by A. Zavarelli
I’m no good at being helpless, so I do what I do best.
I climb onto his lap and his eyes open slowly.
“Scarlett.”
He’s pissy with me, and I don’t blame him.
But I’m pissy with him too.
And with the whole fucking world for that matter.
“Enjoying the show?”
“What do you care?” he replies.
“I thought we’d already established that you were mine to play with?”
My hands move up his chest before he traps them between us.
“Well, I’m done playing. So find another victim.”
My chin trembles, but I continue on with the charade, because it’s the only way I know.
“Did you know that I used to be a dancer too?”
I grind my ass into his hard on for emphasis.
His eyes darken and I lean into him, laying claim to his lips with mine before he yanks me away again.
“No,” he says.
“I know you want me,” I argue. “I can feel how much you do.”
He doesn’t answer. Or give in. Not even a little bit.
And the threat of tears is real, and I can’t let him see me cry. Because you don’t ever let them see you cry.
I bury my face in his neck and breathe in his scent. Nothing has ever smelled so good.
“You’ve messed me up real good, you know.”
He doesn’t respond, but he does touch my back.
“Is that a truth or a lie?” he asks.
“It’s the truth this time,” I swear.
He isn’t convinced though.
“Please.” My voice breaks. “Just for tonight. Then you’ll never have to see my face again.”
There’s a long moment where I hold my breath, unsure what happens next. But one hand on my back becomes two, and he wraps his arms around me, pulling me in. His lips are at my ear, stirring the primal need in both of us when he whispers.
“So dance for me then.”
Only, he doesn’t let me go.
I reach up and tangle my fingers in his hair, tipping his head back so I can kiss his throat while I roll my hips over his erection.
I am desperate for this. For him. I am desperate to feel something good. Anything to take away the hurt inside of me.
Rory takes it away like nobody else can.
He leans forward and captures my mouth with his. And we kiss like we’ve never kissed before. This thing between us is a force of nature.
I want him.
I want him so fucking much, and I tell him so.
He takes me by the hand and drags me out the back door to his all-black Dodge Challenger. Like most men, Rory enjoys the vibrations and the sounds these babies make. And I will give him this.
He’s hot as fuck driving it.
He isn’t as flashy as Crow with his blue GranTarismo Sport because Rory is a classic. He doesn’t need the bells and whistles.
All he needs is someone who gets him.
And I’m here, and I tell him not to take me back to his place.
“Let’s do something crazy,” I beg him.
“What did you have in mind, Satan?”
“Show me what this car is made of.”
He smiles, and it’s all dimples. “Does that get ye hot, sweetheart?”
“Only one surefire way to find out.”
I relax my head and settle in while Rory drives. Far away, to an empty stretch of highway. I want him to keep going, forever and ever, with one hand on my thigh, the other on the wheel.
I toy with the radio and find a good station.
Wreak Havoc by Skylar Grey comes on.
I turn it up and Rory switches gears and lays down on the accelerator. Seventy. Eighty. Ninety and climbing.
He rolls down the windows and my hair whips around my face. I laugh and scream and push my face out the window. He pushes his hand between my thighs and inside of me.
“No knickers?” he yells over the music and the wind.
“No knickers.”
I spread my legs for him and unbutton the top of my dress. I’m wet for him, for this, for the adrenaline high I needed so badly.
He gives it to me hard.
Fucking me with his hand while he drives.
“This fast enough for you?”
“Faster,” I tell him.
The speedometer climbs and so does the tempo of his hand. I’m close, and I could get off on this. Only this.
I unbuckle my seat belt and climb over the gear shift instead.
“Jesus Christ,” he grunts when I straddle him.
“I’ll do all the work.”
“Scarlett.”
It’s a half-assed protest cut short when I peel down the top of his jeans and fetch his cock.
“Keep your hands on the wheel,” I tell him.
And then I use him to get me off. Grinding all over him, but not letting him inside.
The vibrations of the car rumble up beneath the seat while the vibration of his groans rumble against my chest.
I don’t want it to end.
Rory wants desperately for it to begin. His cock is plump and painfully swollen, leaking pre-cum as I rub against him.
He licks at my collar bone and then bites me. And for a split second, I let him grope my tits before I make him put his hand back on the wheel.
“I’m going to fuck you like a King,” I tell him.
“Scarlett?”
“Yes?”
“Get the fuck on my cock. Now.”
I get the fuck on his cock.
“Christ,” he groans. “Now fuck me like your life depends on it.”
I lean forward and whisper in his ear. “Keep your hands on the wheel. Satan’s about to take you for a ride.”
I dig my fingers into his shoulders and fuck him into oblivion. It’s wild, and it’s loud and there is nothing else in the world as hot as the two of us together. The combination of the speed and the adrenaline hurls us both over the edge.
He comes hard and then hits the brakes, skidding onto the side of the road.
We are breathless and still clawing at each other. Kissing and groping and thrusting and grinding.
I yank him back and kiss his throat, sucking on the skin until I leave a mark.
“Tell me I can’t be outdone,” I demand.
“Scarlett, what in the bleeding hell is going on with you?”
“Say it. Tell me no other woman will ever please you the way I do.”
He kisses me, and it’s soft this time. “No other woman comes close.”
“I just need to forget.”
I squeeze my eyes shut when they start to burn.
“Make me forget.”
“How, sweetheart?”
He brushes my hair back over my shoulders and kisses me all over. It’s full of reverence and this is how I know he’s really falling for me.
I have a definite falling sensation too.
Into a vortex that I can’t get out of.
“I don’t care,” I tell him, and it’s frantic. “I just need to get high. On you. On everything. I need to feel alive.”
There is concern in his eyes, but he doesn’t voice it.
“Whatever you want, baby doll,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
24
RORY
SCARLETT ISN’T the sort of girl you take to the movies.
You don’t buy her flowers and chocolates to sweeten her mood.
You take her to an armory.
“What is this place?” she asks.
I don’t answer because I like watching her figure things out on her own.
The road up here is private. The land owned by our Russian mate Alexei. It’s in the middle of bleeding nowhere and the lads and I come up here from time to time to blow off steam.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she asks, and now she’s stiffer than a board in my passenger seat.
Something has changed, and as usual, I can’t keep up.
> “You said you wanted to get high.”
“So you bring me into the forest?”
Fuck.
The forest.
Scarlett is tougher than nails, so it’s easy to forget sometimes all the hell she’s been through.
I point out the window and into the distance where the targets are set up.
She’s quiet for a minute, glancing at the targets, then back to me. Questioning me with her eyes. And it’s time we had this out.
“Scarlett, do ye not feel safe with me?” I ask. “Do ye honestly believe I’d ever do anything to hurt you?”
“No,” she says. “I know you wouldn’t do anything.”
Her voice is sincere, and it’s a baby step.
“Aye,” I answer. “Now, how do ye feel about blowing shit up?”
She smiles. “I want to.”
“Yeah ye do, baby.”
We get out of the car and I take her hand. She doesn’t fight me on this.
The bunker is underground, accessible only by fingerprint scan. I open it up and lead the way, Scarlett trailing behind.
A minute later, she’s in awe. Walking around the space and perving on the arsenal. I’ve never seen anything so hot as her checking out weaponry in her strappy black heels. They look like bondage on her feet and I’m hard and checking out her legs when she asks if she can throw a grenade.
“No.”
She pouts.
“What is that thing?” she points to the heavy artillery.
“That would be a bazooka.”
“A bazooka?” she shrieks and then tips her head back in a fit of laughter. “Of course your crew would have fucking bazookas.”
“We like to be prepared.”
“And what about that one?” she points to another.
“Flame thrower.”
“Right. And this?”
“That’s a Katana.”
“And what do you need a Katana for?”
“No real reason,” I admit. “They’re just cool as shite.”
She nods in agreement and traces her finger over the blunt edge of the sword’s blade.
Hard, so fucking hard.
“So what do I get to play with?” she asks.
I adjust myself in my pants and she catches me.
“Are you getting all hot and bothered?” she smiles. “Because I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t too.”
As much as I want to squeeze my cock back into her and fuck her in this room that isn’t what I brought her for. So I make the rounds and grab a few guns. Revolvers and semi-autos of different weights and calibers.
But then Scarlett points to an AK-47 on the wall.
“That one too,” she says. “I want to try it.”
Of course she does.
I grab a couple of those too and then load her down with ammo before I gesture her outside. We lay everything out on the wooden bench in front of the targets and Scarlett is antsy. Bouncing on the balls of her feet, fingers itching to touch.
“First things first,” I tell her. “We need to sort out your dominant eye.”
“Okay,” she agrees. “Tell me what to do.”
I stand behind her and reach for her arms, forming a triangle with her hands and then extending them.
“Have a look out there at that target,” I say. “And put it between that wee triangle.”
She does.
When she pulls it back, she says it’s her left eye. We test it a few more times to be sure and then continue.
“We’ll start with the Glock.”
I show her the basics first. The magazine and the trigger safety.
“I fired one like this,” she tells me. “And it wouldn’t fire a second time.”
That’s a conversation for another time.
“See this wee bit here. That’s the slide.”
I show her how it works and then explain the trigger.
“The weight of your finger needs to be evenly distributed. Ye need to fully depress this middle bit as well, or it won’t fire a second time. That’s the safety mechanism.”
“Okay.”
I hand it off to her.
“Aim it downrange and just get used to it in your hands,” I say. “The weight of it.”
She reaches out and grabs it, and it’s heavy in her small hands, but she handles it well.
“You carry this thing around on you all the time?” she asks in disbelief.
“Aye.” I smirk. “I do.”
“Jesus.”
“Bend your knees a wee bit.” I grab her hips and press a hand to her lower back. “Lock out your elbows and lean into the target.”
“How does it feel?” I ask.
“It feels good,” she says. “Now can I shoot it?”
Scarlett likes to feel powerful. There’s nothing more powerful than this. What she’s about to feel.
And I want to give that to her.
I teach her everything I’ve learned over the years. Everything Niall taught me. I show her the parts and how they all work together. I explain the difference between the revolvers and the semis and she feels the difference in recoil between them.
She’s a semi type of girl, she decides. And unlike the physical self-defense I tried to teach her, I actually have her full attention this time around.
Scarlett’s a good student. She’s by no means a pro, but I’m confident that she’ll be able to defend herself should she ever need to pick up a gun again. She learns quickly and follows my instruction well. Soon, the target has chunks of debris flying out as she hits it over and over again.
When we get to the AK’s, she’s surprised how easy they are to use.
“Why do ye suppose third world countries give them to child soldiers?” I ask.
She frowns, and I don’t want to dampen the mood, but I also need her to understand this is real. The lads and I have an arsenal, sure, but we don’t live in the Wild West and we don’t go around shooting them every chance we get.
We pack up, and she’s quiet.
“Ye did a grand job of it,” I tell her.
“I liked it,” she says. “You were right. It does feel like a high.”
I nod, and I know what she’s thinking about. Who she’s thinking about.
“I need their names, Scarlett.”
“No,” she says. “You don’t.”
“I can’t help you if ye aren’t honest with me. If ye don’t trust me.”
“It’s not about trust,” she says. “I’ve sown these seeds, and you can be damn sure that I’m the one who’s going to reap them.”
“Do ye have any idea what it’s like to hurt someone you didn’t mean to?” I ask.
“No,” she bites back. “Every person I ever hurt was because I wanted to.”
I sigh, and it only incites her further.
“I know you think you’re going to save my soul, or whatever. You Irish boys are big on that. But you can’t save what isn’t there, Rory. You think I’m going to regret it, but I won’t.”
“You can’t know that,” I argue. “And I won’t stand for ye to do this.”
“You don’t have to allow me anything,” she says. “I’ll do what I want. With or without you.”
I grab her by the waist and hoist her up onto the bench, pressing my body between her legs as I cup her face in my hand. I don’t know what to say to her to make her understand. It’s the same argument we’ve been having for months.
She’s still throwing a tantrum because I wouldn’t let her kill the butcher.
For all of Scarlett’s strength and stubborn will, she can’t see what lies beneath. Her fragile heart. The one beating in her chest right now, beneath my other palm.
“You kill people all the time,” she whispers to me. “And you’re still good.”
“It’s not that simple,” I tell her. “You didn’t know me before.”
“Before what?” she asks.
“Before my father. He was my first. The first kill.”
She’s quiet, her
eyes moving about my face, and some of her walls crumble under the weight of my admission. So I tell her the thing I haven’t said aloud to anyone, even my brothers in the syndicate. I confess my sins to make her understand.
“He had a heavy hand. Sometimes with me. But especially my mammy.”
“You shouldn’t be telling me this,” Scarlett whispers.
There’s worry in her eyes. Worry that this thing between us- this constant push and pull- is getting stronger. Bigger. And she can’t stop it.
I don’t want her to stop it.
“He was a drunk and a slob and a leach who couldn’t hold down a job. And he’d come home and take it out on her. He did it for years. I’d hear her crying in the bedroom at night. She told me not to concern myself with it, for her sake.”
“So I didn’t. I stuffed it down and took what he doled out to us, provoking him so he’d give it to me the worst. I thought if he went after me, it would stop him from going after her. But it didn’t.”
“Rory…” Scarlett’s clinging to me, begging me not to continue.
“I was thirteen. And I was so fucking angry. Full of rage and hatred. For him and for everything. And one night he came home, started having at it. I was tired. And I was bigger by then. Stronger too. I listened to him slap her around for five minutes before I just snapped.”
I look right into Scarlett’s eyes and admit the truth.
“I beat him with my bare hands. And when I finished, there wasn’t a thing left of his face.”
“You’re good,” she insists. “You are, Rory.”
“It never goes away,” I tell her. “I’ll never get that image out of my head. The blood off my hands. My mammy has never looked at me the same way since. I had to leave.”
She isn’t telling me I’m good anymore.
“It felt good to kill him, Scarlett. But it changes you forever. I won’t allow ye to live that way. I don’t want ye to be like that.”
“I’m already worse,” she insists. “I’m the worst thing you ever could have come across.”
“You aren’t.”
She reaches up and grabs hold of my face, crushing her lips to mine and crawling onto my body. Clinging to me in a way she’s never done before.
It isn’t sexual. It’s something deeper. A primal need to feel safe.
“You might think our codes are ridiculous,” I tell her. “But we take care of our women. I’m going to take care of you too. That means righting the wrongs that have been done to ye. Tainting my own soul so that yours will stay intact. I want to do that for ye. And I want you to let me.”
