Havok: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (3 page)

O
utside in the back alley
, the night air blows cold and I pull my hood on, shivering. My flats pad against the cracked, dirty asphalt. This is the worst part of the walk home, and the hair on the back of my neck bristles as I walk past the deep alcoves and side paths cut into this stretch of the backroad. It would be so simple for someone to jump out, grab me, and drag me down into the belly of West Ark, never to be heard from again. Especially with me all mellowed out on painkillers.

I replay the encounter with Havok over and over again in my mind. He probably thinks I'm such a creep now. A creep who doesn't get the message that he's not interested.

Not like it matters anyway. It's all a stupid fantasy, something I've invented to escape the reality of my insane, abusive, drugged-up life.

But God, part of me wants so badly for Havok to come out of that door behind me, grab my hand, and lead me away from my old life forever. I want his touch, his protection, his body. He could give me the courage I need to leave Brock and turn everything around.

I still feel wetness between my legs. If Brock's waiting for me at home, he'll probably want to fuck tonight. My lip curls at the thought. I'll give it up to him because I have to, but I won't like it.

Right as I'm exiting the alley and stepping onto the safety of the well-lit Grant Road sidewalk leading back to my apartment, a voice behind me makes me jump.

"Penny!"

For a split second, I imagine that it could be Havok. But it's not—it's a woman's voice. I whirl around and see that it's Mackenzie. Her heels clack and echo through the alley as she walks briskly toward me.

Jesus. My heart pounds, and I try not to show my annoyance with her for sneaking up on me like that. Her hair's pulled up into a sloppy bun, like she rushed to leave work tonight to catch up with me.

"Penny," she says, puffing a little bit. "Hold up. I need to ask you something."

"What's up?" I say, shifting my purse to the other shoulder. I'm exhausted and a bit spooked.

She brushes stray blonde hairs out of her eyes and tucks them behind her ear. She always looks so damn good in any lighting. I'm jealous. I wonder if my life would be different if I had her looks.

"Girl," she says, "Me and Violet have been trying to get ahold of Marcy and Jen."

"Marcy and Jen?" I say. "Those dancers who worked for like… a month?"

"Yeah."

"Ah." I'd completely forgotten about those girls, to be honest. They came and went so fast. Like so many girls in this lifestyle.

"Their numbers are disconnected," says Mackenzie. "So I stopped by their apartment. A Mexican family lives there now."

"Okay," I say slowly. "So they moved. Got new phones. Who cares?"

Mackenzie knits her brow and looks worried. And that's what she is, a worrywart. I love her to death, but she's always thinking up worst-case scenarios, and after a while it gets really old. I already see where she's going with this.

"I asked around. No one knows where they went, Penny. No one's heard anything. And it's the same story with that other redhead chick, Meg."

I frown. "Girls come and go in this line of business. You know that."

"But they're totally gone. Like they dropped off the face of the Earth." She's starting to kill my buzz, and her anxiety is rubbing off on me, even though she's being ridiculous. I'm getting annoyed. I start idly groping around in my purse, and then my fingers close around my pill bottle. I instantly feel a rush of calm.

I can deal with this. As long as I can dose afterwards.

"Alright," I say, calming myself, pushing my annoyance to the side. "So what do you wanna do about it?"

"I don't know."

I smile at her, trying to look reassuring, and put a hand on her arm. "Come on, Kenzie. You're just being silly."

"Yeah," she says, nervously shifting her weight. "You're probably right."

"Walk with me," I say. Mackenzie lives catty corner from me, in an apartment building that's managed by the same company.

I change the topic, and we turn the corner onto Country Club road. We walk side-by-side through the concrete jungle, passing by cheap Chinese joints with barred windows, psychic reading joints, and a tattoo parlor hoping to get a couple more drunk customers before the night ends.

Sometimes I imagine mustering the courage to move my stuff across the street to Mackenzie's apartment while Brock's passed out in a drunken stupor. It wouldn't be hard, and I know Mackenzie would let me stay with her. But then fear prevents me from following through. Brock would find me at work and cajole me into coming back, and I'd succumb to it because I'm a coward who craves the comfort of the familiar, no matter how bad it is.

When we're about halfway to our apartments, I sense that someone's following us. I look over my shoulder, trying to peek through my hair without being obvious.

What I see sends a jolt of dread through my stomach. It's not just some random person. It's worse than that. It's Brock, and he's carrying a brown paper bag with the lip of a glass bottle protruding from it.

I freeze, and Mackenzie stops short, twisting around to see what's spooked me. I know in my gut that Brock recognized me, and there's no sense in trying to slip away. The consequences wouldn't be worth it.

"Brock," I say nervously. "What are you doing?"

His face is red, his eyes glassy. He's obviously several drinks deep as usual. His hair is stringy and unwashed, his sweatpants stretching to accommodate the girth of his stomach. He's overweight, but in the dangerous way, where he can throw his weight around and do some real damage.

"Hey, doll," he says, slurring his words, and coming closer. "Fuck you doing? Supposed to be at work, you little liar." He sways around, clasping the bottle against his side.

He's always accusing me of cheating and sneaking around behind his back, although the truth is that I've never touched another man while I've been with him. No matter how much he's abused me. I think he's projecting his own guilt onto me. And in fact, I'd like to know what
he's
doing out here at this time of night. But no way would I ever dare ask.

"Who's this little slut?" he says, locking his beady eyes onto Mackenzie. She crosses her arms over her chest, obviously uncomfortable.

I try to mask the look of disgust on my face. Brock really hates when I show any emotion other than happiness.

"Kenzie," I say, turning to her, "Catch you this Saturday." She nods, silently thanking me for freeing her. There'll probably be hell to pay for that, if Brock is sober enough to remember later. He doesn't like me doing anything he didn't specifically order me to do.

Mackenzie does an about face and walks the other direction. I bet she's circling the block before heading home, just to steer clear of Brock. And honestly, I don't blame her.

Brock steps forward and grabs my arm. "Get your fuckin' ass going," he says.

A
fter the meeting
, the boys down shots of vodka together. I toast with apple juice. I don't drink or ingest any chemical substances when I can help it. Not after seeing what drink and drugs did to my father. The boys fucking rag on me for being a pussy, but frankly I don't give a shit. Every group of drinkers needs someone sober to do the fast thinking, and I'd rather it be me than any of them.

We wrap up, and I leave the White Bear, stepping back into the bowels of West Ark.

The temperature has dropped even further, and the frigid night air stings my face. The nightlife has nearly ceased. Even the bars are closed at this hour. The few drunk and stumbling people on the sidewalks are wrapped up in heavy coats and scarves. Me, I leave my face bare, welcoming the air's bite. It reminds me of back home in Moscow.

Yes, back then. Back when I still contained normal human emotions. Before they were all bled out of me by Bratva trainers dunking my head into buckets of ice water over and over. By endless hours of kneeling on glass shards, building me up, sculpting me into a brutal killing machine.

I struggle to free my hands from their bonds, and the rope burns my skin, rubbing it raw. The masked man drives the tip of the steel blade into my father's throat. A choked cry escapes from my chest, flying up and away into the night like a bird of paradise. Tears fall from my eyes, dripping into the dirty snow beneath me.

"This will teach you, you worthless addict," he says to my father's corpse.

That was the last time I ever cried.

I turn the corner onto Grant Road. I'm headed to my car, parked in a garage down the street from the club. It's a Tesla X, a personal gift given to me by a client just a few months back. A thank-you gift for mincing the target in an industrial grinder. Yeah, I have to admit, I deserved a tip for that one. It wasn't easy to set that up.

The car drives great. Electric, I found out, so it's good for the environment. Not that I really give a shit about trees and squirrels.

When I'm about to enter the concrete skeleton of the parking garage, I hear a faint scuffle, and what sounds like a woman's voice. It's coming from an alley halfway down the street.

If there's one thing I can't fucking stand, it's the sound of a woman in distress. So I shove my car keys back in my jacket pocket and walk toward the alley to investigate.

When I see the scene, a furious rage flares up inside me. It's Penny, and some fat motherfucker is forcefully pulling her along by her arm. My lip twitches, and my feet move automatically under me, carrying me toward the danger. I feel some deep, urgent, and primal need to protect this girl. And that's exactly what I'm about to fucking do.

As I near them, I catch bits and pieces of the man's shouting. "Fucking slut… you little bitch!"

My body practically convulses. I hate when men bully women.

"Oi," I bellow. The deep resonance of my voice cascades through the alleyway like a mortar shell, and both the man and Penny whirl around. The man is dressed sloppily, like a fucking lowlife.

Without a second of hesitation, I close the gap between me and the man. I grab his coat lapels in my fists and slam his pig-like body against the nearest wall. He wheezes as the impact knocks the breath out of him, and the back of his skull cracks hard against the red brick. I crush my forearm against his neck, pinning him to the wall. He sputters as he attempts to form words, but he can't. He's probably six feet, but I tower over him. Like most assholes, he's never tried picking on someone his own size.

"Penny," I say, turning my head to face her. "You alright?" Her beautiful auburn hair is pulled to the side, framing her delicate features, her pouty lips, her gently upturned nose. Just the sight of her drives me fucking crazy. Those lips should be around my cock right now.

She nods, looking scared. I'm expecting relief on her face. But her next words catch me completely off guard.

"Please let him go," she says, looking down at her feet.

"What?" I say.

"Please let my boyfriend go."

She's getting fucked by this degenerate? This is her man?

I try to calm my bitter thoughts. She's just a dancer, I tell myself. A girl I'm paid to protect at the club, and nothing more. But I haven't been able to get her off my mind all night, and these words are a slap in the face. It fucking enrages me to know that another man is touching her.

And of all people, it's this fuckface.

Beneath my coat, I feel the cool touch of my silenced pistol against my side. It'd be so easy to put a slug inside this scumbag's brain. With the way this piece of shit treats Penny, I'd be doing them both a favor. Putting him out of his misery, and setting her free.

For a brief moment, I seriously consider it. But I can't fucking make myself do it. The best thing I can do for Penny is stay far away from her. So instead of murdering him, I take my weight off him.

"Who in the fuck are—"

"Shut up," I bark, pressing my forehead against his, barely maintaining control. I slam his head backward with mine, and it makes another sick cracking sound against the brick. "Shut your fucking dog mouth."

Penny tugs at my sleeve. "Please."

I ignore her. "Listen carefully," I say to the man, baring my teeth. I can practically smell the fear coming off him, as he stands backed up against the wall like a trembling little boy. God, his cowardice is disgusting. "I ever hear about you putting your hands on her, I will find you and I
will
kill you."

"Vlad!" exclaims Penny. She grabs the man's hand. "Come on, Brock," she says, still staring at the ground. "Let's go."

He snakes out from his position between me and the wall, and I watch them leave.

They hurry down the alleyway, away from me. I watch them go, and right before they disappear around the corner, Penny glances over her shoulder. Her expression is a mix of fright and desire.

For some reason I can't fucking explain, it makes me want to cup her cheeks in my hands and make everything okay for her.

F
or the next month
, I avoid Havok at work. That night in the alleyway was so humiliating. I must've looked like such a weak and helpless little girl, getting dragged around and manhandled like that.

From childhood, I was taught not to involve other people in my problems, that saving face is the most important thing. When things are bad at home, in public I pretend that everything's fine. Hide the true extent of my pain, keep it inside.

But when Havok had to save me in the alleyway, I know he saw right through me. He must think I'm such a pathetic mess now.

And his intervention sure didn't benefit me. After we got home that night, Brock hit me harder than ever before, and I had to call out of work for two days before I was presentable. I'm self-medicating almost twice as much now as I was back then. It's bad. I'm not okay.

The damn thing about that night, though, was how safe I felt when Havok protected me. How I couldn't take my eyes off his muscular physique when he slammed Brock against the wall. The anger on his perfect, dark face. If I weren't such a coward, I'd have told Brock to go to hell that very night and run away forever.

Tonight, the club is packed, and Igor has instructed all us girls to show skin freely, to give out dances generously. I don't know for sure, but judging by all the pressed suits in here, these must be important customers.

I approach a table full of Russian men, who're doing shots from a bottle of Stoli and ogling the dancers on the stage.

"Boys," I say, putting on my best fake smile, "How are you tonight?"

One of the men, a wiry guy with an aged face and a graying widow's peak, wolf-whistles. His eyes scan up and down my body, lingering on my breasts, which are concealed behind a blue bra. "Doin' great now, doll." He turns toward one of his buddies, a really big and fat guy who's dabbing at his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. "Look at that tight little body. I told you this place is the shit."

Inside, my aggression threatens to boil over. I don't normally tolerate that kind of talk. Even though we're strippers, we're professionals. That calls for a basic code of respect, and even Igor knows that. But tonight I don't dare rock the boat. So I force my fake smile even bigger, pretending I'm interested in these slobs. I sassily put a hand on my hip, a move that always seems to get customers opening their wallets. "That's right. They don't make 'em like me anymore," I say, and the men laugh. "Anyone need a dance?"

The skinny, wiry one jerks his thumb toward his fat friend. "This guy does." The fat guy puts down his sweat-soaked handkerchief and shoots me a toothy grin. He shoves his chair back from the table, then pats his lap like he's summoning a dog.

"You like big boys?" he says.

"Nothing I like better," I say, pursing my lips into a tight, uncomfortable smile. Regardless of how I really feel, I have to act like an indiscriminate, bubbling nymphomaniac, hot for anyone with a bit of cash. This job is really starting to get old.

I straddle the fat man's lap while his buddies laugh and high-five each other, commenting on my body like it's a ham hanging in a meat market. They slip in and out of Russian. One of them showers me with a cascade of one-dollar bills. I dance away, grinding to the beat of the song.

Physically, I'm close to this man. But mentally, I've already escaped.

My dad's in the front seat, and I'm in the back with my sister. Dad's telling the story of when Dana spilled her whole sippy cup of orange juice on a flight attendant's blouse. That was right before Mom passed, when we were both still babies.

We're at the intersection of Broadway and Third Avenue, right by the old city mall on the verge of bankruptcy. Then, the light turns green, and my dad accelerates into the intersection, and—

And here I am in this fat man's lap, and the pills I swallowed before my shift are finally kicking in, and it's getting easier to pretend that I'm okay. I'm just focused on getting to the next dance and getting paid. Once I'm properly doped up, it's just a numbers game. Just a matter of making it through the rest of the shift one dance at a time, one hour at a time.

The man's hand wanders up my leg and over my panty-clad ass. I nonchalantly push it back down to his side, and he doesn't push his luck. It freaked me out the first time a customer put his hands on me, but then it happened again, and again, and now I deal with it as a routine matter. Only sometimes do I need to call a bouncer, and usually the corrupt bastards expect to cop a feel for their own efforts.

All of them except Havok.

Then, in the darkness, I see him. Havok stands there, stoic as always, an unmoving rock. Even when my world is constantly being flipped like a sand timer, he's unbending, unchanging. Completely in the moment, watching the club, seemingly without a worry on his mind. I wish I had that strength.

For the first time in months, I gather the courage to look him right in the eyes, or maybe it's just the drugs, but I do, and he looks back, and a fiery, invisible connection burns between us.