Page 18 of Carnal Urges
Frustrated with myself, I close my eyes and draw a deep breath.
I’m not normally distracted like this. Even around a woman with a tight little body like hers.Especiallyaround a woman with such an extreme case of verbal diarrhea.
I like the quiet ones. The submissive ones. The ones who don’t make me want to tear out my hair and set myself on fire. For every hour I spend in her company, my sympathy for her ex-boyfriend Stavros grows.
Ex-lover. Ex-whatever. I’m starting to think the man is a saint.
I kick off my shoes and head into the kitchen to pour myself a whiskey. I drink that one and pour another. Then I go to the wall of windows in the living room and stand looking at the incredible glittering view of Boston at night and swallow a scream.
I never wanted this.
This responsibility. This life.
I was always the man in the background. The one behind the curtain, cleaning up messes and bringing up the rear.
I have no appetite for fame. I prefer to operate in the shadows. Now I’ll have every single head of organized crime around the world in my fucking face.
I’ll have to negotiate with them. Make treaties with them.Workwith them, when all I want to do is burn their brutal empires to the ground.
But as a wise man once told me long ago, the best way to kill a nest of snakes is from the inside. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer” and all that shite.
The Russians. The Chinese. The Italians. The Armenians. The Mexicans… the list goes on. When I started this so long ago, I thought I’d be making the world a better place. I thought I’d be making innocent people safer.
But I’ve learned the hard way that as soon as one snake dies,another takes its place. There are always more bad guys. There’s an endless, unlimited supply.
It makes me wonder if I’ve made any difference at all.
I pass a hand over my face, shake off the gloom, and go back to the kitchen to pour a glass of water. I leave it on the nightstand next to a quietly slumbering Sloane, then head to the shower.
After that, I dress in a fresh suit and put on a pot of strong black coffee.
I’ll need it.
Because as soon as the sun comes up, a parade of visitors will arrive from all over to pay their respects to their new king.
SEVEN
SLOANE
When I wake, it takes a moment to orient myself to the strange room.
Everything is done in shades of gray and black. The furnishings are contemporary and masculine. An unlit fireplace dominates one side of the room. A sofa and chairs are clustered into a sitting area nearby. Heavy black drapes are drawn across the windows so the room is dark, but a pale glow from an open door across from me provides enough light to see my surroundings.
I sit up, shivering. I have no idea what time it is or how much time has passed, but I’m starving, and I have to pee.
The glass of water on the nightstand sits there like a dare.
Ignoring it because it’s probably drugged, I swing my legs over the side of the king-size bed and pad across plush carpeting toward the open door. Inside it, I find a massive master bathroom. Automatic lights come on when I enter, illuminating acres of white marble and glass.
I use the toilet, then rummage around in the drawers under thesinks until I find a tube of toothpaste. I do the best I can to brush my teeth with my finger, then wash my face and attempt to tame my snarled hair with my hands.
It doesn’t work. I look exactly like what I am: a kidnapping victim.
Except I hate that word. I’ve gone to great lengths to avoid having it pinned on me. Once you accept the victim label, it sticks.
Get it together, Sloane. Take a deep breath and remember who the fuck you are.
I close my eyes, center myself, and clear my mind.
