“I’ll make contact, but I can’t right now. Do me a favor and make yourself useful.” I want him out doing something, not sulking around here, nursing a grudge. “Book me a meeting with her for this weekend so she can deliver what I need.”
He glares and nods.
I steal a slice of cold pizza from Harley and chomp it down as I make sure Wyatt makes a note of it.
“All right, thanks,” I say, slapping his back. “Put some ice on that.” I signal to his nose.
“Fuck off.”
“Fine, Wyatt, have it your way.”
I slip on my gloves and head to the airport.
One flight later, just as the sun is about to start setting, I hop into the back of a cab while I stare unseeingly out at the street, wondering how my princess is. Suddenly I see an image of my mother being taken, Melanie’s face superimposed, and a new kind of rage simmers in me. I need to get back. I need to finish my marks and get back, soon. Derek is good—he can protect Melanie. But he’s not me. Now Wyatt is asking why the fuck I’m so wired—what her name is? Soon he’ll find out. They’ll all find out.
I pull out two of my phones, add her number to my newest prepaid device, and before I disable the old one, I text her, Got new number. Call you at 9.
Disabling the old phone, I text Derek a numerical code from the new one so that he knows it’s me and I have a new number. He answers with another number. Another code that says everything is good and Melanie is at work.
When the cab drops me off at my location, I ease out, pull the black hoodie over my head, keep my aviators hooked into my collar, and head into the office building. Harley and Wyatt are black-hat hackers. They’ve got me booked on my mark’s appointment list under one of his acquaintance’s names. The marks? They hate when you’re in their homes or their offices. They feel vulnerable and threatened that a man like you would steal into their space.
And that’s what you need to do: you need to make them feel unsafe. Like there’s nowhere to hide from you. No way to escape you because of the fucking money they owe.
I murmur my fake name to the receptionist, get a pass, and slip on my aviators as I head upstairs. I’m aware of the security cameras everywhere. I’m gloved, wearing new sneakers, clean clothes, my body scrubbed dry, my hair protected under my hood; no trace, I’m like a ghost. The key is to keep my head down so no camera can see my face.
Easing out of the elevator, I repeat the name to the tenth-floor secretary. By the time I enter my mark’s sumptuous office, he’s grinning behind the computer, thinking I’m a young college friend of his son who’s going to discuss internship.
He lifts his head and stands. “Daniel,” he explodes in glee, extending his arms.
My hand curls around my SIG. “Sorry, Daniel got caught up. Don’t even try it.” I’ve got my gun aimed straight at his skull. “Trust me, old man. You don’t want to die over this.”
His face paling somewhat, he slowly moves the hand he’d started to dip under the desk back to his side. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Sit down, relax,” I tell the man.
He sits down behind his desk, his back stiff as a board, and I sprawl comfortably before him on one of the two chairs facing him, my gun propped on my knee and aimed right at his heart.
“Who are you?” he asks in a combination of horror and dread.
“Nobody you should be concerned with. But this?” I pull out a copy of a paper with his signature on it and slide it across the desk surface. “This is why I’m here. It’s a paper my employers own. A paper where you promise them, and me, a lot of money. Two hundred grand to be exact. Today I’m collecting. You’ve had two months of warnings, so I hope you’re finally ready to pay.”
The guy goes mute.
He also doesn’t make any quick move to pay.
Sighing, I produce one of my video cameras. “Or I could also make this little movie public.” I pull the small chip out of a handy pen camera and play a video of him being royally blown by someone I know with certainty is not his young wife.
“You’re on your third marriage, correct? I believe this third wife wised up and had a prenup drawn too, didn’t she?”
The images keep playing to the man’s complete and utter horror.
He puts his hands on his head, groaning.
I quietly remove the card and toss it over the top of his desk. “Here. You can keep that. I’ve got my own copy.”
He pulls out his checkbook, writes the sum, and hands it over with a trembling hand. “You let someone else see that, and I’m ruined. Do you hear me? Ruined,” he whispers, sweat popping up on his brow.
I grab the check. “My interest isn’t in ruining you. We appreciate your business. But if anyone follows me out? Any word about you and me here? The video still goes live, check or no check.”
A morose silence follows me outside and to the elevator. They don’t get it. These rich men don’t get it. They think they’re untouchable, that they’ll be exempted because of their names. Of who they know.
They don’t get that the Underground wins. The Underground always wins.
♥ ♥ ♥
I CHECK INTO a cheap motel under another fake name. Tomorrow I take another flight, hit up another target, and then I’m almost done.
Shit, I’m exhausted. My muscles weary, my neck stiff. I drop my duffel next to the bed, shove my gun under my pillow, push my knives under the mattress, then I roll over to my back and exhale as I stare at the ceiling.
I think of the way she cooked for me.
The way she gave herself to me.
The way my body surged inside hers and she instinctively pushed back for more of me.
And then—the fucking way I felt when I had to leave, like I just got punched and my girl took the brunt of it.
My life has been the Underground. The Underground as a life and also as a means to find my mother. I’ve blended into it like black blends in the shadows. Nobody needs to tell me—me, king of the fucking Underground—that the Underground wasn’t made for lively little princesses. I. Fucking. KNOW.
Christ, but I want her with me.
I have lusted after this girl for months, but it’s not the lust that keeps me coming back. Somewhere in my gut I’ve always known that she was born for me. In some place, maybe long before I was born and long before I even killed, before my soul was dirty and broken, I was given this angel and I would bet everything I am on the fact that she was given to me so I could protect her. She was for me, and me for her. I’ve had no girlfriends in my life, not even an interest in any. Only fucks. Only whores. Only bar flings. Nothing that lasted over the few hours it took me to be done with them. As if a part of me knew and I was only biding my time for this one girl to look at me across the rain one day with those eyes—and that right then nothing else would matter even a fraction of what she matters.
It’s two minutes to nine and, though I like being exact, before I know it I’m grabbing my new phone and hitting her number. One ring, two, and she answers, breathless. My stomach rips open when I hear her voice.
“Hello?” she says.
“Don’t ever answer a call from an unknown number unless I warn you beforehand.”
I can hear the laughter in her voice, beneath the scowl, of course. “Then don’t call me from a strange number, you dick.”
I chuckle. “A change of device was in order.”
“Why? Don’t you have enough?”
I shut my eyes, relaxing my muscles for the first time in days. God, she’s special. Made specifically for me.
We’ve been raised differently but it doesn’t matter. She was taught to play games while I was taught to play with things.
And yet here we are. I’m obsessed with her and she sure as fuck isn’t too far behind. Now it’s up to me to take our relationship to the next level. It’s up to me to trust her enough and respect her enough to let her know that I’m not a normal man. Fuck. Me. Running.
You don’t really want to do that, King. Y
ou tell her the truth about you and it’ll be permanently OVER.
No. Hell, I won’t let it be over.
“So. Did you just call to hear me breathe?” she prods.
“No, that’s not all.” Last time I heard her voice, she cooked for me, and then she gave herself to me in a way she hasn’t been with another guy. She welcomed me home, ruffled my hair, smiled at me, wanted me, gave me stuff I never dreamed I wanted and I’m now fucking starved like a rabid dog for.
“You mad I haven’t called?” I ask huskily, dropping my voice in case I’m going to have to do some explaining.
“I hardly noticed!”
“So you are mad. Princess, I didn’t want to leave you, not like that.” I drop my voice as a shit ton of regret tightens my chest, and I stare out the dingy motel window and think of my new Seattle apartment. I want it bad. I want my bed with the thousand-dollar sheets and the million-dollar girl cuddled right beside me. “Baby, talk,” I hear myself plead.
“What for?”
“Just talk.” Exhaling, I press the receiver closer and cling to her voice. All the sunshine in it. The way it squeezes my heart, my gut, and my balls, all in one fell swoop. The way I need it to remind myself that what I did today was just a job. A role. An act. Not all of me. She’s the only one who gets to see all of me.
“I don’t know what to say,” she finally whispers. “I want to know why you left, how you are.” Her tone gentles in a way that sends all the yearning in me spiraling outward like a hurricane. I exhale through my nostrils, trying to keep the blood in my body out of my already straining cock.
“I had work to do, but I’m good now,” I explain. “Come on, princess, talk to me.”
“Okay then. I’m lying in bed in my panties and bra.”
My brain nearly explodes. Fuck me with that. My heart slams against my rib cage and my dick punches into my jeans. I instantly picture her: lying in bed, her hips hugged by those panties, eyes heavy lidded, and suddenly I’m in that bed, right with her, and I’m holding her braid to keep her still while I fuck her sweet, hot mouth with mine.
“Isn’t that why you called me? Aren’t you horny?” she asks when I don’t reply.
I throw my head back and roar with laughter. I’ve laughed more with her in months than I have on my own in years. “Princess, I’m horny with anything that has to do with you, but that’s not why I called.”
“Oh. Why then?”
I keep picturing her in that bed. Yeah. With me right next to her. “You wearing your braid yet?” I have to know. I still can’t figure out how she so easily grabs so many strands of hair and winds them all perfectly together, silken, gold and lovely when they fall in that braid against her slim white neck.
“Yes, I am.”
“You chewing your lip?”
She giggles softly. “Yes.”
I smile in wolfish delight. “I want to suck that lip, baby, but what I most want right now is to be there, kiss the shit out of you, and fuck you without a rubber. I’m going to get tested, so next time I fuck you, I’m not wearing one. Would you like that?”
“Yes, please. One Greyson without a rubber, and can you make that an express order?”
My chest floods with tenderness at how playful she is. “Yes, baby, I will, but I didn’t call to hear myself talk. I want to hear you. So talk to me, princess.”
“What about?”
“What else? About you, baby.”
“All right, so that girl who wanted my Mustang? She went up a thousand and I accepted.”
I groan and slam my palm to my forehead, then drag my hand roughly down my face. “Princess, I’m telling you . . . sell something else. Not your car. You need your car.”
“It’s all I have to sell, Grey.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yes, I’m sure. My car is all I have to sell.”
“The necklace I gave you, that’s not sellable?” I bluntly come out and say it.
“No.”
“No? Why not?”
“Because it’s all I fucking have of you!”
My heart thuds once at that admission, then keeps on thudding from the frustrating urge to assure her, in person, that’s not the case. “Nah, that’s not true.”
“It’s all I have, Greyson. I spend days alone and all I have to know you exist and remind me you’re going to call are these stones. They’re all I have of you.”
“You got me, princess. Jesus! Do you not see what you’re doing to me? You have all of me, Melanie. I’m states away and I feel like half a man, I feel like I’ll tear something apart if I don’t see you soon with my own two eyes . . .” I trail off.
What the fuck am I doing? Is this fucking Oprah here? I press my palm into my forehead and breathe. Shut the fuck up, you fucking pussy!
She softens her voice like she understands. “Greyson, when are you coming home?”
Home.
God, I love that she calls wherever we are together “home.”
“Not yet. I have work to do,” I whisper, rubbing the pang she just caused in my chest.
“But when are you coming back to me?”
Holy god, she’s going to be the end of me. “Soon, baby,” I concede. On your birthday. When I want no more bullshit between us, nothing between us. “I’m coming home soon and next time when I leave, I want to bring you with me,” I gruffly whisper. “Just answer me this. Are you my girl?”
“First tell me you’re my guy.”
She misses me.
It’s in her voice, in how she speaks to me.
“Yeah I am, which officially makes you my girl. And, Melanie?”
She’s quiet on the other end of the line, breathing hard.
I add, my voice low but uncompromising, “I’m going to eat YOU UP when I get in. As long as I have breath in me, you’re going to be my princess.”
“Okay, Grey. Then you’ll be my king,” she whispers.
Oh, yeah, she’ll definitely be the end of me. “I thought we said no majesty jokes.”
“It wasn’t a joke,” she counters. Then she adds, “Grey?”
“Yeah?”
“I knew you’d call. This is why I’ll never sell the necklace.”
“I’ll always call, necklace or no necklace. Let it go, baby, and I’ll give you something better.”
I hang up and try to get a grip on myself, but my blood runs hot from talking to her. I remember the first day I saw her screaming for Riptide in the Underground. She was bouncing up and down, clamoring for another man, and I just stood there feeling strangely assured, and a little voice in my head said, This one’s mine. I knew I’d been had in the same way I know when I’ve got my marks in my pocket and a debt slashed—I’d been had.
All of me, part of me, whatever piece of me she wants, she can have.
I’ve got it all perfectly planned.
Two more marks . . . aside from princess. I’ll retrieve the evidence for that second-to-last one in Denver, and I’ll take care of shit that night while the team makes sure the Underground fights are running smoothly. Then I fly to Seattle just in time for her birthday. I’ll surprise her. I’ll get to tell her that no, baby, I wasn’t spawned from the devil, and soon, you’ll actually get to meet my mother . . .
I groan as the first flicker of hope I’ve had in years takes root inside my gut, and I flip around in bed, trying to get some sleep even when I already know I won’t. Not until I know both my girls are safe and sound and with me.
EIGHTEEN
* * *
UNDERGROUND
Melanie
The Underground is exactly as I remember.
Crowded.
Noisy.
Stinky.
Nervous about encountering any mean men, but happy about Brooke expecting us, I tug Pandora toward our ringside seats, and that’s when I spot her.
My best friend. Dark hair in a ponytail, skinny jeans, spaghetti-strap top. She’s staring up at the ring as the two fighters work each other to the po
int of collapse.
“BROOKE!” I call as I start running over, and she leaps out of her seat.
She’s been my best friend since we were old enough to wear halves of a locket that said “Best Friends” and broke right in the middle. Naturally I still have my part in a little box under my bed, but Brooke’s part fell during a sprint and we never got it back. Which is fine, because our friendship itself has never broken. I’ve never fought, loved, or had as much fun with a girl as I’ve had with my best friend, so there’s naturally squealing involved when we hug today after months of separation.
After a tight squeeze, we both push each other back to make a thorough inspection. I want to make sure Mr. Riptide is taking care of my girl, but, holy shit, Brooke looks . . . there are no words for the shine in her eyes and in her hair and in her smile.
“Look at you!” I cry. Shit, of course he’s taking care of her, he freaking adores the Jesus out of her.
“No, look at you!” she counters as she hugs Pandora even though Pandora doesn’t like to hug as much as I do.
Pete comes and greets us as we settle in our seats. He starts chatting up Pandora about his romance with Brooke’s sister, Nora. I loathe Nora, so I’m glad the bitch is in college and away from here. Pete is so good for her, but I secretly hope he’ll fall for someone nicer and sweeter and smarter and break up with her for good. Nora used to be the girlfriend of one of the Underground’s grossest fighters, one with a scorpion tattooed on his big fat head—enough said.
I squeeze Brooke’s hand so that she updates me on everything possible. “How’s Racer? Am I going to get to see him tonight or is it going to be too late?” I demand.
“You can come over to our suite, of course! He’s so big, Mel. But tell me—” She stops talking and her eyes widen when we hear the word “RIPTIDEEEEEEE” shoot out from the speakers.
And the arena knows it’s that time. Riptide. Remington Tate. Brooke’s husband. God of sex—in case I haven’t mentioned him a little, let me just say I know for sure that every vagina in this arena is crushing over him.
The fights in the Underground are never as alive and intense as when he comes out—there’s just something about him. He puts it in the air, excitement, intensity, raw strength, and boyish playfulness.