Hit Me (The Bailey Boys #2) (3 page)

She was a strong woman. Independent.

It had taken Hristo to beat that out of her.

Growing up, she’d had to be a fighter. She’d pretty much lived on the streets from the age of ten, her mother only a distant memory – either an unfaithful, abandoning slut or dead, depending on which story you chose to believe from Imelda’s unreliable drunken bum of a father.

She’d spent much of her youth selling counterfeit goods and pulling short cons on the seafront in Playa de las Américas in Tenerife.

Her mainstay had been working with the African sellers of tourist tat – brightly colored nylon wigs, pirated DVDs and CDs, fake designer watches and sunglasses. The sellers would be up in the faces of the tourists while Imelda picked their pockets and bags. Then, when she signaled she had something, one of the sellers would shout “Aguas” – local slang for
Watch out
– pretending there were police approaching, and they would split up and run. If the victim ever realized they’d been robbed they’d nearly always chase the sellers and not innocent little Imelda who would loiter coolly nearby.

If she ever did get into trouble she learned quickly that tears would do the trick. Then, as womanhood blossomed, a combination of childish tears and playing on an older man’s uncomfortable awareness of that pubescent blossoming worked even better.

Not long after that she realized her looks opened far more doors than childish innocence had. The scope for compromising drunken men on vacation was endless. She got so good that sometimes just standing too close would be all it took, the victim’s guilty mind – and perhaps past history – taking over as he became desperate for his wife or girlfriend not to read anything into an entirely innocent situation.

All she needed was a look, a brush of the hand, a pressing of legs, and she could reel him in, play him, trap him. They would sometimes, quite literally, throw money at her to make her leave while all the time they wanted her to stay.

She wasn’t proud of her tactics.

But she was a survivor and that was surely something to be proud of.

§

Outside, the midday sun had turned the narrow street into a furnace. You never knew how it would be at this time of the year – if the otherwise constant sea breeze fell away the temperature could leap a good ten degrees or more.

Imelda crossed the street and paused in the shade.

She checked her cellphone, but there were no messages, which was always good these days. That, in itself, illustrated how her life had changed: that her phone should be seen as a threat, a source of summons, rather than a channel to friends and opportunities.

She didn’t realize she was waiting for the stranger at first.

She didn’t mean anything by it. She was just curious, maybe. Nothing more than that.

She didn’t have any kind of plan. Didn’t even intend to talk to him.

And she knew there was something in her head that was in denial. She just didn’t understand exactly
what
it was denying...

He emerged into the sunlight a short time later; his conversation with Fearless hadn’t lasted long. Business, perhaps. She wondered what kind of business he was involved in, although it wasn’t hard to guess.

He paused and looked left and right in that way of his. Checking for threats.

Did he know how good he looked in jeans and black t-shirt, she wondered?

He spotted her, and she blinked and averted her gaze – a trick she’d learned long ago: if you just look away they see the movement of your eyes; blink and you can conceal it.

In her peripheral vision she saw him approaching.

A moment later he stood before her.

She met his look, raised an eyebrow.

He was a fighter, but he had no defenses right now.

“Kiss me,” she said, simply.

It was his turn to raise his eyebrows. For his mouth to open, close. For him to lick his lips, briefly.

“Or don’t you want to? Okay. Your chance has gone. It’s been nice talking.
¡Adiós!
”

And she turned, and walked away. Not too fast, not too slow. No looking back.

She didn’t even understand whether she wanted him to pursue her or not.

It was a dangerous game she was playing, whatever that game might be.

A deadly game, if Hristo should ever become aware of it.

Tres. Dos. Uno
. A scuffing of feet behind her.

She took the next right, plunging into cool shade, buildings cramming in from either side of the narrow alleyway.

She had expected him to follow, but didn’t expect the rough grip on her arm, the easy way he turned her.

Flashing back to the night before, her first response was to fight. No man could ever...

Then she checked her reaction, stifled it. She’d invited him. She’d toyed with him, and he’d been man enough to rise to the challenge. Man enough to...

She found herself standing with her back against a rough wall, his hand still on her arm.

She’d wanted this. Right from the first moment she’d set eyes on him.

She didn’t know if it was a revenge thing, or a simple act of liberation, of choice, but she knew she had created this situation. She had controlled it just as she had controlled men since she’d had to choose to do whatever was needed in order to survive back on the streets of Tenerife.

He was staring, eyes locked on hers.

Was he trying to read her? No... he was waiting for her to meet his look, waiting for her to acknowledge that he had taken over.

She met those blue-gray eyes, her heart thumping hard and fast in her chest.

And only then did he dip his head in, and press hard lips against hers.

His free hand moved to her waist, pulled her body against his.

She put a hand up to the back of his head, that short scrub of hair, and her body molded itself to his, her soft curves to his hard frame.

She hadn’t expected this. She’d been in control, been toying with him.

She hadn’t expected to just... melt.

And she hadn’t expected... the pressure of his powerful body against her... the way he held her...

The hardness of hip and thigh against her. That rock-hard bulge in his jeans.

All this from nowhere.

She’d never understood what it was to be swept from her feet, but now she was clinging onto him as his tongue pressed home.

She felt an incredible need. An urgency.

She didn’t react like this. Ever.

She’d never had a hair-trigger response.

She needed wooing, seduction.

To go from nothing to this
thing
that was happening, the tightness, the hunger. The bolts of pleasure racing through her body from every point of contact.

She was...

Oh my God, she was...

She clung to him, dragging her mouth away from his, burying her face in the hollow between neck and shoulder, sure he must be able to feel the rapid, fluttering of her inner muscles where he pressed against her.

She’d never done that.

Never reacted like that.

She pushed away from him. Disentangled herself. Smoothed her clothes down and hurried away down the alley and back to the street. Not looking back. Not daring to look back. And still not understanding what had just taken place.

I don’t do spontaneity. It’s too risky.

I size things up. Work out the risks and opportunities in advance.

I know I look like a scrapper, all muscle and attitude and not much else, but despite the impression I might give, I’m a thinker, too. I’d never have lasted a week in the thick of London’s gang wars if that wasn’t how I worked.

So just walking across that street wasn’t the kind of thing I ever did. Going up to her, not even having a plan, not knowing what to say or do. Not knowing how to react when she met my look and said, “Kiss me.”

It should have been simple, right?

A woman like Imelda saying a thing like that?

How could you
not?

But I hesitated a split-second too long, she smiled as if it was all a joke, and said, “Or don’t you want to? Okay. Your chance has gone. It’s been nice talking.
¡Adiós!
”

Following and kissing her was the forbidden apple, the bridge burned behind me. No going back. No way out once you’ve taken a bite.

Jesus, man...

Had the sun got to me, or something?

Here I was, setting myself up for a return to the game, trying to find that focus again, to become an
operator
, and...

The kiss. Man, the kiss.

Her lips were so soft and her mouth tasted of mint and ginger from the drink she’d had in Los Cojones.

And then... I wasn’t really sure what happened. She just kind of melted into my arms, held herself there as if she might never let go. For a moment I thought she was going to cry. Then I thought... She shuddered, gave a soft gasp, stiffened...

She peeled herself away from me, straightened, smoothed her clothes down. Up to now she’d been in command, unflustered, but for a few seconds she seemed thrown, as if she hadn’t expected me to take her up on her instruction, hadn’t expected anything like this...

And then she turned and walked away, back out into the sunlit street. Walking not too fast, not too slow.

Not looking back.

In control again.

§

I didn’t know what to make of it.

Didn’t understand.

Was left with a head full of racing thoughts and an erection straining at my jeans. An aching hardness.

When I blinked, my mind filled with snapshot memories, fragments. The flawless skin of her back, those long legs, the perfect pout of those red lips.

That wasn’t doing me any good at all.

I went back out into the street, and instantly the sun burned hot on my exposed arms. I reached up and scratched my scalp, still not accustomed to the short crop of hair I’d grown to cover the too-distinctive skull tatt on the back of my head.

I found a side-street that cut through to the waterside. Started to run, even though I wasn’t dressed for it. A fast jog, almost a sprint. Way faster than the pace I set on the treadmill in Fearless’s gym.

My feet hurt as they pounded the concrete with only the flimsy protection of my thin Converse soles, and within seconds the sweat was streaming down my body and plastering the t-shirt to my back.

I dipped my head and increased the pace, and by the time I reached my small apartment to the east side of Puerto Libre I was gasping for air, and distracted, albeit briefly, from the raging need inside.

§

For a few days I thought Fearless had forgotten about our little conversation. Or, rather, that he had discreetly decided not to follow up. Maybe he’d mentioned it on one of those long-distance calls to my old man in Wandsworth Prison, and Dad had told him not to help me back into the game, or maybe he’d just made that judgment himself.

But then the call came through and I felt bad for doubting him. Other than my brother Dean, Fearless was the one person out here I’d trust with my life.

He’d taken me at my word when I said I didn’t mind what it was – I just needed to be
doing
something again. It was a good few years since I’d stood door at a bar, but hey.

The look for security guys was a lot more casual out here and I’d modeled myself on Pablo at Los Cojones: slate gray pants, a long-sleeved white shirt, top button undone.

I showed up half an hour early and sat at a table inside, checking out the place.

Hermanos was a wine and cocktail bar on the waterfront, a couple of blocks along from Fearless’s bar. It was split over two levels, and fairly respectable on the surface, but I spotted straight away there was a lot more to it than first met the eye.

I fairly quickly spotted at least a couple of dealers staking out their territory, a few gangster faces and their entourage flashing their money around, and it was obvious the place followed what was a common model here: a bunch of rooms out at the back rented out to working girls.

When the appointed time came and I introduced myself, another of my suspicions was quickly confirmed: just like the faces hanging out here, the management were Eastern European. After all the old run-ins with Russian gangs back in London that immediately set alarm bells ringing, as I stood there in one of the back offices being eyed up by the bar’s manager.

“Fearless says you’re good,” said the guy, tipping back in his chair. He had an air of money about him, and I quickly decided he was more than just a bar manager. He was skinny, in a pale gray suit, aviator shades pushed back on his head retaining a sweep of dark brown hair and revealing small, staring eyes. “Says you’re family.”

I nodded, said nothing. I’d learned long ago that in a situation like this no-one needed a fucking Oscar speech.

“We put you on door tonight, yes? See how you do. Take it from there, yes?”

I nodded again.

“Anything you need to know?”

“The dealers,” I said. “Three of them, lower floor bar. You want them gone, or do we turn a blind eye?”

The Eastern European  – Hungarian, Rumanian, perhaps – smiled. “They good. We know them. No more though, you hear? We keep this place clean, yes?”

I nodded once more.
Clean
was a flexible concept. No dealers apart from
our
dealers; no hookers apart from ours. I understood.

This really wasn’t much different to a hundred similar clubs in London.

§

It was a quiet night until Jack the Knife showed up.

I stood door with a guy called Georgi for a time. Control the door and you run a safe club – that was always a reliable rule. Things were quiet and it really didn’t need both of us, but I’d understood straight away that they were checking me out – Georgi wasn’t the kind of guy to do door security unless there was special reason.

The only real incidents were when we turned away a Scandinavian guy who was almost certainly a dealer, only confirmed when he tried to bribe his way in with a couple of wraps of coke. And later, a rowdy but probably harmless group of drunken Liverpudlians.

Partway through the evening a couple of the girls came out to smoke. Things were clearly quiet for them, too. They were both East European and skinny as whippets. They hovered around me like bees drawn to nectar: the muscle, the new face. It was the same old story.