Lawless Page 4

  Jonathan turned to Will. “Find out where she is. Now. And him.”

  “Already on it, sir,” he replied, phone to his ear.

  Jonathan pointed to Steve.

  “At all costs,” he repeated vehemently. “On my life.”

  Chapter Six

  After that first night with Jonathan, I drove to work instead of taking the bus for fear of running into him, having kicked him out at knife-point and all. I clearly didn’t know Jonathan anymore, what he might be capable of. I spent the hours constantly looking over my shoulder, expecting him to show up. To be honest, I was a bit surprised when he didn’t. I hadn’t expected him to really leave me alone.

  Then there had been the run-in at the diner a couple days later, which I was still kicking myself for. I couldn’t believe that I’d given in so easily and fucked him again when I knew I should stay away. There was just something about him that I couldn’t resist. He’d been right, of course, to call me out on my bullshit. I did like to pretend that his world didn’t exist when I wasn’t in it—but only because I felt so out of place in the safe, boring life I’d grown up having.

  God, I was all kinds of fucked up.

  His words had hit their mark, hurting more than I cared to admit. A few nights later I stood outside the hospital, taking a short break, phone in hand. I stared at Jonathan’s name, thumb hovering over the Send button. I’m sorry, I’d typed.

  That was when the shit hit the proverbial fan and the shooting started. Not just one or two shots, but what sounded more like two hundred. I’d noticed an increase in gang members coming through our doors for a few days, specifically Kings and Celts. Nothing fatal, but I could sense things were escalating.

  Fuck. So much for a quiet night. I hurried back in to rally the troops and prepare for the inevitable onslaught. Before the first ambulances could even arrive, shouts and yells for help rose excitedly from the front desk.

  A large group of men came in carrying two wounded men among them. They’d been shot—one in the leg, the other in the abdomen. We rushed them to the back and the doors had barely closed behind us when two Celts came in via ambulance. The waiting room, filled with friends and family members, bubbled over with rage. By the time security got everyone under control and removed, the place resembled the set of Jerry Springer.

  When I reached the end of my shift, each side had lost a person. Two additional Celts were touch and go, nobody had much hope of them making it through the day. The guy from the Kings with the leg wound had some serious luck. The bullet had just missed the artery, although there was still muscle damage and he might have a limp now. Then there were the dozen or so other gang members who came in from the fight with various minor injuries in comparison. A secret part of me was relieved to not see Jonathan among them.

  I was thankful to finally clock out only a little bit late and head home for some peace and quiet. Since I had a bunch of time before the next bus would be around, and was still full of pent-up energy, I decided to walk a bit and let Jovi catch up to me at a stop further down instead of waiting at the hospital.

  My decision to walk proved to be a stupid one. Walking at night was something I usually enjoyed. The difference in the city between night and day always amazed me. Streets clogged with cars and people became wide open spaces, easy to traverse even with the increased criminal element. Knowing the gangs were at war, I kept my eyes open for potential problems. Darkness and shadows were everywhere, a delinquent’s best friend. Things were too quiet. Suddenly feeling foolish, I pulled my phone out.

  The message to Jonathan was still there, never sent. I wondered if I should send it, or just call. I hated that I wanted him there in that moment. It made me seem like a damsel in distress, which I was not. I was simply being realistic for the first time in a while, and admitting that I could possibly be in over my head right then.

  Like it or not, I needed him.

  I pressed the call button just as someone grabbed me from behind, dragging me into the alley I’d just passed. My phone clattered to the ground and I saw the call connect as a startled cry escaped me.

  “Found you, bitch,” a familiar voice growled in my ear. “What, no smart-mouthed comments for me this time?” Oh, shit. The man holding me was the one who’d held the gun on me that night during the robbery. I tried desperately to get to the tazer I carry in my bag.

  “Let me go! Help!” I screamed. My bag was ripped from me and tossed aside as he brought me deeper into the alley.

  A moment later a second person rushed around the corner after us and my brain was scrambling, trying to remember every self-defense move I’d ever learned, in the hopes of avoiding the assault—and possibly murder—that I assumed was imminent.

  “Mike! What the fuck are you doing?” Relief flooded me as I recognized Jonathan’s voice.

  “Boss, this is the woman! The one who was in the store that night!”

  Boss?

  Muted light from the back entrance of a restaurant lit Jonathan in garish hues as he came closer. I was so happy to see him that I didn’t wonder how or why he’d been so close.

  “Were you, Claire? Last week, middle of the night, Pop’s Convenience, over by your bus stop?”

  I nodded. The cold metal of a gun pressed into my temple.

  “See! I fucking told you there was a witness. We gotta do something about her.”

  “Mike, I told you to drop this. If she was going to the cops she would have done so by now. She’s not a threat. We’re not doing anything to her.” Jonathan’s voice was calm, but I could sense the barely contained rage under the surface. Jaw clenched and eyes narrowed, he took another step toward us.

  “You’re such a fucking pussy. Jesus, how the fuck did you end up in charge? Ramon woulda taken care of this bitch right away, not left her to run her mouth.” Mike gesticulated wildly in Jonathan’s direction with the gun as he spoke, though he kept the arm around my throat tight, not slackening his grip on me in the least.

  My head raced as I processed what I was hearing. Jonathan was the man at the top of the South Side Kings? “Enforcement is below my pay grade…” Was it possible? How could the boy I’d known grow to become this man?

  “Yes, because killing an innocent bystander is the best way to keep the cops away. Fuck, Mike, I knew you were dumb and all, but really? And like it or not, I am in charge. What I say goes. And I say let her go.”

  “I know what’s going on here. You think if you spare her, she’ll let you fuck her, is that it?” My head was wrenched to the side and the bastard licked my neck. “What do you say, bitch? Wanna let the big bad boss man stick his cock in you?” The gun slid down my stomach and pressed between my legs. I closed my eyes, blocking it out and focusing on our positioning so I could find an opening to free myself. “You know, she ain’t that bad-looking. We could take turns bef—”

  The gunshot was deafening in the narrow alley.

  I screamed and crouched into a ball with my hands over my head. When my brain registered I wasn’t the one who’d been shot—because how would I have been able to move unless Mike no longer held me—and there wasn’t any further gunfire, I opened my eyes and looked around. Jonathan hadn’t moved from his spot just a few feet away. He stood, breathing heavily, now holding a gun at his side. On the littered pavement next to me lay Mike. A pool of blood, nearly black in the dim light, slowly haloed his head. I watched a small trickle slide down his forehead from the bullet hole he now sported like a third eye. More of his blood, and bits of skull and brain, decorated the side of the dumpster behind me. I stood, returning my gaze to Jonathan.

  “That’s two. Anyone else who threatens your safety will become three.” His words were slow and deliberate to ensure I heard and understood each one.

  I remembered reading about how stressful situations could make you horny or something. Had to do with the adrenaline, I think. Whatever it was, all I could think about was fucking him. Right there, in that filthy, stinky alley. To have an affirmation of life in the
presence of death. Maybe it was Stockholm Syndrome. He’d just killed someone, executed him, with no remorse. Right in front of me. And he was the goddamn leader of the South Side Kings for fuck’s sake. A sane person would run from him. Far and fast.

  I looked down at Mike’s dead body again. I’d definitely crossed the line of just flirting with danger. Hell, I’d pole-vaulted over that motherfucker and landed far on the other side the moment I’d called Jonathan. Denying it was useless. I’m pretty sure the moment he heard my screams through the phone, Mike’s death had become a foregone conclusion.

  He returned the gun to the small of his back and looked at me expectantly, eyebrows raised. He was waiting for me to say or do something. I appreciated his silence, his patience with me as I processed what had happened.

  “Jonathan, I…” I had no idea what to say that could make things right between us. Or how to thank him for what he’d just done. Tentatively, I took a few steps toward him. Jonathan closed the remaining distance between us and gently cupped his hands around my shoulders.

  “You’re okay now, baby girl,” he said softly.

  I surged forward, up on my tiptoes, to kiss him. I held the sides of his head, buried my fingers in his hair, and claimed him the way he’d claimed me. I hoped it was enough, that he’d understand.

  Someone gently cleared their throat a few feet away and I reluctantly broke the kiss.

  “Excuse me, sir, but we should be leaving here before…”

  “I know, Will.” Jonathan returned his attention to me. “Claire? Are you coming with me?”

  “Yes,” I said without hesitation.

  He exhaled heavily and pulled me tight against him.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. I don’t know if he even meant to say it aloud.

  “The car is this way, sir,” Will said.

  Jonathan took my hand and led me back to the street. Will held open the back door of a black SUV with equally black windows.

  “Your purse and phone, ma’am,” he said, handing them over. “Although I’m afraid you’ll need a new phone.”

  “Thank you.”

  He shut the door behind us and climbed into the front. Jonathan pressed a button and a privacy screen rose up, enclosing us in our own little world as the driver quickly pulled away.

  Jonathan pulled me into his lap and held my gaze.

  “You scared the life out of me, do you know that?”

  I bit my bottom lip. “I’m so sorry. You were right. About everything.”

  “I love you, Claire. I’ve loved you since before I knew what the word meant. I will do anything necessary to protect you. As long as you are with me, you will be safe. Do you understand what that means?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you understand what you’re agreeing to?”

  “Yes.” I nodded. I was fully aware that I was signing up for the exact polar opposite of what I’d been raised to be.

  “No more walking alone at night, got it?”

  I smiled and slid down to my knees on the floor.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  The End

  www.evernightpublishing.com/loralynne-summers

  GENTLEMAN JACKSON

  Nicola M. Cameron

  Copyright © 2017

  Chapter One

  Ria Guzman tried to keep her attention on her computer monitor, but her gaze kept drifting toward the man sitting in the waiting area. He’d introduced himself in a soft, southern-tinged voice as, “Mr. Jackson, here to see Mr. Montrose,” and had taken a seat after she’d buzzed Freddy Ray Montrose to let him know that his next appointment had arrived.

  She had been working for the law offices of Montrose and Davis for over a year now and was used to seeing men in well-cut suits coming in to speak with Freddy Ray. Most of them carried a certain amount of middle-age flab, the curse of businessmen in a city studded with steakhouses, BBQ joints, and Tex-Mex restaurants. Once in a while, though, a big, built man would walk through the office door, usually a former football player who had transitioned successfully to the entrepreneurial field.

  Something about the client now waiting for Freddy Ray, however, set off all of Ria’s internal alarms. For one thing, he was huge. Not fat, but thick with muscle that the cut of the expensive jacket was supposed to disguise. But good tailoring couldn’t hide the width of his shoulders, or the corded muscle of a bull neck that was barely restrained by an Armani tie. He looked more like a bouncer than the typical Dallas oilman who utilized Freddy Ray’s legal skills and contacts with the lege down in Austin.

  His face reinforced the bouncer impression. A heavy-boned jawline anchored a nose that had been broken more than a few times, chiseled lips that were pressed together in a humorless line, and narrow blue eyes that felt like they looked right through her when she’d asked him to take a seat and offered coffee. His straight dark hair was cut high and tight, revealing a sprinkling of silver at the temples. She guessed he was ex-military, somewhere in his early forties, good-looking if you liked a certain kind of big, rich daddy type who carried his privilege with him like an invisible shield. God knew there were enough women in Dallas who would be more than happy to cream their La Perla panties over him.

  Except that there was something else about Mr. Jackson, a coldness that made the hair at the nape of her neck stand up. She’d known guys like that in Oak Cliff, watched them join the gangs, patched their knife wounds and bullet holes. Some wound up being lowered into the ground while a harried priest muttered prayers and stone-faced gang members in black stood watch. Others, like her brother Carlos, went on to bigger and better things. She’d done her best to avoid the type once she finished college, steadfastly ignoring the fact that they ignited an embarrassing excitement inside her. It was like being an adrenaline junkie, she told herself, wanting to try the biggest, baddest ride in town. Better to be sensible, to live a quiet, normal life like a normal person. You lasted longer that way.

  But then Mr. Jackson walked through the door like a caveman in tailored Hugo Boss, and every nerve ending in her body lit up like a fireworks display. Part of her wanted to freeze, stay quiet and still until he was gone—the rabbit that scented the coyote and prayed that it wasn’t hungry. Another part of her wanted to climb into his lap, find out what he was packing under those charcoal grey gabardine slacks, see if his lips tasted as good as they looked.

  He looked at her, thick brows lowering. Shit, I’m staring at him. Flushing, she shifted her attention to the document displayed on her screen, and jumped when the door behind her opened.

  “Mr. Jackson. Sorry to keep you waiting, I just had to finish up a few things,” Freddy Ray announced in his rumbling baritone. The silver-haired man was the quintessential well-to-do Texas lawyer, someone who used his good ol’ boy persona to hide a razor-sharp mind and a killer instinct. He paused next to her desk, knocking his knuckles on the wooden surface. “Honey, why don’t you go get lunch early today? Maybe do some shopping, pick up something pretty.”

  Ria knew what that meant. Like a number of other high-powered Dallas lawyers, not all of Freddy Ray’s business was strictly above the board. There were times when it was handy for him to have an empty office without witnesses who could potentially be subpoenaed by curious Feds. That was just fine with her—it meant she could take a long lunch and do some window shopping at Neiman-Marcus. “Okay, Mr. Montrose. I’ll come back around one?”

  He winked at her. “Fine, honey, fine.”

  She locked her computer and fished her purse out of its desk drawer, smoothing her skirt as she stood. She could feel Freddy Ray’s attention on her ass, but that was SOP by now. He’d made a few good-natured passes at her when she first started and had accepted her refusal easily enough. His partner Royce Davis, however, was another matter. Younger than Freddy Ray and more determined to get her into bed, Royce’s sly little insinuations, accidental “brushes,” and ham-handed attempts at flirtation were making her wonder if she had a case for sexual harassment. Yeah, like I could get a
lawyer to represent me against another lawyer.

  As she passed through the waiting area, Mr. Jackson stood, deliberately stepping into her path and forcing her to stop. She looked up into those ice blue eyes, her breath catching as something inside her quivered in silent recognition. Predator, meet prey.

  “Miss Guzman,” he said softly.

  She swallowed, wondering how he knew her name. “Excuse me,” she whispered, ducking past him and catching a whiff of something warm and resinous. It smelled like the rosemary her mother used to grow in their kitchen window, an olfactory memory of home and safety.

  Although Mr. Jackson definitely wasn’t safe. He didn’t touch her, but her skin prickled as if he’d run his fingertips across it. Her earlier assumption about him was wrong. Whoever, whatever this man was, he wasn’t a coyote. He was a wolf.

  ****

  Colton Jackson watched Montrose’s secretary hurry off, appreciating the way her ass swayed under the inexpensive black cotton skirt she wore. He wondered what she would look like in quality clothing, something that would showcase her curves properly. Christ almighty, I bet she’d look sinful in red silk. Something tight and strapless, showing off all that smooth, tan skin.

  She had been included in the info he’d gotten on Freddy Ray Montrose. Ria Guzman, 28, single, lived in one of the new apartment buildings built to draw city workers into Dallas’s urban center. No children, no ex-husbands. Her driver’s license picture was the usual nightmare, but she was a knockout in person.

  Colton wished he had more time in Dallas. The way she was eyeing him in the waiting room, she was just as interested in him. He bet he could talk her into dinner, maybe dancing somewhere.

  But he was there to do a job, and that meant no getting involved with the locals. With a mental sigh, he pushed away the thought of Ria Guzman and followed Freddy Ray into the lawyer’s office, checking that he could still make a clean draw.