The Beast of Boston

by JL Mac

  I smell him lean in even closer to me from behind, his fresh scent coaxing my anxiety to ratchet up a few more notches. Though I can’t see him, I feel him, and I smell him. “You study your opponent and they study you. You study them studying you, just waiting on that chink in the armor to present itself. Then you throw everything you’ve got at them. You take them down so they don’t get up anytime soon.” With each syllable his breath feathers across my ear lobe and cheek and I can’t tell if the goose bumps prickling my skin is a result of residual heat from my “audition” last night, the animal attraction between us or his thinly veiled threat. Either way, I can barely breathe.

  Just as he finishes his speech The Juke appears to snap, practically foaming at the mouth and he hurls himself at Beast. He twists left then right, dodging The Juke’s haphazard combo. Momentum from The Juke’s attempt at landing a right hook tugs his body forward and to his left, directly into Beast’s brutal right uppercut. His glove lands squarely under The Juke’s chin forcing his head to snap back with merciless force. A mist of sweat, blood and saliva flies from The Juke’s face and he tumbles to the mat like a rag doll. Carrick ‘The Beast of Boston’ Ferguson doesn’t even bat an eye. Before The Juke has even hit the mat, Beast is returning to his corner like he just took the trash out.

  “Breathe, Abigail Tally,” he whispers, his lips brushing lightly against the rim of my ear. Flushed and embarrassed and feeling amped up with an irrational anger, I get to my feet and smooth my dress but keep my back to him. “You are going to meet your first client at The Harbor Plaza at eleven o’clock tonight. Rooftop suite,” he declares as calm as ever.

  “Wait! I—what am I supposed to do—with the client—I mean, did they say what they want because I’m not willing to do just anything,” I blurt in a rush.

  “You’ll do whatever this client wants,” he orders nonchalantly rendering me speechless with my eyes wide and my mouth dry.

  Without another word or glance in my direction, Beast pulls on his suit jacket and waltzes right out of his office leaving me alone with the panic I’m struggling to keep concealed.

  Chapter Eleven

  Beast

  The stunned look on her face earlier in the day turned me on more than it should have. That’s what gave me the brilliant idea to fuck with her head for the rest of the day and night. Maybe, with a little skill I can figure this woman and her motives out. That look of fear and fascination on her face today has me craving to see it again. If there was any doubt before that I’m a sick fuck, there isn’t now.

  Maybe it was the way her lips fell open just a bit when I’d informed her that she’d be an escort. Maybe it was the fact that her chest stopped rising and falling. Maybe it was the hard set of her shoulders. Maybe it was the way she froze, mesmerized, instead of running when she saw me blood-spattered in my office. Maybe it was the shock in her eyes. There was curiosity in those blue pools, too. Maybe it was all of it, working in unison that had me checking the time all day long, knowing she would be at the club tonight.

  The hotel phone rings, snapping me from my twisted thoughts.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Ferguson, your guest has arrived,” Miguel at the front desk announces.

  “Thank you, Miguel.”

  I check the time, noting that she’s punctual. A foreign-feeling smirk has my lips tilting up. I don’t remember the last time I smiled so much. I guess I would be happy to smile if my reasons for it weren’t so fucking wrong, and dark. It feels like it takes her decades to take the elevator up here. I pace the length of the room, wondering what she’s going to think, say, do…

  Instead of pacing like a fucking nervous teenager I go back to the fully stocked bar in the sitting area of my suite. I grab a bottle of whiskey not paying much mind to the brand. At this point it doesn’t really matter. I just need something to take the edge off. Three light knocks against the door have me tossing back my drink in one gulp. Setting the glass back on the bar I check my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. I smooth and straighten my tie before heading toward the door. I bet my gorgeous little liar is having a panic attack in the fucking hallway right now.

  Good.

  I love the idea of her being nervous, on edge, scared. It will make extracting her secrets that much easier. I pause at the door, my hand on the knob and take a deep breath.

  The gasp she let out is music to my ears. “Ms. Tally,” I greet her and wave her into my suite. Abigail looks at me with confusion wrinkling her brows.

  “I—I’m confused. You said to meet my clien—”

  “I won’t stand here all night, Ms. Tally,” I warn, once again motioning for her to come inside. I watch as her eyes dart from one side to the other checking the hall for what? A savior? I don’t even bother trying to hide the smirk on my face. Fucking with her head is entirely too much fun. Most entertainment I’ve had in a while.

  I’ve wanted her since I laid eyes on her and here she is, her skin looking ablaze like her long hair. She says nothing for a long moment and I bite my tongue, taking in the sight of her. The silence is a reminder of the moment she’d passed by my office today. I liked that she saw me for what I am. Tony Palma’s blood on my sleeve is all the evidence a woman should need to know that I’m violent, dangerous, and I won’t change. This life, this way of living, is deeply rooted, inescapable. I of all people know this.

  “I don’t believe you, you know?” I say as I walk past her and settle into a chair in the sitting area. “But you already know that don’t you?”

  “I’m sorry, I thought you said I was supposed to meet my first client here tonight. What’s this? Some kind of test?” she asks looking around the room like something is going to jump out and get her.

  “Answer me,” I demand evenly.

  “What don’t you believe?” She shrugs impatiently lifting her fine-boned shoulders as she shakes her head from side to side. I have to hand it to her; she’d fit in well with one of my crew. The girl knows how to play dumb and guard her secrets in the face of a threat. Though, the brief thought of her beneath one of my men every night has me feeling like destroying someone’s face with my fists.

  “Who you say you are. I know you’re lying.” To that she raises an eyebrow.

  “No. I’m not,” she insists.

  “Sit,” I point to the seat across from me but she doesn’t obey my order.

  “Murphy already searched my place. I don’t know what I have to do to prove that you’re wrong about me. Here, dig through my bag. I’m not hiding anything,” she says haughtily, shoving her bag across the coffee table between us with enough force to send a few of her things sliding out. I smirk at her and silently applaud her efforts. I also take a minute to thank God that I happened to recognize Slip’s work right at the beginning. I don’t dare to think about what could have happened if this interloper had made it in to Eden unnoticed.

  “You like a good story,” I note picking the displaced novel up from the opening of her bag. It appears to be the same one she had been reading in my office before. I lean back a few inches in my seat, casually looking over her book. I crack it open at the back and fan the pages to where she’s placed a bookmark a quarter through the book. “Let me tell you one. Once upon a time, a foolish woman thought she could ruse a crew of bandits. She thought she’d safely infiltrate her way into the tight knit group. She thought wrong.” Gripping the rest of the pages in my fingertips, I fan those until the copyright page makes an unimpressive flicking sound as it passes by my thumb nail and falls to lie with the rest of the pages. I squint my eyes at the page and clench my jaw at what I see there.

  “Storytelling isn’t your niche. I’d stick to my day job if I were you.” Her dry tone makes me want to fuck her mouth if only to keep her from talking.

  “I didn’t read the book but I saw the movie,” I offer, still staring at the damning evidence in my hand. I force myself to shut the book and stare ahead out the large windows showing the Boston skyline. “The yard man did it.
He was hired of course by the ex-mother-in-law. She wanted the kid.” Absently, I turn my gaze on her.

  “Super. Thanks for spoiling my book for me.”

  “Your book,” I bow my head, sitting her book back on the coffee table. “Now, ready for work?” I clap my hands and smile widely at her, enjoying the doubtful expression that is flickering in her big eyes.

  “Well, yes, of course, but… I—who’s the guy? Client, I mean.”

  “You eager for your client, Ms. Tally?”

  “I am,” she gives one tight nod, refusing to appear anything but confident.

  “Oh, no you’re not,” I warn through my teeth.

  “I’m good to go. Really. Who’s my first client?” She shrugs one shoulder making a thick tendril of her hair slip across her chest. Her fingers enfold the shining strands and begin snaking the lock of hair through her first and second fingers like a glowing red snake in her hand.

  “You sure?” I stand from my seat.

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “You do understand that your client is paying you good money and a substantial amount of it. You will do as he says. Play by his rules. Do what pleases him most,” I trail off.

  “Yes. Okay. So who is it?” Her confidence slips just a little and I watch her throat move up and down as she swallows hard.

  “Me,” I can’t help the grin and it only widens as her twirling fingers still, releasing her own hair. Her expression turns from shock to suspicion to anger to… something else entirely then back again.

  “Scared of me Abigail?” I move closer, encroaching upon her personal space. I gently flick the length of hair she’d been twirling from her chest so that it rest down her back with the rest of her hair and without warning I do what I’ve been dying to do since I saw her wild locks. I lace my fingers through it, close my fist and pull her tightly to me until her full breasts are crushed up against me. I tower over her and she’s held immobile but she stays put, refusing to give me an ounce of fear. It only makes me want her more.

  “No. What makes you think I’d be scared of you?” My little lying siren asks on a confident whisper and goddamn her for it. I really wish I wasn’t going to have to kill her but with each lie that tumbles from that lush mouth, her noose only tightens.

  “Because you’re a smart woman.”

  “Been accused of worse,” she grits and something fiery radiates from her giving me pause. This woman is the greatest mystery. I lean down and nuzzle my nose into the space behind her ear and inhale her scent. She smells slightly sweet, clean, and purely feminine. My cock strains against my zipper and I press my hips harder against her body. A muffled moan bubbles up from her, spurring me on.

  “Do you want me to fuck you, Ms. Tally?”

  “Doesn’t matter what I want. You’re my client, remember?”

  “Glad you understand this arrangement,” I say forcing myself with great effort to release her abruptly. She teeters on her heels for a moment and I fight the urge to steady her body with mine. Under me. Legs around my waist. Cock buried to the root. I turn away from her and head for another glass of whiskey and my laptop.

  “I… what are we doing?”

  “I’m working. You can do what you’d like. TV, sleep, room service, read your book,” I growl the last part about her book. In the reflection of the mirror backing the in-suite bar I see her glance around the room like it’s a puzzle to figure out.

  “Sit down. Have a drink. I have work to do,” I order refusing to allow myself to keep looking at her beautiful form.

  “What?”

  “Sit.”

  “I thought we—you said you were my client. I assumed—”

  “In a hurry, Abigail?” I say making sure she can’t miss the bored tone in my voice as I take my fresh whiskey over to the desk that my computer is resting on.

  “Do I still get paid for sitting on my ass while you work?” She huffs. I cut my eyes to her from behind my laptop in warning.

  “Yes. I’ll pay you for your time, minus my fee of course.”

  “Which is?”

  “Don’t worry about those things. You’ll make a whack of cash for doing nothing. Read your book.”

  “Why? You’ve already told me what happens.”

  “Maybe I lied.”

  “Humph,” she huffs then pulls her bag into her lap.

  “Who are you?” I ask again.

  “Abigail Tally,” she repeats with her tone monotonous. She’s sticking to her guns. For now.

  “No you aren’t.” I smirk shaking my head.

  “So who am I then?” She volleys with a raised brow.

  “In over your fucking head,” I say with both warning and resignation in my voice. Abigail tucks a pair of earphones into her ears and goes about ignoring me as best she can. She folds herself into a neat stack of arms and legs and hips and waist on the couch. I stare at her for a moment, letting my eyes trace the curve of her body, the slopes and valleys, and dips and peaks…

  I work for as long as I can stand being in the same room with her without both us covered in sweat and the scent of sex. I finally get to my feet, slip into my coat, and look over to her just to see she’s fallen asleep on the couch. I go to her and trace a lock of hair resting over her jaw. I push it away from her face, and tilt my head to the side, studying her features. Asleep, she’s peaceful, goddamn angelic even. I grit my teeth and force myself to look away. I should leave. It’s hard to not take her in a fit of lust but its even harder seeing her sleeping like that knowing that she’s more than likely doomed and it will probably be done by my hand. I slip my hands into my pockets, compelled to step away from her. She’s already done it. She’s already fucking with my head, my judgment, my ability to lead High knoll with the confidence and decisiveness the way Orin expects me to. I can’t have that. I won’t allow a woman—no matter how beautiful and tempting—to ruin what Orin has entrusted me with, his empire, the same empire that has stolen so much from him. To lose it now would be an insult to the things he’s endured and fought for. It would also be an insult to the boxing career I ghosted on in order to lead High Knoll and the men I consider my brothers.

  The slight buzz of my cell phone drags my attention from Abigail—whoever she is—to the phone in my pocket. I take the call in hopes of it being a development in identifying who Abigail really is or finding out who snatched the Italian girl.

  “Murph,” I greet him.

  “I got news. Someone’s been selling girls to a Czech outfit in New York.”

  “How many girls?” I say quietly.

  “A handful as far as I can tell. Maybe six or seven so far.”

  “And who are the Czechs selling to?”

  “The highest bidder. They’ve been holding auctions every other month. Calling it the květina pochod, Flower March.”

  “Fuckin’ Christ,” I mutter knowing that trafficking women—potentially the Italian girl—is going to cause a multi-outfit feud. This sort of thing will result in a feeding frenzy spanning two cities, maybe more, and it’s going to get ugly fast. The Italians here think we had something to do with their girl going missing. The Italians in New York will back them thanks to their marriage affiliations and alliances with each other. We are chasing our local Russians and Asians on a hunch which will only start a blood bath between us and in the meantime, a fucking Czech outfit in New York, who is affiliated with our local Russians, is selling the merchandise that started all of this. One thing is for certain; there will be bloodshed for all of us. It would almost seem as if we’d been set on the path to destruction. Mob wars always come with plenty of heat from law enforcement too.

  I take a deep breath, allowing all of my thoughts to organize themselves into some semblance of a plan. Glancing to the sleeping form of Abigail, I try to decide what’s next.

  “Let’s grab a Russian and one of the Asians. Find out what they know about the girls.”

  “You got it.”

  “Call me when you find out who the fuck is about to c
ause world war three for us.” I end the call and note the waiting text message in my inbox. Clicking on it, Slip’s name pops up and his message is simple.

  She called twice today. I didn’t answer.

  I grit my teeth hard enough to send bolts of pain through my jaw. Simultaneously, and in no specific order I have to urge to go to the gym or fuck long and hard until my frustrations are mollified. A deep growl of frustration vibrates through me. I ball my fists and try to breathe in and out until I don’t feel the root-deep urge to murder someone. Blue eyes belonging to my personal temptress flutter open and lift to find mine staring holes in the dress hugging her body. She plucks the earphones from her ears and licks her lips then swallows like she’s read my mind.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I keep my mouth wired shut, my breathing even and deep, my fists balled, my feet firmly planted as waves of fury wash over me. I don’t trust myself to touch her right now. I fear I would choke the life out of her before I know her secrets, and it would all be because I’m frustrated with business, and the confirmation she’s trying to get her hands on more counterfeit documents.