Page 6 of Bad Men

I would pound the shit out of her tight, wet pussy until she was begging me not to stop. I would destroy her again and again until she was a sticky, sated mess across the sheets. Christ, the daydreams I’d had of her spread open under me were nearly my undoing every time I walked into that damn house and she opened the door. She’d look up at us with those big, dark eyes and soft pink cheeks, and it would take every ounce of my restraint not to scoop her up into my arms, march her to the nearest flat surface and make her mine. I knew she would let me. I knew she would open wide and let me sink home. I wasn’t a stupid man. I knew when a woman wanted me, and she wanted us both. I knew that with a certainty that killed me.

But that went against our rules. We didn’t bang the girls at our pickups. It was a conflict of interest. If we overlooked payments in exchange for sex, that money would have to come out of our pockets to make Eduardo happy. Otherwise, it would be our heads on the chopping block. Sure, we’d get a lot of pussy, but we liked money — and our heads — more.

“Not in the mood?” Across the table littered with beer glasses, cigarette butts and a discarded basket of cold chicken fingers, Nero met my gaze with a raised eyebrow.

I shook my head, slumping back in my seat. “It’s the first.”

No other explanation was necessary. Nero accepted my answer with a scoff and a slow rock of his head. He raised his half empty glass and took a greedy gulp I knew wouldn’t help his problem any more than it would help mine; alcohol only made the itch stronger. It fueled the fire in my belly, urging me to do something reckless and stupid, like go to Mia’s house, bang on the door and … and what? Toss her over my shoulder and run off? Take her wherever she was standing? Like I said, reckless and stupid. But Christ, I needed her.

“She’s killing me,” I breathed, scrubbing a hand over my face and back through my hair.

Nero sighed as if those three words had the weight of the whole world settling on his chest. “We need to do something about her.”

That had my eyebrow lifting. “You want to kill her?”

He barked a laugh. “Sometimes, I can’t help wondering if maybe that’s the only way we’re going to get any peace, but no.”

“Well...” I picked up my beer and took a long swig, emptying the glass before setting it down and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Either we kill her, or we get someone else to take our route.”

“We’re not killing her,” Nero muttered, amusement gone. “And I’m not giving her to some other asshole.”

I didn’t bother pointing out that she wasn’t ours to give to anyone. He was right. I had no intention of letting any of Eduardo’s other men near her.

“I guess those are our only options,” I replied, twisting in my seat to catch Mikey’s eye for another round, accepting that I was about to continue my unlucky streak of blissful numbness alone in my bed. “Unless you have a better idea. I’m willing to...” I froze, hand still in the air.

I blinked … several times, certain I had somehow hallucinated her into existence. That, somehow, the two beers I’d chugged down had conjured her face over someone else’s body. But the image of her sitting at the bar in that nearly transparent dress never wavered. It never faltered. It remained, solid and haunting bathed in the sickly yellow lights pooling around her. I had to be drunk. It had to be the beers. There was no other explanation why Mia would be in the shadiest bar in the city, why she would be sitting on a stool like some lost angel surrounded by monster and demons. I must have lost my fucking mind.

“Nero?” I waved in Nero’s general direction without taking my eyes off the brunette a stone’s throw away, terrified she might vanish if I so much as blinked. “Hey, do you see her?”

I didn’t have to look at Nero to hear the snarling curse or the shriek of his chair being shoved back. There was a yelp when it backed into a leather clad woman. A roar of outrage promptly followed when she toppled into a table, knocking drinks over. Neither me nor Nero bothered to check on the chaos we’d created, too focused on the sight before us.

“What the fuck is she doing here?”

So, I’m not seeing things, I thought a split second before the anger and panic set in. I heaved myself out of my seat, but Nero was already storming in her direction, long legs devouring the distance. I hurried after him. But we weren’t fast enough.

A man with muscles on his muscles slid into the stool next to her, his arm-width the size of her torso. I couldn’t hear what he said to her, but Mia turned her head to him and frowned. I could just make out the shadows pooling into the deep creases between her eyebrows. She replied something short and started to turn her head away, but the guy moved into her space. Whatever he said next whipped Mia’s head around, eyes blazing. Her hand flew out. The palm connected with a resounding crack across the guy’s face. The sharp snap halted several conversations close by, but no one bothered to intervene when Goliath heaved himself to his feet, Mia’s palm print an angry blossom blooming bright under his tanned complexion.

Mia never flinched. She remained in her seat, chin notched in defiance, eyes hot. It would have been sexy as fuck if the guy hadn’t started pulling his massive arm back in a return swing.

I reached them before Nero could, my own fingers curled into ten, white knuckles. I caught the offending arm prepared to strike Mia and wrenched. The momentum dragged the asshole to me and my waiting fist.

He ate all five fingers in a solid punch that took his feet out from under him. The full weight of his enormous body crashed back into the bar, knocking over stools as he went down in a heap of denim and confusion.

Nero grabbed Mia, pulling her off her seat and dragging her to safety a split second before Goliath rolled into it, sending it crashing sideways.

“Touch her and I’ll kill you,” I heard myself growl over the ruckus.

I wasn’t much of a fighter, much to my father’s chagrin; he dreamed of me becoming an MMA fighter like Muhammad Ali, Sugar Ray Robinson, and Joe Louis. He spent every waking hour dragging me to our community gym to train until my knuckles bled and my whole body ached. He loved it when I got into fights at school, loved hearing how I laid the other guy flat. His first question every time was, who won?

It was me.

It was always me.

It had to be.

Not because I’d been bigger and tougher but because I knew what would happen if I didn’t. I knew what would be waiting at home — my pop with his belt and another twelve hours of training the next morning. I learned quickly how to knock a guy out with only one hit.

Goliath wasn’t one of them.

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