Getting in Bed . . . with the Mafia?

Brooklyn

 

 

 

 “FRANKIE BURELLI HERE.”

Frankie Burelli, a lowcountry legend, otherwise known as Frankie the Tailor. A former mafia hitman whom I’d heard still did work on the side.

“Hey, Frankie. My name’s Brooklyn Holt—”

“No fuggin’ way. Brooklyn Holt, as in Girth Brooks, as in #43 from the Carolina Crush?”

Before I could affirm my identity, he continued, “’Cause if you’re fuckin’ with my nut, you need ta know I can hunt you down and hurt you.”

Uh. Maybe Frankie the Tailor isn’t the man I want to get in bed with over this shit. Too late now.

“Hey man. Not screwing with you. I am that Holt.”

“No shit? Then what can I do you for? Need a suit for a special o-ccasion or somethin’? Wanna try a real man on for size? Because you are one fine mudderfucker.”

I cleared my throat and clamped my ass cheeks. No entry up there and all that. “Not exactly. I got a guy I was wondering if you could track down.”

“Fuggin’ A. I’m not a private investigator. I make bespoke suits for—”

“Bespoke what?”

“Philistine.”

“Look, Frankie. No disrespect about your business or your former . . . family business—”

I heard a snip on the other end of the line, then the sound of a match flaring followed by his long intake of breath.

“Get da fuck on with it already.”

Huh. He sounded like Rafe earlier. But with a thick Bronx-gonna-stick-a-horsehead-in-your-bed accent.

“I got your name from this guy who helps with my truck,” I said, wondering if the dude would just put a hit out on me instead.

“Josh Stone?”

“That’s the one.”

“The hottest mechanic in Mt. Pleasant?”

“Umm. I guess?”

“Madon. Why didn’t you fuckin’ open with that?”

“I’m new to this.”

“Gimme the details about this schmuck you wanna find.” Frankie’s tone turned low and deadly.

“I don’t have a lot of info. There’s a woman named Delaney Jones—”

“D Jones with the big cajones from Carolina Cougars?”

“Yeah. That’s her. You’re really into sports, huh?”

“Bedsports.”

“Maybe I should call back later?” I asked.

“Fuck that noise. Delaney Jones . . . and?”

Well, all righty then. “Her husband’s after her. She’s been hiding out from him. All I know is his name is Eric Grimes, and they were together since high school in Iowa.”

“Domestic dispute?”

“He beat the shit out of her, Frankie. She reported it to the police when she . . .” I hunkered down. “When she lost their baby. After he knocked her around bad.”

I heard him puffing on his cigar. “That shit boils my balls. You tellin’ me Delaney’s a dame in distress?”

“Don’t ever let her hear you say that, but yeah.” I swiped a hand across my mouth. “I get the feeling he’s still after her.”

“And you’re not gonna let that shit play?”

“Hell no.”

A shop doorbell jingled over the line, and Frankie lowered his voice. “I got some connections, but no lie, I like to break heads more.”

“No complaints from me as long as I can take part in the head-breaking.” Completely yes to breaking the dickstick’s head in two. “What’s it gonna cost?”

Frankie chuckled in a dark tone. “I don’t charge for this line of work, it messes with my taxes. But how ’bout some Crush tickets?”

“Done.”

****

The deal sealed with Frankie the Mobster, I made it to the cafeteria, shoveled down some food, and spent another three hours on weight lifting, virtual reality training, then a final physio check by Angela, whose personal pleasure was riding all our asses with her dry wit.

And pretending to ignore Delaney’s hot ass, because I excelled at that. Not.

As soon as I dried off and dressed in the locker room, I beat feet to my truck. Her car was parked nearby, idling.

When I rapped on the window she cut off the ignition. I opened her door, and she stepped out.

Her hands ran from my shoulders to my waist, and she hit me with a lip-biting smile. “Want to come work out with me?”

“What’d you have in mind?” I caressed the sides of her smooth neck, her pulse already beating faster.

“Boxing.”

“Boxing?” I roamed closer, drawing her up and against me.

Her breath skipped across my waiting lips. “Self-defense. If I ever came up against Eric again I wanted to be prepared.”

“You know you don’t need that with me, right?” I tipped her chin up, bringing her even closer.

“Yeah.” She nudged her mouth against mine, and just the slight parting and little peek of her tongue jolted to my groin.

“Besides”—I linked my hands at the base of her spine—“I’d say you already beat me enough today.”

“The quarterback competition. Ego hurting much?”

“Nah. You deserved it.”

“Are you sure you didn’t throw the challenge?”

“Hell, no. I could hardly concentrate.”

“Because of me?”

“Because of you.” Hungry and greedy, I melted our lips together.

Pulling her leg up to my thigh, I sandwiched her against the car. I sucked her long low moan all the way down my throat like I hoped she’d suck my cock later. The heat between us warped my vision, made me insane for the naked feel of her.

I nipped at her ears, her neck, her tits through her shirt.

Delaney hissed and panted, rocking into me.

“I got a different workout in mind, babe.” Before my dick started spurting in my pants, I leaned away. “Come home with me?”

“Isn’t there a thing about not fucking before you have a big game?”

“Oh, there’s definitely a thing.” It reared in my jeans, and I hauled her against me so she could feel it fully. “And the no sex before a game myth? That’s bullshit.”