What I did not expect was to be sitting in Fulcort with a raging hard-on for some chick visiting her old man.
But there you have it.
Fuck.
I’ve been coming here once a month for the last three years to see my father and I have never laid eyes on that woman before. I’d remember. Those sharp cheekbones, that thick jet-black hair. Those fat fucking lips, the kind that were made for wrapping around my cock and sucking slowly. She’s hiding her body in baggy clothes—standard protocol, though she’s taken it to the extreme; she’s one step away from men’s sweatpants—but her arms are toned, her neck is slender and long, her olive skin looks silky soft. I’m a betting man and I’d bet there’s a tight ass and tits that sway when she’s riding hard hiding beneath all that.
I didn’t even notice her at first. I came in, settled into my dad’s usual table in the corner of the room, and started surveying all the degenerates filling the room on this fine Saturday afternoon, killing time until Dad decided to grace me with his presence.
And then I spotted her over there, her pretty brow furrowed in worry as she leaned over the table to get as close to the man as possible without setting off the guards, and I haven’t been able to peel my gaze away since.
It’s been forever and a day since a woman has stirred my blood like this.
What’s even more interesting is that she and the guy she’s visiting—her dad, maybe?—leaned in to share a few whispered words and then those big, brown eyes of hers shifted to the inmates coming in.
To my father.
With wariness, she watched him stroll all the way over, and that’s how, bingo, we’re now eye-fucking each other. At least, that’s what I’m doing.
Until I can get out of here, track her down, and switch to straight-up fucking.
My dad settles his girth into the stiff chair across from me. Somehow he’s managed to pack on fifty pounds eating shitty prison food peppered with the odd steak dinner. “You’re late,” he mutters in his typical gruff voice.
“You have somewhere else you need to be?” I throw back before I can bite my tongue. If he wasn’t going to complain about that, it’d be about something else. Still, he doesn’t take too kindly to attitude, and Dad’s bad side is not one you ever want to be on, blood-related or not. “Got caught up with work,” I lie. “Who’s that new guy over there? Number seven.” I nod toward the table.
“What do I look like? Fucking four-one-one?” he snaps back, irritated.
I shrug, acting all nonchalant. “He seemed interested in you when you came in, is all.”
Dad’s bushy eyebrows furrow with the glare he shoots me before peering over his shoulder. “New fish. A nobody,” he declares.
It’s at that precise moment that my future lay glances our way. Her chocolate-brown eyes flare and then snap back, her face paling. Yeah, I’d say she got the skinny on who my father is, and it scares her. But will she be scared of me too? If so, what can I do to ease her fears?
My dick twitches with eagerness.
Dad shakes his head. “How’s the club doing? You and Caleb haven’t run it into the ground yet?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s running smooth.” Better than smooth, and he knows it. He likes to talk about Empire like it’s his club, like it was his idea in the first place. He had nothing to do with it. My older brother and I purchased an old factory warehouse and converted it into a nightclub eight years ago. It’s gone through several identity transformations but it’s found its stride, catering to high-end clientele with cash to burn and people to impress. A one hundred percent legitimately run business, as far as any law enforcement is concerned. And, trust me, they’ve tried to prove otherwise. That’s the downside of being the sons of Vlad Easton: you have the Feds and the IRS crawling up your ass on the regular.
“Peter was here last week.” His cold gray eyes watch me. “He said our friends have been causing problems for Harriet again.”
By friends, Dad means the cartel, aka nobody’s friend, and by causing problems for Harriet, he means venturing farther into US territory and encroaching on my family’s foothold in the lucrative cocaine and heroin trade, a business that my father and his brother, Peter, have been nurturing for decades, originating with a supply arrangement from “our friends” down south.
A business that has amassed us impressive wealth and power.
“So what’s Peter going to do?” I ask carefully. My uncle is a crazy fuck—almost as crazy as my dad, who isn’t quite as crazy as the cartel.