Love and Law (3 page)

I want to tell him to stop, but my body is already thrashing with an intense and long-overdue orgasm. “Oh God!” I scream out as my body shudders wildly beneath his tongue, which doesn’t seem to want to stop. I’m still shaking from the aftershocks of the orgasm when I feel a thick finger slide into my wet opening.

“You’re killing me,” I pant as he starts finger-fucking me.

I finally risk opening my eyes, and my heart sinks as I realize what we’re doing—what we shouldn’t be doing. This will only lead him on.

“Miguel, stop,” I huff out.

Ignoring me once again, he dips his head down and sucks my oversensitive clit into his mouth.

‘FUCK!” I cry out as he urges in another finger and fucks me expertly.

“You’re so tight,” he praises before he sets to licking my clit like it’s a melting Popsicle, not wanting to waste a drop.

I groan again as I get closer to losing myself to yet another orgasm. “Miguel—”

And just like that, I’m shuddering like a madwoman. I’m about to tell him that we’ve made a huge mistake when both of our phones ring simultaneously.

“Motherfucking typical,” he growls, pulling his fingers from me to answer his phone from the floor.

I’ve managed to find mine on the table and am scrambling to answer it as I hastily yank up my jeans.

“Hello?” I answer, still breathing heavily from the orgasm I was given only moments ago. What Miguel and I did shouldn’t have happened. I know he wanted it to happen, but I am not ready for any sort of relationship—especially with him.

“Simpson, we need you and Lopez down at 4
th
and Main,” Jim says through the phone. “There’s been a homicide. As of yet, Jane Doe hasn’t been identified, but we’re pretty sure she’s a dealer. She’s young too. Damn shame. See you soon.” Then Jim hangs up. Jake must have called Miguel, because he’s gathering his keys and waiting for me expectantly.

“Miguel, look,” I begin, but he waves me off with his hand before turning to open the front door.

I feel guilty for even letting what just happened progress. He wants a relationship with me and has been very obvious about that, but I just can’t with him. I love him as a friend, but there’s something missing that I just can’t put a finger on. It would only hurt both of us in the end.

“Let’s go,
partner
,” he mumbles, emphasizing the last word.

And just like I knew they would be, things are already weird.

“BENJAMIN WINSTON CARTWRIGHT, PULL YOUR britches up right this instant! What have I told you about bringing the ghetto into this house? As long as you live under my roof, you abide by my rules, son,” Grammy gripes as I walk past her and into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator. Of course, I stop first to pull my pants up over my ass because she’s already rolling up her magazine to whack me with if I don’t move fast enough.

It’s funny that Grammy even suggests that I live under her roof. Technically, when Momma and Dad died, they left the house to me, and I’m the one who pays the bills around here, but I let her believe what she wants. She’s my only kin, so I want to look after her.

Changing her tune, she playfully swats my bottom with the magazine. “Any new jobs, Pooh Bear?”

I try not to cringe at the nickname I’ve had since I was a baby. Grammy isn’t afraid to embarrass the shit out of me and call me that in front of other people too.

“Actually, I’ve got an order from Canada. A man owns a shop up there and wants twenty-five chests. He thinks he can sell them in his store for more than what I’m charging him. If they sell well, he’ll order more,” I answer.

Before my dad died when I was twelve, he’d been showing me how to work with wood. Our basement was always filled with cabinets, doors, and other woodwork from his business. He had just shown me how to use the jigsaw on my own not but a few weeks before he and Momma were a casualty of a drunk driver.

“That’s wonderful, honey. You know, I’m very proud of you. Your parents would be proud of that Internet business you’ve built,” she beams over at me.

My heart sinks into my stomach. If she only knew about my side job, she’d be devastated.

“Grammy, I’ve got to run out to meet with some friends, but I’ll be back by dinner. Doesn’t your favorite grandson deserve homemade fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans? Oh, and some homemade buttermilk biscuits?” I ask, doing my best to send her the puppy-dog face that I know works wonders in getting my way—not only with her, but with women in general.

“Damn you, Benjamin. Now I have to go up to the supermarket,” she sighs, but I grin because I know she will. She always does.

When I walk over to her, my six-foot frame hulks over her five-foot-one self and I kiss the top of her head. “Thanks, Grammy. See you at six,” I laugh and leave her in the kitchen just shaking her head.

“Pac, did you hear about that new girl, Val? The police are all over that shit,” CJ tells me nervously when I walk into the office building where we take care of business.

I flick my gaze over at him and glare menacingly. He cowers down, knowing that I hate talking about the police. So does our boss.

We make our way down the dark hallway until we see light peeking out from underneath one of the doors. Our boss owns the building, but we try to keep it as secret and nondescript as possible.

CJ raps on the door while we wait. Even though I’m second-in-command, there is protocol that must be met, and barging into the boss’s office unannounced most definitely is against protocol.

“Who is it?” a deep voice grumbles from behind the door.

“Pac and CJ,” CJ announces for us.

There’s a click and then the door opens. My boss, Oculus, has a hard-ass, overconfident newbie as his wingman. Those fuckers always end up getting killed with their egos.

“Do you need something, brotha?” the newbie growls, pulling out his .45 to check the chamber. He’s doing it as a threat, but I’m not worried about his scrawny ass.

I flick my gaze over to Oculus, who’s wearing an amused expression at the way his newbie is cockily treating me.

“I need you to shut your fucking mouth and go into the hallway with CJ,” I reply calmly, narrowing my eyes at him.

The idiot bows out his fucking chest at me. “Who the fuck are you?” He raises his voice and stalks over to me. “You sure as hell aren’t my boss or my father.”

Once again, I glance over at Oculus. His eyebrows furrow, indicating his annoyance with the kid, who can’t be much older than eighteen.

“Actually, dumbfuck, I am your boss. Now, do as you’re told,” I snap at him, my patience long gone.

At this point, though, his ego has been bruised and he’s not backing down without a fight. When he presses his chest against mine and shoves me a bit, I lose control. In about three seconds, my fist connects hard with his jaw and he stumbles away from me. Not letting him get another chance, I storm over to him and sock him again, this time in the nose. He falls hard on his ass as blood gushes from his face. I give CJ a look that he interprets easily. He pulls the kid up and hauls him from the office.

Turning back to Oculus, now that we’re alone, I cross my arms and look at him expectantly. We have one of our silent moments. Oculus stepped in as a father figure of sorts not long after my parents passed away, and I can read him better than anyone.

“Boy, where you headed?” a deep voice calls from an old Cutlass that’s creeping awfully slow beside me on the road.

Grammy tells me not to talk to strangers, but the voice commands respect, just like Dad’s did, and I feel like I need to answer him.

“My friend Jamal’s house,” I answer quietly, not bothering to look over at him.

“Speak up now, boy,” his voice booms out over to me.

I jump and glance over in his direction. The man isn’t much older than my own father, who died last year.

“I said my friend Jamal’s house!” I yell at him with a little too much attitude for someone I barely know.

And this someone looks dangerous. He has a smooth, bald head, the darkest skin of anyone around these parts, and a black eye patch. To me, he resembles Nick Fury from The Avengers. Instead of feeling threatened by someone who looks like a scary comic book character, I grin at him.

He pulls the car to the side and puts it in park. I think I may have just pissed off Nick Fury! Quickly, I begin making my way down the crumbling sidewalk toward Jamal’s house, but after I hear a car door shut, his voice once again halts me.

“I wasn’t done talking to you, boy,” he snarls from behind me.

Spinning around, I take in his huge frame that towers over my thirteen-year-old self. Grammy says I’m going through puberty and that’s why I’ve been growing so tall, but Nick Fury is still much, much bigger. I can tell that he expects me to cower away from him, but I’m too damn stubborn for that. Grammy says I got that from Dad.

I cross my arms over my chest and try to look fierce even though he makes me really nervous. Grammy would call him a gangster. I’m not sure if he is or not, but he looks the part. And considering the bulge in the waist of his pants, I realize that he’s carrying a gun. Nope, Grammy wouldn’t like him one bit.

“Do your parents know you’re walking around on my side of town near dark? You know kids shouldn’t be around here at this time of night. Bad things happen around here after dark,” he says lowly, causing me to shiver.

Holding my chin high, I look him in the eye. His only eye. “My parents are dead.”

Instead of getting angry, he quirks up the eyebrow of his good eye. “Is that so, little boy? Who looks after you? Boys need a father.”

“My grammy takes care of me. She had to pick up another shift at the diner tonight. Things have been tight since Momma and Dad died. I’m going to Jamal’s since she won’t be home until late.” I’m not sure why I feel compelled to tell him all of this, but I do anyway.

His eye meets mine again, and I try not to squirm under his intense, one-eyed stare.

“I like you, kid. You’re honest. How would you like to help your poor grammy out? What if I gave you a job?” he asks as a sly smile forms upon his lips.

I’m nervous about what job he might be proposing, but Grammy really could use the help and I am thirteen now. Plenty old enough for a job.

“What sort of job? I’m not a gangster!” I tell him in a rush. Grammy would be furious if I got a job as a gangster.

Loud, deep laughter rumbles from his chest as he reaches over and gently slaps me on the shoulder—much like Dad used to do. My hurts when I think of my dad.

“No, we aren’t gangsters. We’re businessmen. I’m the CEO and I have salesmen. If I trained you, do you think you would want to be a salesman?” he asks.

I’m already nodding my head before I even think to ask what we’re selling. He makes it sound like a grown-up’s job.

“How much money would I make?” I question. I’ve helped the neighbors here and there with side projects, but they don’t pay me much more than ten dollars a project.

“Son, the sky’s the limit. Most of our salesmen almost always have a wad full of hundred-dollar bills in their pocket at all times. Would that help your poor grammy out?”