Chaos And Ruin: Violent Things Part 8

I can't wait to get to that point. First, I let myself pump her with my fingers, knowing she's imagining they're my c.o.c.k. I go slow at first but then pick up speed, matching the motion with the sweeps of my tongue over her swollen c.l.i.t. I could suck on the hot bundle of nerves and make her explode, I know I could. But I refrain. This is just too much f.u.c.king fun.

She's begging me to let her come by the time I give in. And she really does f.u.c.king explode. I lick and suck at her, groaning like a G.o.dd.a.m.n savage as she comes all over my tongue. So. f.u.c.king. Hot. She buries her hands in my hair and grinds up against me, her body shaking, falling apart as she climaxes.

I have absolutely no self-control after that. As soon as the tension falls out of her body, her muscles sinking heavy into the mattress, I grab hold of her hips and spin her over, throwing her onto her front and then lifting her hips so that her a.s.s is in the air. "We're not done yet, angry girl." I lay my hand against her skin, making a sharp cracking sound as my palm connects with the soft curve of her a.s.s.

"f.u.c.k!" she gasps out, instinctively grabbing hold of the bed sheets, like she knows how hard I'm about to f.u.c.k her. Like she knows she's about to be seeing stars. I lose the boxers, and then there's nothing between me and my angry girl. I trace my c.o.c.k from her c.l.i.t upward, gauging her reaction, seeing where she wants me to stop...where she wants me the most. I don't even make it to her a.s.s. She's pushing back against me, panting hard as I tease the tip of my d.i.c.k against the opening of her p.u.s.s.y.

"You want me, Sloane? How bad do you want me inside you right now?"

"f.u.c.k. Please. Please... please... I need you," she moans.

I could wait, I could play with her some more, but my b.a.l.l.s feel like they're going to burst. I slam myself home, not holding back, fire singing through my veins as Sloane screams out my name.

My fingers dig into her hips as I pull her back against me. She doesn't resist. She moves with me, sighing and melting against me as I thrust so hard I'm seeing stars myself. When we come, we come together, and we're both incoherent.

Just. Too. Good.

We collapse together onto the bed as one, me still inside her, my body angled slightly to the side to keep my weight off her. When we've both regained our breath, I begin tracing my fingers absentmindedly up and down her side. Her skin is soft as silk. "You bought weird fruit," I whisper into her hair.

She laughs, and the feel of it travels through her and into me, spreading some deep, strange contentment down into my bones. This woman is going to be the end of me. "Yeah, well, I need vitamins so I can get better. But I also did it for you," she says.

"Oh? How d'you figure that?"

"They say..." She seems bemused. "They say that if you eat lots of pineapple, it makes you taste good."

The irony of what she's said hits me full on, given that I've just used a piece of it between her legs. I bite down lightly on her shoulder, growling. "You don't need to eat anything to taste good, Sloane. I'm addicted to how you taste, just as you are."

She laughs. "Well, since you spend about ninety percent of your day with your head between my legs, I just wanted to make sure you enjo-" The sound of my burner ringing on the bedside table cuts her off. We both just look at it. Before earlier this morning when the Barbieri brothers called me, the thing hasn't rung in...in f.u.c.king forever. Since s.h.i.t went down with my ex-employer and everything changed. And now it's ringing again? Bets are on it being Theo again. I do not want to talk to him. I don't want to talk to anyone who might be asking me to beat the everloving s.h.i.t out of anyone, or worse. It's not as though I've gone soft. I'll still tear anyone limb from limb should the situation require it, but it's more on an as needed basis. For protection and defense as opposed to for money.

Sloane presses her face into the pillow, and a m.u.f.fled, "You'd better get that," reaches my ears. I do answer, but only because the people who are likely to call my burner aren't the kind of people who give up after calling once.

When I hear the voice on the other end of the line, I find that the Barbieri situation has been escalated up the ranks. Typical. First Lowell's trying to ruin my f.u.c.king day, and now more of this s.h.i.t. "Zeth," Roberto Barbieri, the Barber of Brooklyn himself, says. "I hear you didn't much like talking to my sons?"

"I'm more of an email kind of guy these days."

"Good to know. I'll make sure to forward you the details of our arrangement in a message once our conversation is over, then. Does that suit you?"

"And what arrangement might that be? I already told Theo, I'm not working for anyone else anymore." I don't like this guy's tone of voice. I sure as f.u.c.k don't like how he's ruining my post-o.r.g.a.s.m glow. Sloane's watching me with wide eyes, clearly able to hear what's being said. There's a time not too long ago when I would have left the room, but not anymore. I don't hide anything from her these days. She knows all about the fights, the underground gambling and the occasional gun deal that goes down at the fighting gym I run. She knows me, knows who I am, and knows I will never live on the straight and narrow like other, normal people. She can handle fights and dirty money so long as I'm not getting hurt. And she can handle the guns so long as I don't get my a.s.s shot.

I doubt very much she'd handle me going out on task for the Barber of Brooklyn, though.

"Zeth, you and I both know this sedentary life you're leading isn't what you were built for. You're a cutthroat, just like I am. I'm coming for Seattle. You must have known someone would eventually. I'm laying out my cards here and now. New York is where the throne of my empire rests. I can't be in two places at once. I need someone to run my west coast operations, and I want that someone to be you."

"I have no interest in being your understudy, Roberto. Absolutely no f.u.c.king interest whatsoever." The guy is crazy if he thinks I'm putting myself into yet another position like I was in with Charlie. You don't climb out from underneath the s.h.i.t heap only to voluntarily climb back under again.

"I can understand your reluctance, Zeth, I really can. But you are a very dangerous individual. If I place someone else in charge over there, I wouldn't be able to allow a man like you to be operating in the same district. It wouldn't be smart business."

"I'm not operating. I run a few fights and broker a few deals. You don't need to concern yourself with what I'm doing, Roberto. I'm none of your f.u.c.king business."

"And what about the lovely young Ms. Romera? Will she end up being my business? I fear she will if we can't find a way to make both of us happy right now."

Sloane sits up, clearly having heard her name. She looks mildly concerned, which makes my blood boil. Who does this guy think he f.u.c.king is, threatening her to get his own way? I won't allow it. I will burn down his whole f.u.c.king New York empire before I let that happen. "You don't say her name. You don't ever say her name," I growl.

"Don't forget who you're talking to right now, boy. I'm bigger and I'm badder than Charlie Holsan ever was. When I offer someone a t.i.tle within my organization, they f.u.c.king jump," he spits. "And this isn't just any old t.i.tle. I'm offering to make you the motherf.u.c.king king of the west coast. You'd be answerable to no one but me. You need to think about this for a couple of hours, Zeth. Bear in mind, I don't make these kinds of calls personally very often. It's unlikely I'll be making another one. You should also bear in mind that I am not someone to be f.u.c.ked with."

I laugh, and it feels raw in my throat. Caustic, poisonous laughter that gives away what I think of his threats before I can put my thoughts into words. "I vowed after Charlie that I would never be answerable to anyone ever again. And I won't. I don't want to be the king of the west coast or anywhere else for that matter. And something you should bear in mind, Roberto? I am a dangerous individual. And people don't usually live to tell the tale after f.u.c.king with me either."

Chapter Thirteen.

Mason Wanda wouldn't let me take Millie to school this morning. Said I'd terrify the poor kid if I showed up bloodied and bruised the way I am. I don't know what she thinks I'm going to do between now and the end of the day to fix the problem-as far as I know, cuts and sc.r.a.pes take a little longer than an afternoon to heal-but there you go. She sent me on my way, and a part of me felt guilty about heading straight to work. I felt even guiltier when I realized I was singing in the car.

Mac nearly drops his coffee when he sees me. "Holy f.u.c.king h.e.l.l, boy, what happened to your face?"

"Fought at French's," I mumble through my split lip. No point in lying to him. Mac knows everything, has his finger in so many pies. Wouldn't surprise me if he actually made some money off my a.s.s last night somehow.

"So you'll fight in a stinking bas.e.m.e.nt but you won't earn three times the money driving a car across the city for me, is that it?" he says.

"Pretty much."

"Well, whatever. I hope the other guy looks worse, I guess. Though, I don't see how that would be possible."

The morning goes fast. I can't wait to head over to the gym after work and train. I need to stretch out my muscles, make sure I don't completely lock up. If I want to fight again in six days, I have to make sure my whole body isn't completely jacked from not doing anything with it.

I spend the day working on Kaya's beater of a car. The old Chevy is f.u.c.ked, needs sc.r.a.pping entirely, but I just do what I'm told and go about fixing the d.a.m.n thing. Late in the afternoon, when I jump in to turn the engine over, the interior smells just like she did yesterday-like flowers and jasmine. My d.i.c.k stirs in my pants at the scent. So f.u.c.king inappropriate. I'm not supposed to be thinking about her let alone fantasizing what it would be like to be on top of her, to feel like I'm wrapping myself around her, slowly pushing myself deeper and deeper inside of her.

I have to sit in the car for an extra five minutes before my hard on eventually goes away.

Mac, the a.s.shole, keeps me back half an hour to finish up a rushed job that comes in late. That cuts into my gym time before I need to collect Millie, but whatever. Something is better than nothing. I'm jogging across the street, gym bag in hand, when a sleek black Audi rolls up out the front of the gym. The window buzzes down and a stern looking woman with bright blonde hair and cold blue eyes is staring straight at me. For a moment I think she's about to ask for directions out of this sketchy part of town-people get lost here all the time-but then she does something that makes my stomach drop through the floor. She pulls out a badge.

"Agent Lowell," she says. "DEA. You're Mason Reeves, right? Got time to have a little chat?"

A million things immediately flash through my head, paralysing me. I manage to keep my face a mask of calm, however. "Not really. I kind of have somewhere I need to be."

"That's a pity. See my colleague here was just telling me that we should come over to your place, investigate a tip off we had."

"What kind of tip off?"

"Apparently, you're involved in a little drug running for your boss there." Agent Lowell gestures to Mac, who is just pulling down the roller shutter on the building behind me. Mac sees Lowell and his eyes go wide. Slowly, carefully, he lifts his right hand and flips her off. "Awww. Mac remembers me," Agent Lowell says, smiling.

"I don't run drugs for him. I work on the cars, and then I go home. End of story."

"Oh?" The woman frowns up at me, tilting her head to one side. "And what's with the face, then? You get those bruises from fixing cars?"

"No. I was in a fight.

"French's, right?" Lowell grins. "Yeah, I've heard a lot about the place. That's Seattle PD's domain normally, but could be there are drugs there, too, right, Agent Cooper?"

The guy next to her sitting at the wheel grunts, squinting at me from inside the car. "Could be."

"And even if there aren't any drugs, partic.i.p.ating in an underground fighting ring's pretty dangerous, wouldn't you say? Not to mention illegal. Would CPS consider a young guy involved in blood sports is a fit role model for a little girl?"

My blood runs ice-cold in my veins. "Don't f.u.c.king threaten me."

"Oh, come on, now. I'm not threatening you. I just want to ask you a few questions. Won't take a moment of your time."

"What about? I've told you, I haven't done anything wrong."

"It's not you we're interested in, Mr. Reeves. I can promise you that. We're actually more interested in what you know about Zeth Mayfair."

Zeth? Well, now that makes a little more sense. I'm not completely stupid, though. I talk to this woman about Zeth Mayfair and I'm going to end up in a ditch somewhere, missing body parts. "Look, I'm really sorry. I don't know what you heard but I don't know anything about Mayfair. I go to his gym sometimes. That's it."

Lowell shakes her head, her lips pulling into a taut line. "Don't be foolish, Mason. Everyone in Seattle knows something about Zeth. You want to know what I know?"

"Not particularly." I look away, toward the gym, hoping against hope that the man himself hasn't seen me out here talking to a federal agent. I'm s.h.i.t out of luck, though. He's leaning against the wall inside the gym, arms folded across his chest, eyes fixed solely on me as I shift from foot to foot.

"Don't worry about him," Lowell says. "Zeth's headed back to Chino any day now. He just doesn't know it yet. See, we found a body last week up in the mountains. The body of a young woman. Gun shot wound." Lowell glances over at Zeth, still leaning against the wall. She shoots him an unbearably sweet smile, and then waves.

"The girl was murdered, Mr. Reeves," she says, still smiling. "And guess who's DNA was all over her."

Thank you so much for reading Violent Things. Hopefully, if you've read both my Blood & Roses series and h.e.l.l's Kitchen, you'll start to notice some major storylines weaving together. So much planning has gone into this new series, and I truly, sincerely hope you all enjoy it.

The next book in the Chaos & Ruin series will be coming out really soon. Please make sure to join me on Facebook or sign up for my newsletter (you can do both of these things in the Reach Out! section in the contents of this book) and you will be kept p to date with all release news.

Now, I know a lot of you purchased Rebel when it came out, and had real problems viewing the extra chapters at the end of the book. There was also a lot of confusion about which book the extra chapters were actually from. I'd like to clarify now by letting you guys know that the extra chapters were from Badlands, Michael's story, which will be coming out later on this year, and not the conclusion of Rebel's story. h.e.l.lion, book 2 in Rebel's story, will be coming out really, really soon ;) If you missed the chapters and would like to check them out now, keep on scrolling! I have included them here for your reading pleasure. Be advised, this is the story of how Zeth and Michael met and became friends. If you haven't already, you might like to read the Blood & Roses series first.

Badlands Michael Before....

Growing up a half of something is a problem. As a rule, society is fairly accepting if you want to pour half cream, half milk on your cereal in the morning. But being half black and also half white? That's not as okay. See, people need to put other people into boxes. The preppy guy, the jock, the nerd, the token black guy. Life is simple if everyone conforms and dutifully compresses themselves into the box they've been a.s.signed, uncomplaining and accepting. As a person of mixed race, I've always been expected to identify with one side of my heritage or the other in order to make the people around me more comfortable.

When I was a kid, that felt like choosing which one of my parents I loved more-my mom, because she was white and being white was even more socially acceptable than knowing exactly who you were, or my dad, because he was black, and my skin was never going to be pure as the driven snow anyway, so why not?

In the end, it's always the same. My skin is lighter than most. I've been described as coffee or mocha or honey, but those terms don't usually fly with your smarter-than-average person of color. To be edible, to be actually f.u.c.king eaten, is to be dominated. Overpowered. And coffee and cocoa? Those two particular items fueled a once-thriving slave trade that can still make a lot of African American people understandably awkward. So yeah...perhaps you could say my skin is a warm golden color. Or Tawny. Or a deep tan? Whatever you want to label it, should you feel the need, my skin tone could never be described as Caucasian. That's the only thing that seemed to matter when I was young. So. Even if I did identify with my mother's heritage and her side of my family tree more than my father's, if I wanted to do stereotypically white things like wear socks and sandals, or listen to Kenny Rogers, it wouldn't have made a difference. To an onlooker, impatiently waiting to shove me into one of those boxes, I would still have been maybe-white-with-a-hint-of-something-else.

The scattering of freckles-thankfully gone now that I'm older-and the bright green of my eyes only served to confuse people even further. Seemed whatever I did, however I acted, whatever I wore or listened to or watched, I was always going to make people scratch their heads. It took me a while to realize that there was nothing I could do about that-the head scratching and the raised eyebrows. It was going to happen regardless, so I figured f.u.c.k it. Let it be their problem. As long as I knew who I was, that's all that mattered.

Through high school, I was the jock, I was the nerd, I was preppy guy and I was the token black friend. In my early twenties, I was smart and studious, a college guy, and I was also stealing cars. Not cars that could get me arrested. Leave the Mercs and Jags and Beamers to punks who wanted to go to jail. No, I was stealing the Toyotas and the Camrys and the Fords. Average cars that flood the highways and streets of America, so hard to identify as stolen. Did I sell them on? Boost them and drop them at a cutting shop to have their VIN numbers ground out and replaced and then sold on to some other poor unsuspecting sap? Nope. I was earning enough money running gambling and odd jobs out of my apartment. I didn't steal the cars to make profit. I did it because I loved the thrill of taking something that didn't belong to me and then not getting caught. I also loved the thrill of driving the average-Joe cars out into the wilds of Louisiana and setting the things on fire.

Nothing more liberating that stealing something and watching it burn, after all.

Now, as a man in my late twenties, I'm still smart. I'm still studious. I still steal cars. But I do a lot of other things, too. I've taken people's lives when I've had to. I've learned how to fight properly. I've done away with gambling. I don't hire myself out to random criminals anymore. It's in my interests to be smarter than that now. I contract for organizations or individuals who follow a code-a strict one that means they won't be sloppy in their business dealings, and I will act with the same discretion.

Discretion isn't the word that springs to mind as I climb the stairs of the tall building on Seattle's West Ave. Building number 515. Apartment 12C. I don't get things wrong, but I still pull out the neatly folded piece of paper from my pants pocket, just to make sure. As I approach the correct floor, the sound of loud music and laughter spills out into the hallways, unmistakably a party of some description. Parties aren't normally something that go hand in hand with covert criminal activity, but the address on the paper is correct. Awesome. If Jamie were here right now, he'd be lifting one eyebrow at me and giving me that look of his. The one that says he thinks I should be turning the f.u.c.k around and heading back home. As I shoulder open the door that gives access to the hallway, I almost do it. Be easy enough to head back the way I came and refuse the work that's being offered to me.

I'm a stubborn motherf.u.c.ker, though. I carry on, maybe because my cousin, the blue-eyed devil, hasn't been picking up my phone calls for the past two weeks. I'm hardly going to act according to what I think he would or wouldn't approve of if the b.a.s.t.a.r.d can't even pick up the G.o.dd.a.m.n phone.

The hallway is filled with people, all dressed up and apparently waiting to be let into the apartment at the end of the walkway. I don't even bother checking; of course it's the apartment I'm headed for as well. Am I the kind of guy to join the back of a queue? f.u.c.k no. I didn't come here to party, for starters. And secondly, I have other jobs that need to be completed. Other jobs that have to be tidied up before I can accept the role this guy is offering me, one of which is time sensitive and needs to be finished tonight. I can't afford to be loitering in hallways with admittedly very attractive, barely dressed women and equally attractive, suited-up guys. I gotta get the f.u.c.k out of here. Also, I think I'm probably a little insulted. I haven't had to attend what might pa.s.s for a job interview in a long f.u.c.king time. This guy, this Mr. Mayfair, wants to vet me first before he takes me on.

I felt like telling the woman who phoned to go f.u.c.k herself. But then she mentioned the compensation for my time and I held my tongue. Ten thousand just to meet and talk is a lot of money.

I shove my way past the people waiting in a disordered line, my back pressed against the wall, headed in the direction of the entrance. People give me sideways looks, not complaining. Just checking me out. Studying me. Wondering who I am. Their eyes feel hungry, like they're tearing at my clothes. I'm expecting disgruntled comments, but instead I get salacious grins and the tall guy at the front of the queue stepping back so I can line up ahead of him.

"More than welcome to come stand in front of me," he says, smiling. I recognize the tone of his offer immediately. He's. .h.i.tting on me. I make a point of not flirting with men or women I know nothing about, especially when they're waiting to gain entry into what I'm beginning to suspect is a s.e.x club.

"You're okay, man. I'm not hanging around."

"Shame," the tall blond guy sighs. The woman on his arm, also tall, with raven-black hair and a slash of crimson lipstick pouts, too.

"Yeah. Real shame."

I'm not in the habit of letting people read my reactions. Ever. On the outside I'm maintaining my blank expression, however on the inside I'm allowing myself a most evil smirk. "Maybe next time," I tell them, sliding past until I reach a tall, burly guy in a suit at the front door.

He a.s.sesses me with cool, quick eyes, getting a read on me pretty quick. He knows I'm not here to f.u.c.k. I'm here to see if I can f.u.c.k things up on behalf of his employer. "Mr. Aubertin?" he asks. "Thank you for coming. Please... if you'll follow me."

Strange to hear such niceties as please and thank you coming out of the man's mouth. He looks like he mixes cement in that ma.s.sive barrel chest of his. He's gotta be in his late fifties at least. Turning away from the gathering crowd, he ushers me inside the apartment. I can still feel the intense gaze of the tall guy and his femme fatale partner burning into my back as the guy pulls the door closed behind us.

"This way, please, Mr. Aubertin."

I have about thirty questions slamming around my head right now, but it's not appropriate for me to ask this guy. I keep my mouth shut as I follow him through a surprisingly large, luxuriously decked out, elegant apartment. My shoes make hollow ringing sounds as they hit the polished marble. Reminds me of Jamie's family home, but on a smaller scale. This guy must have money. A lot of money. Especially if he's willing to pony up 10k just to have a ten-minute conversation with me.

I'm led all the way down a long corridor-three doors to my right, four to my left-and the big bruiser knocks his meaty hand against the final door to the right. There's a grunt from the room beyond, and then the big guy is giving me a warning look. "He's not in the best of moods. I'd be careful not to p.i.s.s him off any further if I were you."

The door opens, and then there's a tank of a guy standing in front of me, barely visible with the minimal light coming from a small table lamp behind him. He's tall, broad, stacked with muscles, his skin covered in tattoos. And the rest of him covered in blood. It's everywhere-all over his face, down his neck. His arms and chest are stained bright red. He's wearing nothing more than boxer shorts and a grim look on his face. He holds out his hand and lifts an eyebrow, waiting for me to shake with him. Normally I do my best to avoid contact with other people's blood, but in this particular instance it seems like a bad idea to refuse. The guy looks f.u.c.king unhinged.

"h.e.l.lo. You've been told to call me Mr. Mayfair but f.u.c.k that. We can dispense with formalities. My name's Zeth. Zee. Good to meet you." He squeezes my hand, not in that ridiculous way most guys insist on posturing when they meet for the first time. It's a subconscious action as he tilts his head to one side, taking a good look at me. After a few seconds, a broad smile pulls at his mouth. His teeth are a brilliant white against all of that quickly darkening blood. "Know why you're here?" he asks.

"Yes, sir."

"Know how much I pay?"

"Yes, I do."

"Anything you want to know?"

I look at him, this monster of a man, covered in blood and violence, while a horde of people wait outside his apartment for G.o.d knows what. Narrowing my eyes, I lean against the doorframe, considering him. "Yeah. Why me?"

"Well," he says, grinning even harder. "I've been told you're really good at killing people. I could use a guy like that around here."

Zeth I'm h.o.r.n.y as f.u.c.k, but I've also just been shot in the shoulder. And now I've got this guy standing in front of me, unblinking, unfazed by the people now inside the apartment, or by how I look. He's watching me like he's trying to take me apart in his head, just to see how I work. It'd be polite to warn him not to bother. There should be a warning that must be read by anyone wishing to glimpse inside my head: This Way Be Dragons. Or murders and an a.s.sortment of other vile monsters who have all helped form and shape me into the man I am today.

I walk over to the sideboard and grab the bottle of whiskey I've left uncorked there. I take a deep, deep pull on the stuff-nothing can dull the pain of a bullet wound quite like a thirty-year-old single malt. The liquor hits my stomach and burns there. Feels like it's f.u.c.king boiling inside me. I hold the bottle out to Michael, wondering with faint interest whether he'll take it. Some people are funny about sharing a bottle. And this guy, in his pristine suit with his clean-shaven face looks like he cares about things like hygiene. He accepts the bottle, though, smirking when he takes a look at the brand. "What?" I ask. "You don't like the good stuff?"