I laugh and look around the garage. “I can’t get naked right now.”
* * *
“Well, this is going to be really awkward if I’m the only one touching myself.”
* * *
I smile. “Shut up.”
* * *
“I’m serious. Edward is glaring at me right now like I’m doing something wrong.”
* * *
“I can’t get naked,” I whisper. “I have company.”
* * *
“Male company?”
* * *
“No.” I pull at a loose thread on my pajamas. “Sadly, no.”
* * *
“Want some? I can be there in two hours.”
* * *
I picture the reaction from twelve Russian girls, half with zit cream and mouth guards on, if Marco walked in. “Not tonight. Besides,” I tease. “Don’t you have an empire to run?”
* * *
“My empire seems…” he sighs. “Pointless without its king.”
* * *
“You have to be the king. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
* * *
“I’m not sure what I want. That’s part of my problem.”
* * *
“What’s the other part?”
* * *
“It’s more of a who. It’s this brunette. She’s got a mouth on her that I can’t stop thinking about. Pale lips I want wrapped around my cock.”
* * *
“Wow.” I breathe. “It’s like you don’t even know when you’re being offensive.”
* * *
He chuckles. “Oh, most of the time I know.”
* * *
A long moment passes, and he sighs into the receiver. “I want you to come back to New York. There are decisions to make, paperwork to sign, positions to be fucked in.”
* * *
I smile. “I can’t come back right now. Things are complicated with work right now.”
* * *
“So, quit. Close up shop and become a woman of leisure. I’ve got a staff of twenty just dying for an extra ass to kiss.”
* * *
He still doesn’t know about my work, doesn’t realize that I’ve got four hundred—now four hundred and forty-two—girls depending on me. He thinks I can close up shop and eat deviled eggs all day? He’s crazy. This conversation is crazy. I need to forget about New York, forget about him, and go back to my life.
* * *
“I do miss you. Just you. Not that delicious mouth, or any other part of your tempting anatomy.”
* * *
Does he? Could he? I lean forward, the concrete step hard through the thin flannel of my pajamas, and rest my elbows on my knees. “I miss you too.”
* * *
Crazy talk. But it feels, in a ridiculous way, honest.
* * *
Five more days pass. Three calls from Marco. A quitclaim closing of one Spring Lake mansion. I sign paperwork in Andrei’s office and he hands me a Vince Horace ring with three silver keys on it. I hang the keys on a hook in the kitchen and wonder what to do with them. I open the door and smile at the Chinese delivery guy.
* * *
He extends the first set of bags and catches sight of the girls in the background, his smile widening, one hand lifted in greeting. I hear a giggle come from behind me and set the bags down, turning back to take the second batch. “Thank you,” I pass him the tip and swing the door closed before any of Cupid’s arrows hit their mark.
* * *
There are more bags than usual, my normal delivery enhanced by my additional houseguests. Guests which, by Wednesday, should be out of my house and in hotel rooms, my negotiations with a local motel finally leading to a resolution that will get me through the next few weeks until a batch of my current girls leave and things return to normal workforce levels.
* * *
Wednesday. Surely, I can make it two more days without killing one of them. Last night, an argument over what to watch on television had led to a screaming match that took twenty minutes to resolve.
* * *
“Out of the kitchen!” I wave at the girls. “Eddie. Help me out here.”
* * *
Eddie moves into the kitchen and nods at the girls, arguing with them in Russian. I move quickly, setting out the Styrofoam containers, feeling the bottom of each and moving all the hot packages to the stove and sticking the cool ones back in the bags. I quickly peek into each box on the stovetop, confirming they all contain food, then grab the bag with the cash-filled containers and jog downstairs, flipping through the takeout boxes and checking their contents. I open the Tahoe and toss the bags into the back, then lock the doors. The doorbell rings and I lift my head, a fissure of panic hitting.
* * *
I haven’t interacted with the cops in a long time, but moments like this—when the cash isn’t hidden, when it is in my home and my living room is filled with a dozen fresh arrivals—I worry about moments like this. Pocketing the key to the Tahoe, I jog upstairs, hoping to beat Eddie to the door.
* * *
I open the door to the kitchen and hear Marco’s voice. Moving through the crowd, I come to a stop next to Eddie. “Marco.”
* * *
Eddie guards the door, his arms crossed over his chest, and I push him out of the way. Stepping out on the front porch, I pull the door closed and look up at Marco.
* * *
He looks good. White pants. Skinny tie. Button-up shirt, rolled half-way up his forearms. I forgot, in the last week, how beautiful he is. I forgot how he can just tilt his head in greeting, and look like a cover model.
* * *
I swallow, well aware that I haven’t showered in two days. “Hi.”
* * *
“Hi.” He glances at the closed door. “Who’s the beefcake?”
* * *
“That’s Eddie. He’s…” I try to think of a description for Eddie. “He’s a babysitter right now, but he’s also security for me.”
* * *
“Why do you need security?” His face darkens, and he steps forward as if to throw a protective blanket over me.
* * *
“Yo, Miss Avery.” The door cracks open and one of the girls sticks her head out. “You have more toilet paper?” Seeing Marco, she does a double-take. “Hello.”
* * *
He says nothing, and she swings the door wider, propping herself against the doorframe in a seductive pose that effectively demonstrates the excessiveness of her cleavage. “You bring more food for us?”
* * *
“Did I what?”
* * *
“No. He didn’t. Just go inside.” I call for Eddie and she rolls her eyes in annoyance. I gently shoo at her and ignore the spark of jealousy that comes when her eyes take another tour of him. Jesus, did I do this? Salivate over him like he was a raw piece of meat?
* * *
Maybe. Probably. Then again, I had been a little busy fainting into his arms and drooling all over his car seats.
* * *
Eddie appears, glares her into submission, and we are, once again, alone on the porch. I glance at the street and see a late model Escalade, parked at the curb. “Whose wheels?”
* * *
“The airport’s car service.”
* * *
I should probably invite him in. Only, inviting him in involves a lot of women and explanations. “So…” I cross my arms over my chest and look up at him. “That was—”
* * *
My shoulders hit the brick, his mouth on mine, his kiss hot and greedy. I grip his shirt, feel his fingers in my hair, his hips against mine, our tongues working in hot concert, pants of breath taken between frantic kisses.
* * *
How have I gone my whole life without this? I kiss him and fight to not think about him leaving. I kiss him and forget about the girls, the job, the money. I kiss him and all I want, for the next hundred years, is this. Him. Us. Family. Securit
y. Love.
* * *
I think I love him.
* * *
A car drives by, slowing, and I think of us, under the spotlight of the porch, and pull back. Look into his face and appreciate the glazed look of arousal in his eyes. I did that. I glance at his car and think of my house—packed to the rafters with unwanted guests. “You can’t stay here.” I see the look on his face and hurry to explain. “I mean—I’ll come stay with you if you get a hotel room. I just don’t have any room for you here. I’m literally sharing a bed with a Russian cocktail waitress right now. But I can have Eddie watch the girls and sneak out to your hotel room for the night.” I slide my hands under his shirt, tracing the divots of his abs with my fingertips.
* * *
“Then, let’s go. Pack a bag and I’ll have you naked on a bed within twenty minutes.”
* * *
“Well…” I shift my weight, the welcome mat damp against my socks, and think about the cash. “There’s something I have to do first.”
* * *
“I don’t understand.” Marco looks at the cash, the pile dumped out on the Tahoe’s tailgate. “Who does this belong to?”
* * *
“The girls. Not those girls.” I nod toward the house. “Different girls. It’s payroll for the week.”
* * *
“I thought you worked in something with funds.”
* * *
“I do. Their funds. I take it from their employers, and package it up and distribute it to them.”
* * *
“This seems…illegal.”
* * *
I line up the bundles and take a moment to count the stacks. When I finish, I reach for the first stack and stuff it in a Ziploc. “It is. Kinda. I mean—the entire process is illegal, but my portion of it isn’t necessarily illegal—it’s more that I’m contributing to someone else’s illegal activities. Mainly, I’m passing on under-the-table income to the girls and knowingly assisting in tax evasion. But that income is being taxed, just as additional profit to their employers.”
* * *
“And this is how you earn money—this is your job.” There is a playful shout from inside and he glances at the door to the house.
* * *
“Well, I don’t normally have a house full of girls. That was a logistics error.” I complete the task and move to the floor, bringing the bagged cash with me as I roll underneath the SUV.
* * *
“And the guys giving you this cash, they’re criminals?” From my spot on the ground, I can see his shoes, the shadows cast by them as he walks beside the truck and stops.
* * *
“Yeah.” I stuff bags into the compartment, moving more quickly than I usually do, ready to be done with this conversation.
* * *
“And that big guy in there, he protects you.” His shoes bend, the heels lifting, and he crouches, one hand coming forward and balancing his weight. I look at his watch, the diamond-littered dial glittering in the dark.
* * *
“Yes.” I don’t mention Bruce. He seems alarmed enough by Eddie.
* * *
His legs move and suddenly, he’s on the floor, sliding under the vehicle until he’s beside me.
* * *
I wince, covering my mouth with one hand. “That floor is filthy.” I pick at his blue shirt with my hand. “And this looks expensive.”
* * *
“It doesn’t matter.” He looks up at the bumper, at the stacks of cash lined up. “Won’t these fall out when you drive?”
* * *
“Like this, they will.” I grab the last few bags and stuff them in the bumper, then roll the compartment up, hiding the cash, and lock it into place. Looking over at him, I widen my eyes. “Pretty impressive, huh?”
* * *
“I guess.” He looks up at the engine, and from this angle, I can’t read his expression. “Can’t you do something else as a job?”
* * *
I don’t want to get into it, don’t have the time to explain how I got into this job, or the emotional obligation that I feel for these women. “This works for me. Right now, at least.” I know I can’t do this forever. If I ever have kids, I’d have to quit. A family would be a giant liability that could be used against me, their safety at risk any time I pissed someone off.
* * *
“Okay.” He leans forward and kisses me. “I will reserve judgment for now. I’ve never been with a bad girl before and Criminal Avery is making me really fucking hot.”
* * *
I reach over, my hands dusted with engine grime and smear a line of black across his cheek. “Good. Because Grease Monkey Marco is pretty damn sexy.” I pull at his neck and kiss him, then roll out and away from him. “Now. Let’s find a hotel room without a dozen Russians in it, and work out every fantasy I have.”
* * *
He makes it out from under the vehicle and brushes off his shirt. “Do I have to go back through the kitchen?” He looks properly concerned, given the attention paid to him on his entrance. You’d think the women had never seen a red-blooded male before. Eddie had been irritated by their fawning, Marco had taken it with an almost bored acceptance—a reaction that made me realize he’s probably spent his entire life being drooled over.
* * *
“No, you don’t have to go back through that.” I reach out my hand and hit the garage door opener. “Let sneak out this way.”
Chapter 40
MARCO
She drives her Tahoe like it’s a Lambo, and we peel through streets that look like a war zone. I see huddles of homeless, sitting against closed storefronts, shopping carts in tow, and wonder how anyone is homeless with abandoned homes everywhere.
She is so alive. That’s an odd thought to have, but it’s how I feel around her, as if she teems with energy. Each moment is unpredictable, each interaction a different experience, her presence a rainbow of color in a world filled with gray. When she left New York, it was as if I saw the monochromatic color of my life for the first time.
She looks over and smiles at me, and I try my hardest not to beam back at her like a love-blown idiot.
* * *
Avery steps out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her body, and I fight a war to keep my mind in the game. Fumbling with a little bottle of lotion, she squeezes a glob onto her hands. When she rubs them together, all I can think about is how my cock would feel in between those slick palms.
I sit up higher on the bed and pat the spot next to me. “Let’s talk for a minute.”
“Hmmm.” She crawls onto the end of the bed and plops on the pillowtop without any concern for sex appeal. “Sounds serious.” She furrows her brow at me, and I smile despite myself.
“Your work is too dangerous.”
“It’s not.” She pulls a pillow free of the stack and rests her head on it, her eyes on mine. “It was early on, but I have good relationships with everyone now.”
“And what happens when someone wants your job? What’s to stop some thug from killing you and taking everything?”
“That’s a risk in any job.”
She’s not that stupid. I can see the lie in her eyes, and if she thinks she’s going to continue in this profession without a security team around her, three bodies deep, she’s crazy.
I tell her this and she growls. Tells me a story about how she got into this business, and why it is important to her. I watch her talk, see the fire and energy in her eyes, and love her even more for her protective passion for this portion of the streets. But she has to stop. I’m not losing her to one of these gangsters, or to jail.
I change the subject, pulling her into my arms and confessing about Vince, about the agreement I signed ten years ago, and Vince’s reasons for wanting me as his boyfriend. I tell her about his legacy, and about all the rallies I’ve attended, speeches I’ve made, and lies I’ve told. I tell her everything, and hear—through my own words—how awful it all sounds.
“It’s not awful.” She pulls away from me and repositions us, crawling up my chest and straddling me. “You made a business decision. It was a win-win for both of you.”
“Only I feel like I’m losing, right now.”