10. Kylie
TEN
KYLIE
LUCA
I don’t know how I made it upstairs with the lead pipe in my pants.
Ever since I accepted that I would be stuck in close quarters with the most tempting woman I’ve ever seen in my whole fucking life, I’ve warned my cock to behave. I’m no rapist. There’s no way she can consent under these conditions. If anything, she’s using the one advantage she has: her body, and my obvious attraction to it.
To her .
Fuck me. I shouldn’t have looked. When she dared me by telling me she was about to drop her towel, I should have taken her at her word and realized that she— she, because in spite of everything she told me… that I want to believe is true… I still don’t know her name—would do it. That she wasn’t bluffing.
Because she wasn’t.
I’ve seen tits. Touched them, too. Just because I’ve never stuck my dick inside of welcoming pussy, that doesn’t mean I’ve cut myself off from women. Not completely, at least. Considering the amount of porn I watch when I’m off duty, I’ve seen all types of tits. Real ones. Fake ones. Perky ones. Saggy ones.
Hers are fucking perfect .
I looked longer than I should have. They’re the right size for me, each one looking like they nestle against my palms. Her nipples are a dusky brown color, hard and poking out due to the chill in the basement. My mouth watered to taste them, and I forced myself to swallow roughly before she noticed how I was panting like a damn dog.
Is she messing with me? Definitely. I’m starting to get an idea of what to expect from my too-willing captive. It’s like she wants to stay. I can’t deny that she’s obviously hitting on me now, though if it’s to save her skin, I get it. When I’m the only one keeping her safe from the boss, it’s no wonder that I’ll start to look pretty good. She might even be biding her time, hoping that I’ll form a bond with her, making it easy for me to lower my guard and help her escape.
But if that’s the case… why does she keep reminding me to lock her down? Because she wants me to stay away, or because she’s trying to see if I will ?
I don’t know. I don’t know anything?—
—except she’s single, and I kind of wish I didn’t know that. Not when I’m already more drawn to her than I have any right to be.
That’s why, instead of running to the bathroom and giving in to that attraction, I pointedly ignore it as I pull my phone out of my pocket.
The service up here is better than I expected. That I don’t have any missed calls or messages since the last time I checked isn’t a surprise. I’m a quiet guy. I keep to myself. Unlike some of the other Sinners, I don’t go to the Playground to party or to show off my devil tat. I’m either driving the Devil of Springfield around, or I’m working on my Ford Mustang rebuild. All of my calls involve Sinners biz.
Devil knows I’m up here. He won’t be messaging me his location anytime soon, and though he promised to check in and see how it’s going, he’s a very busy man with a family he worships. If I hear from him by the end of the weekend, that’ll be more like the boss.
I won’t just reach out to him, either. Even though I have more access to the boss than the other Sinners on my level, I know better than to just call him up and bother him.
But there is someone I can call.
With Genevieve practicing for her upcoming performances, Cross will be more available than usual. At this hour, he’s probably sitting in his tattoo shop, unless Devil needs him. Hoping that he’s free and not in the middle of holding his needle, I call him.
He answers almost right away.
“Luca, hey. I was wondering if I’d hear from you. I talked to Devil earlier. He said I might. How did the meet with the vice mayor go? Rolls was unusually tight-lipped when I asked him.”
That’s because Rolls is Devil’s right-hand man. Though Rolls and Cross are old high school friends, if Devil says ‘keep quiet’, Rolls shuts his mouth.
I know why, too. Cross is an easygoing, chill guy most of the time. He has a few triggers. CSA is one. So is fire. Lately, though, it’s Genevieve Libellula—and his hatred for Johnny Winter and his crew.
He’s been obsessively searching for some sign of the Snowflakes. If only to protect his butterfly, he wants to go after Winter himself. Devil disagrees. He wants to make a statement by taking down the Snowflakes. Damien, too. He knew he couldn’t come to Blockbuster last night to confront the vice mayor himself, but he’s probably been dying for an update.
I wish I had better news for him. “If it’s not out now, it will be soon. Devil had to off Collins after he admitted he was on Winter’s payroll. He didn’t really have more than that.” Then, because I know he’ll ask, I add, “No lead on where Winter is hiding out, either. They did everything online. Tanner’s probably combing through Collins’s accounts right now so maybe there will be something out of that.”
Cross mutters a curse under his breath. “Yeah. I figured as much. Word on the street is that Collins bit it, but that it wasn’t a Sinner who pulled the trigger.”
Really? “Then who?”
“The Hummingbird.”
Wait… didn’t he mentioned something about a person with that name at his studio last night? Not like the little figurine he was playing with hummingbird , but someone who had a ‘the’ before it?
“Who’s the Hummingbird?”
“You haven’t heard about him?” Cross sounds surprised. “I thought I mentioned it.”
He started to, then somehow we changed the subject. “Nah. I don’t think so.”
“Shit, Luca. The Hummingbird is an assassin. A hired hitman. This.. this contract killer who burned down my studio because Mickey Kelly paid him to. That’s why I found the hummingbird. It’s his… I don’t know… symbol or some shit. He leaves it behind so everyone knows he pulled the job.”
“We’ve got a killer in Springfield targeting Sinners?” I ask, stunned.
“That’s the worst part. It’s not just Springfield. This guy is a savage, dropping people all over the country in messy ways. Like gluing the window shut and lighting a fire so I burn to death messy .”
We all wondered if that was on purpose. In our circle, everyone knows Cross has trauma, even if—like me—he keeps it to himself. His family died in a fire. For him to nearly go out the same way, that’s fucked up. Up until now, he thought Mickey did it for payback after Cross went for his cock. But to hear that he hired a guy to do it, and that the guy makes a habit of shit like that?
“So… what? They think this Hummingbird dick killed Collins? He’s a bastard for what he did to you, but maybe that’s a good thing. It won’t fall back on us.”
It won’t fall back on Devil.
And if no one thinks Devil did it, and some fresh-faced twenty-six-year-old stunner will tell the cops that it was Devil and not only does the Hummingbird get away with trying to kill Cross, but he might be pissed off that people were blaming him for a hit he didn’t do.
Shit. That means I still have to go through with this.
“Maybe. But I’m not worried about some faceless killer coming after me again. It’s been months, and Damien gave us the best security system money could buy for our new place. Let him try to break in and set a fire. I’ll be ready for him.”
Thou shall not kill —unless you’re saving your fiance… and getting vengeance.
I may not be the world’s best cook, but I’ve learned how to fend for myself since living on my own. In the beginning, it was a lot of take-out, frozen chicken nuggets, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, all ‘garbage’ food that the prophet wouldn’t let us have in Donovan. And while I gorged myself on all the snacks I had been deprived of, the tiny apartment I lived in had a stove. Before long, I was making simple meals.
I’m not sure what to expect from the girl in the basement. Figuring that pasta with butter or sauce is a safe bet—unless she’s gluten-sensitive, then I’m fucked—I put on a pot of water to boil.
While that’s working, I finish putting away the groceries I ordered. I know I’ll need more. I’ve barely filled the fridge with what I got, and the cabinets in the kitchen have plenty of space for things like canned goods, boxes and cereal, and other non-perishables.
I’m just glad they showed up after all. I was beginning to think I screwed up when I made the order, but toward the end of my conversation with Cross, I heard a doorbell. I rushed him off the phone, only giving the screen a puzzled look when he tells me to enjoy my Christmas vacation—before realizing that that must be how Devil’s explaining away my disappearance for now—then answered the door.
My groceries were there, being dropped off by a blank-faced kid of about nineteen who nodded when I handed him an extra twenty as a tip for coming out in the cold. It started to flurry a little, too, with a dusting of snow covering a package that must’ve been dropped off earlier without me knowing.
The pasta is done and ready in less than twenty minutes. Only after I finish cooking it do I realize that Burns’s cabins doesn’t have a strainer. I do my best not to spill long spaghetti strands as I dump the pot of starchy water into the sink. A tablespoon of butter to keep them from sticking, then a quick stir before I figure that’s as good as it’s going to get.
The pot goes on the kitchen table. I pop open the jar of sauce and place it next to the pot. I keep the stick of butter out, and two of the plastic forks I ordered since giving her access to a metal one just doesn’t seem like a great idea when I’m still getting a read on the girl.
Do I think she’s going to stab me with a fork? Of course not. But, well, you never know.
I take the other package that came earlier and put it on the other side of the table so she can’t miss it. All that taken care of, I run my fingers through my hair nervously before going to the basement door and knocking.
I listen, a smile tugging on my lips as I hear her voice lift up and say, “Still decent, ace. And I mean it this time.”
My cock twitches.
Fuck. As if I needed a reminder of how she was wearing nothing but a tiny ass towel when I went down earlier. I nearly swallowed my whole damn tongue when I saw her stretched out on the cot like that, and a pang of remorse hits me when I realize that she’s probably fully dressed in one of the few outfits I ordered her.
I take a moment to adjust my semi, trying to wrest back a sliver of control. When that proves to be useless, I untuck my t-shirt, hoping that’ll hide the bulge that will inevitably be pushing against my jeans again anytime I’m around her.
I go down. Like I thought, she’s changed into the peachy-colored t-shirt and one of the tight black leggings I picked out because, fuck, I’m a glutton for punishment. Even from this angle on the stairs, I can see how the clingy fabric molds itself around the side of her ass.
If she bends over in front of me, I’ll explode .
Swallowing the lust rising up my throat, I force myself to look at the wall behind her. “Just wanted to let you know that the groceries came. I made dinner. It’s ready.”
“Where is it?”
Oh. Right. She’s supposed to be my captive. Why wouldn’t she expect that I’d plate it up and bring it down so she can eat in the basement?
Why? Because I wanted to sit next to her at the table and eat with her.
“It’s upstairs. There’s a table in the kitchen… and since you said you won’t escape… I thought we could eat together. But if you’d rather I get your plate and bring it down?—”
“And give up on the chance to go upstairs again? Please. I’m coming.” With more enthusiasm than I expect, she bounces off of the cot. “So, what are we having? I’m starving.”
A pang of guilt twists my stomach in knots. Of course she is. It’s already evening the day after I tossed her in the trunk. I didn’t have anything to offer her earlier so unless she found something down here, she’s gone all day without a meal.
“Sorry about that. But I made spaghetti. There’s butter and sauce if you want it, and a box of cookies for dessert if you’re still hungry.”
Her face brightens. “I fucking love spaghetti! Red sauce? Tell me it’s red sauce.”
“It’s the traditional kind. At least, that’s what the jar says.”
“That’s my favorite!” Look at that. Mine, too. “What about the cookies? I’m a sugar fiend, so I won’t turn down any of them, but if they’re chocolate chip, I’ll love you forever.”
“It’s a mixed box,” I admit, “but I think it said it had a couple.”
“Dibs on the chocolate chip.”
She can have all of them if it’ll make her smile like that. “I’ve got something else for you, too,” I tell her, following her up the stairs.
She tosses me a look over her shoulder. “Be careful, ace. Keep spoiling me like that and you might have a harder time getting rid of me than you’d ever guess.”
Is that a promise?
With an impish shrug of her shoulder, she dances up the stairs. For a heartbeat, I watch her ass jiggle, and before I know it, she’s gone—and I’m still standing stunned on the stairs.
Shit.
I jog after her. Hoping like hell she didn’t take my momentarily distraction to flee after all, I look around the empty living room, then head for the kitchen when I hear the tinkling sound of her amused laughter.
She’s holding the box I ordered earlier in her hands. It came with just an address sticker on it—that I peeled off, just in case—but she can see what it is from the name and picture splashed across the lid.
Her smile could make a man do a lot of fucking terrible things, but I’m quickly becoming one of them because it nearly brings me to my knees. “You got me checkers?”
I did, and I’ve never been happier to spend 12.99.
I shrug. “You asked for it.”
Her gaze drops to the box, her smile widening. Then, setting the box of checkers back down on the kitchen table, she reaches for the pot of spaghetti.
So… did she like it? Is that why she was smiling? Or was that because she just wanted dinner? Maybe?—
“Kylie.”
My thoughts running a mile a minute, I miss what she said. “What’s that?”
“My name. It’s Kylie.” She grabs the serving spoon and starts dishing out some spaghetti onto her plate. “You earned it, ace.”
I watch approvingly as she piles it up, then douses the noodles in sauce. As soon as she plops down in one of the two seats, pulling the plate toward her, I ask, “Do I get to be ‘Luca’ then?”
She glances up at me, spaghetti twirled expertly around her fork. “Would you prefer it?”
I think about it for a second.
“I like being your ‘ace’, Kylie.”
And I like the taste of her name on my tongue, too.
It’s even better than spaghetti.