Chapter Three
“You son of a bitch,” I growl, squinting, hunkered beneath the glowing lamp in the library with my gaze fixed to my lap. “I swear to God, if you don’t go in that fucking hole, I’m going to lose my shit...”
Carefully, I aim, lining up for what feels like the twentieth goddamn time, but my hand slips right past my target, once again, instead somehow making me stab myself in the thumb.
“Fuck!” I yank my hand back, watching as a bead of bright red blood bubbles up on the surface. I pop my thumb in my mouth and shove up out of my chair, sending it flying halfway across the room. “Motherfucker!”
The word’s jumbled, since I’m sucking my damn thumb, sounding more like a bitch ass shriek than anything resembling English. Frustration builds up inside of me as I kick the table, lashing out, making it screech along the floor.
“Boss?”
Seven’s hesitant voice calls out from the doorway just in the knick of time, because I was three seconds away from pulling out my gun and shooting something, which would’ve probably just pissed me off more. Goddamn bullet holes.
I turn, regarding him. He looks like his usual self, fresh-faced and wide awake, despite it being around five o’clock in the morning, the sun not yet shining. He has probably already eaten breakfast. Probably fucked his wife before leaving his house. Probably got some extra snacks stashed in his pockets. Probably did it all while I sat here like a fucking schmuck, struggling to thread this stupid ass needle.
“Everything okay?” he asks. “What happened?”
What happened?
His favorite goddamn question.
“What happened,” I say, pulling my thumb from between my lips, “is I can’t take Tab A and stick it in Slot B properly because my brain thinks the world is fucking flat so nothing appears 3D.”
He stares at me cautiously, like how you regard a wild animal, like he’s afraid of what I might be getting myself into this morning.
“Come thread this fucking needle,” I say, throwing the sewing kit down on the table, pieces of it scattering, “before I stab myself again.”
Seven approaches, assessing things, picking up the discarded needle and cutting a fresh piece of black thread, since the one I used is knotted and frayed. Three seconds, just like that, he holds the needle up in front of him and slips the thread right through it, securing the ends before handing it back.
Three seconds.
I’ve been at this for thirty minutes.
“Bullshit,” I mutter as I snatch it back. “Thanks.”
“Anytime, boss,” he says. “Is that all you needed? Is that why you called?”
“Do you seriously think I’d make you come to Queens just to thread a fucking needle for me at five o’clock in the morning?”
“Yes.”
I cast him a glare.
He’s right.
I would.
But I didn’t.
Shaking my head, I reach down, snatching the damn stuffed bear from the floor where I tossed it earlier after swiping it out of Scarlet’s clutches in bed. I motion for Seven to have a seat in my chair, while I slide up onto the table, sitting on the edge of it, beneath the lamp.
I don’t know where to start.
With any of this shit, really.
When building a puzzle, you always start with the border, since those pieces are the easiest to pick out and put together. From there, depending on the puzzle, you either separate by color or you use the picture as reference, if there’s something unique to pinpoint. Regardless, you hit what’s most obvious first, breaking it down into manageable chunks. Divide and conquer.
Start at the border and work our way in.
I push the needle through the side of the bear, to close a hole some fluffy guts are spilling out of.
Seven sits down, still watching. “You ever sewn before, boss?”
“Sewed someone’s lips shut before when they wouldn’t shut the fuck up,” I say. “Why? Do I look like I don’t know what I’m doing?”
I’m asking that genuinely.
I’m trying to not screw this all up.
“Your technique is a bit... unusual.”
“What’s so unusual about it?”
I’m shoving it in and pulling it back out, winding round and round and round as I go, forcing the hole closed. Makes sense, right?
“You’re using kind of like a double overcasting basting stitch instead of a blind stitch... or maybe a ladder stitch would’ve been better.”
“What are you going on about?” I ask, brow furrowing. “Stitches are stitches, are they not?”
“Well... sure, I guess.”
“You guess.”
“It’s just that certain stitches work better in different circumstances—like, for instance...”
He rambles, babbling on and on and on about stitches and fabrics and techniques, while I just keep shoving the needle through the bear, back and forth, until the hole is no more. Poof. I cut the thread and knot it the best I can, looking up at Seven when I’m done.
Not even kidding. He’s still talking.
“How the hell do you know all that?” I ask, cutting him off. “Get your rocks off in home ec? Spend your free time whittling out coats for the homeless?”
He laughs. “The wife is a seamstress.”
“No shit? Didn’t think she had a job anymore since you got set loose and started making money again.”
“She still does a bit of work here and there,” he says. “Mends costumes for a couple shows when they need it. She enjoys it, and well, not gonna turn down extra money, you know?”
“Yeah,” I mumble, examining my sewing job before moving on to the next hole, making Seven rethread the needle for me.
Extra money is a bullshit concept, when it comes down to it. For most people, the more they make, the more they spend. Bigger houses, fancier cars, more recognizable brand names. It isn’t like they get to a point where they think, ‘yep, I’ve got enough now, I’ll pass on the rest.’ Which means there’s no such thing as extra. Money is money. It’s a necessary evil.
“Speaking of money,” I say, sewing up another hole. “I met with Jameson and a few of his guys over in Midtown yesterday.”
“Why didn’t you call me? I could’ve driven you.”
“Wasn’t necessary,” I say. “I just had Jameson swing through and pick me up. Got the guns from storage unloaded. Banked about a hundred thousand. His guy wants more, though, so I’m going to have another shipment put together in the next few days and have it brought up.”
Seven lets out a low whistle. “More? That’s a lot of guns for one man. What’s he doing, starting a war?”
“Probably,” I say. “Not my problem, though. What they do with it all is their business.”
“And the rest of the stuff?”
“It’ll all be out to market in the next few days,” I say. “Three can handle it, like usual.”
Look, while I’m sewing this hole closed, let me give you a rundown about how all of this works:
I help acquire shit. Illegal shit, mostly, some of it that way because of where it comes from. You see, a long time ago, when I was still swimming around in Charlie Gambini’s nutsack, the government said ‘fuck Cuba’ and banned everything to do with the place. No imports. No exports. Couldn’t even step foot on the island without going through a bunch of bullshit. And people, you know, when the government tells them they can’t have something, it just makes them want it even more.
Hence, the blackmarket boomed.
After my stepfather wreaked his havoc and took over the groves, he decided to capitalize on that demand. The convenience of having property in Florida meant they could slip shit in and out from Cuba under everyone’s noses. After he died and I took it all back, I kept the market running. Most of the product still stays down south, and some guys run it all as they keep up with the groves, but special orders are brought to me up here.
You want it, I can probably get it.
Whether or not I will depends on how much you’re willing to pay and if I like you that day.
So in summary, we bribe a bunch of motherfuckers to look the other way as we funnel the good shit in from Cuba. I deal with our connections and handle the money. Three distributes the inventory, while Seven makes sure I keep my head on straight through it all. Eye on the prize. The rest of the guys, well, they mostly do the brunt work, and it pays pretty damn good, so they don’t complain.
You bored now? Yeah?
Can’t say I blame you.
That part of it bores the shit out of me, too. I wouldn’t bother doing it, except I rely on that money to keep the groves running, since there isn’t much money to be made in oranges. I’d break that reality down for you, but it might put you to sleep.
All caught up now? Good.
Back to sewing.
“Anyway, so I asked around about the Russian, figuring one of them would have an in with the guy since most are undercover with that crowd.” Oh yeah, did I mention most of the select group that buys my illegal shit up here works in law enforcement? I have Seven to thank for those connections. “They say they can’t get near him. They’ve tried. He keeps it all close to the chest, but somebody has to have an in with him since he’s always a step ahead. So I’m figuring, you know, I’ve got Jameson in my pocket because he works organized crime, but they aren’t building a case, the locals are, which tells me whoever’s supposed to be investigating the Russians has gotta be bending over for the guy.”
“Makes sense,” Seven says. “Most likely a detective in the area.”
“Ding, ding, ding, we’ve got a winner.” I finish sewing up that hole, assessing the bear’s leg, the bottom part of it pretty fucked, a chunk burned away. “How am I supposed to fix that?”
“Cover it up,” Seven suggests.
“What, sew a sock onto it or something?”
“No, make a patch,” he says, “like when you get a hole in your pants.”
I glance down at my jeans, covered with holes.
They were made that way. No patches.
“Sometimes you seem a lot older than me, Seven.”
He laughs. “You’re just young at heart.”
“Is that your way of saying I’m immature?”
“I’m just saying you don’t seem to be in any hurry to grow up,” he says. “Which there’s nothing wrong with. But me? I’ve settled into my life. You’re still finding yours.”
“Well, I appreciate the validation, but that’s not helping get this goddamn bear fixed.”
“Why are you fixing it?”
Man... that’s a good question. The only answer I’ve got is, “Who knows?”
He laughs. Again. “Look, find some fabric, cut it to fit the space, finish the raw edges and sew it on.”
I toss the bear down on the table beside the sewing kit when he says that. It sounds like a lot of work with a high probability of something going wrong. Can’t do much about the rest of the bear, either. Can’t replace its ear. Can’t put it in the washer without it falling apart. And certainly can’t give it back its missing eye, considering I’ve only got one myself.
It’s just fucked.
“She had a file on me, you know. Scarlet.”
Seven’s eyes widen.
“She swiped it from a detective’s office. Gabriel Jones. You know him?”
Seven makes a face. “Unfortunately.”
“Any chance he could be our Senator Palpatine?”
“Who?”
Sighing, I stand up, taking off my glasses and setting them on the table. “I’m only giving you a pass on that because of the prequels, but if you tell me you’ve never seen Empire Strikes Back, I’m shooting you in the face.”
“Seen it a few times.”
“Good, now come on,” I say, pulling my keys from my pocket and tossing them to Seven. “We’re gonna have us a little rendezvous with our little Sith detective this morning.”
* * *
“I’m not sure this is a good idea, boss.”
Those are the first words out of Seven’s mouth when we step foot into the precinct down near Coney Island. I sort of expected it, though, being who he is. He’s more uncomfortable here than at a strip club, and that’s saying something, since the man has an aversion to any naked woman that isn’t his wife. Allergic to unfamiliar pussy.
“You can wait in the car,” I tell him. “Won’t hold it against you.”
“I’m fine,” he says. “Just letting it be known so when things go haywire you can’t blame me.”
“Oh, I can still blame you. Probably will, too.”
He shakes his head, stepping by me, naturally taking the lead on this since he’s all too familiar with the procedures in these places. He approaches a woman in uniform sitting behind a desk, clearing his throat before saying firmly, “We’re here to speak with Detective Gabriel Jones.”
Ohhh, his cop voice—no bullshit, no humor. I guess if we’re playing the good cop/bad cop routine, that makes me the good one. The irony...
The officer regards him warily, like she might have an idea of who he is. “Name?”
“Bruno Pratt,” he says.
Recognition flashes in her eyes.
“I’ll let him know you’re here,” she says, motioning toward the lobby. “Have a seat, someone will—”
“Don’t worry about that,” he cuts in. “I can find his office myself, no problem.”
Seven pushes away from the desk, immediately heading for a nearby elevator. The officer at the desk shoots me a look next, that all-too-familiar expression of dread washing over her as she averts her eyes.
My reputation must precede me here, too.
“Officer,” I say, nodding in greeting as I walk past the front desk, trailing Seven.
The elevator opens and we step inside. He presses the number three button.
“Third floor, huh?” I ask.
“Just a guess,” he says.
A damn lucky guess, it turns out, because we find the detective’s office in the back against the wall, blinds drawn, his name prominently displayed on the door.
“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” I say.
“Oh, no, he’s here,” Seven says. “Should probably look away unless you wanna get an eyeful.”
“No shit?”
Seven shoots me a look that says just that: no shit.
I don’t avert my gaze, because well, I’m nosey. Besides, I’ve seen it all before. Nothing’s going to shock me. Seven grabs the door, shoving it open, a high-pitched yelp ringing out from inside as we interrupt whatever’s happening. Uh-oh.
“Whoa buddy!” I say, letting out a laugh as the detective scrambles to pull himself together. His pants are down around his ankles, damn near tripping him, his awkwardly hairy ass on display. “Might wanna shave that shit, Sasquatch.”
He’s cursing under his breath as he yanks his pants on, the woman on her knees shoving him away to stand up. Blonde, sickly skinny, which I’m guessing is courtesy of coke judging by the high-as-fuck look on her face. She flees the office, and I grimace as she rushes past me, getting a whiff of something rank.
“Christ,” I grumble, walking into the office, not awaiting an invitation since I’m probably not getting one. “I don’t even know what to say right now, detective.”
“Nothing was happening,” he says as he fumbles with his belt. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”
I drop down into a chair in front of his desk, stretching my legs out, making myself comfortable. “I sure hope not, because I thought you had better taste than that. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve fucked my fair share of questionable women, but that’s like sticking your dick in a trash compactor.”
He glares at me. “I don’t have time for visitors today. I’m busy.”
“I saw,” I say. “You working on something for that girl? A little head, a little pussy, and what? You’ll give her case a little extra attention?”
“Sounds like him,” Seven says, still lurking in the doorway.
The detective seems to just notice Seven’s presence, a look of contempt passing across the man’s face. “Pratt.”
“Jones.”
“I see your choice of friendships hasn’t gotten any better.”
“And I see you still get your rocks off fucking with people.”
“That was always you, Pratt. Quick to sell out everyone for a dollar.”
“Me?” Seven comes further into the office, leaving the door wide open, his quick advance making the detective step back. “You want to talk about selling people out?”
I glance between them as they shoot daggers at each other. “Are you two... flirting? Because it’s kind of turning me on.”
Okay, now those daggers are being shot at me.
“Sit down, Seven,” I say, shoving the chair beside me toward him before I point at the detective. “You, too, Detective Fuckface. Plant your ass in a chair. Let’s chit-chat.”
Neither man listens to me right away, but Seven’s common sense kicks in after a moment. He sits down, not saying another word.
The detective follows his lead, taking a seat behind his desk, his eyes fixed on me. “Lorenzo Gambini, I presume? Or would you prefer to be called—”
“Sir,” I cut in before he can say Scar. “You can call me sir, if it gives you the tingles. Otherwise, let’s just stick with Gambini.”
He sits quietly for a moment, stewing, before he asks, “What do you want? Huh? You think you can show up here and threaten me?”
“Threaten you?” I look to Seven. “Did I threaten him and already forget about it?”
“I didn’t hear a threat,” Seven says.
I glance back at the detective. “Didn’t think so. I’m just here to check up on a case.”
“Make an appointment,” he says.
“I’d rather not,” I say, “so I’ll just sit here and wait.”
I think he thinks I’ll give up and go away, or that I’ll do something to justify him having me thrown out of the building, but I’m smarter than that, and I’m stubborn as shit. I’ll sit here for a fucking week in silence if it means I win.
It doesn’t take a week, though. Hell, it only takes a few minutes. A few minutes of him trying to ignore my presence before he gives in. Weak.
“Fine!” He throws his hands up. “Tell me what you want from me and then get the hell out.”
“Kassian Aristov.”
He blanks.
Full on, no fucking poker face blanks.
There’s this thing people do when death is imminent, this look that comes over them. Sometimes it only lasts a second. All color drains away. Eyes widen. Jaw goes slack. They almost look dead already, life non-existent, when the realization hits them that they’re completely fucked and there’s no way to stop it from happening.
That’s the look he gets on his face right now.
Dead man walking...
“I can’t talk to you about a case that doesn’t involve you,” he says, choosing his words carefully.
“Oh, do you have a case that does involve me? Because I’d love to hear about that one.”
He glares at me, still as white as a ghost.
“Well then, in that case, we can stick to Aristov,” I say. “I’m actually here on behalf of someone else, so don’t you worry your pretty little mind... you can tell me all about it.”
“You’re here on whose behalf?”
“Morgan Myers.”
There he goes blanking again. Panicked.
“Well?” I snap my finger at him. “The sooner you get with it, the sooner I’ll go.”
He clears his throat and looks away, absently shifting things around on his desk. “Miss Myers can’t speak for herself anymore? She has to send you to rough me up?”
“Jesus fuck.” I look at Seven. “Did I miss myself roughing him up now? What’s happening here?”
“Beats me,” Seven says, arms crossed over his chest. “I’m surprised he hasn’t told you everything. He’s always been good at ratting people out.”
Something strikes me then, something in Seven’s clipped tone, and I laugh as I turn back to the detective. Motherfucker. Turns out I might be dealing with backstabbing Lando. “No way, you? Tell me you didn’t snitch on a fellow officer.”
“He shouldn’t have been working for the Italians,” the detective says. “He betrayed the badge.”
“Ask him how he knows,” Seven chimes in. “Ask him how he found out I was on their payroll.”
“Oh, I don’t have to ask,” I say. “He sold you out to save his own ass.”
Nobody says anything, which really says everything.
“And you didn’t return the favor?” I ask Seven. “Didn’t take him down with you?”
Seven shakes his head.
“He would’ve,” the detective said, “if he thought for a moment that they would’ve believed it. They hailed me a hero for that arrest. How else do you think I got this cushy private office?”
“Sure as hell isn’t because you’re good at helping people, huh?” I laugh again, sitting up in the chair, getting pretty tired of dealing with this jackass already. It’s no damn wonder Scarlet faded out whenever he touched her. I ought to break every fucking bone in his hands for doing what he did, despicable piece of shit. “Morgan Myers... you’re going to tell me what’s going on with her case.”
The detective is quiet, like he’s thinking about how to answer, before saying, “There isn’t one.”
Did I just hear that right? “What did you just say?”
“There is no case,” he says. “We investigated, nothing panned out. Miss Myers was advised to handle it herself, since it’s a civil matter.”
It’s not often I’m rendered speechless, but it’s been happening quite a bit lately, and it always seems to have something to do with Scarlet.
It’s blowing my goddamn mind.
“A civil matter,” I say. “Which part? Because I’m just wondering whether murder or kidnapping is the civil matter, legally speaking. I might be interested in partaking in one or the other, if that’s the case.”
“Look, I don’t know what she told you, Gambini, but there was no kidnapping. Aristov has a right to his daughter. Morgan kept the kid from him for years prior to this, and she wasn’t charged with kidnapping, either. So like I said, it’s a civil matter. If she wants us to do anything, she needs to sue for custody and get an order filed with the courts, something that can be enforced. And last time I checked, Miss Myers was still very much alive, which means there wasn’t a murder.”
“Attempted murder, then.”
“There’s no proof he tried to kill her,” he says. “At most, with just her testimony to rely on—if she’d even testify, which she won’t—it gets pled down to simple assault. He pays a fine, takes anger management, and that’s the end of it. She’s also welcome to petition the courts for a restraining order. Again, that’s something we can enforce.”
He’s got an answer for everything, an excuse as to why they’re not doing a damn thing to help her.
“Fair enough,” I say, “but riddle me this: if she gave birth at sixteen, which is under the age of consent, why wasn’t he charged for that? Pretty sure that’s one hell of a cut-and-dry felony.”
“There was never any complaint of statutory rape.”
“Not even when a man over twice her age signed the birth certificate?”
He stares at me in silence.
“Huh, so either you ignored that little fact or he never signed the birth certificate, which means he’s either guilty of statutory rape or he’s guilty of kidnapping her child. Which one is it, detective?”
He still says nothing.
Knowing what I know, I’m betting it’s the kidnapping. Some bullshit piece of paper issued by the government would mean nothing to Aristov. He doesn’t need the validation.
But it also means he’s got no legal right to her.
“Do you like it?” I ask after a moment of strained silence. “Does it make you hard, bending over for the Russians, letting them fuck you?”
He glares at me.
“It’s okay, you can admit it,” I continue. “We’ve all got our kinks. Bet you love it when they come all over your back and treat you like a little bitch.”
“Fuck you,” he growls. “You don’t know anything.”
“I know you sold out a grieving mother, and I know you fed her a bunch of bullshit about how you were going to help. I know she let you stick it in, because she loves her kid, thinking you were a good guy that was going to help her with this. But you never planned to do a goddamn thing for her, did you?”
“I’m doing all I can for Morgan,” he says through gritted teeth, his nostrils flaring. He looks like he wants to tear me to pieces. Awesome. “You think I don’t wish I could get the kid back for her? If it was in any way possible, I would’ve done it, but my hands are tied. You just don’t cross Aristov.”
“Careful, detective,” I say. “You’re sounding a bit like a coward right now.”
“I’m being realistic,” he says, running his hands down his face. “Unlike Morgan, who seems to think she can go up against him and not lose everything. I mean, Christ... what does she expect? She’s alive. She escaped with her life. She ought to be grateful for that! The kid... the kid is fine. I get that it sucks, but she’s with them, and she’s... fine.”
“And you just took the Russian’s word for that?”
“Of course not,” he grumbles. “I’m not an idiot. I made him prove it. And the kid, you know... she’s fine. He has her. She’s fine.”
I’m beginning to question if he believes his own words. He’s said she was fine so many goddamn times that I think he might be trying to convince himself of that.
“I take it that means you’ve seen her?”
He looks at me, going white again. Uh-oh.
“Where’s he hiding her?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you know?”
“Nothing.”
Lying son of a bitch...
I shove up to my feet, towering over the desk. “You wanna know what I know, detective?”
“What?”
Snatching ahold of his shirt, I fist the collar and yank him up out of his chair. He grabs the desk when he slams into it, bracing himself as I pull him to me. I stare him right in his eyes, face-to-face, so damn close our noses almost touch.
“I know if you ever lay another finger on Morgan, I’ll cut your dick off and fuck you with it,” I say. “And then, when I’m done, I’ll shove it down your mother’s throat while I fuck her. You got me?”
Blinking rapidly, he nods.
I shove him back into his chair, and he damn near falls right out of it, alarmed. Man, you don’t even know how much I want to shoot him in the crotch right now, just pump bullet after bullet into the man’s puny balls.
“I’ll be seeing you around, Detective Fuckface,” I say. “Next time, though, you might not like me so much.”
“See, that was a threat,” Seven chimes in, getting to his feet. “I heard it that time.”
I laugh, walking out, leaving the precinct without bothering with anybody else.
Stepping outside onto the sidewalk in front of the precinct, I pull the small tin from my pocket to grab a joint.
“Uh, boss,” Seven says, pausing beside me. “Might not be the best place to light up.”
I shrug that off, lighting it, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke for a moment before saying, “What are they gonna do, arrest me?”
“Probably.”
I take another hit of it, nodding, before strolling away from the entrance, heading to where the car is parked. I lounge in the passenger seat, steadily smoking, letting it soothe my nerves and clear my mind as Seven drives. The windows are rolled up, so he’s probably getting a bit of a high, but he doesn’t complain about it.
“He saw the kid,” I say after a moment, “which means Aristov kept her around here.”
I can feel Seven’s gaze flicker my way as he says quietly, “His refrigerator.”
His refrigerator.
What the fuck?
“Seriously? You think he’s keeping her in his refrigerator? Jesus Christ, Seven, who is he, Jeffery Dahmer?”
“No, I’m not saying he... you know. But when we were at his house, when I went to the kitchen to wait... there was a picture on the refrigerator. A drawing, stick figures and a house. You know, stuff kids draw.”
“And you didn’t think to mention that before now?”
“No,” he admits. “I didn’t know we were even looking for a kid. You didn’t tell me, so I didn’t realize it was important.”
I’m thinking about that as we head back into Queens, approaching my house, my gaze steadily watching the mirrors, making sure nobody is following us. Can never be too sure. It’s bothering me, what Seven just said. “How many stick figures?”
He pulls into my driveway, casting me a curious look. “What?”
“How many people were in the drawing?”
“Uh... two. A guy and a kid, it looked like.”
Shit.
I sit there, even after he cuts the engine to the car, staring out the windshield at my house. It’s after sunrise now, which means Scarlet is probably awake in there, roaming around.
“What are you thinking, boss?” Seven asks.
I’m thinking life is going on without Scarlet, the world is still turning, and that’s going to hurt the fuck out of her. You see, that’s the thing about grief... it feels all-consuming. It makes it feel like time stops, because for you, it does. Life as you know it ceases to exist, but for everyone else, it just keeps going on. And sometimes, you know, if it stops for too long, there’s not much chance of you ever catching up.
Because by the time your world moves again, everyone else is already too far gone.
“Thinking I might make some pancakes this morning,” I say. “Maybe some bacon, too.”
Seven follows me inside. The moment I open the front door, music greets me, rattling through the house from upstairs. Tupac. I make my way up there, the noise blaring from my brother’s room, loud despite his door being closed. I’m pretty sure I know what other noises the music is drowning out, so I don’t bother him, instead strolling over to my room.
The door is cracked open, and I push it further, leaning against the doorframe.
A smile slowly turns my lips.
Scarlet’s making my bed, dancing around as she flings sheets across the thing, trying to get the corners to stay put but they’re a bitch to secure. Too big T-shirt, lacy panties, and a pair of socks tugged damn near to her knees is all she’s wearing, her hair all over the place. I Get Around. She tries to rap along to the song, only knowing half the words, fucking up the rest by just making shit up.
Her eyes shift my way after a moment, and she startles, the singing stopping as she freezes. It only lasts a few seconds before the chorus kicks back in and she shrugs me off, singing along again as she finally gets the fitted sheet into place, moving on to the rest.
I say nothing, just watching her. The song changes to Hit ‘Em Up. She knows even less of his one, spewing out part of a line every now and then, violent and vulgar, so damn out of place with her honeyed voice that I laugh.
“You laughing at me?” she asks, cutting her eyes my way. “That’s foul.”
“It’s cute,” I say, “you trying to sound hardcore.”
She scowls as she struts over to me, pausing when we’re toe-to-toe, not even hesitating as her arms go around me, her hands meeting at the nape of my neck, fingers running through my hair.
She stares me dead in the face, her expression stone cold serious as she says, “I will cut a motherfucker.”
“I don’t doubt that for a second,” I tell her, leaning over, kissing her. “My wicked little belladonna, beautiful, deadly, so tempting to keep tasting but so goddamn toxic every touch is just too much.”
Something flashes in her eyes, her cheeks growing pink, a flush taking over her warm skin.
“Is this foreplay?” she asks. “Because I’m not really in the mood.”
“Liar.” I laugh, running my nose along her cheek. She smells like warm vanilla and maybe even a bit like me. “Are you forgetting what happens to people who lie to me?”
Rolling her eyes, she pushes away, walking back over to finish making the bed. “How do you know I’m lying?”
“You look like you might enjoy a good pounding,” I say. “Besides, fresh sheets... no better time than now to fuck the bed all up.”
She throws the comforter on top of it, doing a half-assed job at the rest, before dropping to the floor on her hands and knees, looking under the bed.
Walking over, I reach down, running a hand over the curve of her ass before slipping further down, rubbing her pussy through her panties. “You assuming the position?”
She laughs. “I’m looking for Buster.”
“Ah, its downstairs in my library.”
She stands up, giving me a weird look as she pushes past me.
“Where are you going?” I ask, catching her arm.
“To get Buster,” she says.
I stare at her as she pulls away, leaving the room.
Un-fucking-believable.
Cock-blocked by a one-eyed teddy bear.
Are you seeing the irony here?
The song changes, Picture Me Rollin’ blaring through the house, but in those three seconds it takes for the music to kick back in, I hear the unmistakable sound of moaning.
Walking over to my brother’s room, I bang my fist against the door, hard enough to rattle it, before snatching ahold of the knob and shoving the fucking thing open.
“Whoa, Pretty Boy!” I tilt my head as the door slams into the wall. “I didn’t know Firecracker was so bendy.”
Shouts, panic, as they scramble, throwing blankets over themselves, Firecracker covering up entirely as she pushes Leo off of her. Truthfully, I saw nothing, but if I’m getting cock-blocked, so is my brother.
Yeah, whatever... no one ever said I was mature.
“Jesus, bro!” he yells. “Do you mind?”
“Keep the fucking noises down,” I tell him. “Some people are busy not fucking and don’t want to hear that shit.”
I walk away as he yells something at me, something that has something to do with me being an asshole, as if I don’t already know that little fact about myself. I make my way downstairs, heading to the library, damn near slamming into Scarlet.
She thrusts the bear at me, shoving it right in my face. “What the hell, Lorenzo?”
I push her hand away. “What?”
“Who did this?”
“Who did what?”
“This... sewing.”
I look at the bear in the dim morning light, at the thick lines of black thread knotted together, before my gaze turns to Scarlet, who clutches the thing so tightly it looks like she might bust the holes right back open.
Tears swim in her eyes.
My skin starts to crawl.
I should’ve known better.
This is why I don’t do shit like this. Why I don’t try to help people. Why I don’t fucking bother. I think, hey, it’s important to her, let’s do something about it, because maybe I’m not always an asshole, maybe I can be a nice guy sometimes, but I should know better than to think anything the nice side of me does could ever be good enough for somebody else.
“So, what, I can’t sew worth a damn,” I say, pushing past her into the library.
She turns in the doorway, staring at me. “You sewed it? You did this?”
“Yeah, so what?”
I sit down in my chair, regarding her as she blinks rapidly, like she suddenly doesn’t comprehend English, staring at me like I’m a stranger, like she doesn’t know who I am.
“Look, be pissed all you want, Scarlet. Go boo-hoo in a fucking corner, if that’s what you want to do, but if you start in on me because I fucked the thing up even more, I’m liable to flip out and give us all a reason to cry, so go do that shit somewhere else.”
“Seriously?” She gapes at me. “Are you fucking with me, Lorenzo?”
Closing my eyes, I run my hands down my face, muttering, “I wish I was...”
The door slams, and I look up, tensing. She’s still standing in the room, still staring at me.
She comes toward me, clutching the bear. “I changed my mind.”
“About what?”
“I’m in the mood now.”
“What?”
She climbs right onto my lap, forcing her way on the chair, tossing the bear on top of my puzzle on the table as she straddles me. No hesitation, the woman rolls her hips, grinding against me, as she runs her fingers through my thick hair.
I need a haircut. Desperately.
It’s falling into my face.
Grasping tight to the locks, tugging to the point of pain, Scarlet yanks my head up so I’ll look at her.
“How are you so fucking dense?” she asks. “You think I’m mad right now? Seriously?”
There are still tears in her eyes. “You look like you might cry.”
“Because it’s the nicest thing anybody has ever done for me, Lorenzo. You’re trying to fix things.”
I grasp her cheeks, framing her face with my hands, and stare her straight in the eyes, dead serious, as I say, “If you’re going to start crying, I need you to not do it while you’re sitting on my lap.”
She lets out a light laugh, grabbing my wrists, pulling my hands away from her face, forcing my arms around her.
“I’m not going to cry,” she says, fumbling between us, undoing my pants. “I’m going to show you my appreciation instead.”
“You don’t have to give pussy to show gratitude,” I tell her. “A simple ‘thanks’ will suffice.”
“I know,” she whispers. “Thank you. But I want to give you pussy to show you I’m grateful, because the way I feel when you’re inside of me? There’s nothing else like it. You make me feel alive.”
Those words twist me up, and I want to say something about it... about how I need her to not put so much stock in me and get so damn sentimental... but my cock beats my voice in terms of springing free, and the second she starts stroking me all I can think is ‘fuck… fuck… fuck it’.
Like I’m gonna turn down pussy...
She shifts lace aside to sink down onto me, riding me, no hesitation. Fuck, it feels like Heaven. Warm, and wet, and so damn tight wrapped around my cock. I always thought it would get tedious, fucking the same woman over and over, but nothing about Scarlet is ever boring.
Thirty seconds. That’s all the time I get before somebody shoves the library door open without knocking. Son of a bitch. I’d pull out my gun on principle, as usual, but Scarlet’s kind of sitting on it, so I’d have to throw her off first.
That’s out of the question.
I look over, seeing my brother in the doorway, just in time for shock to flash across his face as he throws his hands up. “Seriously? How do you like being interrupted? Huh?”
“Doesn’t bother me,” I tell him, but he knows that. My gaze turns to Scarlet, who is still looking at me. “Does it bother you?”
She scoffs, not stopping what she’s doing. “I can’t count how many times I’ve been watched.”
The door slams closed again about ten seconds later as my brother shouts, “You’re both crazy!”
“Guess he didn’t want to watch, after all,” Scarlet says.
I let her stay in control, letting her do what she wants to do. Reaching between us, I rub her clit, getting her off before I finally let loose. Closing my eyes, grunting, I come inside of her. Fuck, it feels good, nothing at all between us.
She stops moving after a moment, her forehead resting against mine as she breathes deeply.
“You’re welcome,” I say after a bit of silence.
She laughs, climbing off of my lap.
I tuck myself back away, fastening my pants before shoving up out of the chair.
“So, are you hungry?” I ask as she stares at the bear. “I’m going to make pancakes.”
“Uh... sure.”
I walk out, letting her pull herself together, and head to the kitchen to find Seven sitting at the table, reading today’s newspaper.
Look, I’m going to be honest with you—I forgot the guy was here. He’s good at being unassuming. “Your wife cook for you this morning, Seven?”
He glances up at me. “Of course.”
Of course.
I get the shit together to cook, and yes, before you ask, I indeed wash my hands. No pussy juices in the pancakes. I’m whipping together the batter, tossing some damn chocolate chips in for the hell of it, when Seven speaks again.
“He would’ve kept something, you know,” he says quietly, still flipping through the paper.
“Who?”
“Jones,” he says. “He’ll have something on Aristov, something incriminating, just in case.”
I almost ask how he knows that, but it’s a stupid question, and I try to never ask those myself.
Been there, done that.
“A file, maybe pictures, maybe a recording... something. And he’ll keep it somewhere where Aristov can’t get to it. At work, probably... hiding in plain sight. That way if anything ever happened to him, the police would find it. Something that could take down Aristov, so Jones would get the last laugh. Might be beneficial to get our hands on whatever it is.”
Movement in the doorway catches my eye. I glance over, seeing Scarlet lurking, listening to our conversation. Nosey little witch. Seven looks her way, averting his eyes quickly when he sees her standing there in just a t-shirt and underwear.
She’s not even naked and his allergy is acting up.
“I saw the file Gabe has on Kassian,” she says. “It was on his desk with all the others. I looked through it, but there was nothing worthwhile.”
“He’ll keep the real goods somewhere else,” Seven says. “A desk drawer, a locked box... he had some pictures stashed in his locker on a flash drive last time.”
Scarlet’s brow furrows. “Last time?”
“Ah, Seven here and Detective Fuckface are old friends,” I explain. “We paid him a visit this morning, discovered he’s been taking it up the ass from your Russian.”
“Wait, what? He’s working for Kassian?”
“Seems so,” I say. “He gave me some bullshit spiel about no proof of a crime, blah blah blah, be grateful you’re alive, yadda yadda yadda, but hey, it’s all good because the kid, she’s fine, so whatever whatever. I wanted to shoot him in the fucking face, but then I’d have to blame it on Seven, so I kept my cool for his sake.”
“I appreciate that, boss,” Seven says. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty chances later to shoot him.”
I start making pancakes, dishing out the batter, as Scarlet wanders away, disappearing.
“I don’t think she took that well,” Seven says after she’s gone. “Maybe you should go talk to her.”
“And say what?”
“Tell her it’ll be okay, that things will work out. Maybe it’ll make her feel better.”
“The only thing that’ll make her feel better, Seven, is having her problem solved, so that’s what I’m going to do.”
“And then what?”
I flip a pancake before turning to him. “And then she gets the bullshit fairy tale life she wants with her daughter.”
“And you?”
I laugh dryly. “And I might finally get to finish my fucking puzzle.”