There are two types of people in the world. Those who take even when their every need is already met, and those who give when they have nothing left to give.
Justine is a giver who’d do anything to be a taker. Although I’ve only ever looked out for myself, when an angel craves havoc, who better to give it to her than the devil himself.
Chapter Four
While Carmichael fusses over Justine, unaware each second is slicing years off his life, I slide a five-page document out of his suitcase balancing just left of the chair I’m sitting on. Although I spent the last fifty-five minutes ensuring there was a minimum of three inches between Justine and Carmichael at all times, I quicklycaught on to their plan to have me placed on house arrest until they find a ‘legal’ way to get me off my charges.
Once again, I could lay all my cards on the table, but once again, this will be more fun. I want to be alone with Justine, to see if the groove between her brow will smooth from my touch or greaten. Although my plan could backfire, tell me one person who doesn’t anticipate an unexpected houseguest for the Fourth of July weekend?
After folding the required page to switch the particulars of my home arrest from the Popov compound to Justine’s residence into a neat quarter, I slip it into the back pocket of my jeans. I’d be worried about the crinkles giving away my ruse if Justine wasn’t clutching an identical document in a fierce hold. She has more than one crinkle to contend with—as do I when Carmichael runs the back of his fingers down Justine’s bloomedcheek.
I smug like a conceited prick when my growl is the only thing needed for Carmichael to lodge a foot of air between Justine and himself. He knows my reputation, so he’s aware not even a dozen riot officers will stop me from killing him if he fails to uphold his side of our agreement. If only looks could kill then he’d already be dead.
Once I’m shackled in preparation for transport to the courthouse, I give Carmichael one final warning. “Don’t underestimate me, Carmichael, or this time your stupidity will cost you your life.”
His head bob is quick, but I didn’t need to see it to know of its existence. I can smell his agreeance on his skin. He’s so scared, he’ll do anything I tell him to do, proving he is nothing but a puppet, and I’m the puppet master.
After being guided to a transportation van idling at the curb by Daniil, a Russian operative who’s fronting as a police officer, I’m given a two-minute window to get things in order. Usually, this is where I call in the clean-up crew who’d doanythingneeded to free me from conviction—including storming a heavily-manned Vegas Police Department.
However, with my mood the most playful it’s been, I switch tactics. I still dial afrequently called number on the burner cell Daniil slipped into my hand during our short walk from the holding room to the van, my demands are just different.
“You want me to do what?” Trey asks down the line, certain he heard me wrong.
I scrub at the day-old stubble on my chin before breathing out slowly, “Have a guard on standby to switch out my home arrest documentation with the one I’m about to forge before it reaches the judge.”
I hear Trey’s smile over the phone. “I heard what you said, I’m just a little lost on why you want me to do that.” As quickly as his confusion arrives, it leaves. “The rumors are true. Fresh blood is balancing on the balustrade between good and evil. Are you hoping she’ll unearth a little bit of good in that black soul of yours? Or are you hoping to unearth her dark side?”
My tongue peeks out between my teeth as I struggle to hold in my snicker. “More like I want to fuck her as I’m sure she’s never been fucked.”
“Yeah, yeah, Nikolai. Keep telling yourself those lies. If all you wanted was a night of fucking, you would have gone to Cliché’s.”
Cliché is a strip club I co-own with Trey. Its title explains our establishment well. It’s like every other strip club known—owned and operated by gangsters.
Ignoring the niggle of doubt in my gut that Trey isright, that this is about more than a weekendfuckfest, I get back to the task at hand.
I’m about to ask for him to search the Popov’s database for Justine’s address, but before I can, a doubletap hits the rear window of the van, signalingI have to cut our conversation short.
“Flock isabout to fly. See you in fifteen.”
Not giving Trey the chance to reply, I disconnect our call, yank the battery out of the back of the burner phone, then crush it between my foot and the checkered metal beneath my feet.
I’ve only just flicked the mangled shards of glass and plastic under my seat when the back door of the transport van swings open and a guard as wide as he is tall enters. He grunts at me, acting impassively. His performance is a waste of time. I can smell a traitor a mile out. His unpolished shoes are the first hint he’ll turn on a dime for the right amount of coin; so are his un-ironed clothes. Only someone who doesn’t care about their job gets lax about their appearance. Why do you think I get around in ripped jeans and designer shirts?
“The redhead in the hall…” After digging the sheet of paper out of mypocket, I unfold it, run my hand along the crinkles to smooth them out, then pass it to the officer, confident I have a conspirator at the ready. “… I need her name and contact details added to this form. Now.” I count his pulse before placing my offer on the table. “A five thousand dollar buy-in at the craps table in the high rollers suite of my casino.” To an ordinary man, my offer seems generous. High-class hookers go for less than what I’m bidding for Justine, but five thousand dollars is chump-change compared to the amount of money my casino launders each night.
“Fivethousanddollars?” He’s seeking confirmation, however, the quickest lick of his dry lips reveal his decision is already made.
“You better hurry. If she arrives before her information does…” I nudge my head to Justine, who’s making her way down the corridor, using her hand as a notepad so she can fill in my forms before we arrive at the courthouse. “… My offer will be removed.” I lift and lock my eyes with his. “As will your tongue.??????? ?? ????? ?????? ???????.”
His throat works through a stiff swallow before his head bobs up and down, proving he’s smarter than he looks.
My threats aren’t idle.
While Carmichael stands outside the idling transport van, nervously tapping his foot as he waits for Justine to finalize my house arrest documentation, the guard recites Justine’s home address to me. I had planned to make him fill in the form, but he’s shaking so violently, I don’t want to run the risk of the judge not understanding his no doubt chicken-scratch writing.
“We need to go, Justine,” Carmichael begs her at the same time I peg my pen at the guard’s head. I could keep it, they make handy weapons, but I need my hands empty for the swift one I’m about to pull on Justine when Carmichael steers my ruse in a direction I never saw coming. “Finish them during the commute. Kirk, swap places with Justine.”
My jaw ticks when Carmichael hoists Justine into the van by the tops of her arms. I know his hands aren’t his cock, but I’m still tempted to cut them off for getting within an inch of a woman he doesn’t have the right to smell, much less touch.
