Chapter Nine
It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves. ~ Shakespeare
Lance spit out the blood pooling in his mouth as he sat with his wrists tied to a metal chair in a cement room he wouldn’t call more than a bunker.
It wasn’t poorly lit, no, there were plenty of lights for the men gathered to witness the damage being done to his body.
He blinked away the drops of blood running into his eye but never once lowered his gaze from the bastard he was going to end when he got up from here.
Probably located right now in some damn warehouse.
Michel stood back far enough that the blood splatter didn’t hit him. There was a sinister gleam in his watery eyes.
“Scared to get your hands dirty, boy?” Lance tossed an evil smirk at him.
The mob boss’ son sneered at him and stepped toward him. “Fuck you, I’m not fucking scared of a damn thing.” He wiped his hand beneath his nose. “Least of all a clinger who’s trying his best to get close to my old man by sucking his dick.”
Lance snorted and struggled to hide his wince of pain.
“Don’t be jealous. Your old man doesn’t strike me as picky, I’m sure he’ll let you fall to your knees and let him hit the back of your throat.
” Lance spit a bloody stream in his direction.
“But hey, you move children. Perhaps like you, he can’t get it up unless they’re underage and scared out of their fucking minds. ”
Red swept over Michel’s features. Sputtering, he lunged at Lance, only to be pulled up short by one of the men with him.
“Get your fucking hands off me. I don’t care if my dad says I can’t touch him.”
His help released him.
Mistake. Big mistake. While they were punching him without abandon, he’d gotten his hands loose from the ropes securing him. Boy Scouts they weren’t. Michel puffed out his chest as he once again stood on his own.
He made two fake lunges, obvious frustration mounting when he got no response from Lance. Michel spit at him and rushed toward him. Lance didn’t try to avoid him or anything. He allowed the spoiled boy playing at a man’s game to take him and the chair to the floor.
Just what he had hoped for.
Slammed into the concrete floor, he winced as the metal slats on the chair’s back pressed deeper into him. Michel wasn’t a small man, so his weight was substantial. He thrust up with his shoulder enough that Michel grunted and moved.
“Fucker,” he snarled. Beefy thighs straddled his chest and the leer grew disgusting. Michel grabbed his dick as he sat there. “I could make you suck this.”
“And we’re back to you needing to try to get hard by going after someone who doesn’t want you.” Lance narrowed his gaze back. “Go ahead, big boy. Try it. Take your dick out and see if you can make me suck it.”
Lance wriggled his fingers and slid his hand along the metal of the chair, it moved more easily than it should because of the blood on the floor from his body. Michel had locked on him, Lance counted on it.
Michel wasn’t thinking how foolish he was being, wasn’t considering his father had told him to keep his hands off Lance. All he knew was he’d been slighted in front of his men and his little boy feelings were hurt. He wanted to prove himself out to be far more scary than he was.
“I’m going to make you choke on it.” He reached for his pants and undid the top button.
Lance blinked and shrugged best he could. “I’m not impressed and I’ll not be sucking your cock. Today or ever. Daddy’s not going to be happy with you, boy.”
Rage flushed his cheeks a deeper shade of red and Lance snickered. Michel released his pants and swung. “I’ll fucking kill you. I’m not scared of you or my father!”
His fist connected with Lance’s jaw and rocked him. Okay, that one hurt like a bitch. Michel’s maniacal laugh told him two things. One, the man wasn’t thinking about his dick any longer and two, this was going to hurt.
Lance took two more punches to the face before he surged up, freeing his arms from behind him and delivering two quick jabs, one to the man’s groin and the second to his throat.
Michel didn’t know which to grab for, his dick or his throat. And his men weren’t exactly fast on the response time. They were more the hired guns you found on a television show. Big, beefy and dumber than a box of rocks. Not knowing how to react without guidance.
Something Lance could and would use to his advantage. They’d been so confident they’d not tied his legs to the chair, so he got to his feet and grabbed Michel around the neck.
“Guns down or I snap his neck.”
Part of him, the angry part, hoped they wouldn’t so he could follow through on his threat.
When they did, he directed them to kick them away, as well as the knives they carried.
He’d made it part of his job to know what they carried and when, so he knew there weren’t additional backup pieces on their ankles like any good bodyguard would have.
They thought they could get away with bullying most people.
Circling, they did a little dance until he made it to the door. It was open—another sign of their arrogance.
“One last thing. I’m going to need you both to strip.”
“What the fuck?” The men were more indignant now than when he’d demanded they give up their sidearms.
Explains so much.
Tightening his grip around Michel’s neck, Lance cocked an eyebrow. “Really want to challenge me here?”
“Do as he fucking says,” Michel spat. “You’re going to fucking die for this, man.”
“We all have to go sometime.” He didn’t loosen his hold, nor did he take his gaze from the bodyguards currently in various stages of undress. They stripped down to their boxers.
“Toss ‘em here.”
More grumbling but they listened, apparently understanding he wasn’t joking about hurting their boss. Head canted to the left, he kicked the clothing outside behind him and Michel.
“I could let it go like this, but you fucking pissed me off. Boxers too. Toss them over. Although, I have to say, I love the little lightning bolts on yours.” Muttered curses as they stood naked and kicked the boxers at him.
Their large hands hovered to cover their tiny junk.
“Shameful, it’s a bit like false advertising.
Think you’re overselling it a bit. The fact you only need one hand to cover yourself doesn’t exactly go promising lightning bolts to your partners.
She, or he, no judgement, deserves more. ”
Lance took the boxers out of the room with his foot and stepped through, Michel still trapped and swearing.
“You boys play nice now.” He kicked the metal door shut and locked it from the outside. Seconds later, he slammed Michel up against the side. “How’s about you and me go pay your old man a visit?”
Fear leaked into Michel’s gaze but Lance didn’t pay it any mind.
He coldcocked Michel and at the last minute caught him from sliding to the floor.
He wasn’t gentle about moving him from the building they’d brought him to and tossing him in the back of the SUV waiting out front.
In a few moments, he had him trussed up like a Christmas pig and was slipping behind the wheel.
Wiping away the blood that continued dripping down his face so he could see better, Lance huffed a few shallow breaths to try to get back in control. His vision was blurry and he was fairly confident he had a few busted ribs.
He glanced at his reflection in the rearview and shrugged. The blood wouldn’t stop and right now, he didn’t have time to deal with it. He needed to get to his boss before the man’s dick son woke.
“I need a fucking vacation.” He pushed the start button and opened the center console. The wad of napkins didn’t shock him, he had never seen Michel without food close to his mouth. Hence the need for numerous napkins.
Placing some to the gash, he shrugged as they stuck to the open wound on his head. Putting the car in gear, he drove away from the warehouse district he had been in. As he got onto the interstate, he flicked the bloodied napkin away and reached for more, covering the open injury once again.
The sun glinted down on the road and cars ahead of him, making him squint and wish for his sunglasses. Hell, he wished for a dark room and a bed. And Jasmine.
* * * *
Jasmine crossed her legs and cocked an eyebrow at the man facing her behind the large, dark-wood desk. This wasn’t anything new to her, men trying to intimidate her. Especially ones of his ilk, used to women kowtowing before him, scared of his status or impressed by his money.
She was neither. Cautious? Sure. But she’d been across from men far worse than him. It was basically a standoff. Who would flinch first? Who would break?
Not her.
And it wasn’t. Fifteen minutes of simply sitting there until a knock at the door pulled Dusan’s attention from her. He scowled.
“Enter.”
The door opened, but she continued facing the man.
“What is it? I’m busy here.”
“We found the other men, boss.”
“And?” Dusan leaned back in his chair, eyes shifting between her and the one at the door.
She allowed what she knew to be a viperous smile to turn up her lips. “If you’re talking about the men who were supposed to come get me to do something, I killed them.”
Shark eyes, that’s what this man’s were like. Cold. Predatory. And they sliced over to her as his expression chilled further.
“You killed my men?” He waved a hand and she listened to the click of the door. It was once again her and him.
“They had it in their mind to kill me and perhaps do other things. I wasn’t on board with that.” She uncrossed and recrossed her denim-clad legs. “I don’t like games. At all. And I protect myself fully and without apology.”
“Why were they bringing you here?”
She shrugged, noticing him dip his gaze to her chest. “Can’t tell you that. I got a call from your child, who said some men were bringing me to you.”
Bushy brows converged. “My son?”
Jasmine blinked, not saying anything more. Most often people filled in the blanks themselves and she didn’t have to supply any more.