Riding Dirty

by Danika Fox

  No wonder he’d been eager to escort me. It was hardly out of the kindness of his heart.

  “I’m going to make you a deal,” my father said, looking Crush up and down. “What went down at the club means things have changed. You’re going to get what you came for… but now you’re going to earn it.”

  “I can’t believe you,” I muttered, shaking my head. “You’re just going to talk business? People are dead. Good people. Some of them are my friends…” I was just as mad at Crush as I was my father, but what would I have expected? Crush didn’t know me from any other bitch at the bar—he didn’t need to live up to my expectations… as much as I would have liked him to.

  “If I’m going to clean up this fucking mess, I need a babysitter,” my father glared at me, ignoring my protests. “Carliogne says I can trust you, and his word is his bond. Yours better be just as strong, or I’ll take my time stuffing your balls down your goddamned throat.”

  “I don’t—” Crush began again, but before he could blink my father was standing next to him, speaking in that kind of low, rumbling tone he used whenever he wanted to keep me out of the loop. He’d done that a lot throughout my life. Any time business got mixed up with family, he’d drop his voice and leave me wondering what the hell kind of deal he was making.

  “I don’t believe I’m giving you any fucking choice,” my father whispered, his eyebrows raised. “You’re going to make sure not one hair on my precious daughter’s pretty little head is harmed, and I’m going to find the sons of bitches who shot up my club. You do that, and I’ll be in your debt. Don Falcone always pays his debts.”

  Crush only nodded. The steel hadn’t left his eyes, but there was a slight slump to his posture that told me he’d resigned himself to whatever bargain my dad had come up with. “You need to get some rest. It’s past my daughter’s bed time. In the morning, you’re both going somewhere safe to wait this out.”

  “So not only do I get no say in this little arrangement between the two of you,” I hissed, pulse thudding in my ears, “but you’re going to sit here and treat me like a child? Christ, Daddy—you gonna chew my food for me, too?”

  My father regarded me with nothing but a cool stare. “Chrissy,” he said, “I’ve let you make a lot of bad decisions since you left…”

  My guts twisted. Let me?!

  “...and we know how that worked out. Leave any additional decision-making up to me.”

  The bolts of my jaw loosened.

  “The war just started, and you’re going to fucking listen to me. This is no time to be a little brat. You’ll do exactly what I say, and that’s the end of it.”

  “And you expect me to follow around this… stranger?” I asked angrily.

  “I want you safe, and he wants my money. We have an understanding, and he has expertise.”

  “Expertise,” I echoed, tears stinging my eyes. I turned to Crush. “And just what expertise do you have, huh?”

  Crush slid his gaze to meet mine. “I hit things,” he said.

  “Perfect,” I choked, shaking my head in an amalgamation of disbelief and disgust. “I should never have come here. I should have went straight to the cops.”

  That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. My daddy moved forward with unexpected speed, raising his hand in a way that was all too familiar. I braced myself for the impact, expecting to feel the back of his hand striking my cheek… or the hard outline of his thick ring smashing against my temple… but the slap never came. I opened my eyes, and my breath caught in my throat.

  “Not one hair is to be harmed,” Crush said sternly, his thick fingers wrapped around my father’s wrist. He’d caught him mid-swing, just inches from my face.

  Don Falcone tore his hand away quickly, casting his glare back at Crush. I’d never seen anyone stand up to my daddy. My heart was racing, but something else was sneaking up inside me… some kind of heat in my chest that I shouldn’t be feeling right now. All of this adrenaline and fear was mixed with something else. Something dangerous…

  What the hell is wrong with me? The whole world is falling apart and all I can think about is…

  I looked Crush over one more time as a little shiver went up my spine.

  “You’re staying here tonight, and in the morning, you’ll go where I tell you.”

  “Do you even want to know what they looked like?” I muttered, my shoulders taking on the same resigned slump as Crush’s. “Do you even care?”

  “I’ll get every last fucking detail,” my father said, setting his whiskey down on the mantel. “But not now. Not tonight. There’ll be time when you wake up.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was recount those bloody events over breakfast. Snarling, I turned away to follow Caputo’s trail out the door. “They had accents. Russian, I think. If you need anything else, you apparently know where to find me.”

  “Chrissy,” Crush said. I heard his footsteps and felt him reach out for me. “Wait. Look, your dad means well… he’s just—”

  I wanted to hear none of it. I wrenched free of his grasp. “I thought I’d be safe with you,” I snapped, glaring at him over my shoulder. “And you led me right into the lion’s den.”

  7

  Crush

  The world came back to me in a blur of sounds and colors, birds chirping and sunlight streaming through a massive window that left me wondering where the fuck I was.

  I sat bolt upright in the bed, one made up with silk sheets and a mattress softer than anything I’d slept on in my entire life. My mind lit up in a panic, synapses firing at a frantic pace until the memories of the night before came flooding back to me.

  I sat on the edge, taking deep breaths to quell my racing heart as I took in my surroundings. Everything seemed so different than it had that night--or maybe I’d just refused to pay as much attention as I was now, given how exhausted I had been. Aside from waking up to a minor anxiety attack, I didn’t think I’d ever gotten a better night’s sleep in my life.

  Even with the nightmares from Earthly Delights couldn’t touch me here.

  Shit, I thought, scrubbing my face with my palms. I should check on Chrissy.

  But wouldn’t she be safe here? Given the show of force we’d seen last night, you’d need to be an idiot to try and assault a place like this. I’d spotted at least one semi-automatic rifle on those guards outside, and I was damn sure he wasn’t the only one packing.

  But we weren’t staying here.

  Don Falcone had said we were going to be put up in one of his hotels on the Strip, living it up in a penthouse on the top floor. I shook my head, wondering what the boys back home would think of me sitting pretty at the top of the world. I didn’t fucking belong in a penthouse. It was enough to bring a brief smile to my face—right up until I heard banging on the door.

  “Open up,” Caputo grunted from the other side. He didn’t sound overly pleased, but I excited to see him, either. Judging by what I’d seen so far, he was a grade-A horse’s ass.

  “Something wrong?” I asked, opening the door only a short way to hide my naked body from view.

  “Don Falcone wants you out in the driveway in ten minutes,” he said, putting on a dutiful tone. He couldn’t have looked more bored with me if he’d tried. “There’s a car waiting to take you and Miss Falcone to the hotel.”

  I snorted. “And what the hell am I supposed to do about my bike?” No way was I leaving it here. Losing that bike would be like losing my leg. I wasn’t doing jack shit without it.

  “I already dragged that piece of shit over to the hotel parking garage. You’re leaking oil, and it ruined my best fucking suit. It’ll be waiting for a replacement when you’re finished watching the girl,” Caputo sneered at me through the crack in the door. “You have ten minutes to get your ass downstairs. You do not want to keep Don Falcone waiting.”

  I closed the door with a snap and turned back toward the room. Stuck-up sack of shit, I thought as I got around to picking up my clothes from the floor. I hated
not having a fresh set to change into, but I was pretty sure the don wouldn’t have anything in my size.

  It dawned on me that I hadn’t even bothered to check in with the clubhouse back home. By now the news about Earthly Delights would have made the national circuit, and the president would probably think I was dead.

  I scrounged around in my jeans for my phone and called the prez’s private number, running my fingers through my hair. Old Bill Bailey had stepped up to the task of heading up the Hounds of Hell after we’d finally run down Jackal’s ass, our former prez and one hell of a problem. We did to him what needed to be done, and voted in the most experienced member we had.

  Bill was a good guy. Hell of a prez. But he was also an ornery son-of-a-bitch and a total type-A, which was why the phone only rang once before I heard the deep rumble of my fearless leader on the other line.

  “You’d better be calling from beyond the goddamn grave,” he growled, obviously not pleased with me.

  “Yeah, man, I’m sorry,” I said, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “I got locked out of the club when the shit hit the fan, and when I got back in, Santorini was dead.”

  “Yeah? And then your thumbs fell off?” he asked, his voice rising. “Because I’m still waiting to hear why I didn’t get a fucking call. Me and the boys’ve been worried.”

  “I know, I know,” I sighed, sitting down on the bed and pulling my pants on. “But, there’s some good news. The deal’s still on with Falcone.”

  “And how the fuck did you manage that? Santorini isn’t making any deals with a hole in his fucking head.”

  “I saved one of the girls at the club…” I replied, chuckling ruefully. “I got her out of there alive…”

  “And now you’re gonna tell me you spent the night balls-deep in some stripper’s ass.”

  “It wasn’t some stripper. It was Don Falcone’s daughter,” I replied quietly.

  “You fucked Don Falcone’s Daughter? What the fuck were you thinking, cock-for-brains?” Bill shouted.

  “I didn’t fuck her. Jesus Bill, calm the fuck down. I brought her home, and now I’m on babysitting duty.”

  “Babysitting? She some kind of little kid?” Bill asked. “What the fuck was a little girl doing at a strip club?”

  “She’s not a kid,” I replied, my mind drifting over the curves of her unbelievably fuckable body. “He just treats her like one. He’s agreed to give us the funds, but I need to watch this chick while we lay low. Daddy wants her holed up in a penthouse until he can take care of whoever shot up the fucking club. I keep her safe, and we get what we want. He’ll owe us.”

  Bill snorted. “I hope it works out that way, Crush. Getting hooked up with Falcone’s men’s already put us deeper in the hole. Don’t fuck this up… and while I’m thinking about it, don’t fuck her, either.”

  “You sound just like her daddy,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’ll keep my hands clean.”

  “I mean it, Crush,” he sighed. “And I’m glad to hear your voice. Last thing we need is another goddamn funeral.”

  He’d said all that needed to be said. I grunted a response and hung up the phone. It wasn’t long before I’d finished getting dressed and made my way downstairs, catching sight of Chrissy for the first time in the daylight. She looked like a whole different person now that she’d gotten out of that tight little club uniform. She was wearing a billowy white top with loose sleeves and a pair of pants the came down to her mid-calf, and her hair was tied back in a ponytail that kept the strands away from her face—which I thought only made her look more striking.

  She was a vision, and I wasn’t the kind of man to wax poetic, even when the mood did strike me. She was the kind of girl a man like me could never get close to, the kind of natural beauty that wasn’t supposed to exist in the real world. I stopped mid-stride as she turned to meet my gaze, just as a black limousine pulled up behind her.

  I would have probably stood there staring at her for much, much longer if it weren’t for Nicky Falcone catching me in the act. He glared at me, his expression a stern warning. A reminder of his words the night before.

  Not one hair on her head is to be harmed…

  I swallowed as he narrowed his eyes before turning to regard the limo again. It was like the warmth of the room came flooding back the moment he looked away. But the chilling effect still lingered, and I knew that no matter how pretty I thought Chrissy was, this arrangement was all business and nothing more.

  I stepped out of from the front gate and out into the desert sun as it beat down on the cul-de-sac beyond. A uniformed driver came hopping out of the front seat and jogged to open up the back door to admit Chrissy and I, standing beside it at attention as Don Falcone spoke.

  “He’ll take you to the hotel and get you settled in. Lonnie’s gonna handle security downstairs. You’re gonna be in good hands, sweetie.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Chrissy said, averting her eyes. “I may need your help, but that doesn’t mean I forgive you.” She climbed into the back of the limo and disappeared into its dark interior, leaving Don Falcone and I alone.

  I saw it then—a little flicker in his stony expression. A crack in the marble of his jaw. When he swallowed, the line of his throat tightened around a distinct lump of emotion. The corners of his eyes thinned and pinched, his crow’s feet deepening into melancholic ravines.

  He might’ve been cold-blooded, but family meant something to him. That was the way it went with a lot of mob guys, and it was something I could understand. Brotherhood meant just as much to bikers.

  When Falcone caught my glance, he scowled and jerked his head toward the limo. “Get in.”

  Another car was pulling up, probably his or Lonnie’s ride. I followed Chrissy’s lead and slid across the leather seat, the don slamming the door shut behind me.

  It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the low lighting. The limo’s tinted windows barely allowed even a scrap of sunlight through, making the interior a lot cooler than I was expecting. I bristled. Cars weren’t really my thing, but one as narrow and dark as this made me feel like I was in a glorified cage.

  Chrissy must not have approved too much, either. She was already raiding the bar.

  I raised my brows at her. “It’s a little early, don’t you think?” Undeterred, she pulled out a bottle of vodka from the cooler. “It’s not even eleven o'clock.”

  She shot me a glare, then a defiant display of her middle finger as she grabbed a glass from a built-in storage compartment. I watched as she made herself a Bloody Mary, then tipped her head back to pour a long draught down her throat. She didn’t say a word until she’d drained it completely.

  “I’ll drink as much as I want,” she muttered, looking at me over the rim of her glass. “I think I deserve that much after what happened.”

  I shrugged. She had me there. But that didn’t mean there weren’t complications she was overlooking in her quest to numb the pain.

  “Just thought maybe you could save the day-drinking until we get to the hotel,” I said breezily. “A girl falling all over herself in the lobby is bound to draw attention we don’t need.”

  “Whatever,” she sighed, mixing another glass.

  I shook my head and focused my attention on the window, watching as we started to head back into the city proper. Everything had a much different look to it in the light of day, even Chrissy. What had happened to the sweet, but tough girl I’d met last night? How had she suddenly become a fucking brat? This girl needed a spanking.

  I smiled at the thought.

  Maybe I was being unfair. She’d been through a lot. Or maybe she just wasn’t a morning person. But it seemed to me ever since we’d gotten her daddy involved, she’d reverted to the role of Sin City starlet without a cause.

  I could feel the heat of her gaze on me as she said, “You never did tell me why you’re called Crush.” She leaned back against her seat, crossing one long leg over the other. If she’d been wearing a skirt, I might not have been able
to resist taking a peek—which made me pretty damn thankful she wasn’t…

  In my periphery, I could see her tilting her head this way and that, studying me in an exaggerated fashion. Dim sunlight sparkled off her glass as she raised it to her lips again and sipped.

  “I’m thinking they call you that because of all the beer cans you can smash on your head. Or because of how much you like orange soda.”

  “¿Por que no los dos?” I replied. It was just about the only phrase I knew in Spanish.

  She snorted. “Oh, come on. It can’t be both. It can’t be that easy.”

  “I told you, I’m not telling.”

  “Because it’s personal?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So personal you’ll use it as a nickname?” she asked, brows raised. I afforded her a glance, which she regarded with smug triumph. “Right. I get it. I saw a lot of this at the club.”

  I tried to remain unaffected. “Did you?”

  “Mmhm,” she hummed around a mouthful of vodka and tomato juice. I shifted slightly, eyes darting to the long, elegant span of her throat, the slow spasm of her swallow. Then I shifted again, this time to accommodate a heavy twitch between my thighs. Now was not the time to be thinking about how this girl swallowed. I tried to wash away the thought of her pretty pink lips wrapped around the head of my cock.

  “Okay, I’ll bite,” I said to fill the silence. “What’d you see?”

  “Girls who wanted to be someone else,” she said. “A fantasy. Made the job easier. Let them divorce themselves from their stage personas. You either don’t like your real name, or you don’t think it fits with the image you’re trying to project—like a pseudonym. A nom de plume. You know, like how Vin Diesel’s real name is Mark Sinclair, but that doesn’t sound quite as tough.”

  Chrissy leaned forward now, elbows on her knees, her almost-empty glass suspended between us. “So. Which is it?”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “The name I was born with doesn’t matter. Crush is what I go by now. It’s what I chose.”