Sweet Release (A Bad Boy Mafia Romance) (5 page)

“Will do,” he said quietly.

I rotated his leg toward me, pressing the blade of my hand against his inner thigh as I did until I felt that tendon stand out like a rope under his skin. Not a lot of flexibility there just now, but I leaned into it a bit and waited until the muscle started to release. My hand sank a bit further in, and I moved it a hand-width up his thigh to press on the next portion.

He breathed hard, but just gave me a nod when I asked if he was okay. So I kept going, pushing the stretch a little more, moving my hand up by inches at a time.

It wasn’t that I meant to go where I shouldn’t have. Not consciously, anyway. The muscle in his groin really was tense, and intractable, and so I leaned into it and made long, slow circles with the heel of my hand to get it to let go.

It just so happened that this particular spot was, I guess, for Mike… sort of a hot spot. That wasn’t uncommon—it was for me, too—but you can’t argue with anatomy; there were muscles and nerves all in the same place and they were going to cause problems for him if they stayed that tight.

Mike gave a little grunt. Not the kind that said I was going to deep. It felt good. Really good. And I could have stopped… but I didn’t. I got a flush of mischievous amusement, and pressed deeper; rubbed slower. The leviathan under the sheet stirred, started to wake and swell.

Mike was breathing hard. He swallowed, loud enough that I could hear it. “Jeez,” he whispered. “Sorry.”

“It happens,” I said. “Just ignore it.”

He didn’t answer. I gave him one more round, and on the last long, stretching stroke against his tendon I let my hand slip just a little too far. My fingers grazed him, and his cock stood straight up before it finally fell back against his stomach—not entirely, but not pointing at my face.

“That’s, uh, probably good for today,” Mike said nervously. “Maybe we better ease me into it.”

I repositioned his leg on the table, and nodded slowly, more to myself than to him—his eyes were still closed. Probably to ashamed to look at me. That was gentlemanly, but… in other circumstances, he’d have had absolutely nothing to be ashamed about. He was packing some serious heat.

“We’ll work the other leg next time,” I said. “Probably a good idea to alternate, so you’re not walking funny.”

“Sure,” he said, his words just a little clipped. “Sounds good. Um… so…”

“I’ll step out,” I told him, and gave him a pat on the chest that I probably shouldn’t have. Either because it was too much like a ‘there there’ pat—poor thing, sorry about your boner!—or because it was maybe just a little to appreciative—thanks for the show, buddy! I couldn’t decide, and didn’t stick around to try and do it. Instead, I left him to dress.

When I stood outside the door, in the suddenly relative cool of the still sweltering gym—God, it had gotten hot in there, hadn’t it?—I did my best not to smile like an idiot. I’d gotten Mr. Mike hard, and as much as it was my professional duty not to take any pleasure in that… I really, really did.

I schooled my demeanor to calm, cool and collected when he came out. He passed me a ten, and then frowned. “Uh, that’s not for… I mean, not because…”

“It’s okay,” I said. “It happens all the time. Not a huge deal. I mean, I’m not saying it wasn’t… um… just…” I sighed, closed my eyes. Good job. Lets draw all the attention to the elephant cock in the room. “I meant to say it doesn’t make me think any different of you.” That was at least mostly true.

“Still,” he said, “I didn’t mean it to get like that. I wasn’t thinking anything, you know… like that.”

I took the ten. “Thanks.”

“Yeah. So, I’ll come see you again soon. I… don’t always get a chance to check in with Alice, though. Do you have like… a number, or an email or… something?”

I smiled. He seemed so shy about it, which made me wonder why exactly why he wanted my number. I could have told him that he could call the gym any time he wanted to book with me but… I decided him having my number might not be the worst thing.

So I handed him one of my handful of business cards. “It’s my personal number on there, so… you know if you get the voice mail or something don’t be surprised. I can’t really afford a separate business line yet is all.”

“Oh, sure,” he said. “I get that. So… I’ll call you.”

“Good,” I said. “I’d like that.”

“I mean to book a session,” he clarified, as if I needed it.

I grinned at him and tried my damnedest not to look at all feral or hungry for him which, I realized, I very much was. God, it had been years. Six long years, and four vibrators, and martial arts training was not the only itch I needed to scratch.

We parted awkwardly, and I watched him walk toward the back of the gym, where the locker rooms and showers were.

On second though, he filled those gym shorts out just fine.

Michael

Friday evening came around no matter how much I hoped it would just stay away. Tony couldn’t be put off forever, so I cleaned up as much as I could. I called him before I left, just to make sure he didn’t have something else going on that would get me out of it.

He didn’t—he’d had business earlier, but it was all done now and he already had pasta on the stove. You wouldn’t have thought it to look at him, but Tony had learned to cook from Ma, and he was pretty good at it. He had a weird collection of talents like that. Not all of them about how to break bones.

I hadn’t gotten another massage from Ella—or used her number. I’d thought about it, but especially now I’d think about Tony at almost the same time. I imagined stupid stuff like introducing Ella to my brother. Not that she and me were gonna go anywhere but, I mean, why else do you bother, right? Prison had lost me my taste in one night stands and regular broads. I had lots of ‘em before I went to the big house, and you know how many came to see me? Nada.

So, naturally I thought ahead. And the future didn’t look bright.

Now, if Tony had his say, I’d be hitched up to one of those pretty little Scapone gals with the horse teeth. They already liked Tony, but that was only because they were part of the Family in the first place and seeing one of them came with worse strings than dinner with my brother probably did.

I pushed all that out of my mind when I left the gym. I was only a little surprised when, on my walk to the bus stop, a black Lincoln pulled up to me. The passenger side window rolled down, and a mook that I kinda recognized but whose name I couldn’t remember craned toward me from the driver side. “Hey! Mikey Frazetta! Tony said you was out. How bout a lift?”

Paranoid, though probably for no good reason, I looked up and down the sidewalk. This was the sort of thing cops took pictures of right here, and then trotted out in court six months from now as proof I was up to no good. No one I could see, though. “Tony send you?” I asked.

“Nah, well… he said I should drive by about this time, and offer you a ride if you so happened to be leaving work. You was, so I did. You can walk if you want, though; no sweat off my back.” He slicked his hair back, shrugged and waited for an answer.

I sighed, and nodded once. I got in the back; that was the way you did it, and he didn’t comment, just started chatting at me from the rear-view mirror. I tuned most of it out, and answered with one-word mutters. Yep. Nope. Uh-huh. Dunno. Sure.

Twenty minutes of that, and he stopped in front of Tony’s place.

Tony made good money, but his wealth was mostly in connections. His apartment had moved in the last four years—now it was at the top floor of an old tenement building; but at least it was the whole top floor. I took the elevator up, and had to steel myself against what was probably gonna be a non-stop sales pitch.

Not that Tony didn’t miss me—I was sure he did—but he’d only really ever had one thing on his mind before I went in, and I doubted that had changed. This life was perfect for Tony, and he never understood why it wouldn’t be perfect for me. “It’s good money, good women, good everything! What’s not to like?” All arguments I’d heard a hundred times. To Tony, not wanting to get paid to hurt people as an enforcer for Don Luchese didn’t make any sense at all.

But that was because hurting people came naturally to Tony. I had to work at it.

I hit the buzzer to his door, and waited.

Tony had gained a little weight in the last four years. He’d always had the same square, squat face with eyes that made it look too wide, but he hadn’t always had quite that chin. I guessed life was treating him good. Ma used to say a fat man was a happy man.

“Mikey!” Tony bellowed when he saw me. He grabbed my face in both his big hands, one of them wielding a foot long knife, and laughed out loud. “You got big! Look at you!”

“Yeah,” I muttered, and eyed the knife when he dropped his hands and urged me inside. “So did you, you fat fuck. What happened?”

Tony snorted. “What, this?” He patted the growing paunch over his belly. “This is hard earned, Mikey. It’s all the red meat. Hey, watch this!” He pointed at the big screen in the living room.

I shook my head, and barely saw what happened, but Tony barked a laugh. On the television was some old Looney Toons cartoon, Bugs Bunny and the bald guy with the speech impediment. Tony had loved that stuff since he was too young to walk. Ma used to say it was the only thing that kept him occupied, he could sit and watch the tapes they recorded off the TV for hours without moving. I wondered if that didn’t have something to do with what was wrong with Tony.

Because I loved my brother, and he loved me, and he had his magnanimous moments, don’t get me wrong. But there was definitely always something wrong with Tony.

As I came around the corner of his wide, black-granite topped kitchen island, I spotted a spot of rust-red on his shirt collar, stark against the clean white. “Been busy?” I asked.

“No more than usual,” he said. “How about you? New job working out? How they paying you?”

Here we go. “They pay enough. I don’t got a lotta needs, you know. So, it’s enough.”

“Yeah?” Tony asked. He was slicing steak and tossing it into a pan. God it smelled good, too. Like being in Ma’s kitchen again. “Where you living now?”

“I got a place,” I told him. “Comfortable enough for me.”

“Alright, alright,” Tony said. “I get it. I hear you.”

“Your guys can’t tell you where I live?” I asked. “They got everything else.”

He shrugged. “Some of them are new, you know; not as many connections. Plus, some of our guys got put away, so…” He didn’t even try to deny he’d had me followed. To Tony, that was just due diligence.

He threw the last of the steak into the pan and tossed it, sprinkled a few spices in, and liberally drizzled olive oil over it all. “That’ll take about five minutes,” he muttered. He wiped his hands on a towel, and then leaned on the counter. “So. Seen anybody else from the Family yet?”

I just had Tony, so when he said that he meant the wider Family—Don Luchese’s family. “Nah, Tony,” I told him, waving it off. “Look it’s fine to visit and, you know, if they wanna drop by and catch up that’s fine with me but… I wanna keep a little space, you know?”

Tony sighed, and shook his head slowly. “What kinda future you think you really got right now? The Family can help, Mikey.”

“No,” I corrected him, “the Family can help in exchange for my muscle. I don’t want that.”

“Nothings free, brother,” he said. He checked the pasta, stirred it, wrinkled his nose in concentration and then let it boil on. “But that’s your own choice. Tell me how you like the gym. You training, teaching, what?”

“I’m a trainer,” I said, “but I’m working with the owner, Jarome Tyson—”

“No shit,” Tony said, “I heard that—he’s the boxer?”

“Yeah. He doesn’t box anymore, but, he’s the one you’re thinking of.”

Tony whistled. “He must know people. You should introduce us sometime.”

All business, all the time. Tony lived and breathed the Business. I kept looking at his nose, and hadn’t realized why until it occurred to me it was at the wrong angle. “What happened to your nose?” I asked, hoping for a change of subject.

“What this?” He held it up, turned his face one way and the other. “Got a little plastic surgery. The cheap kind.”

I laughed a little, but pushed him. “Some guy put up a fight?”

“Eh, you know; sometimes they got a little fight to put up. It was nothing.” Except, when it came to Tony’s exploits, and just between him and me, he never skipped the details. Plus, his attention became very quickly riveted on his cooking. It set alarms off for me.

“Tony, what’s up?”

Tony shrugged. “Nothing. Just a hard couple months. It happens. I’m fine though. And me and the Don are fine, so, that’s all that matters.”

When things weren’t fine with the Don, the Don frequently sent Tony to correct whatever the error had been. “He send somebody to shake you down, Tony?”

“What? Luchese? No, no, no,” he waved his hands to brush the suggestion away. “Nah, there was just a couple situations got out of hand is all. I took some licks. Wanted to go put things right myself but… I don’t know, the Don’s gone just a little soft since his son died, and said I should turn the other cheek.”

My eyes went wide. “Shit. Billy Luchese?”

Tony nodded, casually, like the Don’s losing his only living heir wasn’t that big a deal. It would be when the Don died—he was a scrappy old man when I’d known him, but immortal he wasn’t. “Shit, Tony… so, what, he lost his teeth?”

“More like, he’s been pulling teeth and putting new ones in,” Tony mused. “Hey, that’s good. I’m gonna remember that.”

“I don’t know what that means, Tony,” I admitted.

He didn’t answer until after he’d finally drained the pasta, arranged it into colorful swirled lumps on broad, thick white plates, and then drizzled a thick white garlic sauce and topped both with steak strips and finished it off with a squeeze of lemon a sprig of some herb or another. “Don’t eat that,” he explained, “it’s garnish.”

I stared at the plate. Tony had skills, sure; this was a hobby.

“Tony, how long you been off the street?”

Tony shrugged. “I’m not. I’m just, you know… more like middle management for the moment. That’s all. I do like… tactical assessments, planning, delegating… recruitment.”

“Tony, don’t,” I sighed. Finally, the point of the dinner.

Around a mouthful of pasta he said, “Look, just gotta talk to him. Tha’s all. He likes you. It’s a good thing. Good money, too,” he swallowed, and pointed his fork at me. “And if you wanna fight later on, we’ll get into that to. Diversify. But, you know we run the cage matches at the docks. Not a bad place to get into. Less rules, you know? More fun that way.”

People died in the cage matches—bloody, awful deaths. The point wasn’t to be better skilled, and fight someone carefully matched to your level; the point was to beat someone unconscious with your bare hands for entertainment. Of course Tony loved the cages. Sure it was a thrill but… it was a signed and stamped ticket back to the house, too.

“I can’t get involved in that shit, Tony,” I said.

“You didn’t used to be such a pussy,” Tony said. “When’d you get so straight?”

“When I went to prison, Tony,” I said, head shaking. How did he not get that?

“Lots of guys go to prison,” Tony argued. “The Don puts money away for you, when you get out, you get the whole lump. It’s a sweet deal.”

“Assuming you break legs for him when you do,” I muttered.

“Well, yeah,” Tony said. Of course that was the way it was; why would it be any other way, Mikey? What world did I live in that I didn’t understand how it worked?

“I don’t got your warped view of things,” I told him. “Leave it. It ain’t for me.”

Tony tapped his fork on the counter. He was nervous. Odd, for him.

“What?” I asked. I put my fork down on the plate. If this was really all there was to this visit, I was done.

“Just… I told the Don I’d have a talk with you. I was… optimistic.”

“Jesus, Tony—why’d you do that?”

“I figured, you know, if I got you here, and you heard me out… I mean it makes sense. The Don don’t care if you got a record; what else you gonna do? Be a grunt forever? It’s not even your fault, Mikey—the Pembry dick set you up. So, what, you got screwed by the system and couldn’t get enough?”

“I just want to be far away from all this,” I sighed. “To live my life on my own terms, Tony. Not by yours, or the Don’s. Jesus… what’s he gonna do when he finds out you couldn’t get me on board?”