I’m here on a mission, and she was in that diner with her shoulders hunched, and more often than not, she had headphones in her ears, so I left her alone and went about my business.
But then she stopped wearing headphones, and as I got closer over time, she leaned in my direction. It’sjustbody language, right? It’sjustthe way she sat. But in my world, body language is the same as shouting your feelings, and in my mind, she was a magnet who was being pulled in my direction, though reluctantly.
That was my go ahead to introduce myself.
I don’t know her.
I don’t even actually know if she’s married and has two and a half kids.
I don’t know anything about her and didn’t care enough to ask anything that might make me give a shit, but here we are, I’m giving a shit when Ace mentions eliminating her, and now I’m thinking about the dozens and dozens of ways her probably-not-married ass could take my cock for a night of stress relief.
She’s a fucking distraction, and though I know better, I don’twantto stop looking.
My black and yellow checkered cab pulls up a block away from the gentleman’s club, so I toss a twenty into the front seat and step out into the cold air. It nips at my nose and lips, but it’s not so windy tonight, so I put my head down and head toward the club with the image of Peter Ramone Aguilar in the forefront of my mind.
Blond hair. Brown eyes. Five-nine. Gold chains.
Ace sent his passport image, so I know exactly who I’m looking for when I step inside the club.
It’s funny how a year ago, when we were working in Abel Hayes’ dirty club, we thought he was the shit. He was bringing in millions of dollars of product every other month. Guns. Girls. Drugs. We thought because he had a club and silk ties, he was the kingpin and the only guy we had to watch, but now I see it for what it is: Abel was just a soldier like the rest of us. He was only as important as Peter Ramone Aguilar, perhaps less so, since Abel’s club lacked a lot of the class Pete’s does.
Abel seemed to be all about fighters and selling unwilling women, whereas Peter has figured out how to find themmostlywilling, because when they smile and don’t scratch, the men come back for more.
Entering the club and walking past filled tables and a long stage of dancing girls, I study their legs with the eye of a man who can appreciate a fine form. I study their trim thighs, high heels, and perky asses when they spin and bend over.
My mouth waters with hunger for a woman’s warm body beneath mine tonight, with the idea I could buy any one of them, or two, or three, and with the new injection of cash in my bank, I could make it worth all of our time. But when the brunette in candy floss pink wiggles her ass in my face, my mouth waters for the holey sock wearing, pyjama-clad Sophia back at home.
She’s not throwing herself at me, and thus becomes the bigger prize.
Turning away from temptation, I cast my gaze across the club, over the thug wannabes who dress, act, and think they’re badass just like Cole Fenney, and up a set of stairs that leads to a set of offices not unlike in Abel Hayes’ club.
Fancy drapes hang across every wall and allow space for couples who may want just a moment of privacy, and crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting an effervescent glow over the crowd below. This club could fit probably three or four hundred people comfortably, and looks maybe two-thirds full at the moment. It’s busy, but not so much that I can’t move without banging elbows every step I take.
I make my way toward the stairs and act like I belong here. My bother always used to say, “attitude is half the battle,” so if I wanna be an agent, then I better fucking act like one. If I want to be in someone’s home or club, then I better act like I belong there.
Soldiers not unlike what Kane and I were for Abel line the staircase and bring their hands to the guns strapped to their hips. They watch, they listen to the invisible pieces jammed inside their ears, and they let me pass when I don’t back up.
Music rings out through the club, the bass booming in my chest. I’m still recovering from my injuries from last November, so my head aches at the loud thumping, and my chest aches as my ribs vibrate with the beat.
Three bullets.
I survived three bullets, three that, individually, should have been the end of me. The club I was in, aptly named Infernos, was literally an inferno. Fire was running faster than I could. Kane was just ten feet away in a gunfight with a man who wanted us both dead, and Kane’s girlfriend, Jessie—the sweet, blonde lawyer—was trying to ride in and save her man.
On a direct order from my brother, my superior, I swept her up and ran her ass down a melting set of stairs, but one shot, two shots,bang bang, resulted in fiery heat slamming me in the back and bullets lodging themselves where they shouldn’t have been.
I felt it.
Jessie felt it.
And when I got her to the bottom of the stairs and tossed her into a cop’s arms, the final shot rang out and ended my life. A couple bullets in a guy’s back should’ve been enough, but add a bullet through the head, and he’s got no hope.
Right?
Apparently not.
I was hooked up with a surgeon who took risks like I did. He was young and ballsy enough to try to save me when everyone else would have walked away, and when I woke in a foreign hospital with bandages holding me together and a beautiful, busty nurse who was willing to go the extra mile for my recovery, I was touted the luckiest son of a John Doe in the history of the world.
They worried I wouldn’t be able to walk. They worried I wouldn’t be able to talk, eat, or wipe my own ass. But when we started physical therapy, the only thing that slowed me down was the ache in my lungs and the constant headache that throbbed behind my eyes.