rounds, I see him heading for the back door, a pack of cigarettes clutched in his hand. Luckies. Ironic.
I throw down a tip and leave my drink at the bar. I weave my way through the dining room, following Jorge toward the back exit. I wait until he's exited, then step out after him a moment later.
He stands out back, next to a concrete loading dock. The night is black, and clouds hide the stars in the sky. The only sound is the hoot of a distant, invisible owl.
Jorge is alone, and he cocks an eyebrow at me, looking wary.
"Hey," I say, "Got a smoke?"
My accent must tip him off that I'm Bratva, because he reacts fast. He drops the packet of cigarettes and jams a fist into his pocket. When he withdraws it, he's holding a pocket gun.
Fuck. He got the drop on me.
I dash forward, opening my palm to swipe at the gun. The garrote falls from my grip, glinting in the moonlight as it drops to the ground. Jorge's eyes track it, and they bulge, as my intentions are confirmed.
"You Russian piece of shit," he growls, leveling the gun at my chest.
I reach out and slap at it, knocking his hand down just as he pulls the trigger. The gun goes off with a deafening bang, and a hot, sharp pain pierces my thigh.
Fuck. This just got messy. I have to finish the job and get the hell out of here.
I grab his wrist, my leg searing in pain. I slam it against the restaurant's brick wall, and the gun flies out of his hand, clattering against the asphalt. Pain radiates through my torso and I double over, giving him an opportunity to strike back. He throws his weight against me, knocking us both to the ground, me pinned beneath him.
Fuck. I struggle, reaching for the gun, all my nerves screaming in protest. He's no match for me strength-wise, but he must weigh five hundred pounds. I can barely move beneath him.
"The hitman dies tonight, eh, Ruskie?" he grunts. He puts his forearm against my throat, and suddenly I can't breathe anymore. Even in the moonlight, I can see his face, red and bulging.
But I'm not going to let this happen. With all my remaining strength, I lunge for the gun, and I feel its comforting metal against my palm. I jam the barrel into Jorge's side, and his eyes bulge with surprise.
Then I pull the trigger over and over, shots ringing out, until I feel warm blood pouring out of his body, coating me with red. A minute later, his breathing stops. I have to get out of here. I shove his heavy as fuck, rotten corpse off of me, then strip my bloody suit off and ball it up under my arm. I eye the backdoor nervously, but no one comes out.
I run back to my car, naked except for my boxers and shoes, my leg bleeding. I tear away into the night.
25
Penny
"Holy shit," I say.
Havok stands in the guest room doorway, wearing only a pair of boxer briefs. It's the first time I've seen him like this. He'd be fucking hot as hell right now, with those ridged abs, corded arms, and broad shoulders. Except for one thing.
He's bleeding. A lot.
"I need your help," he says wearily.
"Oh my God," I say. "Okay. Let me up." I have so many questions, but I suppress them for now.
He hobbles out of the room, leaving a trail of blood. When he returns, he's holding the handcuff keys. He frees me.
"Come on," he says, wincing. He leads us to the shower in my bathroom, not bothering to trek to the master bath. He starts the shower, then in one swift motion, slides his boxers down without any shame and gets in.
My lips part, as I stare in disbelief. His cock is huge and beautiful. It's thick, and so long even though he's soft. I feel wet between my legs, and I have to remind myself that this is a medical situation. I almost feel guilty for having these thoughts when he's injured like this.
He positions himself so the water hits the wound on his leg, cleaning it out. Fresh and clotted blood runs down his leg, and the bathtub looks like a fucking murder scene. He grimaces hard, and I can only imagine how much pain he's in.
"Come here," he says. "Lost a lot of blood. Can't keep weight on this leg. Need you to clean this before