by Teagan Kade
He smiles, paying no attention to the broad or the grotesque sucking noises she’s making. “Mikey. It’s good to see you.”
“And you, Don. You’re looking well.”
The fat fuck loves his respect. He’s been Don of the Vegas Mob for almost twenty years now, as long as my brother and I have been carrying out hits on his behalf.
He licks his lips. “I’ve got a problem.”
It’s always ‘a problem,’ never a person.
He taps an envelope on his desk. “Everything you need is in there, plus some pocket money for your trouble. I’ll have your usual fee ready when it’s done.”
Eizo, my brother, will be excited. It’s been a while since we had a contract. The money’s nice, but DiLuccas like us? We need to hunt. It’s part of who we are.
I nod and come forward, picking up the folder.
The girl goes to get up, but the Don presses her back down into his crotch. I hope she is getting paid well.
“How’s Eizo?” the Don asks.
I loosen my collar a little. “He’s real good.”
“Still boxing?”
“Of course.”
The Don shadow boxes with fists raised. “You DiLuccas are tough. That’s why I like you boys.”
I don’t know why the Don doesn’t just invite Eizo to these meetings, but then again Eizo isn’t the brains of the family. That’s me. That’s why the Don entrusts me with these contracts, in person. It’s all about trust. Eizo would fuck something up for sure.
I hold the envelope in my hands. In it is no doubt the poor sucker who called the cops on one of the Mob’s massage parlors. I heard it was a girl. I don’t like doing girls, but I’m sure the particulars will attest to her guilt.
Admittedly, I’m finding it harder and harder to stay objective these days. I used to be a ‘no questions asked’ kind of guy, but lately these hits seem more and more random, no rhyme or reason.
“Where are we off to this time, Don?”
He smiles back at me. “Los Angeles, Mikey, the City of Angels.”
CHANCE
I spot Morgan through the heat haze waving me over to one of the exits. Coach nods his approval.
I pull off my helmet as I approach. It’s like coming out of a space suit. “Morgan.”
“Chance.”
He looks at me for a moment, perhaps a little more serious than usual. “I heard you took Sam out for lunch the other day.”
“Nothing sinister. I promise.”
He chews on his lip. “It’s none of my business. Hell, I don’t care if you screw the entire cheer squad so long as you’re putting down the numbers, but I must say I am a little worried about what we talked about the other day.”
“Your PI found something?”
He looks left and right before drawing closer to me. “That’s just it. This guy is dependable. I’ve used him many, many times before. I’m talking daily updates, emails, but this time? Nothing for forty-eight hours.”
I scratch my neck. “Maybe he’s laying low, sick or something?”
Morgan shakes his head. “No, you don’t understand. He always sends through an update—always. If I text him, he gets back to me right away. I’ve tried six times today and still haven’t had a response. It’s odd, completely out of character.”
“The guy’s a personal investigator. I’d think his entire life revolves around odd.”
“I’m worried, Chance. Your instincts might be spot-on.”
I consider the possibilities. So Sam was working at a Vegas parlor. She implicitly said she got out of there before things got too heated, but who knows? The kind of guys who run these places are scumbags, fucking animals who only care about one thing, and it’s not the welfare of the talent. I’ve been in enough clubs to know.
Morgan’s onto me. “She say something to you, son?”
I don’t know how much to tell him. I’m sure Sam told me in confidence, but if it involves her welfare… “She told me she worked for a massage parlor in Vegas.”
“One of those massage parlors?”
I nod. “One of those, yes, but she didn’t know and she didn’t get involved with any clients before she realized what was going on.”
Morgan ponders on it, tapping a closed fist against the concrete wall beside him. “Does she trust you?”
“I think so.”
“Do you think you could ask her more about it, try and work out what the hell’s going on here? I mean, I could do it, but it would be better coming from a pin-up boy like yourself, right?”
Yes, Sam did open up to me, but the last thing I want to do is push her away. In fact, the closer I get to her the more I want to protect her, stop the pain that is no doubt still there right under the surface. “I’ll try.”
Morgan claps me on the shoulder. “Okay. If I hear anything from the PI, I’ll let you know, and vice-versa, okay?”
“Okay.”
Morgan heads back down the tunnel until he’s swallowed up by the shadows.
*
“How’s the calf?”
I could die a happy man on this massage table, and she hasn’t even gotten to the good stuff yet. “It’s a lot better, actually. You really do have magic hands.”
“At least you aren’t getting excited this time.”
Did she just say what I think she said? I lift myself from the table and look back. She’s beet red, eyes averted, but the smile’s there. Oh yeah she did. “I can’t control him. He sees something he likes and he goes for gold. I can flip over if you like, show—”
A harder squeeze on my calf. “That will not be required.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d say the tables have turned. The anti-flirt has become the flirt.
I speak down to the polished concrete through the hole in the table. “Do you mind if we talk about Vegas a little more?”
Be gentle here, brother. Real gentle.
I hear an audible gulp, but she manages to speak. “I need to concentrate, sorry, but maybe later?”
There’s no use trying to force her into it, so I simply reply “Sure.”
She continues to run her hands over my calf, fingers working at the tension there. “I think I’d like to see a bit more of LA. Do you know your way around?”
Do I know my way around? “What do you want to see? Where they filmed the chase scene in Terminator II, spend a fortune at Oscar de la Renta, or perhaps swing by where Ryan Gosling lives? We’re buds. He’s actually got a sick pad up in—”
“Somewhere to relax. Somewhere quiet.”
I have to laugh at that. “Somewhere quiet? In Los Angeles?”
“You’re telling me you don’t have somewhere special you take your groupies? A secret spot?”
My thighs tense as her hands glide higher. God, keep fucking going. Please. “What makes you think I have groupies? Bon Jovi has groupies. I have fans—crazy fans, as you saw with our little run-in.”
“Blondie?” she laughs. “She wanted more than an autograph alright…”
It comes to me. “So, you want to see something special? I’ve got something for you. Pick you up at eight?”
“You don’t know my address.”
“Not yet, but Glenda in payroll does love a bit of harmless flirting. I think it’s the roulette wheel. She’s always—”
“Okay, okay. Pick me up at eight. If you’re not there I’ll assume you didn’t flirt with poor ol’ Glenda hard enough.”
Hard enough—She doesn’t know the meaning those words, but she will.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SAM
I don’t know if letting ‘the girls’ help me get ready was the best idea. They cluster around behind me looking into the mirror. I’ve come to learn Amy is the ringleader of the apartment block cabal. She’s rocking that same, crazy, Harley Quinn hair tonight, her fellow actor and model friends ‘oh’ing and ‘ah’ing at my transformation. Thirty minutes with a curling iron and a borrowed Armani dress so short I’m starting to think it might actually
be a T-shirt.
“Hot,” purrs Amy. “See how lucky you are to be surrounded by miracle workers?”
Looking at myself, yeah, I actually don’t look so bad. If I look close enough I see the quiet librarian girl lurking, but the cleavage-pushing rockstar has risen ready to take on the world… or maybe just a man.
A burbly engine echoes outside.
“He’s here!” one of the others announces, giggling and bouncing around.
And boom, I’m back in high school.
The idle shuts off and I try to calculate the distance to my door. I start to shoo the girls out, but then comes the knock, which makes them even more hyperactive. Thankfully, Amy manages to sweep them up into the kitchen, all of them peeking around the corner into the living room as I open the door.
I’ve never known a man to wear such simple clothes so well—distressed jeans, black tee and a leather jacket, but damn does he fill them out perfectly.
There’s a gasp from the kitchen.
Chance looks past my shoulder. “Got company?”
I clear my throat loud enough for everyone to hear. “Shall we go?”
“We shall,” Chance smiles, stepping back out.
I’m closing the door when I see Amy poke her head around the corner. ‘Good luck,’ she mouths, pelvis thrusting. ‘He’s so fucking hot!’
I close the door and exhale, follow Chance down the stairs. I expect to see the Mustang, but a sleek sports bike waits instead, two helmets perched on it. So much for the curls.
I stand in front of the death machine. “I should have known you’d own a bike too.”
He hands me a helmet. “This isn’t a bike. It’s a Ducati.”
“Ducatai shoomati. It’s all Greek to me.”
“You have been on a bike before, haven’t you?”
I start to shake my head slowly.
He laughs. “Looks like there might be a few firsts tonight.”
He opens a satchel on the side and hands me a jacket. “It’s hot out, but you’ll need it. Trust me.”
Do I? I mean, how well do I really know this guy? I’m still thinking about it as I pull the jacket on and let him help with the helmet, putting his own on before swinging over the bike and stirring it into life with a sharp vroom vroom. He pats the space behind him, speaking muffled through his helmet. “Hop on.”
With some difficulty, I manage to swing my leg over and pull myself against his back, the crotch of my panties pressed right against his back, legs straddling his sides.
“You ready?” he says, but it’s a rhetorical question since he doesn’t give me time to reply, speeding off out of the complex onto the main road.
I’m a die-hard eighties movie fan. Speeding through the streets of LA, it’s like we’re in Tron—neon lights turned into streaky blocks of color, everything moving and warping.
Funnily enough, I find I quite enjoy the sensation. There’s a thrill in travelling like this. I can see why people like it, being so close to death. I’m usually way too cautious about this kind of thing. Maybe my very own Chance Adams is what I need to actually get off my ass and start living life a little.
Fifteen minutes later we arrive in the heart of downtown outside a non-descript gate. Chance cuts the ignition. The reverberation of the engine continues to beat through my body.
I slide off the bike, my crotch hot from being pressed against Chance, my legs jelly.
He pulls off his helmet and shakes out his hair. It falls perfectly into that messy, fresh-after-a-roll-in-the-hay look that countless others probably spend a lifetime trying to achieve but which comes so naturally to Chance. It’s like he’s barely trying.
He helps me get the jacket and helmet off, my chest brushing against the front of his jacket and my nipples pulling into tight points against this dress. I shake out my hair, but it doesn’t turn into instant perfection like his did. Given the way he’s looking at me, though, I don’t think he cares. Maybe he prefers it like this—a little rough and dirty.
I look at the gate. “Can’t say downtown is my idea of a quiet place.”
His eyes go half-lidded. “Wait and see.” He walks to the gate and raps on the bars.
A slim man appears, unlocking the gate to swing it wide. “Chance. Good to see you, buddy.”
God, does he know everyone in this city?
The two embrace. “Johnathan. Thanks for doing this.”
Johnathan smiles. “No problem for my favorite football star.”
Chance pulls two tickets out of his pocket and hands them over. “For your trouble.”
Johnathan looks surprised. “You didn’t have to.”
Chance places his hand on Johnathan’s shoulder, turning to look at me. “I like to share the love. What can I say?”
Johnathan sees me. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I reply, stepping forward. “I’m Sam.”
Johnathan steps aside. “Welcome, Sam, to the oasis in the eye of the storm.”
I step in. Chance takes the lead up a series of stairs and Johnathan stays by the gate.
“Have fun, kids,” he calls.
At the top of the stairs we come to the most unexpected sight. Right here in the middle of downtown LA is a Japanese garden.
Chance spans his arms out proudly. “Welcome to the James Irvine Japanese Garden complete with cascading stream, handcrafted cedar bridge, and all the trappings of paradise right here, smack-dab in the middle of the City of Angels.”
“Angels?” I say it knowing precisely what the answer will be.
Chance doesn’t disappoint. “I’m looking at one right now. Come on.”
Chance leads us around the garden. It’s lit beautifully, everything neat and orderly. “It’s called the Garden of the Clear Stream,” he narrates. “Something of a rarity in LA. It’s open year round for the public free of charge—another rarity.”
I take in the sights, the smell of honeysuckle and green tea. I know it’s just an illusion, but it everything seems fresher standing here, my lungs filling with crisp perfumed air. “It’s amazing.”
Chance balances on one foot a rock in the middle of the cascading stream. “Have you ever been to Japan?”
I shake my head. “I’ve never been out of the country.”
“Wow. You should. We had some downtime in Japan coming back from the Sandpit. It’s the polar opposite of the States, you know. Tokyo is the future, another world, but Kyoto? A whole different story again. It’s packed with culture, a garden like this around every corner. It was cherry blossom season, too, and you know what they say about cherry blossoms…”
“Enlighten me.”
“In the cherry blossom’s shade there’s no such thing as a stranger.”
“That’s actually quite beautiful.”
He leaps off the rock towards me and buries his hands in his pockets. “I want to do to you what Spring does to the cherry trees.”
I’m trying desperately to hide my smile. “And what’s that?”
He takes another step closer and brushes a missing strand of hair from my face, hooking it over my ear. His touch is electric. “Make you blossom.”
I push him away playfully, still not willing to commit to this insanity. “You are incorrigible. Do girls actually fall for this?”
“All the time,” comes the smug response. “This way.”
I follow Chance up a small incline to a pagoda amongst the bamboo. Inside, a table has been set up two chairs and a grouping of lit candles—lavender, if I’m correct.
He’s good—real good.
He pulls my chair out and I take a seat, noticing the Chinese takeaway boxes on the table. “Chinese, in a Japanese garden?”
He seats himself. “Stick with me long enough and you’ll learn I like to mix things up. Dig in.”
I open a box. It does smell delicious. I take chopsticks and start to fill my plate. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were deliberately trying not to spend money on these little dates of ours.”
“So they ar
e dates?”
I play coy. “Maybe.”
His eyes drop into my cleavage. His Adam’s apple bobs before he brings his gaze back up. “This is the finest Chinese takeaway in LA, I’ll have you know. The General Tso chicken… orgasmic. Trust me.”
The thought of an orgasm with Chance doesn’t seem as repulsive as it did when we first met. In fact, it sounds downright attractive right now.
I continue to tease him, moving food around my plate. “Maybe the Wildcats aren’t paying you enough?”
He laughs, grin wide. “You should try telling Morgan that. But money isn’t everything.”
“It’s not? I don’t follow football, but I do read the papers. You seem to enjoy your money, like really enjoy it.”
He places his chopsticks down and locks those pistachio eyes on me. “Money makes you comfortable, but it doesn’t guarantee happiness.”
“You’re not happy? You’ve got everything you want—a career, fame, a… body.”
“You’re wrong. There’s something I want, something I need, money can’t buy.”
I have a strange feeling he’s talking about me. Surely not. I wipe my mouth with a napkin and try to change the subject. “Do you come here often?”
“To meditate sometimes, sure.”
I choke on my Tso chicken, which is, true to Chance’s word, orgasmic, though the company might have something to do with it. “You meditate?”
“Does the idea seem that outrageous?”
“I just can’t picture you sitting down by the pond there with your legs crossed chanting om.”
“You’ve got it all wrong. It’s not like that. You just sit and focus. It’s actually very, very fucking difficult to stop the noise, to center yourself, but it helps.”
He is full of surprises. Maybe I have misjudged him. “You just decided to mediate one day, on a whim?”
A pause. “An Army psychologist recommended it when I got back from my tour. You know, to help me process things.”
I get the sense he doesn’t want to elaborate, so I don’t push. “It must have been hard.”
He looks down at his plate. “It was, but it was the right thing to do, and it makes you stronger in a way. I wouldn’t be half the player I am now if I wasn’t in the Corps. The friends I made in there… They’re brothers for life, blood or not.”
