by Jen Davis
The envelope on his passenger seat told a very different story. It had been waiting under the windshield wiper when he left for work this morning. A five-inch lock of grey hair rested inside, no doubt his grandmother’s. Sucre always delivered his message crystal clear; no one was out of his reach.
He scratched his head as he pulled his beat-up blue truck to a stop, waiting out the red light. The windows were down, the smell of freshly cut grass reminding him how far he was from home. He could cover the distance from the work site to his apartment in a half hour, but this neighborhood might as well have sat on another planet, it functioned so differently from his own.
Maybe the environment tricked Robby and Olivia into thinking he was a regular guy. They’d only ever seen him in places like this, where people could walk around without checking over their shoulder. Where a stray dog posed the biggest threat, and guys like Sucre only existed in the movies.
He took one more deep breath as the light turned green before hitting the accelerator. It would be awesome to belong here, to have a dog and a kid and someone like Olivia in his bed every night, but those kinds of fantasies were dangerous. Sucre would never let him go. The best he could hope for was to save his grandma, then disappear to somewhere his sick fuck of a boss could never find him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Brick
The king of Brick’s corner of the underworld was a fifty-year-old Mexican with a bald head and an expensive purple suit that would have looked ridiculous on anyone else. Anyone who might hesitate to order the skin flayed from your body.
Sucre proved daily he had no qualms about such things. Still, Brick knew the man refused to think of himself as a thug. He took pride in those over-priced suits and the sparkling rings he wore on every finger. Even his name was an attempt to sound like something other than he was. He’d told Brick once after too many tequila shots it meant sugar in French, and he thought it sounded slick.
Brick didn’t know his real name, and it didn’t really matter. The Sucre persona was firmly in place long before they ever met.
Sucre waited for him on the plush throne in the back of El Cabron, the dark bar where he held court. An actual fucking throne with gold trim and blue velvet seat cushions. No one else dared touch it unless they wanted their fingers broken. Brick knew the bitter lesson better than anyone, since he’d be the one to break those fingers.
No less than four women ever sat at Sucre’s feet. He showed off an assortment of girls, black, white, Hispanic. They were different every day, but they all had the same things in common; they were young, barely dressed, and they wanted either the power or the drugs Sucre could provide. They’d all end up in the man’s bed tonight.
“Brick.” Sucre smiled and swung out his arm, palm up, in a royal gesture of greeting.
He ducked his head in deference, then took a seat in the chair always kept empty for him to the left of the throne. He said nothing. Sucre would let him know when he wanted him to talk.
The bar smelled like stale beer and weed. Everyone here smoked freely. Sucre owned the place, and no cop had ever dared step foot inside. Not if he wanted to step out again.
Sucre stretched lazily in his seat, his body undulating like the serpent living under his skin. He nudged one of the girls with his shiny black wingtip shoe. “We’ve got company, hermosa. Why don’t you greet Brick properly?”
The blonde nodded her head without hesitation and walked on her knees the short distance to Brick’s feet. She barely looked eighteen, but her eyes were old and her spirit, broken. The heavy make-up she wore barely covered the purple bruise on her left cheekbone. He’d seen this kind of girl too many times to count, and he wanted no part of what she had to offer.
The girl would probably fuck him right here if Sucre said the word. She put her hands on his knees and fitted her body between his legs. “What’s your pleasure, baby?”
“Get me a beer,” he growled, fighting the revulsion from her touch. This girl was every bit as damaged and dirty as him. It should have been a match made in heaven, but he wanted out of this cesspool. Not to mention, an eighteen year old struck him as more of a child than anyone old enough to be in his bed. Like the groupies at the gym, the girls Sucre commanded didn’t turn him on; they made him sad. There was no room for feeling anything in a place like this.
The tiny girl sauntered off toward the bar, her high heels clicking on the floor and her short skirt barely covering the cheeks of her ass. Sucre shot him a knowing look. “Only a beer, huh? One day, I’m going to find a girl you can’t resist, hijo.”
He dug his nails into his palms as he forced an easy smile. “You know I like to find my own pussy, sir, but I appreciate the offer.”
“Por supuesto. Nothing but the best for you, Brick. How’s your grandmother doing? I hear she got herself a haircut this week.” The man never missed an opportunity to rub salt in a wound.
He shrugged. It was futile to pretend like he didn’t care, but they played the game. Sucre’s men sent him a picture of his grandmother almost every day. While she slept, while she had lunch, even once during a sponge bath. He swallowed his rage and forced his words to sound bland. “I appreciate you asking about her.”
Sucre answered with a sly smile, and he imagined a mouthful of sharpened teeth beneath his lips. “Anything for family.” Their dance complete, it was time to move on to business. “So, tell me how things are progressing with Tre.”
He struggled to find an answer his boss would find acceptable. “He has a lot of enthusiasm for the job.”
Sucre tilted his head. “You say it like it’s a bad thing. I want my boys to enjoy their work.”
“Whatever you say.” The slight narrowing of Sucre’s eyes kept him talking. “I only want to make sure he maintains some discipline. He hasn’t crossed any lines. I—We want ’em to be afraid to cross you, but not afraid to do business with you. I don’t want anything to mess with the operation.”
The blonde returned with his beer, but he kept his attention firmly on his boss. Sucre steepled his hands in front of his chin, considering Brick’s words. “You’re right. This is why you’re my guy, Brick. Big man like you, people might underestimate your intelligence, but not me. You’re always thinking.” He tapped at his temple. “And you can rest assured, I know it.”
Why did those words feel like a warning?
“I’m feeling a bit…unsettled. Why don’t you come to my office for a few minutes, so we can finish talking?”
Fuck.
Brick finally accepted the beer and took a deep pull from the bottle. He hated it when Sucre dragged him to the back room. It wasn’t so much an office as a room dominated by a king-sized bed with red satin sheets and chairs lining the walls on either side. Sucre intended to fuck his girls and give Brick a front-row seat. It was one of a thousand ways his boss flexed his dominance. The only small blessing was Sucre no longer asked him to join in.
Sucre led the way, the girls and Brick at his heels. As soon as the door closed, two of the girls scurried to Sucre’s feet, removing his shoes. The third carefully removed his jacket and hung it on the back of one of the chairs. There would be hell to pay if Sucre found any wrinkles.
He sat down and faced the show. He knew better than to avert his eyes, but he let the scene in front of him drift slightly out of focus.
One layer at a time, the girls peeled away Sucre’s clothes, leaving him naked at the foot of the bed. The scars of hard living marked his light brown skin, but his body was firm and packed with wiry muscle. The only visible hair was a trim patch surrounding his hardening dick.
The girls efficiently stripped their own clothes, and a gaunt brunette dropped to her knees to start sucking him off. Sucre grinned and widened his stance as the blonde who brought Brick his beer kneeled behind him to start licking his ass. The black girl sprawled out on the bed as the redhead climbed up and dropped her head between her legs.
The girl-on-girl show was for Sucre, but he knew Sucre’s blow job was wha
t he was meant to see. His boss turned a fraction every couple of minutes, to make sure Brick could see his servicing from every angle.
He kept his eyes open, watching Brick watch him.
A classic Sucre power-move to remind him of his place. To remind him he could as easily been the one forced to his knees, and he only sat in this chair because Sucre wanted him there.
It had been years since Sucre had used his body for entertainment, but time didn’t dull the memories. The humiliation burned as hot as it did the first time he’d had a dick shoved to the back of his throat, or even worse, one shoved in his ass. The pain had been sharp, and the physical discomfort lasted for days. But the powerlessness, the desolation, those feelings never went away.
He didn’t peg Sucre as gay—or even bi. It was all about the control, about domination. It didn’t matter if Brick was bigger or stronger. Sucre ruled as the top predator, and anyone would be a fool to forget it.
He was no fool.
So, he sat, and he watched as Sucre ran his hands into the brunette’s hair and grabbed hold. As his hips moved faster, her eyes watered, and her throat gagged. Only at the end did his boss close his eyes, and everyone in the room went still as he came with a harsh groan.
When he raised his lids, the girls grabbed their clothes and scurried out, leaving behind the scent of their flowery, cheap perfume. Sucre reclined naked on the bed, his fingers laced behind his head. “Do I need to worry about Tre turning into a loose cannon?”
“No, sir. I’m watching him.”
“Excellent. Why don’t you take him with you to make house calls tonight?”
House calls. More like shakedowns. “Yes, sir. How many have we got tonight?”
“Only two. I’ve got the names in my coat pocket.”
Brick climbed to his feet and fished the slip of paper from the inside of Sucre’s suit coat.
“Oh, and Brick?”
He stopped at the door and turned toward Sucre’s voice.
“Grab some video of Tre on the job. It always pays to have insurance.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Liv
Liv hummed along to the old *NSync song playing on Spotify as she bustled around the small kitchenette. She’d mostly set the table before Izzy arrived and now wrapped up the finishing touches while her sister mixed the sweet tea. No less than a cup of sugar would do.
She beamed at the spread of fancy dinnerware and the linen tablecloth. “I’m so glad we’re starting Sunday dinners again.”
Iz smiled her agreement. They tried to keep the tradition alive when Will went to jail, but it hurt too much without him.
Her irritation with her brother had faded over the course of the week, and now she counted the minutes to his arrival. She squeaked when he knocked once and let himself in, then wrapped his waist in a brief, but probably too-tight, hug.
Will had perfect timing. He showed up right as the rolls came out of the oven.
Placing the basket of bread next to the gravy boat, she gestured to the cooling roast at the center of the table. “You wanna carve, big brother?” It had been Will’s job for as long as she could remember.
He took the offered knife with a smile and got to work. When he finished slicing the beef, the three of them sat down and filled their plates.
The silence hung heavy over the table, so she broke the ice. “How’s the build going, Will?” She really wanted to ask about Brick, but she wouldn’t open such a messy can of worms.
Her brother grunted. “We’ve got two going on right now, but they’re coming along.” He shoveled a heaping forkful of meat into his mouth.
“Everything else okay? You seem a little stressed.”
He swallowed and bit into his roll, chewing and talking at the same time. “My P.O.’s been riding me a bit. He’s being an asshole, making me come in a lot, pushing lots of random drug tests and shit. I’m ready to get my life back, you know?”
Izzy nodded sympathetically. “You’ve only got six more months of parole. Then you’re free of the hassle. You can do this, Will.”
He focused on his plate, putting away nearly half of his food in only a minute or two. She had never seen anyone eat so fast. When he noticed her attention, his cheeks—now filled like a chipmunk—colored, and he wiped his mouth with a napkin. “How about you, Iz? Things going well with your kung fu classes?”
“Krav Maga.” She rolled her eyes. “And yes, things are going great. Our little sister is one of the newest recruits.”
Will’s jaw dropped. “Liv?”
“Don’t act all surprised,” Liv chided. “I’m strong enough.”
“You don’t have anything to prove, Liv. Just because I worry about you, it doesn’t make me a dick.” He pushed his plate away, then took a healthy gulp of red wine. “I’m your brother. Worry is part of the job description.”
“You can worry all you want. It’s different from telling me what to do and who I’m allowed to talk to.” Despite her best efforts to stay calm, her face grew hot.
Iz waved her white cloth napkin in the air like a flag of surrender. “Anyone want to tell me what’s going on?”
“Nothing but our baby sister making time with a thug on my construction crew.” He poured himself another glass of Merlot. “He works for a drug dealer, Liv, and you were making doe-eyes at him.”
No way. “You know that for sure?”
He scoffed. “What? You’re defending him?”
“I don’t know him, Will, and it’s a non-issue. He’s not interested in me.” Now Liv took a turn finding solace in the wine. Apparently, she’d have to throw out a perfectly good pitcher of tea tonight. It sat untouched on the counter near the sink.
Izzy appeared offended on her behalf. “I don’t know this guy from Adam, but I can’t believe he’s not interested.” She waved her forkful of green beans in Liv’s direction. “You’re the whole package.”
“Fine. He’s interested, but he shut me down.” She shot a dirty look at her brother. “Satisfied? He told me he was bad news and sent me on my way.”
Will narrowed his eyes. “When did this happen?” Over-protective mode: engaged.
“You’re missing the point,” she ground out. “He said no, Will. Stop beating the horse. It’s dead.”
“Whatever.” He drained his glass, and when he set it down, the base clinked hard against the table. “I’ve got to get going. Got to get up early tomorrow.”
“Two weeks,” Izzy piped up. “We’ll do lunch at my place.”
He lifted his hand in a careless wave as he walked through the small living room and out the front door.
“Okay. Spill.” Izzy rubbed her hands together. “Tell me about this guy.”
She leaned back in her chair and sighed. “Nothing to tell. He’s—” She searched for the right word. “Unavailable.”
Izzy smirked. “And apparently, a drug dealer. You know how to pick ’em, Liv. First the cliff diving, then skydiving, now this.”
Hmm. Either Iz believed he wasn’t interested or she didn’t take Will’s warning at face value, because no way she’d be making cracks if she really thought Liv might hook up with some guy selling smack. This was the same sister who lost her shit when she found out Liv’s friends smoked in high school.
“Shut up.” Liv said it without heat. “I don’t know his story. I just kinda wanted to find it out. There’s something about him, Iz.” She shook her head. “But it doesn’t matter. He really did turn me down.”
Grabbing her nearly empty plate, Izzy stood. “Fuck him, then. Come on. This mess isn’t going to clean itself. Help me clear the table and tell me how your training is going.”
Resisting the urge to sulk, she complied, picking up the remaining dishes and scraping the last of the food into the garbage can. “It’s okay. The workouts still kick my ass, but at least I’m regaining the ability to move my arms and legs without agonizing pain.” She’d been working with one of the other trainers, Eduardo, the past week.
“I’ll ta
ke what I can get. Have you done any sparring yet?”
She piled the dishes into the sink. “No. At what point in the training does it usually start?”
Izzy flipped on the water, rinsing the dishes, while Liv loaded them in the dishwasher. They’d always done it the same way when they’d lived together years ago. “It depends. If you want, you can spar with me when you’re ready.”
She laughed. “I’m not sure if fighting with you is better or worse than fighting with a stranger.”
“Better. I promise you.” They worked together for a few minutes, finishing up the kitchen. Despite the small space, they had enough room to tag-team the job. Liv had been cleaning up behind herself as she cooked, so they didn’t have much to do.
As they wrapped up, Carol let herself in the door. She ambled into the kitchen, swiped a glass, and picked up the wine bottle. Wrinkling her nose, she shook it deliberately. “Tell me this is not your only bottle.”
Liv covered her eyes with her hands and peeked through her fingers. “Guilty. I forgot how much we could put away.” The last time she and her sister drank together had been before her diagnosis.
“Isn’t there a bar around here? It shouldn’t be too crowded on a Sunday night, right?”
She cringed inwardly, thinking of the last time she’d been at Moe’s, but she pushed the memory away. “Yeah. A few blocks from the McDonald’s. I don’t have any money, though.” The party for Will had wiped her out for the week.
Carol smiled brightly. “Perfect. Let’s go. Drinks are on me.”
“Sorry, Nugget.” Iz swiped her keys from the counter. “I’m headed home. I’ve reached my limit.”
Grabbing her purse, Liv followed Carol to the car. She was being silly. What were the chances? It’s not like Brick would be there again.
***
Brick was there again.
Liv wanted to kick herself when she spotted him approaching the bar in the exact same place where they’d spoken twice before. She and Carol polished off their first round of drinks and the bartender brought their second less than a minute before he showed up. She groaned into her glass of Cabernet at the sight of him.
