Those Boys Are Trouble Page 3

  His muffled voice utters a sound that gets my attention. "Johnny, let the fucker talk."

  Johnny looks up at me with sweat covering his brow from the struggle. His face is red, and he's still breathing like he's run a mile. I jerk my head to the table by the door and say, "Get mine; I wanna switch."

  Johnny rises slowly, grabbing the bastard's gun and walks to the door calmly, straightening out his jacket and tucking his shirt back in. I track him in my peripheral vision, but my focus is on this skinny fuck looking straight into the barrel of the gun I've got pointed right between his eyes.

  "Last words?" I ask, closer to pulling the trigger more than I really should. I shouldn't kill him here. Not with Johnny's gun. This fucker brought one with a silencer though. So it's his funeral. And I'll have to fix the flooring. But I bought extra wood the last time I remodeled for this very fucking reason.

  "De Luca sent me." He spits the words out with terrified eyes. I smirk at him. Yeah, that’s what I thought he said. I don’t want to kill him with this gun anyway. So he can talk a bit more. Maybe I’ll learn something new.

  “Oh yeah? Why’s that?” I ask him, switching guns with Johnny and motioning for him to give me this fucker's gun. How damn sweet is that? He comes to kill me; I unload his gun in his head. Seems fair enough to me. The only thing that’s unfair is that I’ll have to rip out some of the hardwood flooring and replace it.

  The scrawny prick is crying his eyes out. The smell of urine hits me, and I look back at him with disgust. Did De Luca really think he’d get rid of me with this little piece of shit? I squat down to see him better and to put the gun closer to his head. I take a good look at his face and then settle for just reaching into his pants for his wallet. I toss it at Johnny without taking my eyes off this chump. This punk is young and scared for his life, but I don’t underestimate anyone. Not now, not ever. You never know when someone might surprise you. And I don’t fucking like surprises.

  Not like that nice piece of ass today. She was a welcome surprise. My dick starts getting all fucking excited thinking about being in that hot pussy again. Fuck. Now is not the time to let my mind go there. Although it does make me wanna end this shit sooner, rather than later.

  “De Luca’s pissed about the territory, he wants all yous dead.”

  “All yous?” I echo, and arch an eyebrow.

  “You need to learn to speak properly, Mr...?” I ask him, but not really. I know Johnny’s gonna answer, and he does.

  “Marco, Marco Bryant. Twenty-three, and an organ donor.” Johnny’s confident voice rings out from behind me and ends with a snort. Yeah, these organs are getting donated. I see him pocketing Marco's wallet as I nod my head. Bryant. Just like I thought, he’s not full blood. No way De Luca gives a fuck about him.

  “So, Marco. You need to get your shit together. You think De Luca was really giving you a chance?” Marco starts trembling beneath me, and widens his eyes. He doesn’t know how to answer. Fuck, I wanna roll my eyes at this prick. But I don’t take chances.

  “Don’t answer; I don’t really give a fuck.” I push the barrel of the gun between his eyes and ask, “You got anything else for me?”

  “I’ll give you everything!” His eyes are darting between me and Johnny, and his face is sweating like he’s stranded in a desert in July. Or like he’s about to lose his life. I can practically hear his heart pounding in his chest.

  “Everything?” I ask with a smirk. He’s got nothing that I want. I’ve got more money than I know what to do with. Unless he’s got that chick’s number, there’s nothing I want from him.

  “I’ve got a house on the southside and forty grand that’s-” I pull the trigger before he can finish. I miss the bang of the bullet, but it’s better this way. Nice and quiet. I get up quick so I don’t get any blood on my suit.

  “Grab the list and see if he was one of the drop-offs. If not, this is gonna be one long fucking day.” I head over to the bar and finally get my gun positioned right where I like it. That’s better.

  “Got it, boss. Yeah, he’s one of 'em.” My chest rumbles with a laugh. “Wonder if he has a history of making bets and he got that forty grand by winning?” Johnny laughs as he picks Marco’s head up and starts wrapping it with plastic wrap. Really distorts the fucker's head, but it works well for keeping all the blood from getting everywhere.

  “Drop him off at the vet before Ma’s.” Everyone in my family knows someone. My vet was a wonderful addition to my contacts. If you can cremate a hundred and fifty pound dog, you can cremate a hundred and fifty pound corpse.

  “You really wanna push it? You know your Ma hates it when you’re late.” Johnny talks while he wipes up the blood. I flip the scrawny bastard over and pull him by his feet away from the mess.

  I don’t answer Johnny. I’m always fucking late. She’d be surprised if I showed up on time. I stare at the rag in Johnny’s hand that's soaking up the blood. Damn, it’s a lot of blood. Never gets old. I stand up from the dead bastard and head back to the bar for a drink. Our glasses are somewhere else, but there’s plenty of new ones to fill. And plenty of liquor to fill them with.

  This is why I’m the bookie in the family. I didn’t really want to be a part of this shit. But with a name like Valetti, this shit tracks you down. “Yours is up here when you’re ready, Johnny.” As soon as I set my glass down, there’s a knock at the door. Fucking perfect.

  I walk over to Johnny and pick up Marco’s legs while he gets his upper body. This fucker looks small, but his dead, limp body is fucking heavy. We’ll dump him in the corner for now. I take a look at Johnny and straighten his jacket.

  “You look good, just wipe your face,” I tell him and return to my glass.

  “Uh, Dom?” Johnny asks while another knock echoes through the suite.

  “What?” I tilt my chin to the door. After that shit, I’m not opening it. I smirk at the thought.

  Johnny motions to his hips while looking at mine. I take a glance down. “Fuck!” Motherfucker; fucking Marco ruined my Brioni suit. It cost more than that dumb fuck had in the bank. I look over to his carcass slumped in the corner of the room behind the pool table as Johnny opens the door. With one hand positioned firmly on the butt of my gun, and the other on my drink, I'm listening but I keep my eyes on the dead body in the room.

  I’m vaguely aware of the transaction as the pit in my stomach sinks and blood rushes in my ears as their voices turn to white noise. I fucking hate that I was born a Valetti. But it’s sure as shit better than being born Marco.

  Becca

  The car door shuts as Sarah gets out of the car. It closes lightly. I’m surprised the fucking light isn’t flashing to tell me it’s not closed all the way. Too gentle. Sarah is too gentle, too nice. We spent most of the car ride in silence. She kept opening her mouth like she was going to say something, but never did. What is she really going to say?

  I swallow the lump in my throat and dig through the console for some tissues. I swear to God if his cum has leaked onto this dress I’m going to be mortified. I don’t have a change of clothes, and it’s not like I can just hide in the car. It’s Jax’s first game of the season. He may only be three and never remember this, but I will.

  I close my eyes and wipe myself, feeling like a dirty slut. I’ve only ever been with one man. Rick the prick, as I’d recently started calling him. Until he died, anyway. I shake my head and shove the used tissue into the leftover paper bag from Dunkin' Donuts this morning. I crumple up the bag and toss it onto the passenger’s seat. Taking a few deep breaths, I open my door and slide out of my seat. No one knows. I keep repeating that to myself as I turn my head to take a look at the back of my dress. Thank fuck there’s no mark. Honestly, they’d probably believe I sneezed and pissed myself a bit over me actually having had sex with… him. Tears well up again, and my throat closes. I don’t even know his fucking name.

  I start walking along the tree line, looking over at the soccer fields. A loud whistle blows through the air and
practically scratches my eardrums like nails on a chalkboard. I wince and rub my temples. Jax is at the very last field. Fuck these heels. I feel like a damn moron walking in heels on grass. I nearly topple over pulling one off, but the second is easier. I shake out my fears and anxiety; no one knows.

  My heart clenches in pain once again. I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it. I can’t say I never fantasized about being taken like that. Ruthlessly. Being devoured by a man consumed with lust. My cheeks heat with a violent blush. I need to get my shit together. I can’t let these bitches smell any blood in the water.

  “You’re late, Becca,” Cynthia says in a singsong voice, but there’s a ring of disdain on the end. I hope she’s fucking burning up in that strawberry tweed Chanel skirt suit. Her blonde hair is in a perfect bun, showing off her too fucking large diamond earrings. She’s a picture-perfect housewife. The kind of twig who doesn’t even finish all of her salad and knows exactly how everything is supposed to be done and doesn’t mind chiming in to correct others constantly. Yeah, she’s what Rick thought he was getting when he married me. Fuck her.

  My eyes drop to her heels. All the moms are wearing heels even though they’re digging slightly into the dirt. I don’t know how they don’t fall down on their asses. I tossed my pumps into my bag, and now I’m walking barefoot. As I come up next to them, their lips turn down in frowns. Zero fucks given.

  “I had an errand to run. How are our boys doing?” I give her the same fake smile she’s giving me before turning to face the field.

  “They really need to step up their defense. How is Marshal ever going to score when the defense is this poor?”

  They’re three years old, for fuck’s sake. I don’t even try to hide my eye roll, not that she would see anyway since now she’s texting away on her phone.

  I spot Jax running after a boy who’s kicking the ball. I pray to God he doesn’t just push the kid over and pick up the ball with his hands. Rick and I decided it would be good to get him into sports early. One sport, one language, one instrument. But for fuck’s sake, he’s only three. I am glad I got him into sports to work off some of that excess energy, but these people drive me up the damn wall. I didn’t come from daddy’s money like these other women. I worked hard to get my restaurant up and running. I put everything I had in me into this industry. It took ten years to get to this point, and at thirty-one I’m the proud owner of an award-winning Italian bistro.

  Jax kicks the ball, thankfully misses the kid, and runs down the field. “Go Jax!” I can’t help screaming excitedly and hopping up and down on the balls of my feet. My voice gets the attention of the other moms. I see them smirk and look at each other from the corner of my eye, but I learned to ignore them early on. Mommy playgroups are cutthroat in this social group. I know they talk shit about me. That they defended Rick cheating on me because I work too much, and didn’t make enough one-on-one time for the two of us. But they’d be fucking stupid to say that shit to my face.

  The thought of Rick hits me hard. My chest hurts, and my heart twists in agony. He may have been an asshole of a husband who was going to try to get every cent from me that he could in our divorce, and try to take my baby away from me, but he was also the father of my baby boy. I smile weakly watching Jax in his little black and blue striped jersey. Number three, because that was Daddy’s number. Tears well up in my eyes, and my throat closes as a bastard lump forms. I shake my head and try to think about happy times.

  My eyes pop open wide, and my thighs clench. Thoughts of the bookie rutting into me like he fucking owned me make my heart race, and my blood heat. My senses are flooded with the image of his corded muscles pinning me to the wall, the masculine smell in the hot air, and the sounds of him fucking me. I shift my weight and try to cool down, feeling much hotter than I did a moment ago. I'm extremely aware of the fact that I'm no longer wearing any panties. I was in such a fucking rush to get out of there, I left them wherever they fell. My forehead pinches as I try to recollect what happened to them.

  A shudder runs through my body as I remember. He ripped them off of me. That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever done. But with him? With a stranger? A criminal? I don’t even fucking know his name. Shame washes over me, and that damn lump in my throat returns. I never lusted after a man before. Never. School and work were all that mattered. I married a nice man when I finally had life all worked out. Had a baby at twenty-seven. I did everything the exact way my parents would have wanted. My blood turns to ice and I look down at my feet, wondering if they’d be ashamed of me now. Now that my marriage failed, and I’ve fallen to a new level of filth I’d never thought I’d reach.

  For fuck’s sake, I let him cum in me. I cringe, but my treacherous pussy clenches. I have to repress a moan, remembering how good it felt. My lips purse as I pull out my phone and text Sarah. She’s out getting dinner for Jax and me so I can be here to watch his game.

  Plan B ASAP please.

  I never thought I’d be texting my PA to pick up the morning-after pill. But hell, in the last few months we’ve grown close. I imagine we’re as close as sisters would be, but I wouldn’t know. I'm an only child, and I haven’t had any family since my parents passed a few years ago. Just after I found out I was pregnant. Tears well up in my eyes as I remember. I was picking out a cute little mug for my mom to tell her. It was going to have the ultrasound on it. I wipe at my burning eyes and try to return my focus to my little man on the field, but all I can see in my head is a picture of that damn mug. Grandmom in April. She would’ve been so happy. I told everyone we were trying. The moment we got married, I wanted to be pregnant. In hindsight, I shouldn't have done that. 'Cause then everyone asks you constantly, “Are you pregnant yet?” It took a little longer than I’d hoped, but stress will do that to you. And when you work the hours I used to work, well, it’s fucking stressful. That’s why I got Sarah. That’s why I cut back and hired more help. It was the best thing for me, and then for my little man, too.

  It was supposed to be the best thing for my marriage. But I don’t think anything would’ve helped us survive. Once a cheater, always a cheater. I’m too fucking forgiving. I never should’ve believed him. Never should’ve married that sweet-talking liar. But I wanted a baby. I wanted the whole package, the perfect life.

  I didn’t want a cheating ass husband who blew his business in a shit deal, wanted control of my business, and then gambled away nearly everything I had. Thank fuck I grabbed a hold of my self-respect and started putting my foot down. It was even better when I started feeling he was messing around on me that I confronted it head on. There are givers and takers in this world. I’m a giver, always have been. I know the givers have to set the limits, because the takers have none. Unfortunately, I’ve learned from experience. From my shit husband. I loosen my clenched fists as the reality of his death hits me again.

  I feel like such a bitch for being angry at him. He’s dead. He put me through hell and back, but he’s not here for me to be mad at anymore. I’m so confused by my emotions. Six months ago, he let his business be torn to shreds and sold off, then he blew that money on a shit deal. Two months ago, I caught him in bed with another woman. Literally. She had her legs wrapped around his hips and her heels digging into his ass as he was fucking her. On our bed. Since then he’d been trying to get every penny of mine and hired the best lawyers he could to try to get full custody, with my fucking money. But a week ago he dropped dead of a heart attack, out of nowhere. Left me with a shit ton of debt, and a giant mess to clean up. I feel like a bitch for hating him in the end, for being relieved this divorce and custody battle are no longer an issue, but most of all I hate myself for not being more upset with him dying. I literally wished he would die. I was hoping that fucker would drop dead. And then he did. How fucking horrible am I that I’m not more upset? That I don’t have more regrets?

  Some days I absolutely despise myself.

  And then I miss him. I see something, like a commercial for a restaurant we used to go to
, and it hits me hard. The tears come on before I can hold them back, and I miss the old Rick. And then I hate myself for missing him. Maybe I’ve just turned into a hateful person.

  Everything in the last year has gone to shit, but not Jax; he’s perfect. I keep going just for him. He’s my everything. As I watch him stumble on the grass and fall, I swear I see a movement to my left. A dark figure behind the trees. A cold shiver runs through my body as I jolt and stare into the trees. But I don’t see anything. My body tingles with anxiety as my heart tries to beat its way out of my chest. I swallow thickly and turn back to the field.

  There’s no one there. I close my eyes and open them when I hear the women to my right clapping and cheering. One of the boys somehow managed to actually score a goal. I clap and yell and smile at my son, who’s furiously waving at me. But somewhere deep inside me, fear settles.

  I’m certain I saw something. Or someone.

  I force another wide smile for my son and keep my feet planted where they are, but I can’t wait to get out of here. I need to shake this feeling.

  Dom

  “You’re late, Dom!” My mom’s high-pitched voice hits me with a touch of humor as she flicks a kitchen hand towel at me. “You’re lucky I’m running behind.” Ma's always running behind. Maybe it’s in our genes. The kitchen smells like her signature Sunday dinner dish of sauce and meatballs.

  “Sorry, Ma,” I say and give her a kiss on the cheek as I pull the flowers in my hand around to the front. “Got you a gift though.”

  She pats my cheek with her hand and smiles as she says, “Aw, you spoil me!”

  “Dante! Why do you never get me any flowers! You should take notes from your son!” she screams past me to the dining hall, and I all-out grin. I love it when she does this shit. Calling my dad out in front of everyone. I chuckle as I walk to the dining room and see the family gathered around the table.