by Louisa Trent
Looked like no one was around to catch him. No eye witnesses meant his luck was holding. Hallelujah.
A quick pat-down of his mark produced a standard money clip, bulging with bills. Emmett lightened its load. After staggering out the double-hung tavern doors, fumes of Old Nick whiskey following, the bum would never miss a stray greenback gone missing here or there.
The evening’s haul came to about a sawbuck, all-told. Plenty enough to keep Emmett’s belly full for a week…if he went easy on the grub. By his low standards, he had done swell.
Even so, tonight felt different. Off somehow. A nose for trouble advised Emmet his evening of easy pick pocketing was about to draw to a premature end.
And son-of-a-gun, that was when he saw them.
Two no accounts, both thugs unknown to Emmett, sizing up a weaving fella up ahead, moving in on him too, as if to jump him. No doubt the pair was aiming to do a little filching on the sly.
Not in Emmett’s alley, they were not.
Before either of them got wind of him on their tails, Emmett introduced the smaller of the two to his boot. A sharp jab to the stones. Squealing like a schoolgirl, the snot-nosed sissy ran off, his gait lopsided. Poor fuck.
One down, another to go.
Emmett knew how others saw him: A puny runt a puff of air would blow over. This next thug most likely viewed him the same, only doubly so, since the bastard towered Emmett by a foot.
No argument, starvation had delayed Emmett’s growth spurt by a year or more. But he reckoned those postponed inches had pounded some extra toughness into him. The alleys of Scollay Square rid itself of weaklings faster than a hot knife through butter and Emmett had survived here on his own since he just turned eight.
As any mistreated mongrel pup would, Emmett bared his teeth and sprang for the second thug’s throat.
The maneuver worked…until the thug whipped out a knife.
Flattened on the cobblestones with chirping birdies circling his head and a gash gushing red from his arm, Emmet looked over at the thug.
Blade in hand, the victor was going back for the spoils — the weaving gent — maybe to finish him off.
Emmett stumbled to a stand. No fucking murders of tavern customers, not in his fucking territory. If this thug ended the weaving gent’s life, ale house owners would complain about a possible loss of future revenue, and the coppers would patrol the alley. Nightly. This inconvenience that would put Emmett shit out of a job and it would back selling his arse on the street again for him.
Emmett turned the thug’s knife back on himself, a sneak attack from the rear, a wound that was maybe survivable, then again, probably not, and all the same to Emmett…so long as he bled to death elsewhere.
To ensure that happened, Emmett dragged the thug back out onto the street, leaving a trail of guts as he went, a common enough sight on the main thoroughfare and nothing to alarm police about the safety of his little alley.
With a sigh of relief, Emmett returned to the weaving gent. “Mister — you hurt?”
“Only my pride. My beloved wife died three years ago today in childbirth and I thought to drown my sorrows in cheap spirits. Instead, I nearly orphaned my little girl.”
“The kid is alive and so are you. Go home to her, mister. I sure as hell would if I had me a place to go home to.”
So as not to have wasted his time…or his blood…Emmett held out his hand, all sad and pathetic-like. More pity money came his way when he laid the misery on extra thick.
“You do now,” said the gent, not weaving anymore.
“Huh? I do what now?” Emmett surveyed his empty palm. Was he losing his touch? Begging used to get him by in a pinch. Of course, he had been even smaller and a heap prettier back then, before he got his nose broke and all…
Still, where was this gent’s gratitude?
“You have a home now. My home is your home, son.”
Emmett’s empty palm fell back to his side. “Ain’t nobody’s son, mister.”
“You are now, son.”
“Yeah, I heard that one before. Then some old geezer tells me to suck his cock for free.”
“Nothing of the kind. I work as a private schoolmaster at Hodge Academy for Boys. I have a small abode there, right on campus. Come home with me. I insist. I owe you my life. Taking you in is the very least I can do.”
Fuck. In Emmett’s book, gratitude spelled money, not home-cooking.
But the gent spoke fine, like a genuine British toff. Learning to talk all proper-like might help Emmett advance from pick-pocketing to swindling. This alley was getting a might risky…
Time to cut his losses.
Emmett cradled his hurt arm against his side. “Staying with you is out, mister. But I could come by every once in a while. How’s about teaching me stuff? You know, talking good?”
“First, you need to see a physician. That wound is deep.”
“No sawbones. The doc will report me to the fucking police and it will be the fucking poorhouse for me. I ain’t going to that place. And I ain’t selling my arse on the street anymore, neither.”
“All right, son. I understand. Someone at my school will tend your wound, a former army surgeon who values discretion.”
Christ, but the gent sounded all la-dee-da. If Emmett talked fancy like that, folks would believe every lying word that came out of his mouth. It was worth a shot, anyway.
Emmett double checked. “That there word ‘discretion’, mister, does that mean no questions asked?”
“Exactly, son. No questions asked.”
The schoolmaster tied up Emmett’s bloody arm all neat and tidy-like with his handkerchief, a tourniquet he called it, and then off they set for his school.
“Wait until my daughter, Priscilla, meets you, son,” the schoolmaster said as they shuffled along. “I wager my little darling will fall madly in love with her new hero…”
About the Author
Louisa Trent has been published in ebook format since 2001. Her erotic romances have been with Ellora's Cave, Liquid Silver, Samhain and LooseId. Presently, her books are available from multiple distributors through Trent Publications. Refusing to be "branded" ( Louisa has a rebellious streak ) she writes across the genres – contemporary, historical, paranormal, multi-cultural, and sci-fi. Basically, she writes whatever piques her interest, and she is a writer of many passionate interests. Readers can reach Louisa through her website - www.louisatrent.com.
OTHER BOOKS BY LOUISA TRENT
Contemporary
multi-cultural
BITTERSWEET
BRING IT
JOHARI GOES KINKY
SOME ROUGH EDGE SMOOTHIN’
Contemporaries
LOST ANGEL
SCREWING WITH PERFECT
SEX STINGS
THE PICKUP LINE
Futuristic/Paranormal
ISLET ABANDONED
TEMPEST
Historicals
ACQUISITION
AJEST
CAPTIVE
COURTESAN
HIS DARLING
ICON
ON MOORSTEAD
ONLY LOVE
SPOILED
TOUCH ME
WHORE
(Anarchy Tales)
BLADEKYLL
DEATHSTROKE
(Anarchy Tales series)
DEVIL OF NETTLEWOOD
OUTLAW OF IRONGUARD
(Blooming Collection)
LILAC
ROSE
THYME
VERONICA
(Tainted Love Series)
TAINTED LOVE
BLEEDING LOVE
BAD LOVE
(Virgin Series)
VIRGIN ENCOUNTER
VIRGIN ESCAPADE
VIRGIN ENCHANTMENT
VIRGIN ENCHAINED
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