Hook (Neverland Novels Book 2)
Page 11
That night a week ago was the best sexual experience of my life, and it was nothing more than mutual foreplay. He’d finally let me in, and it was more amazing than anything I’d ever imagined. Watching him lose himself in my touch, my kisses, my mouth. Fuck, it was so damn hot. And kneeling at his feet—letting him command and control me—has been the most eye-opening thing of all.
I’ve never been submissive with anyone else, not like that. And I’ve argued with myself that it’s only because I waited so damn long to be like this with him that I’m willing to play whatever role he needs. But then he said something to me that night that changed everything.
Good boy, Johnathan.
That was it. Three little words whispered at my ear that melted into my soul. Words that unlocked a part of me no one else knew existed, not even me. But James knew. He’s probably known since the first day we met and I knelt in front of him to bandage his thumb. And now that he’s brought this side of me to light, I can’t keep pretending my submissive tendencies with him are driven by anything as simple as altruism. It’s so much more complex than that. My need to serve him, to please him, to care for him…it’s overwhelming at times, but in the best of ways.
Good boy, Johnathan.
God, that still slays me when I think about it. A rush of pride and utter contentment had swelled and crested inside of me until I was sure I’d burst. He’d praised me and used my full name without a hint of derision. He’d said it, and it had meant something. Still, I’d braced myself to be brushed off and dismissed once the moment was over.
Never in a million years had I expected him to let me rest on him as he feathered his hand through my hair while we both recovered. It was in those quiet minutes that I did the most reckless thing I’ve ever done: I fell hard for Captain James Hook.
Which brings me back to reminding myself—often—that I’m happy to accept however much he’s willing to give me. And when this case is closed and he never wants to see me again, I’ll embrace that bullshit adage about it being better to have loved and lost, I’ll ignore the Pirate-shaped hole in my heart, and I’ll move on with my life.
Until then, I’m living on cloud nine, otherwise known as the loft, where we shed our undercover personas and get kinky. Not that there’s been much time for the fun stuff. We had a dirty shower where he jerked my cock and finger fucked my ass, milking my prostate until I came so hard my legs buckled. And one morning, he commanded me to suck him off while he drank his coffee and read his book—an act that was made ten times hotter by his black-rimmed glasses and blasé attitude. But that didn’t last long. I sucked him so good that he lost his fucking mind and threw me onto the floor. Before I even registered my new position, he had my hands pinned above my head. Then he spit on my bare chest and rutted against my saliva-slick skin until I was the proud new owner of a pearl necklace.
Add that to the ever-growing list of things I never thought I’d find sexy but now fantasize about on the regular. All in all, it’s been a great week. But still no sex. I’ve debated asking him for it, but my gut tells me to wait him out. I just hope he doesn’t wait too long, because we’re on borrowed time as it is.
As for the case, we’ve been keeping busy with the Fairy Dust distribution, trying to actively slow it down to keep it from spreading as much as possible while still making it look like we’re trying to expand. Smee and I have been “selling” Dust (we don’t actually sell it, instead telling anyone who asks that we’re waiting on a new shipment) at the regular clubs, and Hook goes out with the other guys to new spots in Neverland, London, and the surrounding cities to scout for new locations to add to the distribution list. They take a small amount with them, as a kind of trial run process; to see whether the clubbers are receptive to buying the Dust. At least, that’s the story Hook is giving his men.
I made James promise he wouldn’t let the rest of the crew in on the “thwarting Croc’s operation” plan—loyal to their captain or not, it doesn’t mean Croc can’t get information out of them if he starts to suspect anything—so as far as the Pirates know, they’re really looking for new places to sling their toxic shit to unsuspecting clubbers.
It must be fooling Croc into thinking we’re expanding his operation because he’s rewarding James with a visit to see Starkey today for the first time since he went in. Before I left him earlier, I could tell he was excited but nervous. Not that he’d ever admit to feeling anything other than indifference, but I’ve gotten pretty good at reading the many brooding faces of Captain Hook over the past few weeks.
Turning a corner, I head to the back of a bar that was shut down and seized by the IRS last year—pay your taxes, kids—and remove a broken brick in the alcove of the rear entrance. Tucked inside the hole is a brown paper bag that I retrieve before setting the brick back in place and dumping the contents into my hand: a flash drive and a drop phone.
Slipping the flash drive in my shoe, I use the cell to call my handler.
“Pablos’s Pizza, how big do you want your pie?”
I laugh and lean back on the metal door, still relatively cool in the shadows. “That the best you got, Henderson? I’m pretty sure anything called Pablo’s Pizza would be a dead giveaway for a fake place.”
“If someone other than you found that package and knew the phone number to get me, we’d have bigger problems than an unconvincing pizza joint.”
“True story. What’s on the stick?”
“Updated dossiers on all of Croc’s known associates with some new ones added. It also has all the recordings from Croc’s office so far that gave us any information to add to the case.”
I freeze. “Is the first day on here? From when Hook planted the bug in Croc’s office?”
“Yeah, it’s on there,” Matt says, his tone wary. “It’s the only clip that doesn’t have anything about the case, but it reveals some stuff about Hook you might want to know.”
He has no idea. I’ve wanted to know what Croc said to James that day since he came barreling out of the office like a runaway train. “Yeah, okay. I’ll check it out,” I say nonchalantly.
“How’s it going over there? Hook giving you any trouble?”
Only if you consider constantly fighting off hard-ons around the man “trouble.” I clear my throat to cover up the chuckle trying to escape. “No, not at all. I mean, he’s a surly bastard, but he’s cooperating. He wants to take Croc down just as much as we do.”
“Yeah, I can see why,” he mutters into the phone.
I’m torn between hanging up to go in search of a laptop in the area and demanding he tell me what’s on the tape when my cell phone for JD pings with a text message. “Shit,” I mutter. “Noodler is looking for me to do a liquor run with him to replenish our stock. Because that’s just what those guys need is more booze.”
“Make sure you go through the stuff on that flash drive when you get a chance, and call me if you need anything.”
“Thanks.” After hanging up, I dismantle the drop phone and toss the pieces in a nearby Dumpster. If I’m caught with a burner, my cover is as good as blown, which is why my other one never leaves my room in the loft.
Jogging back to Neverland, I keep my head on a swivel even though I know there’s no one following me. No one questions my extreme workout regimen; they all just dismiss me as a CrossFit jockey that keeps up with my training to back up my former identity as an enforcer.
I want to text James and see what his status is, but he wasn’t leaving until around now and I don’t want to bother him when he’s with Starkey. I know he’s been out of his mind with worry for that kid. He says it’s because he’s young and not a hardened criminal like the rest of his crew, but I can’t help but feel like there’s more to it than that. Then again, though he refuses to admit it out loud, James feels a bond with Starkey and Smee for obvious reasons. So, it’s very possible it’s his sense of responsibility for the kid that has him worked up over Starkey’s incarceration.
But I still think it’s more.
When I get back to the clubhouse, Noodler is out front tuning up his bike. Watching him work a wrench—or anything, really—is kind of trippy. The man had sketches of the bottoms of his hands and fingers tattooed onto the tops. It looks like his hands are literally on backwards. When I asked him why he did that, he gave me a grin that hinted he wasn’t dealing with a full deck and said, “Why not?”
As I bring my jog to a stop in front of him, I place my hands on my hips and try to slow my breathing. “Hey, man. Let me grab a quick shower and we can head out. Cool?”
“Cool with me,” he says, wiping the grease from all four of his palms on a rag. I start to pass him when he cackles and adds, “Hey, JD. If you see Smee inside, you better make a run for it. He has a thing for sweaty dudes.”
I want to laugh, but that’s the John Darling reaction. JD McRae is slightly disturbed at the thought of being chased down by a sweat-hungry redhead, which I convey with a proper snarled expression. “Thanks for the warning. Now I definitely want that shower.” This only sends Noodler into a bigger fit of cackles as I hurry into the clubhouse.
Seconds later I’m bounding up the office stairs and entering the loft. I head straight for Hook’s room and grab his laptop. With Noodler expecting me, I don’t have enough time to look through everything, but I do have enough time to listen to a specific audio clip that should only last a couple of minutes.
I insert the flash drive into the USB port and click on the file folder for the audio surveillance. There it is. The very top one with the file name as the date James planted the bug in Croc’s office. I move my finger on the mouse pad and hover the arrow over the file…but I don’t click.
“Shit,” I mutter, scrubbing a hand down my face. I can’t do it. It’s none of my business what was said in that office. Henderson was clear that there isn’t anything helpful for the case on that recording. If there was, then I’d have a reason to listen. But there’s not, so I don’t. Listening to something that James has already refused to tell me would be a huge violation of his privacy.
And, more importantly, his trust. I’m not willing to risk what little of it I’ve gained just to slake this gnawing curiosity. I have my suspicions about some things, and I’d love to have them dispelled, but I’ll have to wait until Hook tells me himself.
Deciding to get rid of temptation altogether, I delete the file from the flash drive and delete it from the Recycle Bin on the computer. I put it back where I found it, then hide the stick next to the burner phone in my room before heading to the shower. The faster I get this liquor run over with, the faster I can be back for when James returns.
I just hope everything goes okay at his visit with Starkey. The guy could really use a fucking break for once.
Chapter Seventeen
Hook
I can’t believe I’m finally seeing Starkey.
It’s been six months since the crooked NPD arrested him for no damn reason while we were at one of Peter’s house parties. Six months since he begged me to believe he didn’t do anything wrong as they shoved him in the back of a cop car. Six months since I was helpless to stop them from driving away with my baby brother.
Six months that I’ve lived with the suffocating guilt of knowing he’s in here because of me. The only thing that’s eased that guilt even the slightest is the reassurance John’s given me that we can take Croc down by cooperating with the feds. Then me and the boys will be free of him for good, and I’ll finally have my vengeance.
John’s not with me right now—he said he needed to pick up some stuff from his handler about the latest case developments or whatever. It’s strange not sensing him at my back. Somehow in only a week, I’ve grown accustomed to him being around. Hell, that’s downplaying it. As much as I hate to admit it, even to myself, I’ve come to depend on him and his calm strength. He has a way of muting that deep-seated rage. It’s not gone—I don’t think it’ll ever be gone—but it’s quieter with him. And the few times we’ve fooled around, it’s blessedly silent.
I don’t think I realized how much of an effect he had on me until I left the loft alone today. I feel more exposed and raw, like I’m entering a knife fight, naked. But maybe that’s because I don’t know what I’m walking into. It’s actually a good thing John’s not with me. Starkey would recognize him and blow his cover, not to mention I don’t need an audience for this. I have no idea how this is going to play out, but none of the scenarios end with me leaving with my brother, so it’s gonna be shitty no matter what.
The heavy door to the visiting room buzzes as the guard pushes it open and waves me in. “Number five,” he says, indicating which of the six viewing booths I should go to.
I’m the only one in here. I’d think I was lucky if I didn’t know Croc better than that. As always, he’s the puppet master pulling all the strings, and he has a reason for everything he does.
Including letting me come here today.
I’m not stupid enough to think he’s doing this for my benefit or as some kind of reward. He has an ulterior motive; I’d bet my life on it. I’m just not willing to bet Starkey’s, and I need to see with my own eyes that he’s okay, regardless of whatever Croc has planned.
The door slams shut behind me, the bang echoing ominously in the bare room. It’s so quiet that every little sound is magnified. The thudding of my rubber soles as I cross the room, the high-pitched scrape of the metal chair legs against the floor. My breaths. My heartbeats. All of it is so fucking loud, and if Starkey doesn’t get here soon, I might jump out of my own goddamn skin.
The door on the other side of the partitioned room opens, and I get my first glimpse of my brother in half a year.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this. Even with a daily weight-lifting routine, he’s always been on the thinner side, like me, but his standard-issue gray jumpsuit is literally hanging on his gaunt frame. His shoulders are slumped, and his white hair is long enough that with his head bent forward like that, it hides his face. He shuffles slowly, the metal of his cuffs clanging, drawing my attention to where his hands and feet are chained together like he’s some kind of animal. Like he’s not the sweetest fucking kid on the planet.
I clench my fists on the counter and tamp down the burning anger. I have to keep my shit together. The last thing Starkey needs is to see me all worked up.
He drops into the chair across from me as though relieved, like he couldn’t have summoned the strength to go any farther. Finally, he rakes the hair back from his face with his bound hands, and I get my first true look at my little brother.
For several seconds, I can’t breathe. It feels like I’ve been sucker punched and had the wind knocked out of me. Like an invisible wraith reached into my body and violently ripped the air from my lungs. All I can do is stare in horror at my brother who looks like he just boxed twelve rounds with his hands tied behind his back. Somebody’s used him as their personal punching bag. From the severity of his current swelling and the different healing stages of various wounds, it’s obvious the abuse is a recurring thing that’s happened as recently as right before he was brought to me.
So, this is what you wanted me to see, you sadistic fuck. I’m gonna kill you. Slowly and painfully. If it’s the last thing I do.
Despite the swelling on his cheek distorting the left side of his face, the partially healed split lower lip that has to hurt even with the slightest of movements, and the angry red scar that stretches from an inch above his right eye to two inches below it, the fool kid still lights up when he sees me and does his best to smile.
I curse a blue streak but realize he can’t hear me when he picks up the receiver of the phone on his side of the glass and indicates I should do the same. As soon as I have it up to my ear, he says, “Captain, you’re here.”
His relief is palpable, like I just offered him a running garden hose after months of crawling through the de
sert. But I’m not his savior. I’m his damnation. He’s a starved and beaten junkyard dog who still wags his tail at the sight of his master. I’ve never hated myself more than I do in this moment.
“Starkey,” I rasp. “Jesus fuck, what’d they do to you, kid?”
His dark brown eyebrows furrow in confusion until he tests his lower lip with his tongue, and it’s like it all comes back to him. “Oh yeah.” He shrugs. “This wasn’t so bad. Just a couple pops to the face. I’ll take that over the steel-toed kicks to my ribs and kidneys any day.”
Godfuckingdamnit! Inhale…exhale…
“And this?” I ask, drawing a line on my own face to match the scar on his while trying to ignore the sound of blood rushing in my ears enough to hear his answer. “How the hell did you get that?”
The dim light that had sparked in his silver-blue eyes when he saw me dies out, and his gaze slides to a spot on the beige partition separating his booth from the next one over. “It’s no big deal.”
“Starkey,” I bark and instantly regret it when his entire body flinches. I lower my voice but keep it firm. “Tell me how. That’s an order.”
“Happened shortly after I got here,” he says flatly. “Few of the inmates cornered me. Said if I was a Pirate, I should have an eye patch. They came at me with a shiv. I saw it at the last second and pulled back fast enough to keep my eye. Still got fifty-six stitches, though.”
It takes every shred of my control not to start throwing chairs and demanding the names of the bastards I need to kill to make this right. Freaking out isn’t going to help him. He needs me to reassure him that I got this, and that I’m getting him the fuck out of here.
But on the inside, I’m shaking with the compulsion to commit unspeakable violence. Last time I sought vengeance, I went to prison for arson. That was nothing—nothing—compared to the fiery malevolence coursing through every inch of my body right now.