Two Hitmen: A Double Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Lawless Book 1) (58 page)

Jackson tried not to think about what went on above the tops of her stockings.

She shifted to give him space to sit. Not enough space to sit very far from her. As he slid in, his leg brushed against hers and his heart pounded. She gave him a smoky look up and down. “You’ve done well for yourself, Jackson,” her eyes were luminous and they shone on him.
 

“You didn’t come here to congratulate me on how I’ve turned out.”

“Your daddy always said you’d do well.”

“I didn’t come here to talk about my father.”

She had her face turned so the mark on her cheek was towards him. She looked down at her drink. Then her eyes flicked back up at him. “Jackson, I don’t want McGhee to beat the rap.”

“Like I told him, he’s not likely to.”

“Can you make sure that he doesn’t?”

Under the table, her hand rested on his thigh. His body lit up as if it had been in hibernation.
 

“No, Maryette. Not even for you.” He hadn’t meant to say that.
Not even for you
. When he saw her reaction he wished all the more that he hadn’t said it.

She left a beat before she got back to it, “I want him to go away, Jackson.”

“You’re in good company. So does the DA.”

“You could make it happen.” Her watery eyes were not quite pleading but they definitely wanted. She leaned forwards.
Do women ever do that unconsciously? Is it always calculated?
The thought came to him only later.

At the time Jackson wasn’t thinking about very much at all, other than her breathy voice and the delicious scent of her. He was almost overcome by the urge to start a different conversation with her. Right there. A conversation that began with something crass like, “What is your relationship to McGhee?” and that ended, almost certainly, in a misconduct of some kind.

He could not start, encourage, pursue or allow a relationship with the partner of a client. Not under any circumstances. To the Nevada bar, that almost certainly would be as bad as a relationship with a client. Maybe worse.

Across the small table, she was near enough that he could taste her breath. Her head tilted as her eyes goaded him. In the darkness, they shone, and they were all that he could see. Except for the patch of mauve skin below her left eye.

Jackson’s whole body felt as though it were pulling towards her. Like his flesh and sinew, his pecs and his biceps were drawn to her with a tug like magnetism. In his groin, a part of him pointed at her and reaching out as far as it would go.

Holding his mind in check, he thought like he would think in a client conference.
What is she really after here?

Then his hand was on the back of her neck. His thumb rested on the soft skin below her ear. He pulled her face to his. She said, “Oh…” softly as their mouths met.

There was a moment that Jackson wanted never to end. He felt like he had everything. Everything that he ever wanted was here. She was here in his hand, here in his breath. Here in his mouth.

The warmth of her body called to him as their breaths combined to acquaint themselves to each other. Her need became his desire. His need became her. He wanted to feel the pulse of her throat with his thumb forever.

Her lips opened to him, soft, moist and warm. Her arms opened to pull her body to his. It seemed like a lifetime before he made it stop. Then, when he did, it felt like it had been less than a second. He wanted nothing but to do it again. More. Longer and harder.

Her face lit with trust and pleading. Her eyes were half closed and her lips were still apart.

He said, “This never happened. I shouldn’t have done that.” Her face tilted, like she was listening and at the same time not listening, “We can’t see each other. Not now. Not ever again.” He said, “I’m very sorry,” as he moved to go.

Her hand was on his. He said, “I’ll let Mr. McGhee know in the morning that I can’t defend him.” He slid out of the booth. One look back at the soft glow of her face and he saw it all.

If he told McGhee that, McGhee would know why straight away. He saw in her eyes that’s how it would go. And what would happen next? How could he have let himself be such an idiot? He would have to think of another way out of it.

Was there a way that wouldn’t involve him involving her? He wanted her so very badly, but he knew that if he let it start, it wouldn’t end.

“Goodbye, Maryette.”

She didn’t say a word and he felt her eyes on him as he left. He walked as if he was trying to remember how to do it, to remember which foot moved next. How high to lift the knee. Jackson fumbled at the door handle.

By the time he was outside, she was through the door with him. She stood in front of him with her feet apart. The fingers of her left hand drummed nervily on her hip. He had trouble hearing her smoky voice, “Have you been thinking about me, Jack? All of this time?”

His mouth was dry. She pressed a hand against his shirt, over his heart. Her voice was even quieter, but he heard her fine when she said, “I’ve been thinking about you.”

“We met for what, about half a minute, eight years ago.” His voice was hard and hoarse, “And you’ve been thinking about me all this time? I doubt that very much, Maryette. You don’t seem like the type.” He grabbed her wrist.

Her eyes flashed and her teeth shone as her lips widened. “Wanna smack me, Jack? Tell me I’ve been
bad
?”

He pulled her hand away from his chest, but he jerked it. He saw her wince. “I have, Jackson,” she said, “I’ve been awful bad.”

She stepped closer. Her scent enveloped him. He had to get away while a tiny part of him still wanted to. Trouble was, that tiny part was locked deep inside his brain.

All the parts of him on the outside, the parts that could see her, hear her, the parts that smelled her, the parts that felt the warmth of her rising breasts and her heat too close in front of his pelvis, none of those parts wanted to go anywhere.

They wanted to take her by the wrist, bend her over the hood of a car, press him into her breasts and yank that little skirt up. He wanted to taste her again. Taste more of her. He was off-balance wondering whether she had been thinking about him or if she was just messing with his head?

He felt a rage boiling inside him. Her eyes widened. He still had a hold of her wrist and he realized he was holding way too tight. When he let go a patch of red remained where his fingers had been.

She reached out to put her hand back on his chest.

“Stop it, Maryette.”
 

“Going to make me, Jack?” The look in her eyes was a challenge, like she wanted him to strike her. Wanted him to or maybe just expected it. His blood pulsed in his veins as he watched her.

Now she was right up against him. Her chest rose against his. Her heart thudded through their clothes and beat a tattoo on his breast. Her hair smelled like fresh strawberries in grass. Her body felt like a cat, stretching along the length of him. She laid her cheek against his chest.

Jackson held his hands away. That wasn’t going to be any good though. Maryette nuzzled against him, kittenish. Her nails scraped slowly down the front of his shirt.

Into his beating chest she said, “Jack?”

He grabbed both of her wrists and pulled them outwards. Her eyes blazed and her lips curled. She purred, “Oh
Jackson.
”

There it was again. The prospect of force, of violence. While he held her arms out, Maryette pushed her hot, soft breasts against him. Her eyelids fluttered as she ground the front of her skirt up and down against the swelling that he couldn’t deny at the front of his pants.

His breath was thick and his head was full of her scents. Her thighs were right against his. He let go her arms and stepped back a pace. She pouted, but only for a second, then she dropped the act.

She flicked an eyebrow and blinked. “I don’t know what it’s going to take, Jackson, but I know I have it someplace.”

Jackson’s teeth clenched tight as he spoke. “Maryette, you’re involved with my client.”

“How long’s he going to be your client for?”

“Until the case is over.”

“See you after.”

She turned on a heel and clacked away smartly into the night.

Chapter 7

Jackson gripped the handlebars as he rode for home. The lights on the road were a meaningless blur. The garish neon of a bar caught his eye and he swerved into the parking lot.

Low ceiling, low lights and indistinct jukebox could have put the bar on any roadside in the US. The deranged electronic slot machine babble placed it in Nevada.

About half a dozen middle class locals made up the clientele. They were professionals, managerial, mostly lightly disconnected from one another. A pretty redhead looked up as Jackson walked in the door.

Two bourbons didn’t do much to relax him or clear his head. After all this time, through his whole tour of duty and his final studies for the bar, the image of Maryette had glimmered in the back of his mind.

That image was like the pictures other men kept on their phones or in their wallets. It had been a constant companion, like a dark Saint Christopher. Maybe remembering that brief meeting with her was his way of blocking out what that evening had really been about.

He hadn’t spoken to Karl, written to him or heard from him since that night. Not a single word. When he first was back home and in the public records office, he looked up Karl’s prison record and he knew that Karl would be due a parole hearing in about six months.

He didn’t follow up to learn what the chances of an early release would be. He made no attempt to visit. Jackson Jackson tried, whenever thoughts came to him that concerned Karl in any way, to tell himself that it was all something in the past. Settled and done.

For all this time, he felt as though he had kept his image of Maryette as a myth. A fable of some kind. Now she was real. Flesh and blood.

Now she has to show up in the one situation where any kind of a relationship between him and her would be professional poison. One where he couldn’t help but wonder about her motives.

He knew absolutely nothing about her. Nothing save for where it was that he had seen her, and he wanted no part of that. She was part of the life that Jackson didn’t want for himself. Outlaws, renegades and rebel loners--that wasn’t for Jackson.

She had told him explicitly that she wanted to collude with him, with her partner’s attorney, to have her partner sent to jail. Every part of that of that was lethal. Yet he wanted her so bad.

His muscles were knotted and he thought about another bourbon when the redhead slid onto the stool next to him.

“Looks like you’re drinking on a mission.” She was neat, petite and wholesome-looking in a t-shirt and blue jeans. “I can ride shotgun if you like.”

Instinctively he was about to tell her, ‘No,’ but her voice sounded like she could be easy company, and he thought perhaps some easy company could help. He bought the girl a drink.

She had the ghost of a smile and maybe it matched his mood. She raised the vodka tonic. “Thanks. You not having another?”

“Two’s enough while I have the bike. I’m fine.”

Dawn worked as a croupier on the Strip to pay her way through an MBA. She talked about herself, but Jackson could see that it wasn’t empty-headed self-obsession. She wanted to avoid asking him about himself. That way she didn’t trespass on what he was drinking about. He liked her for that.

They talked about the players and tippers downtown versus the strip. Dawn said that she had dealt poker, blackjack and roulette. “Roulette’s better for me. Blackjack you’re concentrating all the time. On a roulette table you get just enough interaction so the tips are good.”

“You don’t like poker?”

“Man, when it’s good it can be a blast. But when it’s bad, when the table’s going stale, ugh. Too intense for me.”
 

She had a quiet, pretty smile, which she didn’t overuse. It made cute little dimples in her cheeks when she did, though. He asked her, “You go up to men in bars a lot?”

“No,” she pressed his arm in a mocking rebuke. “No, I saw you and I trusted you. Besides, you looked like you could use some cheering up.”

“And now?”

“Now you look better. But you could still use some more cheering up.”

“Well, it’s a kind thought.”

“I’ve got a bottle at home. Could help solve the bike thing.”

Dawn’s neat little apartment had low enough light and a decent view of the Vegas Strip in the distance. She put on some Stevie Ray Vaughan as she fixed bourbon for them both, in nice, heavy tumblers.

Jackson relaxed with her. Her easy manner and the clean, fresh scent of her cheered him some. She wasn’t too playful either and he liked that. She danced a little and her hips swayed nicely. She put her hands in her hair, but showed him that it was just for fun. Nothing serious.

By about drink number three she said, “You’re tangled, Jackson.” She took a long breath and a sip of her drink. “If you want to rub your knots up against me that’s okay,” as his mouth opened she put a finger on his lip, “but I don’t want to get snagged in a mess of threads.”

Her eyebrow raised as her lips pursed and she looked at his mouth. “I don’t want to be tied up, Jackson.” Her eyes lifted into his, “Not literally and not metaphorically.” Jackson laughed.

Her lips brushed his. “You should sleep. Sleep here.” He searched her eyes. “You can sleep with me if you want, but I mean sleep. You want anything else, ask first. Not that it’s off the cards, I just want to be sure we understand each other.”

“How do you know I’ll play by the rules?”

“Like I said, I trust you. Don’t disappoint me, Jackson.”

Jackson lay next to Dawn in her soft bed, her body warm against his. She curled up around him and her breathing soothed him. Eventually he was able to ignore the other thing and he drifted off to a deep sleep.

In the too-bright morning he made eggs for them both in her little kitchen bar. Jackson had slept better than he had in some time.

Chapter 8

There were no more than half a dozen spectators in the bright, airy courtroom. Kirwen Bishop, the DA, nodded to Jackson as he took his place on the front bench. Bishop liked the dark G-Man suits with his buzz-curt gray hair, a white shirt and a black tie. He always looked like he was dressed for a funeral. Jackson wondered if that was the idea.