Page 20 of The Professional
Forrest sighed at Jagger’s high pitched words interrupting their moment. Rourke took a step back and turned toward the entrance of the closet. “Why are you naked in Forrest’s room, Jagger?”
Forrest glanced around Rourke’s shoulder and rolled his eyes. Jagger stood there with nothing on, his uncut cock in full view. Embarrassment wasn’t a word most of the workers knew in the Virtue because they were proud of their bodies, and Jagger had no excuse not to be. While he mostly bottomed for clients, he had the fattest cock Forrest seen. If Jagger didn’t look like a twink, Forrest might have been tempted to ask Jagger to fuck him, just so he could feel the burn. But Jagger wasn’t his type, not like Rourke.
“I took a shower.” Jagger shot him his most charming grin and rested one hand on the threshold, the other on his hip. “What’s happening here?”
“This is none of your business.” Rourke checked the silver watch on his right wrist. “And your client will be here soon. He likes being early. Get to your room and get dressed.”
“But—”
“Now!” Rourke raised his voice, and Jagger spun on his heel and nearly ran out of Forrest’s room, still butt naked. Then Rourke turned raised eyebrows on Forrest. “You let him use your shower?”
“Why not?”
“You’re not friends.”
Forrest chuckled. “That’s kind of true, but now he owes me.”
Rourke crossed his arms, the light beige jacket pulling over his wide shoulders. “And what can he give you that you’d want?” Accusation lingered heavily in his tone, and Forrest wanted the reason behind that attitude to be jealousy. Anyone with eyes could tell Jagger owned a nice cock.
Forrest merely winked. “That’s my secret, sweetheart. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have clients today too.”
“No, you don’t,” Rourke said, making Forrest stop just as he’d stood and turned to grab a pair of pants off a hanger. He looked back at Rourke with a frown. “What you didn’t hear last night, when you were very intoxicated and breaking the rules, was that Sloan has called a meeting of his generals. It’s when all his high players get together and discuss important issues. He wants me to come, give an update on the Diaz situation. I asked if you could come too, as you know exactly what Adrian said to you.”
“Are you kidding?” The thought of going anywhere near the mob boss’s generals terrified Forrest. He’d heard stories about what kind of men they were, and he’d happily have nothing to do with them. Being a professional meant the most the cops could get him on was solicitation, but by going to Killough’s house, anything they plan during that meeting would put Forrest in the shit. “No. Absolutely not. I need the money, and you can’t cancel on my clients.”
“Too late.” Rourke opened one of the drawers and tugged out a pair of frilly pink underwear made of silk and then threw it at him. “They’re canceled, and Sloan wants you there.”
“How could you do this to me?” Forrest asked, shaking his head. “I don’t get involved in mob matters.”
“And you won’t. You’re just there to tell them what happened, that’s the only time you’ll be in the meeting room with them.”
“But what if—”
Rourke stepped closer and gathered Forrest into his arms, dragging him against his hard body. Forrest buried his face into Rourke’s neck, inhaling the fresh scent of his cologne. The coldness of Rourke’s chain and cross brushed across Forrest’s palm and he shivered. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”
“Okay.”
Maybe Forrest was an idiot for trusting Rourke, but what choice did he have?
Chapter Six
Two hours later, Forrest found himself at the gates of the mansion Sloan Killough called his home. Conall, Rourke, and Forrest had ridden there with the guards in a small BMW limo, chatting the entire way there. They talked about the old days, and what happened in the Virtue while Conall was still coprovocateur, much to Rourke’s obvious distaste. Every time Forrest and Conall laughed, his mouth twisted and he glared at them, which only made them laugh harder.
“Think someone’s jealous,” Conall whispered in Forrest’s ear.
“I hope so,” Forrest responded just as quietly. “We kissed last night.”
“No shit? Was that before you were passed out drunk?”
Forrest poked him in the ribs, and it made Conall laugh. “Shut up.” The guards shifted in their seats, eyes narrowed on Forrest carefully, as though he would pull out a knife and lodge it in Conall’s chest right then and there. “I think they want to kill me.”
Conall rolled his eyes. “Nah, they just don’t want anything to happen to me. Sloan would put a bullet in their head.” He said it so casually, as though was only mentioning taking out the trash.
Forrest winced, remembering the night of the shootout at the Virtue. He’d been terrified, and after Killough swept Conall away, Forrest exited Terrance’s office to see the mess left behind. Countless workers were dead, bullet holes in their chests and faces. There were more dead workers than what there were Italians, but according to one of Killough’s soldiers, the Italians fled like cowards when they realized they weren’t going to win.
That moment remained a vivid image in Forrest’s mind. The blood, the holes in the walls, the bodies. Some nights he still had nightmares of the Italian killing Conall before he found Forrest and Terrance under the desk and did the same to them. One bullet in the head each.
Forrest shuddered.
