The Night Horde SoCal: Fire And Dark Part 2

CHAPTER THREE.

Pilar was standing in front of him with her t-s.h.i.+rt wadded in her hand, wearing a little blue sport bra that wasn't much in the s.e.xy lingerie department but was stellar in the tiny s.h.i.+rt department. But that hardly mattered, because Connor's entire attention was locked on her belly. Jesus f.u.c.king Christ. She had as much definition as he did.

No-she had more. He had bulk and breadth, but she was lean, and every f.u.c.king muscle in her body looked like it had been etched into her bronze skin with a laser. He'd never seen anything like it, not in person where he could touch.

Which he did now, laying his hand over the sharp planes of her belly. "Do you compete?"

Her abs flexed when she chuckled. "No. But I work out."

"f.u.c.k yeah, you do." He smoothed his thumb over one of the cans of her six pack. d.a.m.n.

But she surprised him, knocking his hand away and then hitting him in the chest again. "You don't need to do your seduction act on me. I'm just looking for a good, sweaty f.u.c.k."

The hitting him thing was getting old fast. Connor was hot as h.e.l.l for this chick, no mistake. But wild, rough ruts weren't his thing, not with chicks he didn't know. The downside was way too f.u.c.king steep. When he wanted or needed to be rough, he went for club p.u.s.s.y. They'd been around, they knew the score, and they wouldn't scream a.s.sault if they came up with a bruise or a bite mark.

What she'd called his 'seduction act'-that was his thing for a random hookup. It was why he liked young girls. He liked to do a little sweet talk, get a chick all dewy-eyed, offer her a ride on his Night Train, then take her back to the clubhouse and broaden her horizons a little. He also knew which girls were prime to be swept off their feet for a night but not want more than that one night. The princesses looking for a walk on the wild side-or what they thought of as the wild side-and then wanted to get back to the car their daddy had bought them and drive home to their safe little suburban life.

Every now and then, one would simper a little, making noise like she wasn't done with him. But he hadn't met a pretty young thing yet who still wanted to see more of him after he'd walked her through the clubhouse on a weekend morning, with its inevitable array of pa.s.sed-out, naked bodies. Not to mention the stench.

This girl, though, this woman, wasn't remotely like his usual game. She was coming at him hard, and all Connor's warning bells were going of like the f.u.c.king apocalypse had arrived. It was one thing to go for a quick rut against the wall back here. But she was asking him to fight her? What did that even mean?

At his hesitation, she scoffed and turned away. "f.u.c.k it. Never mind."

Her hair swung as she turned, a fantastic ma.s.s of dark, loose, wild waves that cascaded halfway down her back. His hands itched to be buried in that hair, to grab hold of it.

And then he did exactly that. He reached out and took a fistful of her hair, dragging her back until she collided with his chest. She was chick-size, neither tall nor short. He was six-two, and she came up to, say, his chin or so. His body reacted strongly to the contact, his already-hard c.o.c.k swelling painfully. Before he knew he would do it, he'd thrust his hips against her.

She didn't react almost at all to his force, but when he leaned down to put his mouth to her ear, he saw that she was smiling. "I'm not gonna knock you around, puss. But I'll give it to you hard, if that's what you want." He bit down on her shoulder-not hard enough to mark her, but hard enough to let her know what he meant. She had elaborate ink across the back of her shoulders, one side to the other, done in oranges and reds: some kind of flowers that looked like they were on fire. "Is that what you want?"

Reaching her arm up to hook over his head, she dug her nails into the back of his neck. "Bring it," she said quietly, her voice more growl than whisper.

Jesus. What the h.e.l.l was he getting himself into?

It didn't matter. With one hand, he yanked up her bra and took hold of a tight knot of nipple, and he shoved the other into her jeans. She was shaved or waxed or whatever, her skin silky smooth and so f.u.c.king firm. He had never had a body like this in his hands before.

Her hands dropped and went to her fly. She tore it open, easing his access, and then reached behind her to grab his c.o.c.k over his jeans, squeezing him hard. He grunted and pushed his fingers inside her, then turned them both and shoved her against the stack of beer cases.

The bottles rattled ominously as they crashed into them. Connor didn't want to create a chaotic mess back here and have Troy up his a.s.s, so he looked around. Finding a likely spot, he yanked her jeans and underwear down to her knees and picked her up. Finally, he'd surprised her. She gasped and went stiff.

He carried her to the row of deep freezes and dropped her down on the one at the end. She smiled and started to turn to her belly, moving to slide her legs off the end, but he grabbed her bare hip and forced her back to her side. Keeping his hand there to hold her still, he dug a condom out of his kutte, opened his jeans, and got the f.u.c.ker on.

Then he wrapped an arm around both of her legs, holding them tightly together. Keeping her on her side, he yanked her a.s.s to the very edge of the freezer top and pushed sideways into her eager, bare p.u.s.s.y.

Her back arched sharply as he got deep. "Oh, holy s.h.i.+t! Oh G.o.d, yeah! Bring it hard. C'mon!"

He laughed and shook his head-she was something else. "Okay, baby. Okay." With one arm locked around her knees and the other hand grasping her shoulder, he went hard, pounding into her without preamble, his hips rocking so hard that the freezer shook, one side coming off the ground with every forward thrust.

She was keeping up a constant litany through clenched teeth: "f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k," over and over, her voice that same breathy growl. She began to push her body toward his, meeting his thrusts in counterpoint. Then she put her hand between her legs and went for her c.l.i.t with fervor.

"f.u.c.k, yeah," she gritted. "Come on, come on. I need it harder."

Holy h.e.l.l. Before Connor could figure out how to give her more, the storeroom door opened, and he stilled his hips and turned to see. A bar-back, just a kid, stood there staring at them with his pimply face totally slack and his mouth gaping wide.

Pilar surged toward Connor. "Don't f.u.c.king stop!"

Hardly unused to f.u.c.king in public, he returned his attention to the very demanding woman on his c.o.c.k.

A hesitant, young voice squeaked, "I...I...um...need napkins."

"Then f.u.c.king get 'em!" Pilar shouted through her labored breath. "Then get the f.u.c.k out, perv!"

No one had ever retrieved a box of napkins more quickly.

The interruption had not quelled Pilar's driving demand or Connor's enthusiasm for it. He could feel his finish gathering in his b.a.l.l.s, and she was still chanting, "More, more, more." So he threw her legs over one shoulder and leaned over her, pus.h.i.+ng his arms under her and hooking his hands over her shoulders. With her bound up tightly and pushed firmly against him, he pistoned into her as hard and fast as he physically could.

"f.u.c.k yeah!" she yelled. She grabbed her t.i.ts and twisted her nipples sharply, and then, thank all the saints, she was coming. He could feel it; her body clamped down all around him, the muscles around his c.o.c.k, against his chest, under his hands, all of them tensing to marble rigidity. Her face went dark. With all of the talking and yelling she'd been doing, he'd expected fireworks for her big finish, but she was still and silent, as completely clenched as he'd ever seen.

When she finally relaxed, all at once, he stopped holding himself off. Keeping up the same frenetic pace, he went at her until that perfect moment of beautiful, empty-headed ecstasy took him over.

f.u.c.k, that was hot.

When he could pay attention again, he looked down at her. She was completely relaxed and smiling. Her wild hair was spread out around her head like a halo. She had amazing eyes, a brown so light they were almost gold, rimmed with chocolate. Her lashes were thick, dark, and long-naturally or from makeup, he didn't know, but they framed those flas.h.i.+ng gold lights and made her look hardly real. If she had been lying anywhere but on the metal lid of a freezer in a bar's storeroom with her clothes bunched and twisted around her, she might have looked like a mystical creature.

But they were here, in the real world.

"That what you wanted?"

She laughed and stretched, that beautiful, sinewy body writhing, and his exhausted c.o.c.k twitched inside her at the sight. "It'll definitely do."

With a pat to her tight little a.s.s, he pulled out and set her legs down. She sat up, and he pulled off the condom.

As he tied it off, she said, "You're not cut."

"Hmm?" He looked up, not sure what she meant. As an answer she nodded at his uncirc.u.mcised c.o.c.k. Ah. "No. That a problem?"

"Not at all. It's a great c.o.c.k." She grinned and jumped off the freezer to pull up her jeans. "Really great. I just don't see a lot natural c.o.c.ks in American men your age."

There were a lot of questions to be asked about that statement, but Birthday Barbie's nasty little Grandpa comment kicked him in the head first. Christ, he was having a tough time with chicks tonight. "My age?"

"Our age. You're in your, what, early-mid thirties?"

"Thirty-six." That was feeling older tonight than it usually did.

But she pointed her thumb at her chest. "Thirty. Our age. The whole circ.u.mcision controversy didn't really take off until the turn of the century, so it's mostly twenty-somethings who aren't cut."

Connor was d.a.m.n sure circ.u.mcision had never in his life been a topic for post-coital chat. But with this chick, it seemed totally reasonable. "You see a lot of twenty-something d.i.c.k?"

She pulled her t-s.h.i.+rt over her head. "You see a lot of twenty-something p.u.s.s.y?"

He laughed-a real laugh, from his gut. It felt good. This chick, man. This chick. "Touche."

She was grinning up at him, those golden eyes flas.h.i.+ng, her hands on her hips, and he just acted without thinking. He slid a hand around her neck, into her hair, and bent down to kiss her. Not a s.e.x kiss. Just a kiss. Gentle. When he swept his tongue lightly over her lips, she flinched backward a little.

"What was that for?"

He lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. "Just wanted to do it."

"You don't have to let me down easy, you know. I'm done here."

He grinned. "Good. So'm I."

"Okay."

"Okay." He nodded at the door. "We should get out of here."

She gave him a quick look that was searching, a little suspicious. And then she nodded and headed for the door. He followed her out.

Once on the floor, she drew up short. "f.u.c.k." Her table was occupied by strangers. She'd been left behind.

"You got abandoned?"

"Yeah," she sighed. "How long were we back there?"

Connor didn't wear a watch, so he pulled his phone out to check the time. "Half an hour?" That was his best guess, and once it sank in, he looked down at her and wiggled his eyebrows.

Her eyes widened. "Really? So much for a quick f.u.c.k."

"What can I say? Stamina, baby."

She tossed her head back and gave that raunchy laugh that had first caught his ear.

The sway of her hair drew his attention again, and he reached out and let a lock curl around his finger. "You need a ride somewhere?"

"No. I'm my own ride." She nodded at his table, where his brothers were still drinking. "I see your friends are better than mine."

"Never leave a man behind. You're welcome to come over and drink with us."

"Thanks, but no. I'll head out." She turned and held her hand out to him, which was weird. "Anyway, thanks. I'll see ya."

"Don't thank me. That's f.u.c.ked up." He pushed her hand away and slid his arm around her waist. "I'll walk you out."

With a firm hand on his chest, she held him off and stepped back. "No. I'm good. Have a good night, Connor."

He let her go.

When he got back to the table, Trick lifted his eyebrow at him. "I can't tell whether you just had an epically hot f.u.c.k or an ice-cold rejection."

Connor sat down and poured himself a beer from the fresh pitcher on the table. "Both, I think."

When he put the gla.s.s to his lips, he could smell her on his hand.

Sherlock moved his finger around on his tablet, and an image went up on the back wall of the Keep: a photograph of a man in a suit, grey hair, slightly balding. Fairly average in just about every way.

"Allen Cartwright," Hoosier said. "L.A. County District Attorney. La Zorra wants him dead, and she wants us to do it."

The men in the room who had not been privy to that information already all reacted in some way-not strongly, though. No one was exactly shocked. Almost every man in the room had killed at least once. But there was surprise, and they all looked at each other or directly at Hoosier. They were not contract a.s.sa.s.sins, as a rule.

"Why?" Fargo hadn't had a seat at the table for very long, but he'd been vocal from his first meeting. He didn't stir s.h.i.+t, but he was curious and careful, and he asked deep, layered questions. He'd been a sharp Prospect with enough initiative to get his work done and enough savvy to know when not to use his initiative. He had Connor's attention-he was a smart kid.

But Connor knew Hoosier wasn't going to answer his question. They didn't have a clear answer to give. "Personal. She wasn't forthcoming with more than that. We can check into it ourselves, but there's risk there, too. So we'll have to decide whether we care if we know why."

Connor didn't particularly, but he knew some of his brothers, like Trick, for instance, would struggle with killing a man without some sense that there was a valid reason.

But Trick didn't push that point right away. Instead, he asked, "Why us?"

"Distance," Bart answered. "We're not on his radar. Our routes don't cross into his territory, and we've got no beef with him. We haven't drawn heat for our a.s.sociation with the guilas cartel yet. Since we shut down the Dirty Rats out here, our work has been nothing but smooth and quiet. f.u.c.k, we're just peaceable, law-abiding citizens, except for what's in the trucks we ride with. Dora thinks that makes us perfect for this job."

Muse leaned in, and the projected image moved over his face a little. "And what do we think? This isn't the kind of guy we can yank off the street and no one will notice."

Like Connor, Muse was an enforcer. They had four enforcers, including Diaz and Demon as well. Back in the day, they'd needed that much muscle, and they might need that much again in the future. Muse and Diaz were their finesse guys, and Connor knew that they were expecting this job to land at their feet. He didn't think that was the right play, though. He'd talked to his father and Bart, and they agreed.

So he spoke up. "No. We can't grab this guy. This needs to be a straight-up hit." He turned to Trick. "Sniper, if we can make it happen."

Trick sat back with a quiet whistle. "I'm rusty, man. I don't know." Trick had been an Army sniper and had done tours in the Middle East, until he'd been kicked home on a general discharge for beating the s.h.i.+t out of his commanding officer. Connor knew the story and knew that it was true, but the Trick he knew was a quiet, mellow guy. He also knew that beating your CO into a hospital bed and coming out with nothing worse than a general meant that the CO had f.u.c.king deserved it-and he had.

"Wait," J.R. cut in. "So we're doing this? Is this going to a vote, or are we so bent over to La Zorra that we don't have a choice?"

"We're voting it. Not today. I want everybody to have a handle on the job first," Hoosier answered. "She asked, she didn't tell. But let's be clear. We say no, she won't be pleased. We need a good reason."

"I f.u.c.king hate being on a b.i.t.c.h's leash," J.R. groused. It had been adjustment for most of them to deal with a woman with that kind of ferocious power. J.R. was the last one still b.i.t.c.hing about it, though.

Ignoring him, Trick asked, "What's the upside? This a paying job or just a favor?"

"A job. Upside is a cool mil."

That shut even J.R. up-except for one word: "f.u.c.k."

Hoosier nodded. "Dora Vega pays for what she values." He gestured at Sherlock. "Sherlock has some more pictures to show us. What I want to do the rest of this meeting is figure out if we have a way to get this job done. If we have a way, then we can decide if we have the will."