Chad's Chase (Loving All Wrong Book 2) (40 page)

Chewing slowly, ears wide open, I waited for Sambo to tell me Chad didn’t die. That he and my brother walked out of that house alive. But when a full minute passed and the desired response didn’t come, I stuffed more food in my mouth and filled my mind with thoughts of baby turtles and samurais. Anything to stop myself from grieving.

I refused to grieve for either of them. They were both selfish, and never gave a damn about me.

When the food box was empty, and the baby turtles in my mind had defeated the samurais, I gave the empty box to Sambo and took the bottle of fruit juice he proffered. As I brought the bottle to my mouth and guzzled the juice down, I stared blatantly at Sambo, memorizing his features. He wasn’t bad-looking. But all those muscles he was packing made him a little too stone-faced. All kinds of unflattering veins bulging everywhere. He had that whole John Cena thing going on—giant dwarf.

Quite an oddity how someone could look like a big, bicep-bulging giant and a dwarf at the same time. Those grotesque muscles just truncated his arms and legs, making him appear stumpy, even though he was over six feet tall.

That was Sambo. His eyes were nice, though. A striking cerulean blue.

Quaffing all the fruit juice, I thrust the empty bottle back to him, then turned and resumed my position back at the window.

I heard him sigh, and the daybed shifted as he got up and thudded across the room.

“Where are we?” I asked.

Bags ruffled over by the dining table. “New Orleans.”

“Oh.” I’d never been to this place before. It was nice. “This is where you’re from?”

“Born and raised.”

Soon, he was beside me again, looking out the window with me. “Do you like it here?”

“The people here seem happy,” I noted.

“That’s because we’re just across from the French Quarter,” he said through a chuckle. He pointed. “That crowded street is Bourbon. There’s almost always some shit going on.”

“Is this where you’ll keep me?”

“Wherever in the world you want to live, that’s where we’ll go.”

Turning my head on my folded hands to look at him, I inquired, “How did you come by that kind of power?”

“Org.” He watched my expression for a second before continuing, “We made a deal. He’ll grant us anything we want as long as we avoid our previous life. A chance for you to live the life you’ve always wanted.”

This had me straightening up and facing him fully now. “Hang on, you double-crossed Org and he made a
deal
with you instead of killing you?”

I’ll never understand these people.

Was it just me or were all the acclaimed “baddest” and “most powerful” turning out to be a bunch of clit-less pussies?

Sambo kept his stare out the window, refusing to look at me. “There’s something you should know, Jhay.”

I remained quiet, waiting for him to bring me up to speed.

“Did Niiveux ever tell you about your mother? That she had an affair with the Pinnacle of The Organization long before she moved to Russia?”

“Yes. He did.”

“Well the Pinnacle is Org.”

What? “Oh. Wow.” I thought about this for a minute, then asked, “Why would Chad hide something so simple from me?”

Sambo looked at me now. “Maybe because he didn’t want you to put the pieces together.”

I stared at him. Blank. “What pieces?”

“Think, Jhay,” he said in a tone that made me feel like a loghead. “Why would the Pinnacle of The Organization, the man
your mother
used to have
an affair
with, be so keen on protecting you and offering you the world?”

Connecting the dots, it took a few minutes before the shit finally slapped into my brain. “You’re screwing with me, right?”

He shook his head no, eyes on me, taking in my reaction.

Leaping up off the daybed, I backed away from him. “No. This is a lie. Michael Byrd is my father. Not
that
man.”

Sambo turned on the bed to face me. “This will take some time for you to accept. But it’s the truth. Org is your real father.”

This was what Chad was forbidden to tell me? This information, he was threatened with death if he spilled it? I didn’t understand. Why would my real father
not
want me to know he was my real father? Who does that? Who finds their long-lost daughter after a dozen years then chooses to keep his identity hidden?

Okay. This was just too much. I was done.

“Next time you speak to him,” I gritted out, pointing a finger at Sambo, “you let him know he’s a piece of shit and I will never accept him as my father. I know only one father, and that’s
Michael
.
Byrd
.”

Sambo nodded, as though he understood.

I began shedding my clothes in front of him. “You wanted me,”—off went my top—“you fought for me,”—then the bra— “you won me”—right boot—“so I’m yours.”—left boot—“I won’t fuck you yet because I’m not attracted to you in any way, shape, or form, and I was only straight for Chad.”—Jeans button popped, zipper down—“You’ll have to work on making me attracted.”—Jeans off—“
But
I will let you eat my pussy whenever I’m horny.”—Panties off—“And I get horny quite often.”

Sambo swallowed.

“Now, where’s the bathroom?”

I was tired of New Orleans after a fortnight.

The liveliness outside the court gates that I’d yearned for on the first day was now gratingly annoying.

After a week of Sambo familiarizing me with the place, doing fun stuff like ride in carriages, the trains, visiting museums, shopping, and eating really damn good food at really damn good restaurants, I became surfeited. I felt suffocated. But I knew it wasn’t the place.

It was me.

All those activities were decidedly fun, but Sambo wasn’t the one I wanted to be doing them with. I wanted Chad. I missed him. I missed our fucked up relationship, our fights, our abuses, our threats. I missed missing him while with him. I missed him hating me. I missed having his big, steel-hard cock pushing inside me.

I was forcing contentment, to deter myself from breaking down and start shooting random people—my way of mourning his death.

How normal was it that I hadn’t shed a single tear, knowing the only human being, aside from my father, who I’d ever
really
loved was dead? And what did it say about me, that I hadn’t mourned my brother either, my own flesh and blood, and the fact that I was more upset about Chad’s death than his?

My reactions to certain situations sometimes made me believe that somewhere along the line, from being abused to my first kill, I’d lost my heart. And there was nothing but a bottomless black hole in my chest, sucking away every bit of humanity in me.

But my non-existent heart, the black hole, loved him. Loved him too much. And I knew sooner or later, if I didn’t allow myself to mourn him, I would snap, and innocent people would get hurt.

As for Sambo, I still haven’t screwed him. Nor was I any more attracted to him than I was two weeks ago. His hands were too big and callused, and disgustingly clammy all the time. He reminded me why I hated men.

I let him eat me once, but was pretty indifferent to his performance, so that was that. No more.

I tried not to be a bitch. Sambo was a nice guy. So obsessed with me that if I simply said “jump”, he’d ask “how high?”.

I had no idea
why
or
when
he’d decided he was “in love” with me. The man didn’t even know me, yet he risked his life double-crossing two powerful opponents just to win me.

Hell, there were some serious mental cases in this world, boy.

Sambo was browsing a real estate website, viewing homes for sale and asking my opinion while sucking down a cup of coffee, when I blurted, “I don’t want to live in New Orleans anymore.”

The big hunk of a man paused, glanced over at me, brows pulling down. He seemed crestfallen, but instead of coaxing me out of my reasonless decision, he asked, “Where then?”

With a sip of my coffee, I shrugged. “Barbados?”

A slight raise of his brow now. “You ever been to Barbados?”

“No.”

“You ever seen pictures or videos of Barbados?”

“No.”

“So what makes you think you’ll like it there?”

“Because the name sounds nice,” I replied easily, fucking with him.

Cerulean blue eyes narrowed in on me, skeptic. Scooping up his cellphone from the table, he stood and walked off to his bedroom, dropping an “Imma call Org and let him know”.

Long after my coffee cup was empty, Sambo was still rumbling on the phone. I got up and barged into his room, and he stopped talking the minute I entered.

“I need to talk to him,” I said, holding my hand out for the phone.

He held the phone to his beefy chest, disinclined. “Why?”

“He’s my
father
, isn’t he?”

Begrudgingly, Sambo slowly handed me the phone.

I put the cell to my ear, but said nothing. Heavy, controlled breathing streamed down the line.

“Jhay—”

“Why is there nothing on the news about them?” I asked. “Did you steal their bodies and cremate them like they never existed?”

A full minute of silence burned before he answered, “That is a private matter of The Organization.”

“Fuck your organization,” I rejoined. “Those two were all I had left. I deserve to know.”

Fifteen seconds of breathing down the line, then, “Yes. I took care of them.”

No one would miss Ricardo, because for everyone who knew him, he died twelve years ago. But Chad, he had friends and family who cared about him. He had establishments to run, an active life in San Francisco. His sudden disappearance off the face of the earth would raise questions soon. Make headlines. Because, aside from a soulless killer, Chadrick Niiveux was
somebody
.

“He deserves a funeral,” I snarled. “His friends and family need to know he’s dead so they can mourn him.”

“I believe this is how Shadreek would have preferred things.”

“Don’t talk like you know him. You don’t!”

“And you do?”

I kept quiet. I thought I’d known him, but apparently I hadn’t. I hadn’t known he was a coward who would just give his life up without a fight. I hadn’t anticipated him just handing me over to someone else like an out-of-season toy. Kill me? Yeah, that wouldn’t have been a surprise. But not this shit with Sambo.

It’s me or no one
. What an empty threat that had been.

“Sambo tells me you want to move to Barbados?” Org said, taking advantage of my silence to change the subject.

“The circumstances might be different from when Rafail did it,” I said, ignoring his question, “but this is still imprisonment.”

For a man who was supposed to be my father, his voice was so cold and removed, doing nothing to make me want to know him. “But I was told you two are getting along well. Is this not so?”

“I’m simply making lemonade with my lemons.”

He sighed down the line like I was some whiny brat he was annoyed with. “You know you have a choice, Jhay. You could kill Sambo and take your freedom then spend the rest of your life running from Rafail. But know this, I will cease protecting you from him. You are safe from Rafail with Sambo. Away from him, you are on your own.”

“What kind of asshole father are you?” I hoarsely said down the line, tears springing to my eyes for the first time in over a month. “You’re no better than Rafail, you callous jerk.”

Cool and untroubled, he returned, “You said you would never accept me as your father, did you not?”

I didn’t reply. That message I had Sambo deliver to him was biting me in the ass now.

“Michael Byrd is dead and powerless. I am alive and supremely powerful. But you choose to love and recognize only him. The helpless dead.” A painfully long pause. “Give me one reason to care and I will.”

Was that hurt I detected? He took my words to heart and was punishing me? What the hell had he expected me to do? Jump up and down with glee that my whole life had been a lie? That the man I’d known and cherished as my father really wasn’t? That my mother was a deceitful slutwhore? That I was a product of lies and infidelities? That I wasn’t fully American but part-Russian? That my real father was a rotten rich, omnipotent, master murderer?

Screw him. If he wanted me to live a normal life and under his command, then I would choose to be a carping brat that he’ll never, ever be able to please. Draining him dry.

“Yes, I want to live in Barbados,” I said, answering his previous question. “In the wealthiest neighborhood, and in the biggest house on the island.
Father
.”