Melanie’s deep in my fucking head and deep under my fucking skin.
I’m trying to shut her out of my conscious thoughts, but there she is. In my subconscious. Playing with my nipple ring like it’s her own personal toy.
I’d wanted to taste her. Now I’ve tasted her, but I’m not satisfied.
I want to make her pant like she just won the New York Marathon—I want to make her moan like a fucking pro winning a fucking National Moaning contest. And I want to make her smile like she did when I took her home.
I’ve been forcing myself to focus, keep my head in the game, my eyes open.
But Christ.
She’s not making it easy.
This week I’ve worked two more marks off my list. I’ve also found out that my father’s leukemia is real—at least the experts I brought in have confirmed it.
He’s settled in a two-story gated home, close to where the Underground season will begin in a month. And it’s strange. His voice has a different timbre even. His gaze isn’t as hard. When I came in, he asked me how I was doing.
“I’ve got half the list . . .”
“Not the list. How are you doing?”
I stared, not with confusion, but with a slow, simmering rage. “You’ve done a great job at being an asshole for twenty-five years. Don’t change it up on me now.” I walked away.
“Why not?” he called, coughing from the effort it took to yell that out.
Quietly seething inside, I clenched my hands into fists, my knuckles biting into my leather gloves. “Because it won’t change anything.”
I’m now out of the house, working on my third mark, but she’s still in my head. I keep seeing green eyes, green eyes turned an emerald dark as she comes like some fucking rocket, thrashing and twisting beneath me. She’s that one precious diamond every robber wants to steal, that kitten every dog wants to chase, the mare you want to ride, bridle and tame—but not completely. Oh, no, not all the time because her wildness excites you. Her wildness makes you wilder. Her wildness makes you fucking ravenous.
Hell, these past days I feel like I haven’t fucking eaten in a hundred thousand weeks.
Goddammit! Get out of my head, princess.
I’m settled down at the park table when my target finally appears.
I sit behind an open newspaper with my SIG semiautomatic hidden low and tightly underneath, my aviators shielding my eyes as he walks by.
I keep my voice low enough not to alarm anyone, but loud enough to be heard by the poor shit I’m here to fuck with. “Sit down,” I say.
He jerks at the sound of my voice and reaches into his pocket for what I assume is some method of self-defense. “Guy like you, you can’t see it, but there are several shooters trained on you from all angles. So you might as well sit.”
He drops down like lead into the chair I kick out for him. “So,” I say, folding the paper and leveling him with my attention, while my SIG semiautomatic is still, underneath the folded paper, trained right at his heart.
I slide my aviators to the top of my head and lean back as I study the man. Middle aged, probably he’s realized he’ll be stuck in a shit job for the rest of his life and thought he could bet his way to a better life, and instead it got worse.
“I stopped by your house yesterday to leave you a little present, but I was afraid your wife would see the contents, and considering the nature . . .”
With my free hand, I slide over a manila envelope. His hands tremble as he opens it. The blood drains from his face as images of him and his bare-ass naked lover tumble out. “Holy . . .” he gasps.
“She’s got you by the nuts, huh?” I lean over so he can hear me well. My blood pumps hot as I think of my own nuts, and my own little sexy bare-naked problem, driving me more than a little crazy lately. “You thought you could fuck this chick once and walk away, but you couldn’t. She was wild and you liked that. She looked at you like you were god’s fucking gift to womankind; you must have liked that too.”
I pause for three heartbeats while my mark keeps getting paler and paler. “I bet you’re obsessed with the way she feels, the way her hair smells, how she smiles, how she walks, how she flirts with other fucking males . . . Well, Hendricks, I’m here to tell you that you owe the Underground $168,434 for your gambling losses, and we’re ready to collect.”
I lean back and slide my aviators back over my eyes. “You can’t keep your * on my money. Are we clear?”
The guy is pale as a ghost, so it’s safe to assume we’re fucking clear here.
I fold the paper, SIG and all, into the pocket of my jacket. “One of my men will meet you here, tomorrow.” As I rise, I lean over and say, “I’ve got copies of these images. You’ll get them when you pay up what you owe, but don’t test me. I have a motivation as strong as yours.” My mother. My freedom. And my own fucking nuts, in a twist over a girl with golden hair and green eyes and a smile that guts me. Yeah, I’m in even deeper shit than this poor guy is.
When the target leaves, C.C. and I go check up with the team in silence. All of them are at the “yacht,” like some sick Big Brother sea home, including the surveillance cameras.
My father sits there, glad to be out of the house and getting the gist of the planning. As for the team . . .
I’ve got tabs on Derek to make sure he’s not betraying what he knows, but the rest, I’m always watching, monitoring calls, replaying surveillance tapes. Blood oath is fine—except I don’t trust my own shadow.
The first I had to test was C.C.—because he’s the closest to a brother I’ve got and I had to know if his loyalties are to my father, who’s fed him all these years, or to his blood brother, who’s been me.