Hit Me (The Bailey Boys #2) (4 page)

“You want a tour inside?” said one of them, and I knew exactly what she meant. I was tempted. It had been a while, and the sexual tension stirred up by that strangely intense encounter with Imelda a few days ago still hadn’t worked itself out of my system.

But there was something in her look. Something lost.

These girls worked by ‘renting’ rooms from the bars, paying fees they could never hope to cover no matter how hard they worked. I remembered Fearless’s story of the guy who’d lost his balls and was forever tied by debt to one of the gangs. These girls’ position wasn’t that dissimilar.

I shook my head, smiling. “Working,” I said, a man of few words again.

“Maybe later?” She was kind of cute. An angular face, piercing blue eyes, pale blonde hair tied sharply back.

But even so, she had that look of being slightly lost.

I shrugged, not liking myself for the way I automatically kept my options open.

Not long after that, a guy showed up alone, making for the door.

Georgi wasn’t paying much attention by now. It’s easy for the concentration to wander, after a few hours on the door on a quiet night like this. Georgi was on something, too, which didn’t help. He had the fired-up look of a ’roid user, but there was something else, too. Speed or coke, probably.

I stepped into the new guy’s path. He was a couple of inches taller than me, but as skinny as the girls who’d just gone back inside.

“Whoa,” I said softly. People are often surprised that I’m not louder, but it’s not shouting that gives you authority, it’s attitude. This guy got that immediately, and raised his hands as if in surrender.

“Not in here, Jack,” I said.

Immediately Georgi was at my shoulder. “You know this guy, Lee? What’s up, eh?”

There was a flicker of recognition in Jack’s eyes then, which impressed me, because he was just as off his head tonight as he was the last time I’d seen him, pushing his gear in a club in London’s West End.

Back in the day we’d had one or two encounters, me and Jack. Enough for me to know his nickname came from the vintage Italian stiletto switchblade he kept tucked into the waistband of his pants, and enough for me to know the irony of his nickname was that he’d lost his edge a while back, around the time his various habits took over.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous. Even more so now, perhaps, as the drugs took away the layer of sensible restraint.

I’d calmed the situation down, though, and Jack was on the point of leaving. I had it all under control until Georgi stepped between us, and got into Jack the Knife’s face as if he was looking for a fight.

I saw the change in Jack’s eyes, the muscle twitch.

I’d have stopped him, but Georgi was in the way, and before I could do anything Jack had the knife out, the blade glinting in the streetlights as he waved it around.

Even now, Georgi didn’t seem to take the threat seriously, swaying back just a little, leering at Jack.

In the second or two all this had taken, everyone on the street had turned, sensing trouble. More faces lined the bar window, everyone spoiling for a fight, something to liven up the evening.

“He’s off his head, Georgi,” I said softly. “I know him. He’s–”

But even as I spoke, Georgi took a step forward, calling Jack’s bluff.

Jack was in no frame of mind for games, though. His equations were far simpler than that. He saw Georgi advance, and reacted. His fist drew back, like a boxer preparing for a short-arm jab.

I could see what was coming, as if in slow motion.

Could see that was no punch because he was gripping the knife.

One step forward, a short backlift, and I swung my fist into Jack’s face with all my 220 pounds of weight behind it.

It was almost like something out of a cartoon. I swear his feet lifted off the ground as his head jerked back and then his body followed.

I heard the meaty thud as he hit the cobblestones, the clatter of the knife landing somewhere nearby, the collective gasp of the onlookers.

Jack the Knife was out cold, and my fist had that satisfying ache of the impact.

My heart raged.

I wanted to follow through, make sure the bastard stayed down.

I’d been away from this game for too long.

But I stopped myself.

As I say, I’m not just about the muscle, the fists. I’m a thinker, too. And just as I knew when to let instinct kick in and my fists do the work, I understood when it was time to think about things, and over-rule those instincts.

Georgi turned to look at me, the world still feeling as if it were in slow-motion.

“The fuck was
that?
” he said.

§

I finished at midnight, even though the club would be open until much later. It was just a try-out, after all.

As instructed, I went to the bar and one of the girls poured me a tall beer. I was ready for it, but not here. The place didn’t feel right. I just wanted to pick up the few notes that were owed me and I’d be on my way.

The guy I’d spoken to before extracted himself from a small group at a nearby table and came over to join me. He had the look, and that was one reason I didn’t want to stick around. I didn’t care that he was a gangster, but he had dangerous eyes – an anger, a coke stare that had only grown more intense as the evening grew old.

“Georgi, he tell me you did good,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder.

“Bit of a scrap, that’s all,” I said. “It was mostly quiet.”

The guy nodded.

“You want maybe a little more work? Something regular?”

I shook my head, and his eyes widened immediately. He clearly wasn’t accustomed to being turned down.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m just freelancing at the moment. I don’t want to get... involved in anything.”

Right from the off, it had been clear that this evening’s try-out was exactly what I’d told Fearless I didn’t want.
Career development
, he’d called it. He’d set me up to try out for work with one of the East European gangs. It was obvious this guy’s business operations extended far beyond a single bar.

Once you get involved in an operation like that, there would never be an easy way out, and it was certainly not something I’d consider until I was damned sure I was comfortable with who they were and what they did.

I didn’t need my career developing. I just needed to get that buzz back.

“You don’t know what I’m offering.”

I smiled, an easy relaxed smile that nearly always served to disarm. “Like I say, I’m not looking for a regular gig. I’m sorry if I gave any other impression. Just getting a feel for things again. I’m happy to listen if something comes up – you know now that I’m a safe pair of hands. But I’m new here, just finding my way around.”

He backed down. Maybe the smile had defused things, maybe he thought I was playing hard to get, maybe he thought he already had me hooked and just had to take his time reeling me in. Whatever.

He stepped forward, took my hand and shook it firmly.

“I like you,” he said. “And there’s not many people I like, you know? Here’s your money, and a little extra for your trouble, yes?”

He handed over a fold of notes, which I pocketed without checking.

“You stay for another drink?” He indicated his group at the nearby table.

“No. Thanks, but no.” And with that I turned away and made for the door, hoping this guy didn’t think he’d somehow bought a stake in me.

Imelda had known straight away Lee Bailey was a man she would see again. Even before he’d taken her by the arm, almost brutally pushed her up against that wall and kissed her. Even before all those different elements had somehow combined – the hard physical contact, the kiss, the intensity, the sense of being overpowered – and she’d clung to him, gasping and dizzy and almost overcome by the abruptness of her own response.

No-one had ever made her come like that before. She wouldn’t have believed it possible until it happened.

It was purely a physical thing. She understood that.

An attraction. A magnetism. One that was clearly mutual.

It was also perhaps the most reckless thing she’d ever done.

Waiting for him in full view.

The kiss.

Any sane person would have drawn the line at that, if they’d even let it go that far.

Any sane person would have clamped down on the thoughts that followed over succeeding days.

The memories were fine, perhaps. Something to roll over in your mind as you lay alone in bed. Fuel for the imagination. Fuel for the dreams, for more than once she had woken in the early hours, hot and panting, a wet heat between her legs.

But to even think there might be a re-run. That there might be something more.

That was utter madness.

And to sit here at a table in the street outside Los Momentos, toying with her drink, just waiting... Waiting because you knew the man you had learned was Lee Bailey from London – one of the Bailey Boys, of whom she had never heard but who clearly had a reputation in their home town – would likely pass this way after his trial shift at Hermanos.

That went beyond insanity.

That was a death wish... for both of them.

§

Los Momentos was still busy, even after midnight, as many bars were here on the Costa.

By the time Imelda saw Lee Bailey, he had already spotted her. That thing of his, assessing everything, always trying to keep one step ahead.

His eyes were on her, and she tried to be strong enough not to check again, to cling confidently to the knowledge that he must still be looking.

She sipped at her drink, and allowed herself to peer over the rim of the glass.

He was walking by.

He’d seen her and decided not to react.

That was the worst thing of all.

Humiliating.

And, in many ways, such a blessed relief. Just let him walk by, let this madness pass.

Then he glanced across, made eye contact, and that was it.

“You’re waiting for me.” His voice was so soft, a total contrast to everything else about his manner.

“I drink here often.”

“Alone at half past midnight.”

“I like my own company, and the night is wasted on sleep.”

He lowered himself into a chair across the table from her.

“We cannot do this,” she said, and she meant it. Now that him sitting here before her was a reality, it brought home just how wrong it was. How risky.

His mouth opened as if to speak, then he stopped himself. She’d thrown him. He tried again. “Do what? What are we doing?”

“This.” As if he should somehow understand what was in her mind.

He turned his head, sweeping left to right. “It seems harmless enough to me,” he said.

“It is dangerous,” she said. “If you are seen here, drinking with me... I am the poisoned chalice.”

“I survived kissing you.”

She looked away, felt color rising to her cheeks.

“How was your evening at Hermanos, Señor Bailey?”

His eyes narrowed a little at that. For a man who assessed every possible risk, her use of his name and knowledge of his evening were warning signs.

“It is okay,” she went on. “I asked about you. I wanted to know what kind of a man would do such a thing.” As if the kiss had been all his doing.

“And what did you find out?”

“That you and your brother came here from London earlier this year. That you have a reputation: a hard man, not to be crossed. That you have just spent the evening working for Hristo Markov, who is a man who would not hesitate to have you killed if he saw you here now.”

He put his hands on the table. “I’m getting up now,” he said. “And I’m leaving.”

“That would be sensible.”

But they had already gone way beyond sensible.

He didn’t make any further move to leave.

“We go inside, yes?” she said. “Sitting out here, it scares me a little.”

§

They passed through the public bar to a smaller room. A few people sat at the handful of tables, but it was a lot more private than sitting in the main bar, or at the outside tables.

“So why would Markov have me killed just for having a drink with you?” Lee was studying Imelda closely, trying to work her out.

“You met him, yes? Hristo is a man who doesn’t fool around.”

“And you’re with him?”

She looked away.

A waitress came over for their drinks order. When Imelda looked up again, Lee was studying her, still waiting for a response.

“It’s complicated,” she said, finally.

“Isn’t everything? I’m learning that. On the face of it everything’s so easy here. Laid back. But scratch the surface...”

“...and you find Hristo.” It was like talking to Fearless the other day. She didn’t know where to start, how much to say. “In answer to your question, I was with him, yes. But not now. It is just... he is not an easy man to leave, if you understand?”

“Possessive.”

She nodded. Their drinks came, and she took a long sip of her Negroni, savoring its sharp bitterness. Lee had whiskey on ice.

“We don’t... you know.” She felt the need to explain, to excuse what had happened before.

“I could tell.” He was joking. Teasing her. He knew – she’d thought she had disguised what had happened as he held her, but clearly not.

“I could have just walked,” he said. “Out there, when you told me about Markov. I don’t need complications.”

“What stopped you?”

“Your eyes.” He paused, drawing her into his look. “Something in them. I couldn’t just walk away.”

“You could walk away now. You should.”

Instead, he raised his drink again, took a sip, clenched his jaw as the spirit burned his throat.

She realized then that she had come here to use Lee Bailey. That thing where a part of her mind understood what she was up to, but hid it. Did she have a split personality, or was it simply that she had many protective layers, a defense built up over the years?

Use him for that raw, animal response he had woken within her. He had stirred up needs she had long since suppressed and forgotten. Responses she had never even known she had.

But use him also for who he was. Lee Bailey. One of the Bailey Boys. A gangster who might just prove to be a match for Hristo Markov. She didn’t know how, but...