Chad's Chase (Loving All Wrong Book 2) (43 page)

“Are you just going to—” I started to say, springing up from Chad’s lap.

But Chad gripped my arm and tugged me back down. “Breathe easy, Jhay.”

“No!” I said, trying to get back up. “He’s acting like a snotty-nosed child whose ice cream fell off its cone.”

Shaking from a chuckle, Chad kissed my neck, soothing me instantly. “I used to think he was a cold, emotionless bastard. But now I’m convinced he has more humanity in him than all of us put together. He loves you, that’s why he’s hurt. Give him some time, he’ll get over his bruised ego.”

Taking his word for it, mainly because his lips and searing breath on my neck were muddling my head, I shifted on his lap and straddled him. In one smooth go, I pulled my blouse over my head and dropped it to the floor.

I leaned in to touch my lips to his, but he flattened a palm to my chest to stop me, his face all too serious for my liking.

“What?” I asked.

He didn’t answer, only watched me with those daunting black eyes of his, expression unreadable, lips firmly pressed together. He was beginning to scare me.

“Chad,” I whispered, searching his face, “what is it?”

“You know I’m going to marry you, right?”

Folding my lips, I tried to keep in my laugh, but couldn’t help it and guffawed in his face at the ridiculousness of that concept. “Yeah, sure.”

Seemingly offended, his face grew grave. “This means no, then,” he said, not asking a question.

“Wait,” I said, holding up a hand, “you were
serious
? With the lives we’re destined to lead, you really expect us to get married and have 2.5 kids like we’re normal people?”

“Why not?”

Utterly astounded, I gaped at him. “Chad, your own father tried to
kill
you. My fake father died from a bullet to the head because his wife was a cheating, deceitful killer who was hardly ever at home for her kids. My real father, a puissant kingpin, just said I couldn’t talk to him directly or stand in his presence without you there. We are products of all that. Murderers. Liars. Monsters. What kind of parents do you think we’ll be?”

“Good ones.”

I crossed my arms. “Oh yeah? How good a guardian have you been for your cousin Alina? When last have you seen her? What’s her favorite color? Does she like her pizza hot or cold? Stuff crust or thin?”

He glanced around, ashamed. “That’s not fair. You were trying to kill me. Then it was Rafail. It wasn’t safe for her to be around m—”

“Chad, you are now a part of The Organization. Just like it wasn’t safe for Alina to be around you, it’s
never
gonna be safe for us to bring children into this shitmess of a life. The kids thing, let’s just fantasize about it and stop there.”

With a miserable groan, he pressed his face to my bosom and expelled a heavy breath. “We need kids to carry on our family legacy, Jhay.”

I knew then that I’d lost, because he was right. With Rafail down, Chad would inherit his family legacy. And Org would pass his on to me. With no kids, we would be a major disappointment not having created a new generation to perpetuate the legacy for years to come. Chad’s legacy dated back from the eighteen hundreds. What if someone had been selfish and decided they didn’t want children back then? The legacy would’ve died.

Safe or not, kids were a must. We just had to be the best damn parents we could be and not screw things up.

Sagging with defeat, I sighed. “Okay.”

“And you’ll say yes when I ask you to marry me,” he told my cleavage.

When I didn’t respond, he raised his head and glared at me. “You’ll say yes, Jhay.”

“
Tell
me I have to say yes.”

“You have to.”

“Then I will.”

Chad looked a little confused, so I leaned forward and took his face in my hands. Eyes to eyes, lips to lips, I told him, “I want you to master me, Chad. I want you to dominate and control me. I want you to be my man. I want you to own me completely. I want you to be my king.”

Shaking his head ever so slightly in my hands, he replied, “And I wouldn’t even waste my time trying.”

I scowled. “Why not?”

“Because,”—he looped his hands around my waist— “you’ll never obey.”

Thinking this over, I tipped my head from side to side, then pouted. “I can obey.”

Humor crawled with tiny legs over his features. “Hmm. Sure you can.” He moved an inch so our lips touched, and I parted my lips and welcomed him in, doing the dance, the tongue tango, the slide. Shivers raced through me as I squirmed, pushed and pressed against him.

Breaking away, I asked in a breathy voice, “We’re free now, aren’t we?”

“Completely,” he quickly answered, frustrated with me for breaking our tongue dance.

“So that means we can fuck right here, right now, on this table, and won’t stop even if Ronnie walks in on us, right?”

A wry smile popped on his face. “Yep. That’s freedom alright.”

I pushed up off his lap and eased my ass up on the table, spreading my legs. “In that case, let’s make use of it while it lasts.”

And we did. Kissed, sucked, and fucked on the table.

It wasn’t Ronnie who walked in on us. It was Vivian.

But we didn’t stop. Not even for a second.

Because we were fucking free.

H
ugo let out a sigh of frustration at the copious amount of leftover jerk chicken. He’d expected a better turnout for the night. It was Friday, after all. And on Friday nights, his jerk chicken and fried dumplings went out fast. Not tonight, though. There must be some big jam session going on in the vicinity he wasn’t aware of. ‘Cause this wasn’t normal.

Ah, well.

Accepting the night for what it was, he took off his apron and kitchen cap, contemplating whether he should just close up the shop and head home to his empress. The place was a twenty-four-hour joint, yeah, but the rasshole cashier wasn’t ringing up tonight so, to hell with twenty-four-hours. He wouldn’t be staying here all night waiting for a sale when he had a fat pum pum waiting in his bed.

Hugo pushed his swinging kitchen door open, heading out into the restaurant to close up, and stopped dead.

Rassclaat
. That green-eyed gal, the one who’d followed Chad in there a few months ago, was sitting on top of his cash register with her elbows resting on her knees, well dapper in all-black, hair in a tight ponytail, a half-smile, half-smirk on her lips.

As sticky as the situation was for him, Hugo couldn’t help noticing how bloodclaat sexy the catty was. Turned right up. Real bad gal, man. Making his cocky harder than a bomboclaat brick wall. No joke thing, the gal pretty like money.

But what was this intimidating visit about, though? He couldn’t recall disrespecting the catty in any way. He’d only done everything Chad had paid him a fuckload of money to do. His acquaintance Chad was a nice youth. Full of links and full of cash. If that bredda asked him to run through fire he would do it, no hesitation.

Hugo stood where he was, afraid to make a move, to say a word. His gun was in the back.

The catty leaned down and punched open the cash register. Took out twenty-four dollars and ten cents, and set it aside on the countertop.

Then faster than his confused little brain could register, she reached behind her, drew out a bloodclaat matte black Glock, pointed it right at him and smiled wickedly as she said, “I told you I was coming back for my motherfucking change, didn’t I?”

 
Rassclaat/Rasshole/Rass
: A Jamaican curse word equivalent to “fuck”, “motherfucking” and “shit.” Also a term used to express shock, wonder and amazement.

 Pum Pum:
Jamaican slang for “vagina”.

Cocky
: Jamaican slang for “penis”.

Bomboclaat/Bloodclaat:
A Jamaican curse word equivalent to “fuck”, “motherfucking” and “shit.” Also a term used to express shock, wonder and amazement.

Empress:
Really the wife of an Emperor or the female ruler of an empire. However, most Jamaican men (mainly Rastafarians) refer to a beautiful woman, or their significant other, as “Empress”.