Chapter Eleven
My stepfather, Edoardo Accardi, ex-enforcer for the now extinct Genova crime family (you’re welcome for that, by the way), had a certain flair for theatrics. The man had a way of talking, of saying things, like he was always standing on a stage in a one-man show of his own fucked-up production, and most of the time, only one person sat in his audience: yours truly. It wasn’t voluntary, I can tell you that much. No, the man targeted his monologues right at me, assaulting me with the words just as hard as he used to batter me with his fists. This is for your own good, Lorenzo, he’d say. Toughen up. Stop crying. Don’t beg. Be a man, goddamn it. Be a fucking man! Never mind the fact that I’d been just a boy at the time… a boy who couldn’t understand how beating me unconscious was for my own good… a boy who heard nothing but riddles whenever the man spoke.
But he succeeded, because all these years later, I can still hear his voice. His words bounce around in my head, taunting me, turning me into the monster he’d tried—and failed—to put down so long ago. And while I can’t exactly claim to be fond of his methods, I’ll give credit where credit is due—the man certainly knew what he was doing.
The hardest part of the business is minding your own.
He used to say that all the time. I never really understood it until I came to New York.
And here on the rooftop of the rundown walk-up, tucked into a shitty-ass Lower East Side block, freezing my nutsack off as I sit on the cold concrete ledge beside a crazy pickpocket with red lips and watery eyes, I’m having a hell of a time minding my own business, because there’s a big part of me itching to dig into hers.
Women are distractions and feelings are detrimental, but I’m finding myself feeling some type of way about this woman at the moment, and I don’t appreciate it. There’s voodoo in her blood, and it makes me want to slit her fucking throat so it’ll all spill out, rain red down on the city beneath us before shoving her over the side.
Fly, little witch. Don’t forget your fucking broom.
But I don’t do it. I don’t do anything. Because I try to not be that kind of person—the kind of person that beats others for their own good.
Edoardo Accardi might be in my head, but he’s never been in my blood.
Scarlet stares off into the distance, like she’s lost in a void somewhere along the edge of the neighborhood. I can see part of the river a few blocks away. Hell, from right here, I can just about see the dock I stood on in the darkness the night I first encountered Scarlet, when I met whatshisname to talk about his boss’s problems.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my beat up old metal tin and flip it open, taking out a joint and the battered book of matches, ripping one off and striking it against the back of the pack, igniting the flame on the first try. Lighting the joint, I inhale deeply, taking the smoke in and holding it, before extinguishing the flame with the flick of my wrist and tossing the match over the side of the building.
“Did you fuck him?” I ask, slowly releasing the smoke from my lungs.
Scarlet’s brow furrows as she turns my way, her eyes flickering to the tin as I close it. “Who?”
“Whoever put the hickey on your neck.”
It takes her a moment before she lifts her hand, fingertips pressing against the side of her neck, surprise on her face. The patch is small, more red than purple, which means it’s fresh. I took it as a thumbprint at first, like someone had choked her, but the more I looked, the more I saw the bruised lips forming on her skin. Someone marked her not long ago, probably while I was already here, waiting in her apartment. Chances are, whoever that is probably also fucked her, and while that might not be any of my business, I find it curious.
Curious, because of the hunger I saw in her eyes when I had her pinned against the door, as she ground against me, practically fucking the gun tucked in my waistband, desperate to satisfy an ache.
Which means they might’ve fucked her, sure, but they didn’t do a goddamn thing for her.
She looks away again without answering.
“Figured,” I say, taking another hit, letting the smoke burn my lungs as the sensations soothe my muscles, calming the storm in my mind. “Was it your little cop friend again?”
“Does it matter?”
“No, not really. I don’t get down with the whole sloppy seconds thing, no matter who it is. Not in the business of picking up another man’s slack.”
“You can leave, you know,” Scarlet says, her voice flat. “Really, you can go.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
She doesn’t answer again, acting as if I didn’t ask that question, continuing to stare out into the city. Icy fog surrounds her with each shallow breath, but she doesn’t otherwise seem bothered by the cold. It’s strange to me, considering I’m finding it damn near intolerable. My asscheeks are like ice cubes.
“So, where are you from?” I ask.
A moment passes before Scarlet turns my way. “Really? You had your hand down my pants five minutes ago, a knife to my throat a minute before that, and you want to make small talk now? What’s next… the weather?”
I shrug. “The cold doesn’t seem to bother you.”
She sighs loudly as she looks back away. “I was born and raised upstate. I’m used to the cold.”
“How’d you end up here?”
“I saw a movie that made me want to see the city, so I ran away and never looked back.”
“Ah, let me guess. Breakfast at Tiffany’s? Oh, no, wait… Westside Story?”
She shakes her head. “The Muppets Take Manhattan.”
Okay, that makes me laugh. “Sounds life-changing.”
“You’ve never seen it?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“They come to the city to make it on Broadway, and I figured, you know, what was stopping me from doing that?”
“Can you sing?”
“Nope.”
“Dance?”
“Not the kind of dancing they’re looking for.”
“Hate to break it to you, Scarlet, but that’s probably what was stopping you.”
“Yeah, well, in my defense, I was only fourteen at the time, so I had no idea what I was getting into. I was convinced that all I needed was a ticket to New York City and everything would work out, that someone would take one look at me and think, ‘yep, she’s the one,’ and my life would be perfect.”
“You’ve been on your own since you were fourteen?”
“I ran away when I was fourteen, but I was on my own long before that. I didn’t really have anything here, you know, but I had even less there. At least here I had the freedom to do whatever I wanted to do, to be whoever I wanted to be. I figured whatever trouble I got into in the city would pale in comparison to what I went through before.” Frowning, her voice is quiet as she adds, “Turns out I was wrong.”
“What trouble did you get into?”
“A guy promised me the world only to destroy my world instead,” she says, cutting her eyes my direction. “Or however you put it.”
“Tough break.”
“Yeah, well, it is what it is. So, what about you?”
“What about me?”
“What’s your story?”
“I have no story.”
“Everyone has a story.”
I consider that, continuing to smoke, grateful when it starts to warm me up, fending off the bitter cold. The world always feels better when a haze covers it, hiding a little bit of the harsh reality. “I was just a normal guy… normal family, normal life. But I was at the wrong place, at the wrong time, and saw something I shouldn’t have seen. The mob killed my family, tried to kill me, but I survived, and well… I’ve been gunning for them ever since. Doesn’t matter what I have to do, who I have to kill. I’ll get my revenge.”
“A vigilante? That’s what you’re telling me? Just a guy trying to punish all the bad in the world?”
“Pretty much.”
Rolling her eyes, she swings around, shoving away from the ledge as her feet hit the roof. She comes right at me, pressing up against me, as I let out a stream of smoke, blowing it right into her pale face.
She inhales slowly, glaring at me. “Bullshit.”
I cock an eyebrow at her.
“That’s the Punisher,” she says, “so unless your real name is Frank Castle, that’s not your story.”
“You calling me a liar?”
“I’m calling you a bullshitter.”
A smile slowly spreads across my lips as she backs away, clearly done listening to my bullshit. She’s right, of course. That’s not my story at all, but my story isn’t for the faint of heart, so I keep it to myself. “You’re the first one to ever figure that out.”
“No, I’m just the first one to call you out on it,” she says. “They’re all too afraid to call a spade a spade, but I’ve long ago moved past being scared of people like you. If you don’t want to tell me, fine… don’t tell me. But I don’t have time to play games. You can’t even give me the courtesy of a simple truth. Hell, I don’t even know your name. All I know is that they call you Sc—”
“Don’t say it.” I cut her off, my voice sharp as I drop the joint to the rooftop and smash it out before stepping toward her, surprised when she doesn’t retreat. Brave little soul. “I know what they call me. I don’t need you to remind me.”
“Yeah, well, good for you, I guess,” she says. “I’m glad at least you know who you are.”
I watch her walk toward the entrance back to her apartment, itching to follow her, but my fingertips are tingling and there’s a good chance I might strangle her if I get close enough. She’s annoyed, and maybe she has reason to be, but that doesn’t make her attitude any easier to deal with.
“Lorenzo,” I call out.
Her footsteps falter as she looks back. “What?”
“My name,” I say. “It’s Lorenzo.”
Her eyes scan my face in the darkness, like she’s expecting some sign of deception, but she won’t find it. A simple truth. That’s what she asked for, so that’s what I’m giving her.
“Your turn,” I say. “I want a name.”
“You know my name.”
“Not your name. I want the name of the man who broke you.”
Her gaze shifts to her feet as she kicks at the cold tar-covered rooftop, like she’s avoiding having to answer, before her lips part with a long exhale. “I’m not broken.”
“Save the theatrics, Scarlet. Just give me the man’s name.”
“Kassian Aristov.”
Kassian Aristov.
She blurts it out like she hadn’t meant to tell me, a pained expression crossing her face, full of regret right away. Huh.
The name isn’t one I know, but then again, I don’t make it a habit to remember names. It’s familiar, though, like maybe I’ve heard it before, spoken in passing, and I think I might know why. “Russian, huh? He wouldn’t happen to be one of those Russians, would he? The Organizatsiya?”
She doesn’t answer.
I’ve come to learn lack of a response from her is as good as confirmation. The woman got mixed up with the Russian Mafia.
She walks away, going back down to her apartment. I should leave. Mind your fucking business, I know, but I can’t help myself.
I follow her.
She’s in the kitchen, searching through the fridge. There’s not much in it—a jug of milk, a few takeout containers, some orange juice, and part of an old chocolate bar. It’s kind of pathetic. Scowling, Scarlet grabs the chocolate and gnaws on it before sipping orange juice straight from the carton. It’s some generic bullshit store brand juice, no pulp, watery. Smells sickeningly sweet. I know. I investigated before she got home. “How can you drink that?”
She shuts the fridge door and leans back against the counter, regarding me as she holds the carton. “This coming from a guy who drinks rum straight from the bottle?”
“Rum has its benefits. There’s no benefit to what you’re drinking. There’s not even any pulp in it.”
“What are you, the orange juice police?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, Mister Minute Maid, this juice here only costs a dollar at the bodega on the corner. I’d certainly call that a benefit.”
“Why don’t you have more money?” I ask, glancing around the gutted apartment. It’s barely livable, just the bare necessities. “You in debt to a loan shark or something? Is that the problem? The Aristotle asshole stealing everything from you?”
She glares at me, biting off a hard corner of the plain chocolate bar and chewing slowly. “Why are you still here?”
I shrug, knowing I’m striking a nerve. “I’m just saying... you’re gorgeous. Selling pussy, you ought to be able to afford more than this. Fucking you should cost a pretty penny. God knows that pussy’s probably worth it.”
Her glare softens to just a stare. She’s quiet, like she’s getting her thoughts in order, before she says, “I’m not sure whether that’s a compliment or an insult.”
“It’s whatever you make it, Scarlet,” I say. “I don’t pay to play, but my guys do, and you’re higher caliber than the women they usually slide on into. So you living like this makes no sense.”
“Yeah, well, it’s really none of your business, is it?”
“No.”
“There you go, then,” she says, waving her juice at me before taking another swig. “Unless you’re planning to lick it or stick it, Lorenzo, keep your nose out of my business.”
A smile touches my lips. Touché.
Opening the fridge again, she shoves the carton back in, tossing what’s left of the chocolate bar in a nearby trashcan. She strolls toward me, her eyes scanning my face. I grab her before she can walk out of the kitchen, pulling her to me, catching her off guard. She gasps softly, the sound rushing through me as I cup her chin, pulling her face up.
No hesitation, I press my lips to hers, kissing her hard. It’s only a few seconds before I push her back away, breaking the kiss already. She inhales sharply, eyes wide as she regards me, like she isn’t sure what the fuck to think about what just happened.
I lick my lips. “It tastes cheap.”
She blinks, face contorting, like I’ve offended her. “What?”
“The orange juice,” I say. “I can taste it on your lips.”
“Oh, I, uh... oh.”
I sweep my thumb along her mouth as her lips part, like she wants me to kiss her again, even though we both know I’m not going to. “I prefer it with more of a bite. Maybe next time.”
“Maybe,” she whispers.
I pull my hand away and turn around. She says nothing as I leave.
Maybe that means she wants me gone, after all.
Or maybe she just knows she’ll see me again eventually.
* * *
There’s this place over in Brooklyn, a club called Limerence. On paper it’s just another strip club, but in reality, it’s the one of the biggest whorehouses around. A couple hundred bucks can get you the best half-hour of your life with a gorgeous bendy brunette who can take even the biggest sinner straight to heaven with just the flick of her tongue.
Or so I’ve heard...
The guys occasionally swing through when they’re not otherwise occupied, splurging on the strongest liquor and the sweetest women money can buy. I’ve never been, since paying for pussy isn’t my thing, and I’m certainly not there right now.
No, this place is the opposite of Limerence.
Mediocre building in a low-rate area near the river, skirting the slums, full of hoodlums with just a few bucks, shoving lone dollar bills in G-strings as they negotiate for a quick, cheap fuck.
Mystic.
Nothing mystical about the shithole.
As it turns out, George Amello owns the place. Who would’ve thought? That makes him Scarlet’s boss, which is funny, you know, considering he told Seven he’d never heard of the woman.
“Can I help you?”
I turn toward the sound of that voice, to the guy standing right inside the main entrance at Mystic. Six feet tall, arms as thick as thighs, a dark bald head shining under the flickering colorful lights. He’s scowling the kind of way that makes me think he doesn’t know what it’s like to smile—that all business, panties in a fucking twist kind of scowl. He probably thinks he’s intimidating, but a knee in his shriveled nuts could easily take him down.
“I’m here to see your boss,” I tell him, flicking my wrist, waving him away. “Run along and get him for me. Make it quick.”
He stands there, raising his eyebrows, and hesitates a moment, delaying so long I’m close to losing my temper. Music is thumping wildly not far from my head, some eighties hair-band song, pouring sugar on a cherry pie or some equally metaphorical food-inspired bullshit.
“I think you ought to leave,” the man says. “Amello doesn’t entertain folks that don’t have appointments.”
“He’ll make an exception for me.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because he isn’t going to like what happens if he doesn’t.”
It must sound like a threat, because the guy reacts as such, uncrossing his bulging arms as he takes a step toward me, like he expects me to balk. I raise an eyebrow, just daring him to lay a finger on me, when a voice cuts through the tension, shouting over the music. “Darrell, its fine. I’ll see him.”
Ah, ol’ Mello Yello, the yellow-bellied motherfucker. I turn, seeing him standing in the doorway to an office beneath the DJ booth. He eyes me warily, probably wondering why I came here.
I waltz past him, right inside. Amello clears his throat, saying, “leave us,” to a pair of guys. They vacate the office and Amello shuts the door, hesitating there, like he’s nervous to be alone with me. Probably ought to be.
“Georgie Porgie, Puddin’ and Pie,” I mutter, strolling across the office, around his desk. There’s a wall full of monitors broadcasting live, showing every nook and cranny of the club, women performing acts not meant for innocent eyes. “Kissed the girls and made them cry.”
“What are you doing here?” he asks, sitting down behind his desk, ignoring my teasing. Smart.
“Why? Am I not welcome?”
“Didn’t say that. I was just wondering what brought you here tonight.”
“Good question,” I say, my gaze scanning the monitors, stalling on one near the top, a view of a dim hallway. A woman saunters through it, leading a man toward an isolated back room. I can’t see her face, but I recognize the rest of her.
“Well?” he asked. “What do you want, Scar?”
I kind of want to kill him. Not even going to lie. But at the moment I just want him to shut the fuck up so I can watch her in silence. That’s not going to happen, though. No, he’s too nervous. He fidgets and huffs and shifts around in his chair, waiting for an explanation for my presence.
“I think we got off on the wrong foot, Georgie,” I say, watching as Scarlet leads the man out of the hallway. I scan the other screens until I find her again.
It’s a perfectly square room, a small platform in the center, a pole jutting out of it and connecting to the ceiling. A deep leather lounging couch takes up the back as mirrors line the walls surrounding it. Besides that, a few wayward leather chairs are shoved aside, and a small bar runs along the left, red lighting consuming the room.
Scarlet glows... well... scarlet. There’s no other way to describe how the color tints her skin. She’s stunning, bathed in red, just like I knew she would be.
A smile lifts my lips as I turn to Amello. He’s lucky, so damn lucky, and the son of a bitch doesn’t even know it.
“I don’t take well to being called names,” I say. “Nor do I appreciate having my reputation called into question. I didn’t rob you. Your money doesn’t mean shit to me. So you can take your ten percent and shove it up your ass, because I’ve got no use for your measly pennies. But I like to think I’m a reasonable man, so I’ve decided to let it go this time, because I figure, you know, maybe you just don’t know any better, but you’ll learn, if you know what’s good for you, and it won’t happen again. You got me?”
He glares at me. He isn’t happy, that’s for damn sure, but he’s got me. He’s not a complete idiot.
“What would you think,” he asks, “if you were me?”
“I’d think I had something somebody wanted,” I say, my gaze flickering back to the surveillance monitor. How true that is… but it’s not his money I’m after.
I find myself wanting the beautiful bendy brunette that’s working in this shithole.
“We can be friends, you and I... but that’s a choice only you can make,” I tell him. “If you don’t want to be my friend, you don’t have to be. But I learned long ago there are only two kinds of people in this world, so if you’re not my friend, Georgie? I guess I’ll have to count you among my enemies.”
I walk out, saying nothing else. He glares at me, having no rebuttal. What’s there to say, anyway? Nothing.
The club is loud, the music still thumping, some techno bass bullshit without any words now. Blinding disco lights flash, the girl on the main stage swinging around a pole, wearing reflective material, like a cracked-out gymnast.
I’ve got nothing against strippers. Really, I don’t.
I’ve got nothing against prostitutes, either. You do you.
But I do have something against people who can’t even function without shooting something into a vein, without snorting something up their nostril. I spent the first half of my life under the care of someone more cocaine than woman. The agitation, the erratic behavior, the nosebleeds. My mother blew out her septum when I was just a kid, had plastic surgery more than once to try to hide the evidence. I can spot an addict a mile away thanks to her, and the woman on the stage? Cracked-out, without a doubt.
I avert my eyes as I stroll through the club. Instead of heading for the exit, where the bouncer still lurks, watching me, I veer toward the back of the place. Halfway down the hall, my footsteps falter, and I pause in an open doorway, the soft glow of red lights spilling out all around me.
I’m not supposed to be back here. The glares women give me as they strut past, leading guys to and from these rooms, tells me so. No sex in the champagne room. We’ve all heard it. They say it doesn’t happen, but I know, in some places, in some situations, sex is negotiable.
Flash enough cash and pussy can be yours.
I know it happens here.
But Scarlet? She’s not even naked.
Not right now, at least.
She’s dancing. She looks so utterly bored. Does nobody else notice? Although she smiles, there’s no fire in her eyes, her stare damn near vacant. I’ll give her credit, though—she’s got rhythm. Her hips sway perfectly in tune with the music, like her body is feeling it even if she’s not.
The little red, lacy see-through get-up she’s wearing leaves little to the imagination, even less as she slowly unfastens her top, teasing the guy as the straps fall down her arms.
She pulls it off after a moment, tossing it aside, exposing the most stunning set of tits I’ve ever laid my eyes on. They’re small, barely a handful, but fuck if they’re not perfect—perky, and natural, with the kind of nipples that beg to be tasted.
The man reaches for her when she turns toward him, his hands moving on their own, like it’s instinct around a set of tits that beautiful, but she grabs his wrists without missing a beat, stopping him as she shakes her head. No touching.
He obliges, dropping his hands to his side, shoulders slumping with disappointment. Can’t say I blame the guy. She teases him for a moment, shoving them in his face as she dances, straddling his lap and pushing him until he’s lying on the lounge couch. His eyes drift closed, his hands linking together behind his head, as Scarlet turns around.
Her expression glazes over.
Bored. Bored. So fucking bored.
Her eyes are fixed to the ceiling, to the lights shining down on her, as she half-heartedly grinds her ass against his crotch. I watch her for a moment before taking a step into the room. She’s quick to sense my movement. Her head lowers, and a hint of panic sparking in her eyes. Alarmed. Her gaze meets mine, the guy not noticing a difference, but I can sense it. I see the way her posture changes, her breathing labored, shaky exhales escaping her lungs as she watches me. I slowly approach, my footsteps undetectable over the sound of the music.
If she’s truly bothered by my presence, she doesn’t let it show, not missing a beat as she dry humps the guy. It’s not like in her apartment, not like when I had her pinned to the door, thrusting against her, driving her to the brink.
No, she’s getting nothing from this. No arousal. No excitement.
Fucking boredom.
I pause in front of her, cocking an eyebrow, as she continues going through the motions. A small smile twists her blood-red lips. It does something to me, that smile. I don’t know how to explain it. People don’t get to me the way a look from this woman claws its way under my skin.
Nudging her chin, I tilt her head up further, watching her throat flex as she swallows, like I might be making her nervous. Good. Her lips are parted, her warm breath greeting me as I lean down toward her, tilting my head. My thumb slowly swipes along her bottom lip, smearing her lipstick, just a breath away from her mouth, when she whispers, oh-so-shakily, “Kissing is gonna cost you.”
I laugh under my breath and press my lips to hers—once, twice, three times—soft, barely a peck, but she bites my bottom lip the last time, sending a sharp stab of pain through it. I wince, licking my lip as I stand back up, a slight copper taste on my tongue. She drew blood.
She knows it, too.
There’s the spark.
It lights up her eyes.
Squeezing her chin, I lean down again, kissing her once more, rougher this time, before whispering, “You taste better now.”
She still hasn’t missed a beat.
The woman is good at what she does, that’s for damn sure.
Letting go, I retreat a few steps, my eyes scanning her, my gaze lingering on those tits. There’s more I’d like to stick around and do, but I know damn well Amello is watching my every move.
I’m going to have her, though.
No doubt about it. I’ve made up my mind.
Men like Amello get their panties in a twist when you steal from them. He called me a thief, so that’s what I’ll be. Like I said, if you don’t appreciate what you’ve got, someone like me will be more than happy to take it.
Scarlet’s cheeks flush, visible even through the thick layers of makeup, her eyes twinkling, every ounce of boredom gone in a blink.
Definitely not the only one getting a thrill out of this.
I stroll toward the doorway just as the song changes. It’s barely a second of silence before the music starts up again, but something happens in that moment, a shift in the air when someone off in the distance screams. My footsteps falter. Turning my head, glancing back, I watch Scarlet come to a stop. She springs to her feet, alarmed, snatching her top off of the floor and fumbling with it, desperately trying to put it back on, but there’s no time.
No time.
Chaos erupts. More screaming. Running. Voices shout over the music, incoherent words I don’t understand, but Scarlet seems to. Eyes wide, her body trembles as she mouths something, but her voice doesn’t seem to work right now.
Uh-oh.
The guy she’d been straddling sits straight up, realizing his lap dance is over, in a drunken stupor as his bloodshot eyes narrow at me.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asks, but I don’t have a chance to answer before a distinct rat-ta-tat-tat sound echoes through the club, the harrowing rattle of incessant gunfire.
AR-15, I’m guessing. My chest tightens. Son of a bitch. Is he being robbed? Again?
“Oh god,” Scarlet says, finally finding her voice. “No, no, no…”
There’s a tremor to those words. Terror coats every syllable. Never took her for the kind to buckle in the face of danger. She sure as fuck didn’t balk when it came to me. The commotion gets louder, people fleeing from the club, racing down the hall toward the back exit before doubling back, like that way is blocked.
Whoever it is has the place surrounded.
Sitting ducks.
Scarlet retreats deeper into the room. It’s only seconds. That’s it. Mere seconds of pandemonium. She jumps behind the bar to the far left of the room, cowering there, shielding herself from view. I take a few steps that way, not completely approaching, just coming close enough that I can see her.
No, it’s not a robbery, and it’s clear she senses it, too
It’s more like a massacre.
I know a thing or two about those.
I stand there, shoving my hands in my pockets, staring at the doorway as someone bursts in. A man dressed in all black, wearing a ski mask. Huh. The drunk from the lap dance freaks out, yelling, “Who the fuck are you?”
Unlike when he asked me, this guy is kind enough to respond. He answers right away with a bullet to the face, no hesitation.
Who the fuck are you?
BANG.
Scarlet doesn’t move at all, doesn’t make a sound, as the gunshot echoes through the room, a big, burly motherfucker pulling the trigger, dropping the scumbag with a single shot.
He turns to me next, pointing the gun, finger still on the trigger, but this time, he pauses. Eyes narrowing, he studies my face before shouting something out in a foreign language, a single word sticking out of the gibberish: Scar.
My hands clench into fists in my pockets as I force myself not to go for my gun. “I guess my reputation precedes me, huh?”
He looks like a bear, I think, the burly motherfucker, as he shoves the ski mask up, offering me a glimpse of his face. He doesn’t respond with words or a bullet, which I think is answer enough.
Someone else joins us, a bit shorter and smaller, otherwise similar in features. No ski mask, this one. No gun. He’s not even dressed in all black, instead wearing a dark gray suit. He carries himself differently, too, an air of confidence surrounding him, much of his skin covered in dark tattoos.
That would make him the leader.
That’s pretty easy to see.
It’s peculiar, though, almost surreal, a strange sense of déjà vu assaulting me. If I weren’t witness to this, I swear to fuck, I’d probably suspect myself, too. It feels too familiar, like watching a cheap reboot of a classic. Either this is a case of great minds thinking alike, or this guy has been studying my playbook.
The moment the newcomer yells, spouting off something foreign to his guys, Scarlet reacts. I see her tense from the corner of my good eye. She presses against the bar, trying to fade into the shadows, as she mouths something to herself, over and over and over, still not making a sound.
Look, it doesn’t take a genius to put four and six together and come up with ten, you get what I’m saying? Cowering woman. Foreign McFuckFace with his own little massacre squad. It’s like I’m in the midst of yet another Die Hard sequel.
Does that make me Bruce Willis? I don’t know.
But I am willing to bet that makes ol’ Bebop and Rocksteady here our dastardly villains. And doing that basic math in my head, I’m saying it all adds up to the Russians.
The men chatter back and forth as I observe them before someone says that damn word again. Scar.
He turns to me then—their leader, ol’ Bebop—and stares me down as he steps closer. “The notorious Scar. I have heard much about you.”
“Good things?”
“Horrific things. Murder. Mayhem.”
“So... good things,” I say again.
He laughs. “The best things.”
“Good to know,” I say. “I’m not sure I can say the same about you, though.”
“You have not heard of me?”
I was going for I hadn’t heard any good things, but we’ll go with that. “Afraid not.”
“Oh, but I am sure you have,” he says as he smiles. “You just do not know it was me they spoke of. Reputation is not important to me. I do not care what anyone thinks as long as I get what I want.”
“And what is it you want?”
“Depends on which day it is.” He laughs again. “Today, like most days, I am looking for a girl. Maybe you have seen her?”
“Maybe,” I say. “Does she have a name?”
“Morgan,” he says. “She is a very pretty girl. You would not forget her if you saw her. She has the sweetest smile.”
That she does.
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” I tell him.
“That is a shame,” he says as he glances around the room. He can’t see behind the bar from there, but if he comes any closer, Scarlet is fucked.
His gaze shifts that way, and he seems to consider it, before gunshots erupt in the hallway, a man shouting, “Vor!”
It captures Bebop’s attention, and he glances that way, muttering under his breath before turning back to me. “I have respect for you, Mister Scar. I admire a man who takes what he wants, because I do the same. So I will leave you in peace, since my fight is not with you.”
He walks out with that, leaving the room, but Rocksteady lingers behind, his gun still aimed at me. He only lowers it when someone shouts from the hallway. “Markel!”
I’m guessing that’s his name, since he reacts to it. Not that it matters. Nothing about them matters to me, personally, but it clearly matters to Scarlet.
Rocksteady vacates the room. The chaos in the club dies down as the intruders leave. Everyone else has fled, or hell, maybe they’re all dead. Again, not that it matters, but I just stand here, hands still fisted in my pockets.
“Don’t move,” I say, knowing Scarlet can hear me. “I’ll let you know when it’s clear.”
I quietly stroll from the red-tinted room, crunching on glass as I walk down the hall, passing bullet-ridden walls. It’s not the worst scene I’ve ever been involved in, but it’s not exactly pretty, either. I make my way through the main club, looking around, eyes skittering past the bouncer at the front door, dead in a pool of blood.
Calling that one karma.
I stall in the doorway to the office, looking at the wall of monitors, most of them destroyed by the AR-15. Amello is nowhere to be found, probably the first to run like a little bitch when the bullets started flying.
“When the boys came out to play,” I mumble, “Georgie Porgie ran away.”
After checking the rest of the club, I make my way back to Scarlet. The police won’t be far behind, which means I need to get the hell out of here. Scarlet is still in the same spot, behind the bar, knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around them.
I pause, regarding her as I pull my coat off. She’s wearing very little, still topless, trying hard to cover herself—not out of some sense of propriety. She’s just nervous. I wordlessly hold the coat out to her and she takes it, slipping it on, zipping it up. She’s so petite it almost goes to her knees, longer than the dresses I’ve seen her wear.
“Come on,” I say. “I’ll walk you home.”
I hold my hand out to her. She looks at it, like she isn’t sure if she wants to touch me, but she concedes after a moment.
She’s rattled. I can tell. Her knees are practically knocking together, her hand shaking in mine as I help her to her feet. She pulls away from me as soon as she’s upright, shoving her hands in the pockets of my coat.
Scarlet keeps her head down as she quickly walks down the hall, toward the back exit, but instead of going outside, she veers to the locker room.
“Whoa, where are you going?” I ask, grabbing her arm to stop her. “We need to go.”
She yanks away from my clutch. “I need my stuff.”
“Just leave it,” I say. “Fuck it.”
“You don’t understand,” she mutters, ignoring me as she goes about her business, heading over to a locker to pull out a duffel bag. It only takes her a few seconds, doesn’t slow us down much, so I drop it, even though it’s absurd.
It’s just stuff.
She hurries out the back door of the club, eyes surveying the neighborhood, on guard, like she fully expects the boogeyman to leap out at her from somewhere in the darkness.
My cock is an icicle within minutes of stepping outside. Every inch of me is frozen solid except my feet… my feet keep on moving, keeping up with Scarlet. She only lives a few blocks away, so it doesn’t take us long to get there. Nobody followed us that I could tell, and I’m pretty damn good at gauging when someone is watching, so I think she’ll be safe for now.
But still, there’s some part of me not yet okay with letting her out of my sight.
Curiosity, maybe.
Mind your own business and you’ll live a hundred years. Problem is, you know, a hundred years is a long time. Do I really want to live that long?
My curiosity says, ‘I don’t think so’.
So I follow her inside, and I trail her up the stairs, watching as she turns the knob to her apartment and walks right in. The place hadn’t been locked any of the times I’ve shown up.
“Locks broken?” I ask curiously, stepping into the apartment as she leaves the door wide open behind her, probably the closest thing to an invitation I’m going to get from the woman. I linger there, flicking the deadbolt, watching as it slides out just fine.
She doesn’t respond, which doesn’t surprise me, since she hasn’t said a single word since back at the club. She kicks her shoes off, leaving them lying in the middle of the floor on her way to the bedroom. She doesn’t shut herself in there, doesn’t even attempt any privacy as she unzips the coat and takes it off, snatching up a wrinkled plain white t-shirt from on top of the messy unmade bed and pulling it on, covering herself. She walks back out, lugging the coat along, and shoves it at me, punching me in the chest with the damn thing. She lets go of it and turns, heading into the kitchen.
If she comes back with a knife, I swear to fuck, I’m going to slaughter the woman…
“You’re welcome,” I call out, putting my coat back on. It smells like her, and I turn my head, inhaling along the collar. Huh.
“Thank you,” she says quietly as she reappears in the doorway, clutching a clear bottle of something. Rum… vodka… something. She takes a drink of it, lingering there, leaning against the doorframe, her eyes questioning as they regard me… as they watch me smelling my coat, like some panty-sniffing pervert.
I shrug, zipping it up. “It smells like you.”
“What do I smell like?”
“Like sex and shame,” I say, smirking at the scowl she directs my way as I inhale again. “And something distinctly vanilla.”
“It’ll fade.” She takes another large swig of the liquor, grimacing, before continuing. “It’s just my lotion… vanilla orchid. The sex, well, I’m afraid you’ll have to wash that off.”
“And the shame?” I ask, strolling toward her. “How long until that fades?”
She laughs dryly. “I’ll let you know if it ever happens.”
I take the liquor from her, glancing at the label. Rum. The bottle’s made of flimsy plastic, utterly cheap, the kind of rum that puts hair on chests and can put a motherfucker through puberty again. It’s not for the faint of heart, no, but neither is she.
She’s gritty and raw, but goddamn, the woman is beautiful. The more I look at her, the more I see it.
I take a swig, not reacting to the bitterness, and hand it back as I stare down at her. “Why don’t you lock your door, Scarlet?”
“No point,” she says. “Locks won’t stop someone determined to get in.”
“So you make it easy for them?”
“I’m just realistic. I could seal myself up in here tight, with a hundred locks on the windows and doors, but all that’ll do is trap me, like some caged animal, and I refuse to do it. Besides, you know, all of this?” She waves around the apartment. “None of it means anything to me. If people want to help themselves to it, so be it… they can have it all.”
She takes another swig before pushing away from the doorframe. Shoving by me, she strolls across the room, that vanilla scent wafting toward me.
“I hate to break it to you,” I say, glancing around, “but I don’t think you could give half of this shit away. No offense, but it all kind of looks like, well… shit.”
“That’s because it is,” she says, pausing at the window to look out. “Most of it I found or stole.”
“What do you do with all of your money?”
“Is that your business now?”
“No.”
“So why are you asking?”
Why am I asking? I don’t know. I don’t even know why I’m here, why I’m bothering with this woman at all. “Just trying to riddle you out.”
“Don’t bother,” she mutters as I stroll closer, pausing behind her. “My problems are my own.”
“Ah, come on. You can spill all your secrets to me, Scarlet. I’m good at pretending to listen.”
She laughs, a genuine kind of laugh, as she tilts her head, regarding my reflection in the grimy, cracked glass of the living room window. “I’m sure you are, but I learned long ago not to bare my soul to just anyone. It seems to make people think they’re entitled to every part of me, like I owe them everything and can keep nothing for myself.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not just anyone,” I tell her. “Besides, it’s a little late to try to keep everything under lock and key, considering what went down tonight. So how about you show me yours and I’ll show you mine?”
She turns around, eyebrow raised as she leans back against the cold glass. It’s chilly in the apartment, the heat barely working, but that doesn’t seem to bother her. Not much does.
“Go on,” she says. “You first.”
“Me first?”
She nods. “Excuse me if I don’t trust you to live up to your end of it, considering the bullshit you tried to feed me last time. So yeah, you first.”
“Fair enough.” I pause, trying to think of something to tell her, something dark enough to entice her own little demons to want to peek out and join me today. “I’ve killed people.”
“You’ve killed people.”
“Yes.”
She stares at me. Hard. She doesn’t look horrified. Hell, she kind of looks bored again. “That’s your big, dark secret? That you’re a murderer?”
I shrug a shoulder. “Not dark enough?”
“It’s plenty dark,” she says. “It’s just not exactly a secret.”
Well, damn.
“I lie, cheat, steal, rob, pillage, plunder, slaughter... seventy-five other fucking words you find in a dictionary associated with the word ‘criminal’.”
“That’s nice, that you know how one of those works,” she says. “That’s kind of vague, though.”
“You want details?”
“I want something I don’t already know.”
Pressing my hands to the windowpane on either side of her, I lean closer. Her breath hitches, her eyes fixed to mine, back flat against the glass. She’s flustered, having me so close.
“I wanted to kill your boss tonight,” I tell her. “I showed up, walked into his office, wanting to end his life, but then I saw you were working. You were on one of the screens, leading that man into the back, and just like that, I changed my mind. Because while killing him would’ve been a thrill, it wasn’t nearly as enticing as you. He lived to see another day thanks to the little hero in red fishnet thigh-highs.”
She blinks a few times. “Did he?”
“Did he what?”
“Live?”
It takes a second for me to realize she’s asking if the Russians got him after I left him alive. “I didn’t see him lying around anywhere, so I’m assuming he’s fine.”
She nods slightly, like that doesn’t surprise her. “You should’ve killed him.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because he ordered someone to kill you.”
“Did he?”
She nods again.
Huh.
Maybe I’m supposed to be worried about that, but I let out a light laugh, amused that he had the guts. If the rat bastard wanted me dead, he had ample opportunity to try it himself tonight.
“I’ll have to remember that,” I say. “Your turn, Scarlet. Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I just did.”
“Something about you.”
She hesitates.
She hesitates so long I know she’s not going to say a word.
I lean down, sliding my nose along her skin, inhaling that warm vanilla, before saying, “Come on, I showed you mine, didn’t I?”
“You don’t understand,” she whispers.
“Then make me.”
As soon as I say that, she pushes away from the glass, shoving against me, forcing me to take a step back, but I resist, refusing to move. We had a deal, goddamn it, and if she didn’t want to make it, well, then she should’ve thought about that before I told her something.
I step to the side, in front of her, when she tries to go around, blocking her path once again when she dodges the other way, pinning her there by the window.
Frustration clouds her face, and I half expect her to hit me, to swing that fist she clenches and punch me right in the jaw, but instead she comes at me, shoving against me, before thrusting up on her tiptoes. Her mouth is on mine, those red lips forceful as they kiss me hard, furiously moving, like maybe she couldn’t find the words to speak so she’s trying to steal them from me.
Figures.
Fucking thief.
A chill runs down my spine as I roughly grasp the back of her neck, holding her there, and kiss her back. My tongue slides into her mouth, meeting hers. The woman tastes as good as she smells, so fucking good that I groan. My other hand slides up beneath the edge of her white shirt, grabbing her hip, yanking her closer.
“This is how you want it?” I ask between kisses. “You’d rather fuck than talk?”
“Shut up,” she growls, making me stumble back as she shoves me toward the bedroom, dropping the bottle of liquor to the floor, discarding it, not giving a shit as it splashes out, pooling along the wood and splattering the two of us. Frenzied hands unzip my coat, tugging at it. “Just… shut up.”
I oblige—for the moment, at least—and let her push me toward the bedroom, kissing her the whole way there, even letting her tear at my clothes. Every second that passes, her frustration seems to grow, the woman close to Hulking-out and just smashing every goddamn thing. She yanks at fabric, like she thinks she’s strong enough to rip it apart, so I help her out, tossing my coat aside and breaking the kiss so I can pull my shirt off.
Her hands tremble as they fumble with my pants, like she’s nervous, or excited, or fuck, maybe both. I’m having a hard time getting a read on her, especially when I reach for her shirt and she blocks my attempt to strip her. A voice deep in the recess of my mind screams something about this is off, but that voice is snuffed out quicker than a gunshot to the temple when her hand slips into my boxers and grabs my cock.
BAM, all pussyfooting gone.
“Fuck,” I groan, my voice gritty, my eyes closing as I tilt my head back. Her hand is warm, her skin velvety soft, but her touch is firm as she strokes, hitting just the right places to set me off. Her thumb massages the sweet spot on the underside of my cock, the sensitive outer ridges of the head, right where those nerve endings are bundled.
Jesus, this woman knows her anatomy.
A+
Top marks.
Summa cum laude.
Valedictorian of her motherfucking class.
I could stand here and feel it forever, just get lost in the sensations rolling through my body, but if she’s this good at a hand job, her pussy will without a doubt blow my mind. My pants slide down my legs, dropping to my ankles, and I try to kick my boots off, but they’re not budging, and you know what?
Fuck this.
I can fuck her with my clothes on.
Grabbing her wrist, I pull her hand away before I explode already. Wouldn’t take long, that’s for sure, not with the way she’s touching me. I pull her onto her bed, damn near falling from my shackling pants, my hand still clutching her wrist. My thumb presses against her pulse point, feeling the thump-thump-thumping from her heart racing.
Twisting around, she uses her free hand to reach over to a bedside stand, yanking a drawer open to retrieve a condom. She rips the golden foil wrapper with her teeth, and I let go of her wrist, watching as she rolls the condom on me.
I don’t undress her. If she doesn’t want me to, hell, I won’t. Shoving her legs apart, I settle between them, hitching her knees up. Her thong is barely a piece of string, easy to shove aside as I reach between us, caressing her bare pussy.
Her mouth falls open, a soft sigh escaping, when I push my middle finger inside of her, pumping it in and out. My thumb roughly rubs her clit, the simple touch making her moan. It doesn’t take long until she’s soaking wet, writhing beneath me.
Grasping my cock, I rub the head along her warm pussy, stroking her clit with the tip, before lining up and pushing in. Fuck, she fits perfectly, like a leather glove. Her breath hitches, and she clutches a hold of me, wrapping her arms around me, her red-painted nails digging into the skin of my back.
I pound into her, on top of her, covering her with my body, digging my boots into the cheap mattress for traction with each hard thrust. Those nails rake across my skin, leaving stinging trails as she claws her way through me with each whimper, and moan, and cry, her legs wrapping around my waist, welcoming me inside.
Fuck, this woman...
Yeah, I’m actually fucking this woman.
She grows quiet, her grip loosening, scratches becoming barely-there touches, her body shifting every time I thrust into her.
She’s limp in the bed.
Pulling back, I look down at her tucked beneath me. She’s staring off into the distance, gaze fixed to a nearby wall. Dazed. Zoned out. Gone.
“Oh, no, no…” Grasping her chin, I turn her head, forcing her to look at me. “You’re not doing that blank slate shit with me.”
She blinks a few times before her eyes narrow.
“Go ahead, get mad,” I say, continuing to thrust. “But when I’m inside of you, Scarlet, you don’t get to fade.”
“I’m not,” she says defensively.
“Liar, liar, pants on fire...”
She growls, hands running up my back before she fists my hair, tugging on it, yanking me back down toward her. “I’m not fading.”
“Damn right you’re not,” I say, brushing my nose against hers before I kiss her.
She doesn’t fade again, those moans returning, turning to sharp cries as I stroke her clit, bringing her to orgasm.
Again.
And again.
And again.
I hold myself back for as long as I can, watching her as she comes apart at the seams, the sounds escaping her primal, like a wild animal, before my body just can’t take anymore. If I don’t come soon, my balls are going to revolt. They’re seriously going to close up shop and go the fuck home. Grunting, I thrust hard, knocking the flimsy bed into the wall, as a swell of pleasure runs through me.
“Fuck,” I groan, gripping her tightly, fishnet-covered legs still wound around me as I spill into the condom. Stilling, I press my forehead to hers, catching my breath, inhaling her scent. The vanilla is still there, yeah, but the smell of sex overshadows it now, and the shame?
Yeah, that’s still all over her.
“Satiated,” I say, still balls-deep inside of her. “Is that what your Scarlet Letter stands for?”
She shoves me when I ask that, pushing me off of her. “Stupid.”
I pull out with a groan. “Stupid?”
“That’s what yours would stand for,” she says. “Stupid. And smug.”
“Satiated,” I say again, standing up, finding myself in quite the predicament, considering my pants are wound around my ankles like shackles and I need to make my way to the bathroom to dispose of the condom. My ass is on full display, and I’m not exactly modest, you know, but I’m kind of hoping I don’t fall flat on my face.
It’s possible.
Plausible.
Probably going to happen.
So I sit back down on the edge of the bed and untie my boots, yanking them off. After dropping them to the floor, I pull off my pants, wearing nothing but my socks as I seek out her bathroom.
It’s small.
I’m talking tiny.
Fucking minuscule.
I have to be careful taking a piss, my dick practically bigger than the width of the room. A can’t-walk-into-the-shit closet. A hole in the damn wall. It’s completely ridiculous.
When I’m finished, I go back to her bedroom. It’s late, and I’m exhausted, which means I probably ought to give Seven a call to come pick me up so I can try to get some sleep tonight, get my head back on right. Maybe now that I’ve been inside of her, it’ll purge all these goddamn thoughts of her from inside of me.
Scarlet is sitting on her bed, her knees pulled up to her chest, her shirt stretched around them as she huddles beneath it. Not for warmth, no… more like trying to shield herself from the world around her. Nervous again. I sit down on the edge of the bed, eyeing my discarded clothes on the floor.
“It’s been nine months,” she says quietly.
“Nine months since what?”
“Since I last came face-to-face with Kassian.”
Ah. “I’m assuming that was him tonight?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve been hiding from him for nine months?”
She laughs dryly. “I’ve been hiding from him a lot longer than that, but it’s been nine months since he last found me. I’ve managed to evade him for forty long weeks.”
“Almost broke your streak tonight.”
“Almost,” she agrees.
“What does he want from you?”
She shrugs. It’s not an evasion. I can tell the reaction is genuine. She doesn’t put it in words, but I know what she’s saying... she doesn’t understand what he wants. Maybe she knows, in her head, but she’s listening with her heart, a dangerous path to go down.
“Whatever it is he wants, you probably should give it to him so he’ll go away.”
“But what if he won’t?” she asks. “What if this is what he wants?”
“What, mayhem?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, you get rid of him a different way.”
I draw a line along my throat with my fingers, making my point, as I lay back on the bed. It’s uncomfortable, but I’m exhausted, too lazy to put on my pants yet. Shit. My eyes are burning, my head starting to pound with the beginning of a headache, thanks to the adrenaline rush finally fading, mediocrity creeping back in.
“That’s not an option,” she says quietly. “Murder isn’t always the answer.”
Laughing, I close my eyes, covering my forearm with them. “Hell, and here I thought it was...”