The pearls of my heart lock within a shell. I shake my head, despite the realness. The flesh and blood before me saying the words I've always dreaded.
“It is true, Reese. I love you. And you love me too. So what do you mean by selfishly? You said, I loved you selfishly.”
This is my way out, I see. I mentally thank him for not inquiring why I refuse to say that stupid word back. “Hello? You bombarded me in the bathroom less than two hours ago!” I scoff, face silly with a grin.
“Fiddlesticks. That's an isolated incident in our rather… short relationship.”
“Fiddlesticks?” I glance at him sideways. And that silky, baritone chuckle takes over.
“Yes, poppycock.”
“Shuddup. Evan. Just because I said you reminded me of my dad, it was just that moment. You don't have to go rated PG on me with your words. Shit, even I cuss more than that.”
“Gosh, I do believe you're right. Young lady, you've got a potty mouth.” Evan reaches over and kisses the wetness of my cheek.
Though routine, we don’t have sex next. We fall asleep touching, even in dreams, I must be near him.
Untitled
Chapter Twenty-Twenty
Evan
The Black Dahlia is full of old and young horny toads alike. Slender legs fly open and money follows. The place is set up with a trifecta of stages, each one is a beacon for eye candy. Around the perimeter are red velvet curtains.
It’s Friday, yet barely touching lunch hour, and each one of the private sections is closed with customers. So there is no time to conduct our business in one of the private sections, since the chick who called the station said to be here at twelve sharp. The caller said she’d be the one in a long, rainbow colored wig.
The only woman who fits the description has one slender leg locked around the pole, front and center. That colorful hair of her’s, spirals downwards over porcelain skin as she slides upside down the pole, eye-fucking me.
“I’m gonna be in trouble,” Tyrone barely gets the words out as her sultry gaze roams over to him too.
The stripper twists her body over, and rolls onto the floor. She’s on the largest of the three stages, so my partner and I take a seat away from the other patrons. Rainbow rolls over, in just a disappearing thong. She comes into a forward split right before our eyes. The thin barrier covering the mound of her pussy is inches away. She says, “Well don’t the two of you look like hot shit?”
“Where’s Riker?” I ask. Deciding that imagining Reese as my own personal fuck slave will have to wait for later.
“Humph, that douche?” Her eyes roll, and then the stripper has pressed back on her heels before flipping over to her stomach. “You boys could at least pay for it,” she slaps her own ass, before twirling around on the ground like an exotic cobra.
We make no move to offer money.
“Okay, a girl can try, can’t she? Riker slipped my bitch a fucking roofie when her legs had no problem falling open to him for free.”
This information fits Riker’s MO to a T.
“And because I know men, you all are so damn predictable,” she says, sultry, red lips set in a sneer while lumping every man on the greater hemisphere into one category. “Leave it to a piece of tail to get you-all’s asses caught up. The fucker will be in here in oh, maybe two minutes. Now pay me. People keep their eyes peeled around here. And I don’t wanna look like a fucking snitch.”
I pull out my clip, and press a few bills into her thong. She winks.
Right on time, Jackals prospects begin to hoot and holler as they step into the bar. They’re rolling twenty deep.
Riker and the rest of the top dogs have disassociated themselves with their little minions so my faith in little Miss Rainbow has yet to be justified. Then through a sea of prospects, Riker’s ace, Cash, slinks inside of the building. On his heels is Riker. Not sure why Riker chose such a fucking lanky noodle to be his bodyguard, but for every move Cash takes, that big bastard is one step behind.
Tyrone and I start our way toward the entrance.
Cash’s beady, gray gaze widens. He’s made us. He turns on his heels. Cash and Riker, along with their crew hightail it right back out the door. The sound of guns going off is almost instant. Tyrone and I glare at each other for a nanosecond. The SWAT team’s protocol isn’t to shoot without the order.
The entire club becomes a frenzy as men and women scatter like roaches in the middle of the night when you turn the kitchen light on, half-naked hoes screaming in fear of not wanting to die at such a low point in their life, bullets flying from every direction. Curtains are snatched open from the private dance area. The sounds of machine guns fly through the air. From the blacked out windows, it doesn’t appear that Riker’s men are prepared.
Instead of SWAT right on their asses, it’s the Russians. The tactical unit is flanked behind them. The Russians’ begin to advance on them, while Tyrone and I push through the patrons and strippers running toward us, to get out the back door.
Just as we make it to the front, Kosyak is stepping inside with three of his most trusted. I quickly assume that Kosyak has a small army outside at war with SWAT. Their Uzis lower. Kosyak asks, “Where is he?”
“Riker was spotted running back in here, boss,” one of his men says. His face is fleshy and all but swallows pale-blue eyes.
“Put your fucking hands up!” I shout.
“We aren’t here for you!” Kosyak says, in a thick accent.
“C’mon, Kosyak, this here isn’t what you want. You’ve got friends in high places, shooting at cops is a whole ‘nother story
