“How’re you, doin’?” Joker asked.
“Eddie’s place is fuckin’ awesome. He’s got this sick pool table and all kinds of video games. The apartment is fuckin’ huge.”
Of course, the kid would be happy. Joker had been to Eddie’s penthouse. Theater-size big-screen TV with all the sports and movie channels, plus all the junk food you could eat stocked in the kitchen. Every guy’s dream.
“I kinda miss you though.”
Shit, now the ache turned into a full-blown pain. Joker massaged his chest muscles, but he knew that wouldn’t help. This pain couldn’t be rubbed away.
“You still there?”
“I called your school and squared everything away. I told them there was a family emergency, and you had to take a few days off.”
“Shit, I don’t care if I ever go back, this place rocks.”
“Hey, you got a few days off, that’s all. What did I tell you about getting an education?”
The kid had natural smarts. He barely cracked a book, and he brought home all As and Bs. Every one of his teachers agreed on his intelligence, even if they did have to curb his sometimes rowdy behavior.
“I know.” Derek huffed out the heavy teenage sigh. “Get good grades so I can get into college.”
Joker wanted Derek to know that he cared about his education, unlike his own father, who didn’t know if he ever went to school. When the principal would call home, his old man was either drunk or screwing one of his many girlfriends, which usually resulted in him cursing and hanging up.
“Right.” Joker smiled into the phone. “I should be home in a few days.”
If I don’t get myself killed because the crazy woman I’m with has me all twisted up in knots—or eaten by a giant snake.
“Okay, I’ll see you when I see you.”
After Joker hung up, he had to take a few deep breaths to get himself straight, and then, because he was a sick fuck, he dialed another number just for fun.
“Who’s this?” Digger’s gruff voice grated into the phone at the unknown number.
“It’s your VP.”
There was silence for so long that Joker thought they were disconnected.
“Joker?”
“Surprised to hear from me? Or surprised to hear that I’m so healthy?”
“You got a big problem, brother.” Digger’s frustrated growl echoed through the phone.
“I plan on getting rid of it real soon.”
“You thought you were smarter than me.”
“I am smarter than you.”
Digger didn’t know how to negotiate with words and brains. He only knew how to go in with guns blazing. Sometimes that worked, but most of the time it made a fuckload of enemies—or got you killed. Probably what Daisy was trying to tell him earlier.
“You think by ditching your phone I can’t get eyes on you.”
“Don’t matter if you do. I’m so far ahead of you, you’ll never catch up.”
“Play all the games you want, but you can’t run forever.”
“I’m not running. I’m taking care of my business like I should’ve done a long-ass time ago.”
“You’ll never see me coming.”
The buzz of a disconnected phone filled the air, and Joker slammed his fist against the wall. He swiped everything off the cheap bureau seconds before he put his designer shoe through the broken TV. Looking for something else to slam, he wheeled around but there was nothing. His lungs constricted, and for a second he couldn’t breathe. Gasping in some air while gripping the back of the chair, he sucked in deep breaths and willed himself to calm down and focus. Joker stared into the mirror over the bureau and knew exactly how he would play this out. It wasn’t what Daisy and he had planned, but he realized what he had to do.
Ripping at the buttons of the designer shirt and toeing off the leather shoes, he threw on his t-shirt and exchanged the slim-cut pants for his jeans. Then, he sat on the edge of the bed and tugged on his boots. Yeah, he felt better already. Okay, now he was ready to do this.
Joker hit the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and braced his hands against the sink. Two seconds later, the door crashed open in the other room. He whirled around, his hand automatically going for the gun at the small of his back, but it wasn’t there. Fuck, he’d left it on the bed when he’d changed his clothes. The hesitation cost him precious seconds. Rico’s shooters from Miami dragged him out of the bathroom, and they didn’t look too happy. He guessed being duct-taped to a chair for hours and pissing themselves a few times would set anybody on edge.
Joker pulled free from one of them, then landed a roundhouse kick into the side of his partner's bald head. The guy collapsed to his knees, and Joker twisted away right into the barrel of a cheap Saturday night special. Baldy struggled to his feet while his partner shouted something in Spanish and pressed the gun’s muzzle into Joker’s temple. While they roughly patted him down, Joker side-eyed his own piece resting on the bed alongside the pillow.
“Where’s the money?” the taller one asked in heavily accented English.
“What money?” Joker especially enjoyed when the guy’s eyes bugged out, but not so much when he got up in his face and bitch-slapped him. He would’ve laughed at the punk, but of course he wore a big-ass ring, and now Joker had blood dripping into his eye. Plus, the gash on his bicep opened up, and now blood was running down his arm too.
The two exchanged more angry words in Spanish, then started tearing the room apart. Joker edged toward the bed, eyeing his gun, as one guy rifled through the bureau drawers while the other tore apart the bathroom.
Once they realized the money wasn’t there, Joker’s life would be over, and he’d never see his son again—or Daisy or anything else in this world. The digital clock on the bedside table told him his visitors had made him late. Daisy was very specific about the timetable, so he had to do something—and fuckin’ fast.
Chapter Twenty-One
Nothing on the planet compared to the adrenaline that raced through Daisy’s veins and that edgy, amped-up surge of energy before a job. Nothing except a night in bed with Joker. He could easily become her adrenaline rush, her addiction. The way he held her with his tatted biceps, and knew just where to—
She chuckled, remembering his aversion to snakes. Hopefully, his phobia wouldn’t affect his performance in the marshy ground behind the bar.
Standing across the street from the Green Parrot, Daisy sucked in the humid night air and recited her mantra: “The con is confidence—confidence is the con.” Another deep breath and she was ready.
She stepped inside the bar and eyed the plastic flamingos hanging from the ceiling. Kitschy and cheesy came to mind as Jimmy Buffet lamented about his broken flipflop. Definitely kitschy. A tourist trap touted as a local hangout, a true local would rather carve his eyes out with a fishing knife than be caught in the Green Parrot.
The huge chalkboard over the bar advertising late-night entertainment, along with the guys and girls wearing their Tommy Bahama palm tree outfits served as a solid cover for Esteban. The ruthless, cold-blooded killer with a few interesting flaws: He always wanted what he couldn’t have. He’d put a gun to his own head before he’d admit defeat in front of his underlings, and he obsessed about having complete control of every situation. Vengeance, retribution, and payback ruled his soul along with an unhealthy dose of invincibility. Alarming personality traits when taken individually, but combined and exaggerated, they laid the foundation of Daisy’s scam.
Without her blonde wig, she was quickly recognized, and the bartender smiled and raised a glass as an offering. She waved him away and smiled back, adjusted her money-filled purse, and retreated to the back hall.
An earlier phone call to Esteban from her burner had set up this meeting, and now she waited. No matter what the time, Esteban always made you wait. Daisy didn’t mind; she’d give him all the control he wanted … until she wouldn’t.
She checked her phone. Perfect. Twelve midnight. The
bar was in full swing, loud and noisy and no chance of interference from a good samaritan tourist. At twelve fifteen, one of Esteban’s flunkies retrieved her and brought her to the lower floor. Esteban’s office was a combination VIP lounge-slash-brothel. The thick pile burgundy carpeting, massive black and chrome desk, two enormous flat-screen TVs, and forest-green velvet loungers contrasted with the rough wooden floors, plastic decorations, and neon beach colors upstairs. A door behind his desk led to the rear of the building—the door Joker would be coming through in a few minutes.
His lack of security always floored her, but again, his reputation and his ego would not allow him to even consider that anyone would dare to cross him. Reason number one why Rico’s attempt at deceit would work in her favor: Esteban had only let Rico live after the counterfeiting episode because he needed his contacts in South Beach while he supervised the import of drugs in the Keys. After a few run-ins on the mainland, Esteban found that operating his “import” business was much easier in the laid-back Keys.
Esteban rose the minute Daisy entered his office. He rounded his desk and embraced her in a reserved manner like they were old acquaintances, when in reality, Esteban wanted her naked and under him. Daisy had one steadfast rule though: give attention to the men who don’t want it, and withhold it from the ones who do. That rule and Esteban’s obsession for wanting what he couldn’t have made this the perfect storm.
“Charlie, I’ve missed you.” Esteban kissed her on both cheeks, European style. “Beautiful as always.”
He waved his flunky away and then guided her into the room with his gaze drawn to her nicely displayed cleavage in another white silk shirt. He’d told her once he loved her in white. Why not make the man happy.
At forty, Esteban prided himself on his appearance. His buff, slim physique only wore European designer clothes, preferably Brioni and Ferragamo. He received weekly haircuts and manicures, and assumed an air of old-world charm. Did he really think it hid the slimy lizard that slithered through his psyche?
“You’re too kind.” Daisy motioned to her face. “Especially seeing as—”
“It pains me to ask what happened to such a flawless face.”
She paused, counted to three, then mashed her lips together and fluttered her lids until they were misty without tears. Esteban reached out to her.
Compassion—Step One.
“Rico.” Her whispered answer was even breathier than she’d planned.
“He did this to you?” He caressed her forearm, and she pulled away slightly as if any touch was unfavorable.
She nodded. “He wouldn’t listen to reason.”
Esteban cocked his head, and again she waited to a three count.
“I had no idea the money was counterfeit. He never intended to pay what he owed you, and I couldn’t allow him . . .” The slight catch in her voice suggested crying without the tears. Nice.
“Paying me in counterfeit bills was not smart, but this”—he motioned to her bruised face—“this is unacceptable.”
Sympathy—Step Two.
“I told him he’d never get away with fooling a man like you.” True. She’d said it more than once, but cocaine had fueled and inflated Rico’s ego to catastrophic proportions.
“And from your phone call, I’m assuming you’re going to make things right.” He eyed her oversized Gucci.
She glanced at the huge clock on the opposite wall. Joker was late. Had he not understood how every minute counted. He was to give her a few minutes to chitchat, overpower the idiot at the back door, then barge in with the threat of guns blazing. He’d catch Esteban and his minions off guard, then grab the bag before she handed it over. “Smash and grab” as Joker would say.
“Don’t you agree?” Esteban’s voice cut into her thoughts, and she forced herself to focus.
“Yes, of course.” What had he been saying?
“I believe in loyalty, that’s why your call last night and your presence here is so—”
“Loyal?”
The Hook—Step Three.
“Precisely.” He smiled, and she envisioned those reptiles slithering around in the marsh. “And loyalty should be rewarded, but first”—he extended his hand for the money—“let’s get business out of the way.”
Daisy half turned away from him, hoping the move projected teasing, not abject anxiety. “Should we have a drink first?”
Her suggestion clearly confused him. She usually thwarted any sociability, but her sweet smile won him over. That and getting his money back.
“Certainly.” His ferret eyes hadn’t left her Gucci bag as he poured an aged bourbon into two cut-glass tumblers.
Esteban closed the space between them and rested his fingers on her arm. “Why don’t we sit.” He motioned to the massive leather couch. “All our meetings, and we’ve never gotten to know each other.”
Where was Joker? He should’ve buzzed her by now. She didn’t want to start her seduction act too soon. Esteban’s sweet cologne wafted off him like toxic waste. She fought to breathe, fought for control as her legs moved her closer to the couch. The little hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and a thin sheen covered her palms. All the telltale signs of a job going bust.
Esteban settled on the couch and then patted the cushion next to him. She eased herself down, keeping some distance between them, and took the glass he offered while discreetly checking her watch. Fifteen minutes late. Fifteen minutes more than she wanted to spend with this parasite. What the heck could Joker be doing? Then she had another even scarier thought, Maybe he isn’t coming.
“So, I assume after this, your connection with Rico will be over.”
He squeezed her knee. She shifted slightly, but he didn’t remove his hand.
Okay, now she was freaking out. Joker was almost twenty minutes late. The Green Parrot was ten minutes from their motel with one turn off, and he was here yesterday. Her expression never wavered, but her stomach clenched tighter with each passing second.
Esteban jerked her to him until she was flush against his chest, his fingers leaving marks on her arms. “The money is not enough.” He attacked her neck with his wet lips, and she shuddered. “Fucking me now will prove your loyalty.”
His lips moved across her jawline and then covered her mouth. It took all her concentration to keep from letting out the scream that bubbled inside her. He forced his tongue inside her mouth, and she tasted the last meal he must’ve eaten. When she gagged, he took it as a moan of pleasure. His hands roamed to the waist of her pants, and she pushed him back.
No, no, no. The last step of a good con was the escape, not this.
His narrowed eyes tested her. One slip was all it would take for him to use the gun that rested on the coffee table, but it was more than just the fear of death. All the cons and all the times Daisy’d had sex were on her own terms. She’d set it up, she’d set the rules, and she had consented in her head if not her body. But this was about Esteban having power over her, dominating her in a way that subjugated women for years.
The thought of doing anything physical with him made her want to vomit, but it wasn’t her loathing for Esteban, it was more than that, it was—Joker. All they’d revealed to each other, all they shared would mean nothing. The vulgar, ugly words that people called her for years would become true if she went through with this disgusting act. The most difficult decision of her life loomed before her. If she backed down now, Esteban would never let her walk out alive, and if she gave in to him, she could never face Joker again.
Fuck, fuck, and double fuck!
Joker had blood dripping in his eye, blood running down his arm, and he was at least fifteen minutes behind schedule. Fifteen minutes more than he wanted Daisy with Esteban. If there were ever a person life liked to screw with, it was him. Damn good thing he’d changed his clothes ’cause he never would’ve been able to fight those bastards off in that designer shit.
While they were busy trashing the room, looking for the money, he’d made a dive for hi
s gun. After that, it was like a scene out of Scarface with guns blazing and bullets flying. And yeah, he was using real bullets. He let Daisy believe he’d switched them out for the blanks—but fuck that.
Joker winged one of them, but the sound of sirens sent them all running like rats into a sewer. He’d had just enough time to throw everything into the Camry and beat it out of there. Four cop cars with their sirens blasting had passed him on the road, but he didn’t look back. A quick glance in the rearview mirror told him he wasn’t being followed. He expected the cops made routine visits to that dump, so a little blood and mayhem were probably the regular.
Ten minutes later, he pulled up behind the Green Parrot. The parking lot was packed, which was good for the noise factor in case things got out of control. He dug into his duffel bag and nabbed his surgi-kit, then pulled out some gauze to staunch the cut on his face until the blood stopped running in his eye. He had a feeling he’d need both eyes working and functional. His stomach churned when he thought of Daisy in there with that piece of shit, Esteban.
After what just happened, Joker was amped up with adrenaline kicking through him like he’d snorted a few lines. The rush … the thrill … it was all part of the intimidation. Nothing beat it, except a night in bed with Daisy. The way she worked him over and made him experience things for the first time?—shit, he had to keep it together and play this out.
Joker skimmed along the edge of the blacktop. He picked up a hefty piece of driftwood on the edge of the high grass, then hid in the marshland, scoping out the guard who was staring at his phone by the back door to Esteban’s office. Maybe his girlfriend was sending him nudies.
Joker swatted away the gnats and mosquitos that buzzed around his head and tried to ignore the swishing of water around his feet. He crept to the backside of the building, and the guard never looked up. Joker’s biker buddies said he was the best at appearing and disappearing. Here one minute, gone the next—like a fuckin’ ghost. Would’ve been a cool road name.
He hefted the driftwood and slammed it into the guard’s back. A whoosh of air and the clatter of the guy’s phone hitting the pavement were the only sounds made. He was just that good. He picked up the phone and pitched it into the swamp, then dragged the limp punk into the marsh and gave him a good kick to make sure he stayed quiet.
Beyond Redemption: Joker (Serpents MC Las Vegas Book 1) Page 14
