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Duke
Since I’d gottenoff the phone with Serena, I’d been hard as a rock, contemplating both quick and slow with my vixen. The big problem was going to be getting some alone time to explore each other. I didn’t do girlfriends, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t spend more than my usual night or two with her. Right? Suddenly, my brain and body were all about making deals.
My phone buzzed with a call from Jordy. “What do you have?”
“She just got a text from the same number as the threatening call yesterday.”
I tensed, pushing aside my daydream. “What does it say?”
“You didn’t obey. There will be consequences.”
“Asshole.” My blood boiled. “Any luck tracking it down?”
He laughed. “You should know that’s impossible if the guy knows what he’s doing, and so far, this guy does. Still voice-over-IP bounced a million ways. But Winston is making progress on the car.”
“Put me on speaker.”
Winston’s voice carried anger. “Too fucking many black or dark Suburbans in this town, but with her note that he had no front license plate, I narrowed it down. So far I’ve tracked him to West Hollywood, but I’m still going through footage and don’t have where he parked yet.”
“License?”
“Only a partial. It has mud on it.”
“Convenient.” That was an old-school trick. “Good work, Winston. Let me know when you find it. I’d like to pay this dirtbag a visit.” I clenched my fist and visualized breaking somebody’s nose, to start with.
“You got it,” he said.
“And?” Jordy asked.
“And what?”
“And what about me?”
Remembering Serena’s lesson, I dutifully told him, “Thank you for everything, Jordy.” She’d already trained him to expect it. Then, I ended the call, leaned back in my chair, closed my eyes, and visualized something better than breaking the asshole’s nose—Serena in my bed, her hair fanned out on the pillow and a sheet splayed across her waist, revealing those luscious tits, tits that called to me.
Who the hell am I?It had been one fucking day, one fucking make-out session, or rather one finger-fucking session, and hell, all of her called to me in a way I wasn’t used to.
Maybe it was that we’d been interrupted before I got off. That had to be it because this wasn’t me. Old Cobra would’ve been calling up Ursula for a sure thing. Maybe this was like that sci-fi TV show where the alien gave off super pheromones, like a love potion to anyone around.
Yeah, that could be it.
Two hours later,Lucas called. “I’m outside. Let’s go. We found the Suburban.”
I bounded down the stairs of the office building and jumped into Lucas’s Aston Martin DBS. I didn’t like the poor visibility in this low sports car, but with a V12, it sure could haul ass. It was even faster than the company Porsche Turbo GTs. The exhaust sounds were music to any car guy’s ears. And it made a statement to arrive in a James Bond car.
“Winston didn’t call me,” I said as he took off going east.
“I told him not to.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because I couldn’t have you race off there alone. It’s in West Hollywood.”
“Do we know who was driving?”
“It’s parked behind Babushka Irena’s restaurant.”
I whistled. “Holy shit.” That was Russian mob territory. West Hollywood had the highest concentration of Russians in the country outside of New York City.
