Oh, Jesus Christ, he’s killing me. Again, my suspicions about what happened between James and Croc all those years ago slither to the surface. Stuff I can’t bring myself to put into words in my own mind any more than he can bring himself to say them out loud. Knowing it is enough to make my stomach turn and my heart fucking break. Then there’s the rage. I want to turn this world upside down until I have Croc’s life in my hands for the sole purpose of snuffing it out in the name of that broken boy who grew into this perfect but broken man.
I wish I could call him by his name, but for reasons I still don’t understand, it’s the one thing guaranteed to send him running, so I settle for the next best thing. “Captain…”
“Don’t you fucking pity me, Darling,” he bites out, closing his eyes and curling his hands into fists. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
“I don’t pity you,” I say honestly. “I am in awe of you.” His eyes snap open, and he turns to look at me, questions knitting his brows together. Ones that I answer with an open heart. “I know you won’t believe me when I say this, but you are the bravest and most selfless man I have ever known. The first night I met you, I knew there was something special about you. I didn’t know what it was, but I didn’t need to. No matter what people said about you—no matter what you said about yourself—I was confident about who you truly were. Hearing these things only proves I was right, and still am. You are exactly the man I thought you were. And that man is amazing.”
When he answers, the quiet resignation in his voice is a hundred times worse than when he’s sparking with violent fury. “That’s where you’re wrong. This man failed his brother. Every time he’s beaten or…”
James squeezes his eyes shut, pushing more tears past his thick lashes to streak into his trim beard. I can’t hold myself apart from him any longer. Reaching up, I cup his cheeks and use my thumbs to brush the moisture away, only to watch it get replaced with fresh streams. Leaning in, I rest my forehead on his and will all of my strength to transfer to him through every contact point we have, through our mingled breaths. Anything to help ease his pain.
He releases a shuddering exhale, then sniffs. “You should’ve seen him, John,” he whispers as he looks into my eyes with a helplessness I can’t bear. “Starkey’s a mere shell of the kid he once was. His light…it’s gone. He’ll never again grin up at me when I enter a room. I did that, that’s on me, and I just—”
Then the dam breaks, and so does the man I love.
I don’t mutter words of solace in his ear. I don’t quietly shush him like a mother soothing her baby. I just gather him to me and hold him and let him be broken, because he fucking deserves it. He’s never had the luxury before. Always having to be strong and do what’s best for the ones he cared about.
Everyone pegged him as a broody asshole, an outsider with no desire to be part of their makeshift family. Hell, I witnessed him still resisting any kind of connection as recently as a few months ago, the night my sister got engaged to Peter. For more than two decades, he’s pushed people away to protect them. For years, he endured unspeakable horrors so that no one else had to. And he did it all while affecting a cool and collected demeanor, never so much as cracking under the immense pressure.
Eventually, he starts to calm down. His breaths stop hitching in his chest, and the tears have slowed to a couple drops every other minute as opposed to a steady flow. He presses a kiss to the side of my neck where his face has been tucked, then lowers himself until he’s lying on the floor with his head in my lap. He sighs. Not one of relief, but like the weight of the world is settled firmly back on his shoulders.
Taking advantage of the rare opportunity to shower him with affection, I rest one hand on his arm and draw lazy circles on his skin with my thumb as my other hand sifts through his thick hair, over and over. I don’t know what’s going through his mind, but when I feel him suddenly tense, I have a good guess.
“John—”
“Stop,” I tell him. “I won’t breathe a word of this to anyone. I would never betray you like that. I know it’s going to take a long time for you to fully trust me, but just try, okay?”
Instantly, he relaxes in my lap, and I continue to stroke and soothe him, the feel of him under my hands soothing me in return. Never did I think I’d get the chance to be with him like this, intimate in a way that has nothing to do with our sexual chemistry. And since I’m a realist, I know there’s a good chance it’ll never happen again, so I’m cherishing every second he allows me in past those walls, because eventually, he’ll put them back up. He has to. It’s how he survives.
“Johnathan,” he whispers between the deep and even breaths of someone drifting on the fringes of exhaustion and sleep.
“Yeah,” I say softly, unsure if he’s actually awake.
“I trust you.”
Those three simple words are my undoing, and now it’s my turn to blink back the emotions welling in my eyes. I am so far gone for this man. The man who thinks he’s the villain but is actually the hero. A beautiful, broken, battered hero. Even if no one else learns the truth, I’ll know it. And I’ll be here to worship him, on my knees and at his feet, offering my body, my heart, and my soul.
He is my Captain. And for as long as he’ll have me, I am his.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Hook
Usually feeling the vibrations of my GSXR-1000’s engine beneath me is enough to put me in a zen mood within minutes. But tonight, not even the twenty minutes it took us to ride out to the Lost Boys Lair in Buttfuck Nowhere was long enough to stop my nerves from fraying at the edges.
John went over the plan no less than half a dozen times and reassured me at least twice that many times that it’ll work. And every time he did, I acted like he was being ridiculous. There was a lot of bored yeah-I-know looks, followed by glaring shut-the-fuck-up-already looks.
Annoyingly, he’s more tuned into my moods than even I am. Because, despite my usual in-control-of-all-that-I-survey attitude, as soon as my crew and I left the Jolly Roger (John borrowed Starkey’s white and blue Yamaha, and the man is sexier on it than he has a damn right to be), everything that could go wrong with this plan ripped through me. Every what-if slammed to the front of my brain so hard they would’ve burst through my skull to land on the pavement if my blacked-out helmet hadn’t kept them locked inside where they continue to torment me.
Tonight, we’re attempting to pull off a ruse, inside of a ruse, inside another ruse. The plan is a Russian fucking doll come to life.
One: The Pirates are pretending to attend one of Peter Pan’s famous Friday Festivity parties like we’ve been known to do on occasion, covering up for the fact that we’re actually here to meet with a prominent Atlanta drug kingpin to strike a deal for expanding the distribution of Fairy Dust into his territory.
Two: John, Smee, and I are pretending that the deal with the drug kingpin isn’t a complete sham that was set up by the feds who struck some kind of deal with the guy so that he’d do a decent job acting like this fake deal is legit so that Croc thinks I’m falling in line with his demands without actually spreading his Dust shit around even more than I already have.
And three: John and I are pretending that we’re merely associates and that I haven’t been shoving my dick in his mouth at every available opportunity, among a myriad of other filthy things.
Oh yeah, and I’m pretending that I didn’t break down in his arms like a little bitch last week as I spilled all my secrets, most of which no one else in the world knows. Even if some of them weren’t mentioned in specifics, there’s no way he didn’t get a damn good idea about the stuff I’d intended to take to my grave. I don’t necessarily regret it—somehow John knows when to push and when to back off—but I’m not entirely comfortable with it, either.
Guess that makes four ruses nestled inside of each other. Told you. Russian fucking doll. And it’s going to take all my self-control and discipline to pull this off without any or every part of it blowing up in
my face. A fact I’m trying to ignore as my crew and I wait for our guests to arrive in the huge outbuilding Pan uses as a secondary shop.
The Lair is an old, three-story farmhouse set on a couple dozen acres with the outbuilding set way in the back where Pan rebuilds custom cars. He bought the property years ago and made it into a home for him, Tink, and the boys who followed him—Slightly, Nibs, Curly, Tootles, and the Twins.
Side note: back when we were still kids, Wendy bestowed those six—the only ones who wanted them—with real names. Since then they’ve gone by Silas, Nick, Carlos, Thomas, and Tobias and Tyler, respectively. But after years of using the stupid-ass names Croc called them out of laziness, I usually default to those. Plus, I know it pisses some of them off, which amuses me because I’m a dick like that.
As it is every Friday night, the Lost Boys Lair is teeming with Neverlanders partying like oversexed college kids on spring break with no fucks to give. These parties are one of the ways Pan practices his “work hard, play harder” mentality. He’s closing in on thirty but still acts like he’s fucking thirteen most of the time. The Pirates attend for a lack of anything better to do in this shit town, and it’s a good way for them to blow off steam. Between the booze, the women, and the axe-throwing competitions, it takes the edge off after a long week of working the criminal circuit. It does for my crew, anyway. I stay on the fringes and observe. Captain Hook doesn’t do fun.
“Cookson, what time is it?” I say from where I’m leaning against the hood of a half dismantled ’71 Dodge Dart. He’s the only one wearing a watch right now, and since we all left our phones in our bikes—common practice when doing illegal shit, so no one can record or take pictures—I have no idea how long we’ve been waiting in here.
“Half past ten, Captain.”
I level a glare in John’s direction. “Your man’s late, JD.”
The cover story is that Trey Tannen is an old contact of JD’s from his days in the Scavengers, so JD’s the one who set up this deal. Which is true on two counts since Trey did have contacts in the Scavengers before they disbanded, and he was brought into this through John’s team pulling the right strings.
“He’s an important guy, Captain,” John says without a trace of concern in his tone. “Guys like him always show up fashionably late.”
“I don’t give a shit who he is. He’s wasting my goddamn time,” I snarl.
The rest of the men shift uncomfortably from the tension in the air and the adrenaline coursing through their veins with the big bad unknown looming ahead. This isn’t going to be a walk in the park. Just because we’re meeting on neutral ground with the intention of working out a peaceful and mutually beneficial agreement, doesn’t mean shit can’t go sideways. And, when you deal with arrogant, trigger-happy thugs, it usually does. Those are the things running through my crew’s heads right now. As for me, I’m hoping like hell that this Tannen guy doesn’t decide to break his promise to the feds and go rogue on me, either by going back on this “deal” or trying to get a better one by going to Croc directly. Then we’ll all be fucked.
Before I have to bluff that we’re calling the whole thing off—or worse, that maybe JD set us up—the metal garage bay door is lifted to reveal Pan and a group of six mean-looking motherfuckers. Tannen, a badass Black man wearing a charcoal suit I couldn’t begin to guess the worth of, steps into the middle of the room.
Pan shoots me an uncharacteristic somber warning look before closing us all in with him on the other side. As much as I’d like to, I can’t blame him for the wicked side-eye. He and Wendy might have moved to their own house on the beach, but this was still his family we were placing in the line of fire by conducting business here. He knew this was the best choice we had, though. The more public a meeting was, the better the chances at everyone keeping their cool, and though this country party seems like neutral territory, the Pirates know this is more our turf than Tannen’s, which will make it look good to Croc once he hears about it. So here we are.
The opposing lackeys square up behind their boss, matching the guys flanking me on both sides. I don’t move, cementing my position of authority as the one who called this meeting, but John crosses to shake the man’s hand as is expected of him as the liaison between the two crews. “Tannen, good to see you. Thanks for coming up.”
“Been a long time, McRae,” Tannen says warily. “Thought you’d gone dark. Or dead.”
“Nah.” John’s mouth curves into a sexy smirk and winks. “You know as well as anybody, it ain’t that easy to kill me off.” Lifting the hem of his shirt, he shows off what looks like an aged, white knife scar under the left side of his ribs. It’s a damn good thing the only Pirate to see John shirtless other than me is Smee because that wasn’t more than a few hours old. Not to mention completely fake like the art decorating his body.
Tannen regards the “scar” with a chuckle. “Yeah, I remember.” Then, to the rest of his guys, he explains, “JD, here, intervened when some asshole tried smacking my sister around in a bar. Got stuck for his trouble, earning my respect and gratitude in the process.”
The release of tension is palpable. Every guy in the place relaxes a fraction more, knowing the men have history and trust between them. Smart move on the G-men’s part, and Tannen deserves an Oscar for his performance already. Maybe this is going to work, after all.
At last, it’s my turn. John steps back in deference to me as I meet Tannen in the middle. “Name’s Hook,” I say, choosing not to extend my hand. Pleasantries aren’t my style, and if this meeting was real, I’m not the one who has to make a good impression. I’m doing him a favor by offering him a piece of the action, not the other way around. “I’ll make this short and sweet, so we can all get on with our night. We’re moving something big, something new. And if you’re interested, I think we can work out a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“I like a man who cuts to the chase, Hook,” Tannen says with the smile of a snake charmer. “Lay it on me.”
“I work for a man named Fred Croc; maybe you’ve heard of him.”
Rubbing his jaw with the backs of his knuckles, he nods. “Yeah, I’ve heard of him. Small timer who’s been breaking into the big leagues the past several years, same as I did when I was starting. I got respect for a man like that.”
I know it’s all part of the script, but even hearing someone say they could have respect for Croc makes my blood boil. Hiding my true reaction, I smirk. “Don’t we all. And he’s about to go from the big leagues to the World Series. He’s got a new drug, Fairy Dust. It’s like MDMA, only stronger, and looks like body glitter. Absorbs through the skin, hitting the bloodstream in seconds for an instant high the club kids and ravers go crazy for. Plus, a small baggie of glitter is less conspicuous than a bunch of pills. We’re killing it in the local scene, but we’re looking to expand.”
“Body glitter.” Trey raises a dubious brow. “Is it any good?”
I give him one of my rare and completely forced I’m a normal person smiles. “The best.”
“What’re the terms?”
“We’ll give you a thousand kilos to start at 30%.”
Tannen doesn’t even flinch. “No fucking way, man. Not worth my time. I want two at 45%.”
“I bet you do, but that’s not how this works, and you know it. We start small and see how well you move it. Everything goes smooth, we can renegotiate for a bigger shipment and a bigger piece of the pie.”
Sliding his hands into his pants pockets, Tannen rocks back on his heels as he pretends to consider my offer. “You got any product I can test?”
I snap my fingers and John steps forward with a small baggie. Before he even gets it open, Trey stops him—as planned.
“Not here,” he says firmly. “No offense, but I’m not a fucking guinea pig. I have some girls who can try it out for me back home. Great opportunity or not, I won’t risk bringing the feds to my door with a rash of dead or hospitalized clubbers in my territory. Assuming the girls enjoy themselve
s on your glitter, we have a deal.”
Trey’s following the script, but the reminder of all the girls who have ended up in the hospital from the drug has me grinding my molars into dust. How many of those girls did I sell to personally, placing the small baggie of iridescent glitter in their hands, then sending them off to their coma-filled fates? It doesn’t matter that I’m selling Croc’s shit to get my brother out of danger. Even I know that sins aren’t canceled out by good intentions, and one way or another, the Devil is always paid his due.
Sometimes, in the stillness of the night, I wonder if I would’ve done anything different had I known the Dust was unstable. Would I still risk the lives of countless others to spare the pain for one? In my darker moments, I don’t like my answer.
Picking up on my silence, John steps in smoothly to cover me. “I’m sure you can understand why my Captain is hesitant to let you leave with this, Tannen. I vouched for you. If you go out and reverse engineer this shit, it compromises our whole operation, and it’ll be my ass. Then you’ll have to explain to your sister why the man who stepped in front of a blade for her is six feet under. You feel me?”
Trey places one large hand adorned with flashy rings over his heart. “JD, I would never betray an old friend like that. And I’m not in the habit of making enemies of potential business partners, especially one like Fred Croc. You have my word.”
John looks to me, and I give him a slight nod. One that says “go ahead” and maybe also “thanks for saving my ass.” But just as John is about to hand it over, something slams into the side of the metal frame of the outbuilding—BOOM! —and all hell breaks loose.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Hook
Both crews pull their weapons. One of Tannen’s guys steps in front of him and aims his gun straight at my head just as John does the same, shielding me with his big body and drawing on the thug. The only idiot in the room without firepower is me. I have a Desert Eagle stashed in the loft, but I almost never carry it. The way I conduct myself, I never need to. Now that we’re in something right out of a Quentin Tarantino film, I suddenly wish I was packing.
Hook (Neverland Novels Book 2) Page 15
