Chapter Two

Eamon

“I told her I’d give her a grand for every second she kept me in her mouth.” My little brother Shae was a goddamn riot.

“How long did you hold her down there?” Shea was a damn freak and had almost a fetish-like love for getting head.

Shae frowned but his satisfaction over whatever he was about to say was too great and he flashed a wide, shit eating grin. “I didn’t have to do shit but lie back and enjoy it while Sonya tried to kill herself for a few dollars.”

“A few?”

He shrugged, still grinning from ear to ear. “I may have fucked her mouth a little and didn’t last as long as I wanted.”

“How long?”

“Thirty grand, that’s how long.” The sick fuck was actually embarrassed by that.

“Expensive blow job.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, E-money. The blow job was for her, to lube her up for the party later. By the time I gave her orgasm number two she was begging me to take her ass.” He licked his lips and adjusted his pants at the memory.

“You have issues, baby brother.”

He shrugged and took a swig of the icy vodka he kept on tap whenever we came to our father’s place for business. “Just enough to make me irresistible to the wrong kind of women.”

That much was true. Whatever scars the Connelly men had in our past, we all dealt with them in our own way.

At twenty-four, Shae was just six years younger than me, but people could tell we were brothers. We both had our mother’s fair skin and the same frame, lean, ripped and always ready for battle. And we both had dimples, though his was on his cheek and mine was on my chin. Back in elementary school, the kids teased us about them, but we’d always had the last laugh because the Connelly dimples were chick magnets.

Shae fucked his demons away. I did too sometimes, but my preferred method of purging was fighting. Pounding. Obliterating. Which was why I’d been the designated enforcer for years.

“Where’s Rourke?” I asked Shae after he finished gloating about his latest score.

“In the study with the old man.” Rourke was the most serious of all three of us, probably had something to do with losing his dad at a young age and growing up in this life with his mom, my Aunt Fiona. “They’re talking about the books.”

The books. How the Connelly family made our money. Gambling and betting were our main trade but as a criminal organization we dabbled in everything from drugs to guns and made millions a year dealing in ass. We sold ass. All ages, colors, and kinks. All told, we ran the city of Rocket, Nevada, nestled in the Truckee Valley, which kept the family coffers overflowing and it was our job as the next generation to keep it that way. “Anything wrong?” I asked, looking over my brother’s shoulder.

“Just basic accounting,” Shae answered, which was code for The List. The names of debts that had been left hanging too long without payment. Which meant it was time for me to make a few visits and maybe, hopefully, break a few bones. I grinned at the thought.

Before I could say anything else, Rourke joined us in the game room, slipping the pool stick from my hands. “Uncle Patrick wants to see you, Eamon.”

It probably made me the same sick fuck I accused Shae of being for feeling a thrill as I took the steps that led me to my father’s study. It was just what you’d expect of a very rich man who was too fucking concerned with appearances. Dark, mahogany wood made up nearly the whole damn room from the large intimidating desk, the wet bar in the corner, the tables scattered around the room and even the floor to ceiling bookshelves on the wall to the left. What wasn’t dark wood was black or brown leather. “You wanted to see me?”

He nodded, his sharp green eyes hadn’t dulled a bit despite his age, though at fifty-five, Patrick Connelly was one of the younger mob bosses in the area. His brown hair was more silver these days which only made his eyes even more intense. “I did. Come in, son. I have a special task for you.”

There went those tingles again, like the first spark of a fire dancing on my skin at the thought of working out some of my demons. “Whatever you need, Father.”

Patrick nodded, pleased with the answer even though we both knew there was no other acceptable answer. “Peter Michaels. His payments have stopped and the local muscle hasn’t done a good job of impressing upon him the importance of paying me my fucking money. I need you to show him how unwise that is.”

Shit. Peter Michaels was a sad sack of a man who gave me no pleasure to threaten or beat. I’d do it because it was my job, because it was part of the family business, but goddammit I wouldn’t enjoy it. He was weak. Pathetic. “No problem, Dad. I’m on it. Anything else?”

I knew the deal, but I let my father explain it every damn time because it was something he apparently needed to do.

“Michaels isn’t some rich fuck who just doesn’t want to pay his debt, so remind him just enough that he’ll remember the lesson while he works his nine to five.”

“Got it,” I said.

Without another word, I left the study and made my way through the green and white spiral tile that marked the path to the front door. I hopped in my blue Benz and made my way to the slightly rundown area of Rocket where Peter Michaels lived. Thankfully, alone.

The gray cement buildings were all the same, with the same green painted metal railing fixed to the cement and steel staircases. The side of each building held a numbered stencil and I found a spot right in front of number three. Taking the stairs three at a time, I found unit 310 and knocked, stepping just out of view of the peephole in case Michaels had any thoughts of running or playing possum.

“Hey … Mr. Connelly,” his smile died on his lips. “W-what are you doing here?”

“We both know exactly what I’m doing here,” I told him as I pushed inside and removed my jacket. “Come into any money recently?” I was happy I’d decided to go with a shirt with buttons so I wouldn’t have to remove cufflinks to roll up my sleeves.

“Uh, no. I haven’t. And I don’t have any money for you today.”

Of course he didn’t because that would make my job, my life too fucking simple and if there was one thing my life never was? Easy.

“But I’ll get it, I promise.”

That old story. I wasn’t falling for it. “Sorry. Out of time. You know what has to be done.” I cracked my knuckles, not to scare him, just because it was something I did.

Michaels nodded, resigned to his fate the way gambling addicts always were. “I know but … I just … can you give me more time? I just need more time.”

“That is the one thing you don’t have, Peter.” I grabbed him by the collar and sent my fist smashing down on his face. Once. Twice. Three hits right to the nose. The mouth. The jaw. “Now, do you have an answer for me?”

“No! No,” he gasped, trying to catch his breath. “I don’t have any money for you, but I will. Soon. I promise.”

I punched him again because the promises of a gambling addict meant less than shit to me. “Wrong answer, Michaels. Wanna try again?”

Blood streamed from his nose, his brow and the corner of his mouth and still I didn’t feel any sense of relief. That frustration forced me to land another series of blows right to his pudgy gut.

“Okay, okay!” he pleaded.

I released the pathetic excuse for a man and he took a step back, swiping blood from the corner of his mouth, spitting some on the floor. “How long can you give me?”

“End of the week. No more.” He nodded excitedly, grateful even and I knew I hadn’t gotten my point across. “I’m not fucking around with you, Michaels.”

“Of course not. End of the week is perfect, by then I’ll be able to … ow! What the hell was that for?”

I got in his face, close enough that I could see how fear transformed his eyes into a light, sea color. “That was to remind you that if the end of the week rolls around and you don’t have what you owe, to put you current, you’ll be wishing for what I did to you tonight.” I landed one more for good measure when I heard the twist of the knob.

A shrill scream. “Stop! Fucker! Stop hitting him you fucking asshole! That’s my dad!”

I stopped and turned to look at the screamer over my shoulder. Damn, she was hot. Stacked and curvy as fuck. Blonde, just how I liked ’em and with a mouth that only a filthy motherfucker like me could tame. She wore some kind of sexy office girl outfit, a tight skirt that showed off a slim waist, big tits and hips that were more than a handful. But it was those thick, fuck-me red lips that drew my attention and made my cock wake up and take notice. “Someone should tell your dad the importance of paying his fucking debts.”

“Debts?” She looked shocked, confused, which I was more than prepared for.

Why?

Because family was always the last to know.