For the Fight (Romantic Suspense) (Beyond Blood, #2)

by Nora Flite

  My lips found her shoulder, kissing the smooth skin. I let her hair go so I could hold both sides of her hourglass waist, using it for leverage. I didn't want dainty strokes. I needed to fuck this woman, and I wanted it to be hard.

  Marina squealed, nails curled on the wall. She used it, pushing off to meet each of my thrusts. She'd given into her lust; maybe from the moment I'd kissed her. I didn't know, I didn't care about when she'd broken. Just that she had.

  Deep to the root, I felt the tingles of her orgasm begin. If who finished first was a contest, Marina won. Hissing through her teeth, she threw back her head as the waves hit. The delicious, crushing spasms of her climax on my still pounding cock was pushing me over.

  Lord help me, I bit her shoulder as the first hot spikes of pleasure possessed me. The vision of her getting pregnant was too much for my conscience, though. Against all odds, I ignored the primal ache to fill her with my warm come. Backing out, my pulsing cock-head rested on the top of her heart-shaped ass. Thick, pearly seed coated her skin as I gasped.

  Fuck. That had been insanely close.

  Shaking, I let her go and stepped back. Sweat coated my skin in the cool apartment, a temperature I was now grateful for. Fumbling for a paper towel from the counter, I handed it to her. Seeing her covered in my come was erotic as fuck. “Sorry,” I said unconvincingly.

  “No, that was... it was the right move.” Cleaning herself off, she tugged her jeans up her legs. I'd destroyed her panties, so I watched her beautiful pussy wink out of view. What a shame. Marina glanced at me, her cheeks still wild fire. “No mistakes. Right?”

  My heart throbbed painfully. “Right.” I'd already made a million mistakes. King of Fucking Bad decisions, indeed. I changed, putting my jacket back on but not closing it. “Speaking of decisions... let me give you a number to call.”

  She blinked, hands fixing her disheveled hair. “The movers?”

  “Yeah. You should be the one to talk to them. I'll give you the address and the money, they'll pack everything up and take it to a storage facility. It'll be efficient.” I reached into my wallet, thumbing the cash.

  Marina glanced at the tea kettle. We'd never bothered with our drinks; the mugs stood, empty. “You don't want them to see you, is that it?” She didn't wait for me to answer. Sighing, Marina put her coat back on. “Alright. You're being safe, I get it.”

  Pausing, I watched her thoughtfully. Did she get it? After I'd all but admitted I had no plans to let her live after I got that letter, Marina must have let it all sink in. Yes. She was smart, and too perceptive. She understood I was protecting myself and Jacob by making her handle the movers. “I'll be waiting in the car down the street. When you finish organizing them, and you've given your landlord the money, just come meet me. Okay?”

  “You trust me alone with other people?” she asked.

  It was my turn to 'get' it. “Yes,” I said flatly. “I believe you wouldn't do anything to jeopardize your revenge.” She met my stare, calm and collected. I was the first to break away.

  Scribbling down the number she would need, and the address of the storage company, I handed her a wad of cash. “I'll see you in a little bit,” I said, heading for the door.

  Marina watched me go. I expected silence from her, some sort of non-violent rally against everything I was and what I was setting her up for. This whole situation was fucked, and my recently used cock knew just how much worse I was making it.

  Her voice chirped, oddly sweet. “Will you leave me the umbrella?”

  Hesitating, I eyed it where it leaned by the door. Gloves, stolen from my pockets, were tugged onto my hands. No reason to hide my attempt at leaving no traces, now. “If you do me a favor.”

  “Sure,” she said. “What?”

  “Flush the paper towels.” Glancing at her, my smile was stiff. She was beautiful, especially when she looked shocked. “No mistakes. Understand?”

  Her nod was small, her mood fracturing. “No mistakes,” she whispered.

  We both knew we'd make many more before this was over with.

  - Chapter Four -

  Jacob

  Two days and two nights. That was how long I would end up skulking in the filthiest, darkest corners of the city. The lower east side had its share of sordid buildings and forgotten wanderers. For that length of time, I became one of them.

  The first night, I planned to meet with my 'dealer.' Dressed in torn jeans, smudged boots, and a heavy brown jacket, I didn't stand out among the other people in the area. I'd gone one step further, though. It had taken some time, but before I'd left my bar, I'd used the bathroom and privacy of the place to apply a disguise. It wasn't that fancy. All I'd done was put in some dark contacts, set on a wig of long, greasy black hair, and completed the look with sunglasses and a baseball cap.

  Trust me, it was enough.

  In the trenches of the city, no one would remember me. I was just another walking sack of dirt, my hands in my pockets and my head down low. No trouble, no danger. I became a shadow.

  Hanging out in a bar that proclaimed its name in flickering neon lights, I nursed a beer and never got a buzz. When night cloaked the city, I pushed the bottle away and started to walk.

  My duffel bag bounced across my chest. I made a detour the instant I spotted a bus station. In one of their lockable cubbies, I stashed away my bag. I only needed a few things, and they were already on my person. I didn't know what I'd find in my search, but I planned to be ready.

  My phone was a cheap burner model. It wasn't tied to me, so if it pinged a cell phone tower, it wouldn't put Jacob Fallow specifically in the area. It'd be a useless data point to reference.

  In my jacket pockets, I'd arranged gloves I could slide on at any moment. They kept company with the long, thin spool of razor wire. My inside sleeve held a tiny packet concocted from cyanide and more basic pesticides. Depending on how much I used, it could make a man weak and dizzy, or kill him outright.

  The small, silenced pistol was across my chest under the jacket. It was easy to reach, hard to notice. It was a blessing that this section of the city didn't favor metal detectors.

  Long sleeves ran to my wrists, thick material to prevent any cuts or scrapes—that included attacks from desperate, scratching human hands. All that remained was my wallet with cash and a fake ID. I doubted I'd get carded anywhere, but having it was a comfort.

  The Pink Factory was actually hard to find. It snuggled between a construction site and a massage parlor. The lot was free of light. Next to a beefed up bouncer who couldn't stop smoking, there was a single lamp. The sign it illuminated was faded and old. The gaudy, fuchsia paint on the siding gave the place away.

  Ducking my chin, I palmed the thick man a twenty and kept walking. I'd been a bouncer for a place not much prettier than this. I knew the drill. This guy didn't care who I was or what I did as long as I paid the price of admission, plus a little on top. He'd forget about me unless I did something insane, like getting hands-on with one of the girls.

  It was dark inside, too dark for my sunglasses. In a quick motion, I tucked them in my pocket and replaced them with thick-rimmed ones that weren't prescription. Not ideal, but in such awful lighting, my face was a blur.

  The room was just big enough that you could have done donuts with a car in the center. Well, if the battered stage wasn't in the way. Brass poles went to the ceiling, apparently secure, but I doubted they'd hold up to much action. It didn't matter. The four girls who circled it did nothing beyond stretch, lean, and grind lazily across the metal surface.

  Sitting at the rail, I fed out some dollar bills to appear normal, bought a drink I never finished. I noted a few things: an exit that led into the back alley where people went to smoke, the second body guard who hovered by the dance booths, and that, for all the patrons sitting around, few were spending any money. It took me spying a woman sliding someone her card to make it clear. Most of the girls weren't dancers—not just dancers, anyway. Times were tough. Prostitution was a tempt
ing path. They probably utilized the massage parlor next door.

  This place was so similar to my old club that it was unsettling.

  Testing the rules, I used the back exit. No one stopped me. Back there, it was silent. Grimy and poorly lit, the alley faced the construction site. No bouncers reigned here. Just one girl with a cigarette between two long, neon pink painted nails. She gave me a quick look, smoke fleeing her lips. The bottom one looked bruised, and so help me, I was reminded of poor dead Daisy. “Looking for a special girl?” she murmured. “I can help you find her.”

  My smile was shallow. “No thanks. Have a good night.”

  There was only one girl on my mind. She wasn't nearby.

  Heading back inside, I settled on a bar stool and simply... waited. I was early, I wanted to be able to see the man who was coming to sell to me. It would be easier to know it was him just by virtue of his arrival time and his actions. I required any advantage I could get.

  Ordering my second beer, I twisted it in my hands. The condensation slickened my fingers, left a ring on the bar. I hadn't taken a single sip before he entered.

  Young. Jesus, way too young. Hollow circles under pinprick eyes, skin the color of dishwater. He looked like he hadn't eaten well in days—or ever. I hadn't really suspected an undercover cop would meet me, but it was always a risk. Now, seeing this kid's exhausted, lifeless face... I wasn't concerned about that. A face like that at his age didn't happen accidentally. No one could fake this brand of desperation.

  Kite's face entered my mind. Was the world haunting me tonight with some brand of Christmas Carol cruelty?

  He stood by the door, hands deep in his ratty hooded sweater. Looking left, then right, then left again, he finally settled on watching the stage. He didn't have the patience to pretend he was here for the girls, though.

  I wasn't the only customer in the club. There were three other men, two of them getting dances and one sitting across from me. My mark moved that way, perching on a stool and tapping his shoe on the floor. In our anonymous online chats, we'd agreed to meet at the bar. When he glanced at me, I feigned a smile. That had him narrowing his eyes and looking away, fast.

  Turning towards the other man, the kid folded his hands. Not so subtle, he drummed his fingers, cleared his throat. The man caught in the crossfire—a guy who was greasier than a fast food hamburger—blinked.

  Smoothly, my seller leaned his way. He whispered, but the repetitive pop music torturing all of us couldn't mute his words. “Yo, man. You buyin'?”

  Instantly, the thick fellow leaned away from the kid. Wrinkling his forehead, he laughed uneasily and hopped off the chair. “Nah, uh. Not me. Sorry.” Escaping the moment, he headed towards the stage. The girl there was on all fours on the tip rail, back bending severely but shoving her gut out in the process.

  Eyeing the young guy as he made a fist, cursing under his breath, I thought over my next move. He was anxious now, and I imagined he thought his buyer had not shown or had never planned to. Did this happen often to him?

  Hedging my bets, I bent towards him and flashed a knowing grin. I hoped it made me look both slimy, and sympathetic. “Your guy didn't show either, huh?”

  “What?” Sitting so straight I heard his back crack, the kid stared at me.

  “Sorry, I overhead you.” Lifting my beer, I pretended to take a deep swig—sighed loudly. “I was supposed to meet someone here, too. Nine on the dot, he said.”

  His shoulders slumped, bitterness in his voice. “Fuck. Yeah, that's right. My guy said the same time. Son of a shit, you think we got hit by the same faker?”

  Shrugging, I put my bottle back down. “Seems that way. What luck, right?”

  Groaning, he grabbed his hood and pulled it over his eyes. “God fucking dammit. Dammit dammit fucking—why do people gotta do that?” Peeking my way, he let the hood go. It bounced, landing on his back again. “Why waste my time—our time?”

  Pushing my glasses up my nose, I shook my head. “World is fucked up. Used to be you could buy from your dealer and sell to whoever, and the flies would be buzzing for the chance.”

  His frown softened. “Yeah. Yeah man, that's right. It's costing me more and I aint fucking selling more, that's the fucking gospel.”

  I chose my next words carefully. The beer bottle was squeezed, an ornament for my attempt at appearing like I belonged here. I could swear all day—much as I loathed it—but if I didn't look relaxed and the right amount of dejected, I was a goner. “Fuck,” I chuckled sourly. “Guy I used to buy stock from straight up vanished. Good shit, too. Haven't seen him in forever.”

  The kid scrunched his eyebrows together. “That sucks. Who was it? Maybe I know him.”

  That was exactly what I was betting on. “Frankie,” I said, taking a slow sip of my drink. I let the name hang in the air, studied the guy for his reaction. I wasn't disappointed.

  “Frankie?” he asked, scooting his chair towards me and lowering his voice. “Frankie the fucking Razor? He sold to you?”

  Tapping the base of my glass on the bar, I nodded. “Yeah. He did until he didn't. No clue where the guy is now, fucking ghosted.”

  “No man, no!” His fingers went up, he was placating me. “How the hell do you not know? It was all over the news, like, months ago and shit!”

  “What was, what are you talking about?” I asked, narrowing my eyes suspiciously.

  Cupping the side of his mouth to tell me his grand secret, the dealer huddled closer. “Man, Frankie is dead. Shot, right in broad daylight. How the hell do you not know this?”

  I put the beer down heavily, like this was the worst thing I'd ever heard. “Shit! He's dead? How the—Jesus, that explains why I haven't seen the guy.”

  Breathing out sadly, the kid looked me up and down. “I bought from him when I could, too. You're right about the quality. Guy who sells me blow now—it's like baking powder. What's your name?”

  “Dennis,” I lied, reaching out to give him a rough handshake.

  “I go by Juice,” he said, making me wonder if I should have picked a cooler fake name. He didn't look phased though, he just waved for the bartender to get him a drink. “Man, I still can't believe you didn't know.”

  “It's a shame,” I said, trying to change the direction of the topic. “You said he was shot?”

  Lifting two fingers, Juice mimicked a gun firing into his own chest. “Bam. Right in the heart. Word is it was a hit, real professional.”

  I forced my smile down. He was stroking my ego without realizing it. “Someone wanted him dead, then. Who?”

  “Got me.” Taking his can of beer, he lifted it for a toast. I clinked my bottle on the cheaper drink. “Guy could be dangerous, you had to know that if you bought from him.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “In fact, I heard he was involved in some real bloody shakedowns. Insurance runs, big fires, that sort of thing.” I was thinking of Marina's story. Her raspy voice and clenched fists roamed my brain.

  “I dunno about any of that,” Juice muttered. He was lost in his own thoughts, drinking his beer fast, like the taste wasn't worth enjoying. It looked like piss-poor stuff, so maybe he was being smart. “When I chilled with him and Hecko, he was real friendly. Took us to the best titty bars.” He motioned around us, curling his lip in disgust.

  My heart was thumping with the information he'd given me. “Hecko?”

  Burping, he thumped his ribs and crushed the can. “Yeah, I haven't seen him in forever. He and I had no reason to hang, what with Frankie gone. Wonder if he still has the same crazy green hair.”

  This didn't sound like the man I was searching for, but... “Think I remember him,” I said casually. “Guy used to always hang out with Frankie at that place—that uh, shit...” I snapped my fingers rapidly, screwed up my face. “You know where I mean. I swear the name is right on the tip of my—”

  “Tail End!” He clapped his hands once, grinning proudly. “Hell yeah! I haven't been to Tail End in forever. Bet Hecko does still hang t
here, even without Frankie. They had the best girls, but the cover charge was too rich for my blood when Frankie wasn't paying.” Something akin to sadness flashed in Juice's stare. Maybe he missed Frank, or maybe he just missed the money and special treatment.

  My stomach was coiling, excitement budding with this new lead. Juice was too young to know about Frankie's past actions, or at least my comment had rung no bells. But maybe this other man—Hecko—knew something, or was even the man Marina was chasing. I needed to find Tail End and see for myself. “Listen,” I said, patting Juice on the shoulder. “You sound like things have been rough. And it blows that you and I got fucked over because of our buyer being chicken shit or fake or something.” Glancing deliberately at one of the woman who was lounging nearby in just a thong and a poor excuse for a bikini top, I waved her over. “Let me buy you a dance and cheer you up, kid.”

  Juice perked up, wriggling like a puppy as the girl approached. She leaned in to give him a hug, whispered in his ear. Meanwhile, she peered at me over his shoulder. I slid her a fifty, winking.

  The second the pair was moving, slipping into the shadows of a booth where Juice would forget he'd ever met me, and the girl no doubt already had, I was out of my chair and out the door.

  Day one had gone well.

  ****

  It wasn't hard to find. A mere mile away on foot, I'd gotten the directions to the Tail End Club from a Cash for Coin place that was, amazingly, still open at that hour.

  The building was squat, the outside faded brick. The sign was a hat-tip to old sea-side bars from decades ago. The kind that crouched on the edge of a dock swirling with fog.

  One bouncer sat in a chair outside. He looked asleep, but I fed him a twenty as I passed and his open palm closed around it.

  The Tail End was only slightly cleaner than the strip club had been. I repeated the same cautious steps I had there: find the bouncers, test the back exit, look for anything suspicious. I took particular note of how secluded some of the tables were, and how far the corner of the bar was from the alley doorway.