach my hand beneath the steel table, where Trick must’ve pulled out the venom laced knife. My hand drags along the smooth, cool material, and then over a lump. My fingernails tear at a piece of tape, and I grip a small, tiny syringe. On the side of the nozzle is a snake head.

  “Jagger,” I scurry back to the floor where Trick is moaning. Jagger must’ve attacked a pressure point. If Jagger dies, I’ll kill the sneaky bastard myself.

  “Stab him in the heart,” Trick groans, “hurry, before you allow my friend to die!”

  “Me?” I hardly get the scoff out as I position the syringe and stab straight into Jagger’s heart.

  “That bloody wanker has a death wish,” Trick gets to his knees, with a grunt. “When the two of you are done, tell Jagger the clothing will be modified by late tomorrow night, and not a moment sooner. I’m going to fucking bed.”

  My head tilts somewhat. Every time I cross paths with Trick the thought crosses my mind that this is a dream. He’s cute in an odd way, but also way beyond just weird, eclectic.

  “Good night, Gorgeous,” he offers one last salute before leaving the room.

  I must be asleep or stuck in a damn coma at St. Mary’s Medical Center, in Long Beach. Nowhere ever should people willingly tightrope over a pit leading to death, like these two just did. They have dared the hand of the Grim Reaper in a sick, morbid type comedy. Hell, moments ago, I considered murdering Trick over Jagger. Now, I rub Jagger’s blond hair away from his face, and allow my hand to glide down the stubble of his cheek. It’s rough, prickling my cheek. Reminding me that even as his heartbeat calms, Jagger is still a force to be reckoned with.

  God, is this real? Because I’ve had visions in the past, and they disappeared before my eyes. I have never listened to the spirits. When I was seven and recalled a fragment of the past, I begged to forget them. And forget them I did.

  I know nothing about my past once again. My oldest memory is Earl and Joyce Bryant. They are my parents. And Jagger orchestrates my future.

  Jagger

  Every once in a while, you have to knock at death's door to put things into perspective. Trick didn’t send the Armenian’s my way, either time. The person who screwed me over, most likely included the African warrior into the gameboard, too, just to toss me off their scent.

  I felt like someone has doused me in kerosene and tossed on a match. I slam into a seated position, gasping for air. Mikayla is kneeling before me, the same look of fear on her face.

  She kisses me hard on the lips, grips my face and kisses me more. “You’re certified, Jagger, you could’ve died.”

  “I don’t mind dying…” The usual, candid line comes with a shrug, but that was prior to me giving the name “Uthando lwami” to Mikayla Bryant. In the world between life and death just now, I saw the perfect future. A future with Mikayla–

  SMACK.

  I rub my jaw. She’s never hit me so hard before. “Damn, woman, I still have a few years…weeks…” Days left, if I continue to cave to this addiction. My hand rubs across her neck, clamps onto it and kiss her again.

  “You’re all bloody,” she laughs, her breath feels good against my skin and lips. I devour her mouth again.

  “Nothing wrong with a little blood?”

  Mikayla reaches between us, takes my hands and gasps. “You may need stitches.”

  No, I don’t need stitches. “Where’s Trick? Bed?”

  She makes this odd noise that lands on a heavy sigh. “Are the two of you the best of friends or the worst of enemies, I can’t tell? Never mind, I’m learning that you are incorrigible and there’s no questioning you. Now, can I serve you, Jagger Johansson.”

  I reach out to grab her hip. The blood from the gash on my hand smears against the ground as Mikayla hops up.

  “Not so fast, Jagger,” she grins. “I love teasing you, but baby, your roughneck demeanor isn’t all that enticing, at the moment.”

  I chuckle lightly, gritting my teeth to the gash Trick’s hook knife caused on the side of my abdomen. I stand up as she searches through cabinets.

  “What are you doing,” Mikayla moves toward me, placing a steady hand on my arm in her brave attempt to help.

  After all the times I’ve prayed for a good woman, who was not only great in the sack but more than capable of mending a few scrapes and bruises, I have to let her down. “Uthando lwami, I’m fine. Just a headache, probably from the venom.”

  She stares at me, gaze lingering in thought. With a bite of her bottom lip, she asks, “Humph, so do you have another woman who cleans you up or…?”

  “Nobody else, and I’m not declining your help, Mikayla, but let's step out of the weapons room.” I hold out a hand to guide the way, the inside of my palm is torn to shreds. I place my bloody appendage back down and nudge with my head instead, all the while trying to figure out how the hell I came to care so much for Mikayla.

  We head up the steps to the second floor of Trick’s business, where he lives when in The States. The ambiance here is just as nice as our suite.

  “Where are we going?” Mikayla asks, since I’ve led the way in the dark.

  “Open that door ahead of us,” I tell her. She’s hesitant yet obedient.

  “Don’t be afraid, Kayla.” I click on the light.

  “I’m as equally afraid of the dark as I am of you,” she murmurs, looking up at me, and then around the room. “It’s very pretty in here.”

  She turns on the faucet, which has a long-scooped neck and gestures for me to come closer. I walk over to her and Mikayla proceeds to wash my hands with tender care.

  “Jagger, am I really a princess?”

  I meet her gaze. “Yes, beautiful. You are African royalty.”

  “You asked to have me.” She continues to cleanse the blood from my palms. “Can you have me?” she asks, shyly.

  “Will you let me?” I retort, searching her gaze before I even realized I’ve placed my foot directly into my fucking mouth. Having her will be the death of me, but I can’t breathe while awaiting her response.

  “Ja
gger…” her eyes never leave mine as she reaches over and grabs a towel. “I believe everything you’re saying now. I just can’t see myself as a princess.”

  “You can’t see yourself as a princess?” My hands grip her ass, the pain is momentarily, and I have her on the counter. “What’s there not to see? Kayla, you hold your shoulders straight and your head is held high. You are so fucking confident.”

  She scoffs.

  “You are.” I tip her chin.

  “Oh, I know. I mean, I was. Had to fight for scholarships, stuff like that. But now…”

  My hand plays with the inside of her thigh. “Now, you saved my life, Dr. Bryant.”

  “Now, all of the rigid strategies I’ve lived by are lost to me. And I’m left with a primitive craving that had anyone asked me a week ago about, I’d blatantly deny. Jagger, what have you done to me?”

  Do my ears deceive me? I’ve fought to keep her safe from the Armenians yesterday and with bullets flying, she feared me the most. I made her cry today while murdering Aram and attempting to take down one of the best assassin strategist in the world.

  Fuck me, I assumed Mikayla still hated me.

  It’s safer for the both of us if she abhors me. After I glance into those sullen eyes, I reach around, and grip onto her ponytail to pull her mouth to me.

  God, that mouth of hers. Her tongue is obedient in how it twirls around following mine.

  While I feast on her mouth my cock rises, ready to seize and dominate the moment. That sweet taste between her hips bewitches me. I can’t fathom leaving Mikayla alone after having more than one drink of her.

  If I have her, the Prince of Zihula can drop off the planet. And with that thought in mind, I begin to kiss her down her throat.

  “Jagger… baby, your hands need stitches.” Mikayla kisses at my shredded palms.

  “I’ll heal.”

  “Yeah, apparently you heal pretty well, scars and all.” She kisses my palm again. This innocence has me ready to leap all over her.

  “Battle wounds are a sign of honor.” I press my forehead against hers. Damn, I have more restraint than my cock gives me credit for, but this craving is consuming me alive.