Irrevocable

by Shay Savage

  I don’t say anything as I drive off, heading straight for my apartment. When I park in the garage, she’s still looking at me in the same way.

  “What?”

  “You’re distracted,” Alina says. “I mean, more so than usual.”

  “It’s been a long couple of days.”

  She continues to look at me. Could she be probing me to see how much I realize? If she’s involved, she already knows Rinaldo’s been injured. I look her over, memorizing the position of her hands on her lap, the tilt of her head, and the dilation of her pupils.

  “My boss is in the hospital,” I tell her.

  “Oh! I’m sorry to hear that. Is he sick?” Her fingers don’t tense on her thighs, and she slides her head to tilt it in the opposite direction. There’s a slight crinkling around her eyes, and I conclude that her concern is genuine.

  She has no idea what’s happened to him.

  I loosen my hands from the steering wheel, realizing I had been gripping it tightly as I observed her. I take a breath and center. I’m relieved she doesn’t know, but I can’t allow myself to consider her completely innocent. That would be unwise.

  “He was hurt,” I tell her. “I’ve been at the hospital with him for a couple of days.”

  “Will he be all right?”

  “Should be.” I step out of the car and come around to her side to help her out. Once we’re in my apartment, I head to the kitchen and grab myself a beer.

  “Want one?” I ask.

  “I’m not much of a beer drinker,” Alina says.

  “Other than beer, I’ve got water and whiskey.”

  “You are quite the bachelor,” she says with a smile. “Water would be fine. I need to get going on that grocery list for you.”

  I smirk at her as I retrieve a bottle of water from the fridge and a pen and paper from the kitchen drawer.

  “Have at it,” I say as I push the paper toward her. She laughs and picks up the pen as I twist the cap off the water bottle. “Want a glass?”

  “The bottle works for me.”

  We take our drinks and sit on the couch. Alina jots down a few grocery items, and I lean over to see what she’s written. Nothing surprises me—it’s all the basics if you happen to cook at home much, which I don’t. The last item she puts on the list is massage oil.

  “Really?” I ask.

  “You might enjoy it,” Alina says with a shrug. “I’m pretty good, you know.”

  “I bet you are.”

  I’m tempted to turn on the television, but I don’t. The last time it was on, I ended up losing my shit. Instead, we sit close together, and Alina curls up beside me with one arm around my stomach. I put my arm around her shoulders and lean back against the cushions.

  “You must be sleeping better.” I consider her remark and wonder how she came to that conclusion.

  “Not really.”

  “You don’t seem ready to fall right into bed,” Alina says.

  “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  “Your boss must be very important to you.” She slides her hand up to my shoulder and around my neck, and I feel light pressure on the tendons back there. She rotates her fingertips slightly, and I stretch my neck against the motion. “You’re worried.”

  It’s not a question, so I don’t answer. Answering feels like admitting something I’m not prepared to discuss when I’m really considering how much I trust the woman sitting beside me. I’m not even sure why I picked her up. I’m not in the mood for sex, and my mind is racing through too many possibilities to be able to sleep whether she’s here or not.

  Who is she, anyway? What led her to turn tricks for a living?

  “I don’t really know much about you,” I say.

  “You’ve never asked much.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” I admit, “though you’ve never asked me anything about myself either.”

  “It’s not usually something I’d do,” Alina says. “Most clients want to keep things rather impersonal, protect their true identities and such.”

  “Can’t let you know about their real lives, hmm?”

  “Something like that.” Alina runs her hand down my arm, pressing slightly against the inside of my elbow before moving to my wrist and rubbing against the inside of it. “Some people who use our services are pretty recognizable—politicians or celebrities. Those kinds of people don’t want to admit that the hookers know who they are, so we don’t say anything.”

  “Yeah, that’s me,” I say with a chuckle. “I’m a senator in real life, you know.”

  Alina cracks a smile and shakes her head a little. She reaches up and runs her finger down the bridge of my nose.

  “I know exactly who you are, Evan Arden.”

  I really don’t like the sound of that.

  Chapter 12—Troubling Knowledge

  A chill runs through me. It’s like finding out about Bridgett giving information to my nemesis all over again. Turning toward her, I take her chin in my hand and bring her face closer to mine.

  “What precisely do you think you know about me?” My voice is strained, and I’m quite aware of how easily I could snap her neck as she sits beside me.

  Alina looks at me, her face going pale. She knows how easily I can kill her; it’s reflected in her eyes. She wets her lips with her tongue as I wait impatiently for an answer.

  “You’re…you’re Evan Arden, Rinaldo Moretti’s right-hand man.”

  “And?”

  “You’re his cleaner.”

  I narrow my eyes at her.

  “His…his hit man,” she whispers.

  I’m not surprised that she knows this much, but I’m a little shocked she came right out and said it. Knowing about it is one thing. I rely on my reputation to keep Rinaldo’s enemies at bay. Admitting you know—actually coming out and saying it—isn’t something people usually do. I tighten my fingers on her jaw.

  “Is that what you think?”

  She’s starting to shake, and there are tears forming in the corners of her eyes. I slide my thumb a little ways down, up against her throat. I can feel her swallow.

  “It’s just what…what I heard.”

  “People ask you about me? You tell them shit?”

  She swallows again and grips my forearm with her fingers. The panic in her eyes is reflected in her voice.

  “I haven’t talked to anyone, Evan—I swear I haven’t. Not even to Loretta, and she’s my best friend and always asking about you.”

  “What does she ask?”

  “I don’t say anything.”

  “That wasn’t my question.”

  “She asks why I put up with you. She doesn’t think I should keep coming here.”

  This is not news to me. Loretta has made it pretty clear how she feels about me, and I don’t really care. What kind of response is given—that I care about. I take a deep breath.

  “What do you say to her?”

  “Mostly to mind her own business. She should worry about her own clients, not mine.”

  I stare at her intently, and I see no lie reflected in her face or posture. Despite how little I know about Loretta, I still find it easy to imagine such an exchange. I loosen my grip on Alina’s face, run my thumb across her lips, and lean in to kiss her lightly.

  “You don’t talk about me to anyone. You don’t talk about my business to anyone. Are we completely clear on that point?”

  Alina nods quickly and reaches around to rub my neck. I can feel the pads of her fingers pressing against the tendons.

  “I never have, Evan, and I never will. You can trust me.”

  The comment brings a slight smile to my face. Trust her? No, probably not. It’s a nice idea, but I’m not sure if I’ll ever add anyone to my list of trustworthy people. I’ll just get burned.

  I run my thumb over the top of her cheek, finding a single tear there.

  “I’m not trying to scare you.” I’m not sure where the words come from. I stare up at her face, barely able to focus as exhausti
on catches up with me. “But you have to understand there are lines that can’t be crossed.”

  “I understand, Evan. Really, I do.”

  I watch her eyes carefully, and I believe her.

  Alina leans in and presses her lips to mine. With the conversation over, I pull her against me and kiss her back, running my tongue along hers and listening to her hum against my mouth. Leaning backward on the couch, I pull her on top of me.

  “Ride me.”

  Alina places one knee on either side of my hips and looks into my eyes as she pulls her blouse over her head. She lays it on the back of the couch, gathers her hair up in her hands, and then stretches her arms over her head, allowing her hair to fall around her shoulders. I reach up and slip my finger into one strap at her shoulder and then slide it down, revealing the top of her breast.

  I run my finger along the top of the swell, then between her tits, and then back up the other side. I push the other strap out of the way, and Alina reaches behind her back to undo the clasp. I slide my hands down her sides, licking my lips as her breasts fall free.

  She raises herself up on her knees and pulls my shirt over my head.

  Running my hands up her thighs, I push her skirt up to her waist and slip my finger inside her panties. Alina places her hands on my bare chest and rocks against my fingers as I slide them inside of her and press my thumb on her clit.

  “How long are you going to tease me like that?” Alina lowers her head and looks at me with hooded eyes.

  “You like getting finger-fucked.”

  “Mmm…and how do you know that?”

  “Watching your face when my fingers are in you and listening for that little sound you make.”

  “Then make me come.” She moans as she grinds herself into my hand.

  I chuckle slightly, withdraw my fingers, and reach around to grip her firm ass.

  “You like getting finger-fucked, but I like feeling you come on my cock.”

  Alina sits back and turns toward her purse next to the couch. She grabs a condom out of it and then reaches for my belt. She releases the buckle and the buttons of my jeans, and quickly reaches down to retrieve my dick as I pull her panties off of her.

  Without wasting any time, she rolls the condom over me and positions the head of my cock at her opening. She drops down, and I arch my neck as I’m buried inside of her.

  “Oh, yeah…” I let her set the pace as I grip her backside with one hand and reach up to stroke her tits with the other. She starts off slow, but it doesn’t take long for her to pick up speed. I reach up and grab the back of her neck, pulling her mouth to mine.

  Her body grips my cock as my tongue explores her mouth. Still gripping her ass with one hand, I pull her hard against me, burying myself deeply inside of her. She cries out against my lips and pulls back, her eyes still closed.

  Alina drops one hand to the couch to hold herself up, and grips my shoulder with the other. She moves quickly, and I can barely keep up as she grinds herself against me, her hot breath coating my neck. She presses her forehead to my chest and cries out incoherently.

  I arch my back, shoving my cock deep inside her. I can’t hold back anymore.

  “Ah…fuck!” I call out as I release. My hips drop back to the couch, and Alina lies against my chest, panting.

  “Jesus, Evan.”

  “What?”

  “That was…that was really good.”

  “Just good?” I laugh.

  “More than good. I just can’t think of any adjectives right now!”

  We both laugh, and Alina stands up and gets rid of the condom, then returns to the couch and straddles me again.

  “That kind of makes me want to wait for you to be ready for another round,” she tells me, “but I think you need some sleep first.”

  I can’t argue with her though round two sounds pretty good to me as well.

  Alina climbs off of me and reaches for my hand. I allow her to lead me to the bedroom where we both recline against the pillows. I wait for her to get comfortable and then wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her against my chest.

  The stress from the day and the orgasm have made me sleepy, but I can’t seem to doze off even with the scent of lavender around me. I keep seeing Rinaldo’s face when I told him about Felisa. Every time I think of his reaction, my chest feels tight.

  Alina’s fingers stroke my hair, and I turn to look at her.

  “You ever make a mistake?” I ask.

  “Yes.” Alina laughs quietly. “Plenty of them. Doesn’t everyone?”

  The question is rhetorical, and I don’t bother to answer her. Yes, everyone makes mistakes, but the implications are vastly different depending on the circumstances. Pulling out of a parking spot and bumping into another car is a mistake. Speeding the wrong way down a one-way street and killing a kid on a tricycle is a different kind of mishap.

  “Evan? Did you make a mistake?”

  I close my eyes and lick my lips. I’m not sure I have an answer even if I cared to give her one. Was killing Felisa a mistake? I don’t regret it. I also don’t like seeing Rinaldo in such a state.

  “What mistakes have you made?” I’m deflecting, and she knows it. I don’t really care about a hooker’s past.

  “Dropping out of school,” Alina says. “I wish I hadn’t done that.”

  “Why did you?”

  “Young and stupid.” She shrugs one shoulder and raises her hand to rub the back of my head. “At the time, it seemed the only option.”

  “Did you have to work? Family to support?”

  “Not exactly,” she says. “I mean, I had to support myself but no one else. I ran away from home.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Fourteen.”

  I watch her closely as I process the information. Fourteen is young—very young. No one gets a normal job at fourteen, and no one leaves home at fourteen without a damn good reason.

  “Is that when you started turning tricks? Just trying to get by on the street?”

  She looks away from me again, and her throat bobs as she swallows. Her eyes tighten in the corners and glisten a little as I feel her muscles tense.

  She was a hooker before she left home.

  It happens. I know it happens because I’ve seen it plenty of times. It’s usually some asshole junkie who will do anything for a fix and a doubly asshole pimp who likes fresh, young pussy. They’ll find some teen girl and coax her onto the street with all kinds of promises, and they next thing she knows, she’s turning tricks and handing over all the money.

  “Who?” She’s still incredibly tense, but my curiosity has been piqued and I have to ask.

  “Does it matter?” Her answer and the lack of information it provides tells me more than I probably want to know. There is a specific person who pulled her into this life—someone significant.

  “Maybe.”

  She glances at me but doesn’t answer. After a minute, she looks away again. I run my hand gently up her arm and to her shoulder. When she still doesn’t look at me, I take her chin with my fingers and turn her to face me.

  “Who?” I ask again.

  “My father.”

  I flinch slightly. The information shouldn’t surprise me as much as it does. I’ve never been a parent—I’ve never even had a real parental bond as a child—and I don’t know what the relationship is like. I’ve seen it though. Even Rinaldo wouldn’t compromise his bastard son in such a way.

  “Why?” I ask through clenched teeth. I can make guesses, but that’s all they would be.

  “He was a compulsive gambler and owed someone a lot of money. He figured out he could use me to get it.”

  “Where was your mom?”

  “She left when I was seven,” Alina says. “She was drunk or strung out most of the time. She and my dad would yell and scream a lot. One day, she just wasn’t around anymore. I don’t really remember much about her.”

  “You never saw her again?”

  Alina shakes her h
ead.

  I consider this information. She had a junkie mother and a father with major gambling issues. I have a pretty good idea that mom didn’t just leave of her own free will. She’s definitely dead, either of an overdose or possibly by Alina’s father’s hands. Without a protective, caring mother around, there’s no telling what would have come next.

  My imagination takes over, and I picture her as a young girl in such a situation. What did the guy do? Put her in the middle of the table along with the cash? Bet her pussy on a pair of kings? Fuck her himself?

  I swallow hard and notice that my hands are starting to shake a little. I ball them into fists to stop the quivering, but my jaw is still tight, and my skin feels hot.

  I’m going to kill that fucker.

  I’ll kill him slowly. I’ll make sure he gets a taste of what he’d dished out first. I know a lot of guys who would be happy to take turns on some rapist father’s asshole while I cut off his fingers knuckle by knuckle. He is going to hurt. A lot.

  “What’s his name?” I can barely get the words out.

  She stares at me with wide eyes as she tightens her fingers around my hand.

  “No,” she says, shaking her head, “I’m not telling you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…” She doesn’t continue and refuses to look at me again.

  “Tell me.” I open my fingers and wrap them around her wrist. “Give me his name.”

  “I know what you’re thinking.” Alina shakes her head. “No, Evan, please.”

  I breathe heavily as I stare at her. Of course she knows what I want to do; it’s quite clear. The asshole needs to die. He deserves it more than most of the people I kill, and I’m not about to just let it drop. I’m about to demand that she answer me when I realize I don’t need her to tell me; I have Jonathan to find out everything I need to know. I nod at her and look down, hiding my resolve to take care of this guy without her knowledge.

  “Evan, please,” she says again. Apparently, she’s not convinced that I will let this drop, and she’s right. “It’s all behind me now, and I want it left that way.”

  “Is it?” I look her up and down and release her wrist. “You seem to still be fucking for someone else’s money.”

  “I’ve got a good pimp now. He takes care of us.”