2. Tiia
Summer in New York means sweltering humidity and reeking back alleys. It means the homeless roam in search of air-conditioning, and those who have homes to take shelter in rarely have enough money to cool them. So they, too, search for comfort elsewhere.
Summer evenings in New York mean overflowing subways and the stench of hotdog carts turning a little rancid. Because, really, is anyone eating a hotdog in this heat?
I carry my purse crossbody-style and move through the dark that isn’t really all that dark—the only thing I love about New York. The strap nestled between my breasts, and the perspiration of another hot friggin’ day mark my tank and leave me feeling on the unfresh side.
The sun has gone down, which would imply the temperature should move with it… But no, not in Manhattan. The concrete swallows heat all day long and breathes it back out again during the night, and buildings that stand at a hundred floors tall, boxing us in like caged rats, make it impossible for a breeze to waft through and cool things down.
Summer in Manhattan is as much fun as winter in Manhattan. Frankly, Manhattan just fucking sucks unless you’re one of the lucky few who work in the hundred-floor buildings, or who drove a car manufactured after the year 2000 AD.
I… am neither of those.
Music thuds from a nearby club. The lights and life pumping from the five-level building, looking like a baby amongst giants, is like an oasis beckoning me in the desert. There will be bodies in there. Heat, purely from the number of people who chose to converge on the same five thousand square feet. But there will be water, too. Soda. Probably air-conditioning, and maybe, if I’m lucky, a meal.
I haven’t eaten in too many hours to count, so I duck my head low and trudge past the mouths of alleyways where people slink, doing things they really shouldn’t. Drugs and money exchange hands. Couples bang, though I’m not so na?ve to assume all of it is consensual. Some men argue; over drugs or women, I’m not sure. But the closer I come to the club, the safer I feel.
Which is entirely ass-backwards, when I consider exactly who I’m walking toward.
The rigid leather of my boots rubs against my legs and leaves me wary of the blisters I might sport tomorrow if I don’t sit down soon, and the frayed bottoms of my shorts tickle my thighs. My tank is thin and loose, and maybe just a tad short, so my navel is exposed and the streetlights lining the road glisten off the fake diamond I wear against my belly button.
What? I was fifteen and rebellious, and the local biker club was running a special in a back room…
Adulthood, and the intelligence that comes with age, has taught me to do better. But back then, I could have sworn nothing would hurt me.
My lips burn dry. Annoyingly dry, so I’m tempted to reach into my purse and take out my chapstick. But slowing on the street or taking my eyes off my target would be a foolish mistake that only sixteen-year-old-me would have made.
That’s not me anymore. With all my twenty-nine years, I’ve scraped together a modicum of wisdom.
Allegedly.
“Hey, laaady!” The high-pitched catcall of a man already too drunk despite the hour has my shoulders coming up in defense. “Hey! Stay out here with me, beautiful.”
I hasten my steps, but I break eye contact with CeCe’s—an upscale club with rich, upscale clients—and instead meet the ugly, lewd ogle of a man who could be twenty… or fifty. I have no way of knowing, without asking where in that bracket his age falls. He’s unshowered. Unshaved. A day of summer has lent his skin a sheen I have no desire to get near. And when our eyes meet, his lips curl up and reveal a wonky smile that somehow makes him look even more devious.
He lifts his chin in that come-hither way some men try. “Spend time with me, beautiful lady. You don’t wanna go in there, anyway. It’s not safe.”
It’s safer than out here, I’m pretty friggin’ sure!
I move faster and drag my gaze around, desperately seeking solace in the club made of money and bright lights, but I slam into a brick wall. Or a body, maybe. In any case, I crash into a solid barrier and scream, an involuntary sound exploding from the depths of my lungs and out to bounce along the road.
Hands grab my arms, fingers encircling my biceps until I squeal a second time. My heart thunders painfully, pounding against my diaphragm until I’m certain it might simply break free. But even if I wanted to escape the hands gripping me, I can’t. They’re too tight. Too firm.
“Let me go.” I press my hands to a solid chest and attempt to push back, while all around me, people walk into the street.
Alleyway dwellers come out to watch the show. Even those who were dealing drugs or getting lucky find interest in witnessing the way my soul leaves my body.
Or at least, that’s how it feels when I bring my eyes up and stop on a dark green stare that beats all the way into the back of my skull.
I still. Completely and robotically stop, the way a wild animal who has met a larger, more dangerous predator might freeze.
“Um…” I swallow, so the ball of nerves lodged in my throat slides painfully, tangibly, along my esophagus.
My captor’s eyes are brutal. His glare, inhumane. His hair is dark, dark black, and long enough to hang forward and almost obscure his eyes. He wears thick stubble on his jaw, and possesses plump lips I think many women would swoon for.
In the daylight. When said woman wasn’t terrified of being murdered and her body disappearing, never to be found again.
His gaze flickers between mine. His lips, pressed tightly closed, and his hands, keeping a punishing grip on my arms so I’m sure that, tomorrow, his fingerprints will remain.
Unlike the other men on this infamous street, the one that holds me is neither wearing a suit, nor does he appear to be homeless. He’s in a loose tank that shows off large shoulders, one side covered in ink, and beefy… whatever the muscles above his shoulders are.
Traps?
Somehow, despite the very real chance I might die in a minute, I manage to pull my eyes from his torso and down to his hips. Surprisingly, he doesn’t wear jeans. Or sweatpants. Instead, he wears baggy basketball shorts, the fabric going down to his knees, and on his feet are a pair of sneakers.
“Have…” I gulp and drag my eyes up to find his again. They’re still mean. Still dark and dangerous. Wait… where did the catcaller go? “H-have you been exercising?”
The guy… the glaring, murderous, scary one who still holds me, frowns, tilting his head to the left.
“I mean… the sneakers. And the tank.” I try again to step back. To buy myself a little space. But his hands only tighten. His resolve, firming.
Nervous, I lick my dry lips. “Um… your hair looks a bit wet,” I explain. Foolishly. I may as well be fifteen again. “So that kinda says sweat, right? And the tank. And the shorts.” I cast a desperate glance to my right as a couple wanders by—the dude in a suit, and the woman, a dress. “You’re exercising. You’re sweaty, and mad I got in your way?”
His eyes narrow further. In anger? Impatience? “I’m not mad.”
He speaks!
My chest caves inward, the oxygen evacuating my lungs like it’s safer out than in.
“This is not a street you should walk alone, though.” He folds his neck a little, the movement a stark exclamation; he’s taller than me by a decent whack. Seven inches, eight; maybe even a whole footlong sandwich more. “Being here and not paying attention to your surroundings is probably the stupidest thing you’ve done this year.”
I laugh. It’s dumb and impulsive and I’m not entirely sure it’s rooted in sanity. But it happens anyway, the sound surprising us both, evidently, as the handsy guy straightens his neck and watches me like I’ve lost my damn mind.
Maybe he’s right.
“History shows I’m prone to doing stupid, dangerous things,” I admit. “I don’t set out to do them. In fact, I try to be cautious and sane and respectable most of the time. But crazy shit finds me, even when I keep my head down and mind my own business.”
“Sounds like you’ve got problems.” He releases me, a little too quickly, the abrupt absence of his grip a little too shocking, so I literally stumble back and risk dropping to my ass.
I flounder a couple of steps… two, three. Maybe even four, before my knees lock in again, and I get my unladylike flailing under control—sort of. Then I get a fuller look at the brick-wall-man.
His broad shoulders, and his tapered waist. The shaded tattoos that mark one bicep and shoulder and the front of his chest, over his heart. His thighs are thick, and his legs, long. His hips sit several inches higher than mine.
And because I’m staring at them, my eyes drop to his hands, balled by his sides. Finally, I scowl. “What happened to your?—”
“Are you a New York native?” he interjects. “Or are we going with the cliché, just-got-off-the-bus thing?”
“Cliché?” I whip my gaze back up to his and gulp. Because he’s kind of cute, in that probably gonna murder you and toss your body in the river kind of way. “You think I’m a cliché?”
The corner of his lips twitch. Just the smallest, subtlest movement, so fast that a less observant woman would wonder if she saw it at all.
“You look like you might’ve come from small-town Nebraska,” he rumbles. Setting his hands on his hips, he rolls his bottom lip between his teeth. “Just got to the city. You’re wearing your purse like a chick who’s never read a crime blotter in her life, and your shirt says I’m a cowgirl, headed to the big city to make it as a singer/songwriter.”
“A singer/songwriter?” My lips curl into a wide smile, as I’m momentarily charmed by the monstrous dude in basketball shorts. “I do neither.”
“You write for the college newspaper, then?” His eyes flicker between mine. “Looking to become the next Anderson Cooper?”
“A reporter?” I wrap my fingers around the leather strap of my purse. My heart continues to thunder, but those who drift the alleyways no longer scare me. For this moment, anyway. “No.” Still grinning, I briefly glance down at my boots. “I’m not a journalist. And if I was, I think I’d aim to become the next Cannon.”
Instantly, his eyes narrow to dangerous, threatening slits. “What do you know of Cannon?”
“That she has the highest-ranked circulating paper on the East Coast.” I lift my shoulders, then drop them again in a shrug. “Seems if I was a woman looking to be a reporter, I might confer with the top journalist in the state.”
“Hm. Kindergarten teacher?”
Stunned, I jerk a thumb back in my direction. “Me?”
“Mm.” He studies me the way schoolkids might study a dissected frog in biology; morbidly curious, but not particularly interested or impressed. “Small-town girl, small-town job. You wanted something bigger, so you hopped on a Greyhound and came to Manhattan.”
“Nope…” I pop the P at the end of my word, and smirk. “Not a teacher.” I rock to the back of my heels, faux-relaxed. “Not a teacher at all.”
“Hey!” That other guy, the catcalling douchebag, whistles, the sound grating on my nerves and wrenching me around to search for him in the shadows.
“Looking for somewhere to stay tonight, beautiful?” he jeers. “I have a room, and you have the payment.”
My lips wrinkle. Long forgotten is my smile, and in its place is a disgusted sneer.
“You need to get off of this street.” The brick-wall-guy grabs my arm and takes off, his stride twice the length of my own, forcing me to lurch into an awkward gallop to keep up.
My neck tweaks from whiplash. My stomach swirls with nerves.
Am I safer with the douchebag? Am I willingly running toward danger?
Again.
“Uh… mister!” I release the strap of my bag and try to pry my ‘rescuer’s’ meaty hand from around my arm. “Hey! Let me go.”
“You won’t survive the night if you don’t get your ass inside.” He drags me toward the club I was heading to anyway, closer to the thumping music and the milling crowd. His fingers bruise my flesh, and the scent of his aftershave, competing against the natural tang of sweat, flitters back to me on the nonexistent breeze and fills my lungs.
“I….” He speaks again, but I can’t make out the words. “Da… t…”
“What?” Music thuds louder, the deep bass leaving a ringing in my ears until all I hear is noise, but no distinguishable sounds. “Mister, you need to?—”
He slingshots me past security guards and into the club bursting at the seams with bodies. Heat. Noise. Alcohol and nicotine. They all battle for dominance in the air.
“Dancer?” He turns a sharp left and pushes me against the wall so I hit with a thud.
I’m not sure he’s shoved me; rather, my body simply crumples backward, slamming against the closest hard surface and knocking the oxygen from my lungs.
He releases my arm, but his body crowds me. His chest almost touching mine. “Your legs are long, and your arms are spindly. You a dancer from Iowa?”
“Um…” I look down at my spindly arms and what I suppose might be knobby elbows. I guess. If I was forced to find an imperfection. “I’m not from Iowa.”
“Dancer, though?”
I look to my right, into the belly of the club. Women in their underwear. A stage. Poles. Money, but not dollar bills.
Realizing he might be asking if I’ve come for a job, I swing my head quickly side to side. “Not a dancer, either. Not a stripper—or a sex worker, just in case that was your next question. And I’m not from a small town.”
His eyes—green, even in the darkness—pinch closer. “New York?”
I flash a wide grin, playful despite the dread coiling in the pit of my stomach. “My whole life. I’m living in the East Village now, but I grew up in the Bronx.”
“East Village?” He pulls back and looks me up and down, a second wave of curiosity as he mentally plucks me out of Nebraska and places me in the city. “You’re an artist. Clay. Or metal, maybe.”
Again, I poke a thumb back at myself. “Me?”
“Hm.” His jaw grits beneath thick stubble, making him look all the more threatening. “Why are you here?”
“Here…” I firm my lips and gesture limply toward the crowd surrounding us, “at CeCe’s? You, uh… you dragged me here.”
“I dragged you off of a dangerous street. Why were you on it?”
“It’s Wall Street,” I laugh. Kind of loud. Kind of na?ve.
Which only results in my companion growing more irritated.
“The crimes committed on this street are not the same as those committed where I grew up… Different demographics,” I tease. “Why are you here?” I allow my eyes to slide along his fit body. The muscle he carries with ease, and the gap his loose tank leaves at the armhole, showing off scarred ribs and ink on one side. “This is a gentleman’s club, is it not?” I bring my gaze back to his lips. “That’s not to say I doubt your gentlemanly behavior. But your clothes are a tad?—”
“I was jogging.”
I snort. “Do you often jog at night? Why?”
“Because that’s when I have time.” He looks down at my body once more, his probing gaze almost as warm as an actual, physical touch. “What’s your name?”
“Uh…” I watch his lips move; it’s the only way I can understand what he’s saying inside a club bouncing with music. “My name is Kate.”
“No.”
Startled, I swing my focus up to his eyes. “What?”
“Your name is not Kate. Try again.”
“Taylor?”
He shakes his head. Though, in his defense, I practically smothered my offering in question marks.
“Stephanie.”
“No.”
“Frances?”
He stops, tightening his gaze until I find we’re in a standoff of sorts. Though I’m not entirely sure why or how we’ve gotten here.
But just when I think my new name might forevermore be Frances, he counters, “No. Your name starts with T.”
A single, challenging brow shoots high on my forehead. “Huh?”
“Taylor was your second attempt at lying, but the T came easily to you. So you were probably going to say your real name, starting with a T, but changed your mind midway through—which is how you ended up where you did.”
Jinkies, he’s right.
“You’re not a dancer, teacher, singer, or songwriter. But you work with your hands.” He lifts his chin, gesturing toward my fingers wrapped securely around the strap of my bag. “You’re saying no to art, but I’m not sure I believe you. You claim a Bronx upbringing, but your accent says light Boston, and your complexion promises Pacific Islands. Most importantly, your presence tonight and your constant eye contact says lover of conflict.” He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t want conflict in these streets.”
“My eye contact says ear infection from a cold I only recently kicked,” I retort. “And it’s not eye-to-eye contact, it’s eye-to-lips, so I can ferret out context when your enunciation doesn’t make it all the way to my ears.” I roll my eyes, then continue, “I don’t mind conflict, as a blanket statement, but most people don’t bother me. I’ve never been to Boston in my life—though, I met a man from there once. He was about ninety years old at the time, and that was about ten years ago. He was kind enough, even if he talked too loud. My mother was born in Hawaii, and my father was a New York native.” I pause and grin. “Bronx. And as for my complexion,” I look down at my spindly, knobby, olive-tanned arms. “How do we know my mother didn’t step out with a local man while the one I know as my father was at work?” I drop my hands and push off the wall. “The Bronx is home to a good portion of the Latin community. So how do we know my father isn’t, in fact, Latin?”
He huffs. “Whatever. Tanya?” Then he reaches out and snags my wrist, yanking me back just a step before a trio of men would’ve mowed me down on their way past. “Trista?
“I don’t…” I set the back of my head against the brick wall—the actual brick wall, not the testosterone-jacked version. “What?”
“Taya? Tatiana? Tessa?
“You’re trying to guess my name?”
“Tiana. Tina.” He releases my hand and brings his up to scratch at his stubble. “Your pupils grew just now, and your nostrils flared. So your name starts with the Tee sound.”
“You’re good.” I snicker and follow his gaze when he looks around in thought. “You a professional profiler? Or is this something you dabble in for fun?”
“Tina? Tee? Tee!” His eyes lock in when mine widen. “Just plain old Tee? Is that short for something?”
“You could just ask for my name without all the weird, intense-guy stuff. It’s not ‘just plain old Tee,’ by the way.”
My phone trills from the depths of my bag, the vibration my only cue, since I can’t hear the ringtone above the din of the noisy club. Opening the flap and digging my hand in, I check the screen and find a friend’s name flashing back at me.
I angle my phone, a smirk spreading across my lips when this guy uses his impressive height to tower over me and invade my privacy.
I turn the screen from his view, swipe to answer, then give him my ‘hold please’ finger while I bring the device to my ear. “Jazzy? Are you here yet?”
“Almost!” I use my ‘wait’ finger to plug my other ear and block out the club’s noise. “I’ll be walking inside in about five minutes. You already there? I can hear music.”
“Yeah, I’m here safe and sound. I’ll wait for you at the bar, okay? The dudes around here are kinda handsy.”
“Yes, well…” My friend hums so I almost feel the vibration through the phone. “You’re inside a club owned by the mafia, so maybe keep those hands off you. But, like…” She giggles. “Nicely.”
Alert to the two-hundred-something-pound guy with killer eyes leaning into my space, I fold as close to the wall as I can manage and study his powerful stare. “You don’t say. Names?”
“Uh…” Jazzy is a journalist—or at least, she wishes she was. “Surname Malone. Felix is the boss. His younger brother Micah is the next on the ladder.”
I study Brick-Wall’s clenching jaw. His suspicious eyes. “Just two of them?”
“In the city, yeah. Three more on the other side of the country. Have you seen either of them yet?” Her voice grows more excited. “Are they as cute as their pictures in the paper?”
“Can’t say.”
Brick-Wall’s hand comes across and wraps around my wrist. So quickly, before I lose it, I rattle out a clipped, “I’ll see you soon, okay? Meet me at the bar!”
He pries the device free from my palm and studies the screen, his eyes narrowing in apprehension.
“My friend.”
I watch him repeatedly swipe my screen, his thick thumb marking up my phone as he digs shamelessly into my personal affairs. He checks my bank app, but backs out of it when asked for a passcode. Then he jumps to my social media, and answers his own question when my name and picture just pop right up.
“Tiia HulkMan…” Questioning, he glances up and meets my eyes. “Your name is Tiia HulkMan?”
“Tiia Hale.” Flashing my biggest, most reassuring smile, I snatch my phone back and offer the nosy man my free hand instead. “HulkMan is for privacy, since this world comprises creeps and weird dudes in basketball shorts who have no sense of the word.”
When he doesn’t accept my gesture, I reach out and grab his hand, forcing us to shake—and my bicep to bulge when Beefcake’s arm weighs a decent chunk. “You were pretty close on ‘Tee’, though.” I don’t release us. I don’t let his hand drop away. Maybe it’s the island blood running in my veins, but I purse my lips and hold his stare. “And you are?”
Please not Felix Malone, not Felix Malone, not Felix Malone!
“Micah.” He says the word quietly, but sternly. And though I have a moment of ‘Yes! Not big don Felix Malone’, my celebration lasts only until my brain catches up and realizes the name he did give.
Micah.
As in Micah freakin’ Malone.
Mafia!
“Are you and your friend intending to stay at CeCe’s awhile?” He peels his hand from mine and peeks down at my clothes. “You’re wearing cut-offs and combat boots. Not exactly appropriate attire for the establishment.”
Pot, meet kettle.“You’re wearing a sweaty tank. Don’t be rude.”
“I was jogging,” he drawls. “I had no intention of coming inside at all, but then I saw this chick, underdressed, walking alone, and being harassed by a fuckin’ bum.”
“Are you the bum?” I grip my bag strap, and smirk when his green eyes burn into mine. “No one else has grabbed me, shoved me against a wall, or stolen my private property except you.”
“Tiia!” comes a distant screech.
“Ooh.” I spin in search, because I recognize the voice of the woman who is here to save my life. Or, well, drink with me. But a handy byproduct of her arrival means I get to escape Brick-Wall. “Jazzy!”
I look back to Micah, but hook my thumb in the direction of my ditzy friend, slowly approaching in significantly less clothing than me. “My ride-or-die is here, so I’m gonna…” I take a step to the right, still riding the wall so the coarse brick grates against the denim covering my backside. “Nice to meet you, Micah.”
“No, it wasn’t. You didn’t like it at all.”
“Well, no,” I agree. “But if I forgot my manners, my mother would whoop my butt… and have fun doing it.”
I spy my bright-red-haired friend ten feet from where I stand, and wave a few fingers her way to let her know I’m coming.
“Have a nice life,” I murmur for the scary, and yet, irritatingly handsome, stranger. “Be safe.” I nod toward the front door. “Handsy dudes out there, snatching up people left, right, and center.”
I spin on my boots, and with my life still intact even after a run-in with a frickin’ mafioso, I make a dash for my friend, whose dress may be smaller than my top.
“You’re late!” I grab her manicured hand and make a beeline for the bar on the opposite side of the club. “I nearly died, Jaz.”
“What?” She maneuvers easily in her high heels, despite my rough-handling. “You’re being dramatic. Everyone is okay.”
“I ran into Micah frickin’ Malone!” I deposit my friend on a stool, then plop my ass on the one beside hers. “We’re in a mafia-owned club, and I was just alone with Mambo Number Two. Not really an adrenaline shot I wanted tonight.”
Scoffing, she peers over my shoulder so I know—I know—she’s looking for the man I speak of. “He’s cute. In that disheveled, just ran a marathon, probably fucks like a monster, kinda way.”
“He’s off-limits.” I turn to the bartender and smile when our eyes meet. “Soda water, please.”
I see his lips move in answer, and his piercing gray eyes burn into mine, but we’re closer to the speakers over here, and his lips are obscured by a bushy beard.
I furrow my brow. “What?”
He speaks again, the words rounder and more enunciated, so I make out Os and Ps, but still, I don’t understand.
I lean toward him just a little. “Huh?”
“Tall!” Jazzy sets her elbow on the bartop, and when the bartender looks her way, she gives him her sex-kitten smirk. “She’d like a tall glass, please. But light ice. Otherwise, she’ll rage-chew it like an angry little hamster.” She winks and slaps her credit card down in front of us. “And I’ll have a vodka-tonic, please.”