Love and War: Part One – Chapter 15

I pull the utility truck to the gate, waiting for them to open it. I look at her, biting her nails as she stares out the windshield. “You good? You can’t act all nervous and shit.”

“Is this one going to be like the last one? Is he going to want to see my body and all? That made me feel dirtier than stripping ever did.”

“No. He’s a smaller dealer. He deals with me face-to-face himself instead of sending hyped-up little boys with guns that think they’re fucking untouchable. Besides, I dealt with that little punk. This one’s already seen your body. He’s the reason I was at the strip club to begin with.”

“You won’t leave me, right?”

I grip her chin and force her to look at me. “I will never leave you with someone else. I’ll take a bullet before I do.”

“I don’t like that alternative.”

“Just the way this world works. Can’t take the good without knowing about the bad.”

She breathes out. “Okay. Can we do something fun after this? I’m still freaked out about the clown ordeal. It’s a full moon, and now this, all on Halloween. If I see a black cat or hear something howling, I’m going to flip my shit. I just need something happy before I go to sleep.”

“Are you scared?”

“A little. I don’t want to get in trouble. I’ve never been involved in something like this. I was bad in other ways. And I tend to have nightmares when I’m freaked out.”

“Okay. We’ll figure something out.”

The phone rings on my console. I pick it up at the same time the gate starts to open automatically. “Drive around back and pull inside. The door will be open,” he says, disconnecting the call.

Just as he instructed, I navigate down the drive toward the oversized shop he has on the back of the property, pulling in the open bay. The metal door lowers when I kill the truck, closing us in. “What now?”

“He’s waiting. Get out.”

We both file out of the truck together, meeting him at the front. I extend my fist, meeting his as he finally cracks the mask he’s wearing. “What’s up, man?”

“Same as usual. Tracking down your shit.”

“It’s always well appreciated,” he says, before dropping his hand and glancing at Delta. She’s standing with her arms awkwardly crossed at her chest.

I shake my head. For someone well on her way to being covered in ink and fine as fuck she looks like a scared mouse shaking in a corner. Again, we have to work on some things. “Ah, now I know why you didn’t want my chocolate. You were busy dipping your hand in the honey jar.”

“If I didn’t, someone else was going to,” I respond honestly.

He migrates toward her, pulling her into a side hug. “Baby, do you know what you’re getting yourself into with this one? He’s up to no good. It’s only a matter of time until he screws something up, and when he does, you just bring your pretty little ass over here and I’ll fix it. You know what they say: once you go black, you’ll never go back.”

She starts laughing, instantly relaxing. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He looks back at me, his arm still wrapped around her. My smirk slides into place. “Don’t put that shit in her head. I don’t need her thinking about your dick. If she disappears, I’m coming after you first.”

“You just better be on your best behavior, my friend.”

“Always am.”

“You heard that. He gives you any trouble you let me know. I’ll put a boot in his ass.”

Our eyes lock, her bottom lip sliding between her teeth. I’ve never been into mouth jewelry before, but I think she’s pulled me to the other side, because I wonder how that lip ring would feel rubbing up and down on the underside of my cock. I clear my throat. “So, you ready to do this?

“As soon as you try this new blend with me. I need your input.”

He walks off, expecting us to follow, so I place my hand on Delta’s shoulder when I step up beside her and guide her along behind him, walking toward the door at the back. I’ll be honest. I’m a little ready to go home, and that’s not usually the case, because solitude is enough to drive the strongest person mad when memories resurface at those times the most. The more she’s around, the less of a Jekyll and Hyde effect I have to deal with, and I kind of like it.

“I really liked him. He’s funny.” My head rolls toward him as he pulls into the driveway and mashes the button on the remote attached to his visor to open the garage. It’s late. We had to take the box truck back to the shop and switch it out for his truck. Everything is peaceful and slow, my brain lazily thinking. “I was expecting militia style guards and heavily armored premises after what we went through last time.”

He pulls in and parks. “You watch too many movies. Crime isn’t always theatrical. The obvious always get caught, unlike in films where everyone is guns blazing and owning the fucking streets. That’s fake. The likelihood of you personally meeting those types of men is slim to none. They don’t like unexpected company, trust no one, and rarely show their face. They have families just like normal people. They’re more like ghosts. When I have those meetings, it’s very intricate and well planned out.”

The closing of the garage door doesn’t even faze me. I stay put in this comfy seat, kind of sleepy. “So, Ludacris’s twin back there . . . what’s his story? I’m cool with hanging out with him.”

He looks at me like I’m crazy. “We don’t ‘hang out’ with clients. That’s bad for business. You always keep your enemies closest. That’s all that is.”

“Didn’t seem like an enemy to me.” I shrug my shoulders. “And I’m supposed to just know this stuff? In case you forgot, I’m the new girl.”

My eyes burn into his, dazed at their depth and darkness. I wonder how he’d act if I just straddled him and took what I want. “Wouldn’t matter if he had a story. May not have one. He’s a smaller inventory dealer of a little bit of everything. Keeps him off the DEA’s radar but still pulls in a hefty profit. Not every criminal is bad, Delta. We just choose to be outlaws and do bad things.”

“I really like you sometimes.”

“You’re high.”

“I meant it. I’m totally fine. This is different than the Cocaine. I just kind of feel mildly drunk and hungry. I’m in no hurry to move. I kind of like it. I’m living the Bob Marley life right now. It’s great.”

“That’s kind of weed for you. You need to go to bed.”

“You’re an ass.”

He smirks at me. “You really like me sometimes but I’m also an ass?”

I smile. “Yeah . . . It’s a vicious cycle.”

“Do you need help getting up the stairs?”

I sit up when he kills the engine and opens the door, getting a little bit of perkiness back. “Hell no. You said we could do something fun.”

“You need some sleep.”

“It’s a holiday. I’ll sleep later.”

“Technically it’s not. Halloween is over.”

“Not until I close my eyes it’s not. Don’t be a pussy.”

“A pussy, huh? Fine. Let’s go.”

I follow him inside. He doesn’t stop until we reach the living room, grabbing the remote by his recliner and turning on the television. “Strip.”

I would have never taken marijuana for a hallucinogen. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You better be naked when I get back.” He walks down the hallway, entering the first door, not his bedroom. Considering he’s never been this open and wanting to hang out, the clothes are coming off.

My shirt almost rips from grabbing the torn segments of fabric as I remove it. I push my jeans down my legs and step out, standing in my bra and underwear. If he wants these off, he’ll have to remove them himself.

He walks out with a guitar strapped over his bare front and another in his hand, wearing nothing but boxer briefs—black, Diesel brand at that. Designer underwear is a massive turn-on for me. If a man cares enough to shop for underwear, you know he takes care of his shit. Boxer briefs are by far my favorite. They are tight and sexy, unlike boxers, without looking like panties, because to me those nut-huggers are an instant drying agent. Dear lord, help my soul. “No fucking way.”

“Ever played?”

“Hell yeah. I’m crushing on you really hard right now.”

He hands me the spare, my favorite smirk set in place. “Do you have a thing for guitar players?”

I’m cheesing really damn hard right now. “No, I have a thing for rock.”

“I noticed today. That’s why I thought of it.”

“But I would have never taken you for a gamer.”

He walks toward the built-in cabinets, opening it to a shelf full of cases. “Assume always starts with an ass.”

When he finds the one he’s looking for, he puts it into the game system and backs toward me. I pull the strap over my head and settle the guitar at my front, getting a feel for it. “Speaking of asses, yours is kind of hot. You have a lot more back there than I thought.”

“Checking out my ass, Rohr?” I love when his voice is deep and lathered up with alpha-male, testosterone-backed goodness.

“Yes. Yes, I am,” I state shamelessly. “It’s damn fine. I can appreciate a good-looking backside when I see one.”

“As much as I like knowing my ass is appreciated, get your head in the game. I’m the Guitar Hero king. You will never beat me.”

“You sound a little sure of yourself, Kross.”

“I just speak the truth.”

“So, why did you want me naked?”

“I just wanted to look at your body, tattoos and all. Ready?”

If that doesn’t make a girl feel sexy, I don’t know what does . . .

“Care to place a bet, Brannon?”

“Hit me with it. It’ll be an easy win for me.”

“If I win, you have to sleep with me and cuddle, but if you win, you can tattoo your name on my body.”

“I’m not a cuddling kind of guy.”

“That’s what makes it a bet. It’s not supposed to be something you like if you lose. I don’t really want a man’s name tattooed on me to wear forever, but I’ll take it like a champ if you win. Besides, I thought it was an easy win for you. Getting scared you might get beat by a girl, baby?”

He closes in on me, guitar to guitar, his lips almost touching mine. “Better get a spot ready.”

“This could go either way. Let’s rock and roll.”

Our smiles spread at the same time and we take our stance facing the big screen television. The game introduction starts. My hands are ready, one on the neck and the other on the base front, fingers positioned on the buttons. The first song comes on: Avenged Sevenfold’s Bat Country, a personal favorite band for me. I haven’t played this game in a while, but I’ve always been good at hand-eye coordination.

The notes start scrolling up the screen, instructing what color button to press. I’m a little rusty but immediately fall back in when I miss one. I can see him getting into it out of the corner of my eye. It’s a little distracting because it’s really fucking cute.

The music hits a slow part, giving me a chance to catch up just before it ends. His hands go into the air, his score higher than mine. “You will never beat me,” he chants, making it really hard not to laugh. This is the most laidback I’ve ever seen him.

“You’re a sore winner. Two out of three.”

He readies himself again as Lincoln Park’s Bleed It Out begins. The rhythm on this one I catch on to a lot faster, my fingers never missing the right button. I concentrate, hard, really wanting to cuddle. I think I deserve a cuddle session with all the messed-up shit I’ve had to deal with coming into this. When it ends, I mimic my player on the screen in a victory dance.

He’s not amused. “Sore loser too?”

“I don’t ever lose.”

“Score says something different. Take that.”

“All right. For round three we’re going in blind. Winner takes all.”

“Blind how?”

He turns me around to face the opposite direction and then matches me, our backs toward the TV. “You can’t see the notes. Just play and highest score wins.”

“Competitive much? This is a suicide mission.”

“Very. Ready?”

My fingers find the keys. “Yes.”

I know the guitar and the voice. “Metallica and Ozzy Osbourne — Paranoid. There is no way to master this without memorizing the whole damn game, so I just listen and do the best I can. I chance a glance at him and he has a slight smile on his face. I try harder, because who the hell knows if I’m even hitting the right buttons. I guess we’ll soon find out.