Puck by Wilder Jasinda

  "Naked."

  "And?"

  She shook her head. "And . . . everything."

  I laughed, a low rumble. "You want me naked . . . on top of you?" I brushed my lips against her ear. "You want me to tie you up so can't escape and eat you out until you're begging me to fuck you? You want me tied up, wearing a cock ring, so you can ride me and fuck me and not let me come until you're ready? You want to feel my cock sliding down your throat? You want to feel me come all over your tits?"

  "That'd be a start," she answered, a little breathless.

  I laughed again, genuinely surprised by her response. "A start, she says."

  "Yeah, a start. You got more?"

  Her thighs loosened, and I slid my touch a little higher. "I got plenty more," I murmured. "Enough to keep you coming for days."

  "Promises, promises." My phone rang, a short shrill chirp, surprising me. She nudged me. "You better answer."

  "Oh. Right." I lifted the headset to my ear and answered it. "Ivar."

  "The first vehicle is two minutes from your location." A brief pause. "I would get my hand out of that woman's skirt and be ready for action, if I were you."

  I jerked my hand away from Colbie and stood up, searching. "You've got eyes on us."

  "I would not survive very long if I went blindly into situations." His laugh was disconcerting. "I have been observing you attempting to woo that woman for some time."

  "It ain't an attempt if I succeed, now is it?"

  "I suppose not. Now, if you please, attend to the job at hand."

  "I'm attending, bro, I'm attending."

  "Then you are aware of the four men approaching on foot from the east?"

  I pivoted, scanning, and found the men he was talking about--on foot on the sidewalk across the street, less than a hundred yards away, each with a pistol out, eyes fixed on me. "Now I am."

  "Do you wish to dispose of them, or should I?"

  "Let's split the fun," I suggested. "You silenced?"

  "Of course."

  I put the phone on speaker and set it down, went to one knee, pistol in both hands. "First to take down two wins."

  "Stakes?"

  "Bottle of Pappy Van Winkle."

  Ivar chuckled. "Very well. Begin on three. One . . . two . . . three."

  The moment he said three, I squeezed the trigger, felt the pistol jerk and my ears rang with the report, and I watched the rear-most man jerk backward, his head flying back on his shoulders. At the same moment, the one in front collapsed abruptly, a hole blossoming his forehead. I was already pulling aim on the next man forward, but he already had a hole between his eyes, and the third a split second later. In my defense, I'd already fired twice, and my bullets hit them each a fraction of a second after Ivar's.

  "Goddammit," I growled. I picked up the phone and clicked off speaker. "Anselm wasn't kidding about you."

  "What did he say?"

  "That you made him seem like a cute little puppy or something."

  Ivar laughed. "He was being modest. It would be an unnerving thing indeed to be on Anselm's bad side."

  "No shit." I stood up, chuckling. "Three to one. Guess I owe you a bottle of Pappy."

  "I will take you up on that. I have a taste for American whiskey."

  "Ever have Pappy?"

  "Nein, I have not. Surprisingly difficult to get in Europe."

  "Hell, that shit is hard to get in America."

  "The truck is arriving. Load the first group onto it, the larger group of women. The driver will greet you by name. If he does not, shoot him."

  "Roger that," I said.

  "I will be with the second truck, arriving in five minutes."

  "See you in five, in that case," I said, as the truck squealed to a halt at the curb.

  "Jawohl."

  The truck was a huge, two-ton, ex-military transport truck, painted black. I jogged over, pistol still in hand, halting a couple feet away as the driver threw open the door and hopped down.

  "Puck Lawson," the driver said, extending his hand toward me.

  "That's me," I answered, shaking his hand.

  "Lars." He eyed the group of women sitting in the park, huddled in separate groups, looking scared and worried. "Let's load them, ja?"

  I waved them over, and slowly, gradually, hesitantly, they approached me in twos and threes. I glanced at Colbie, gestured for her to join me. I addressed the gathering group. "How many of you speak English?"

  Only three women raised their hands.

  "Can you communicate with any of the others?" I asked.

  One of them nodded, pointing at another cluster of four women. "They speak Portuguese," she said, in a thick Spanish accent, "and I know a little."

  "Okay, here's the deal. This guy is a friend. He's going to take all of you somewhere safe."

  "Where?" the one who'd spoken up asked.

  I shrugged. "Dunno."

  "Then how do we know is he a friend?" she pressed.

  "Because he works for someone I trust."

  "What is happen to us?" she asked.

  "They're going to help you in any way they can," I said. "If possible, they'll help you go back home, or if that's not possible, they'll help make you as safe and comfortable as possible."

  Colbie repeated it in Chinese and Russian, but there were still two groups who didn't seem to understand any of it, a trio of women who looked to my admittedly inexpert eyes to be from India, and another two from the Middle East somewhere. The two groups watched as the other women voluntarily climbed into the back of the truck, which seemed to communicate well enough that whatever was happening, it wasn't something bad.

  There were sirens off in the distance, which weren't necessarily about us, but considering the number of dead bodies in the immediate vicinity, I felt it safe to assume they were headed toward our location.

  The women were all aboard the truck, and the driver lowered the flaps, fastened them, and climbed into the cab. The diesel engine groaned and rattled, and the truck pulled away, and then it was just the five women and me.

  An older model Range Rover halted at the curb where the truck had been, and a man exited from the driver's side. He was not what I was expecting--I'd been expecting a younger guy, based on his voice. This man was past forty, had blond-brown hair parted to one side, wore a drab, ill-fitting brown suit without a tie, thick, round glasses, and had an unkempt goatee. He was the kind of man absolutely no one would give a second glance to or thought about. Which, I supposed, watching him approach me, would serve his purposes well.

  He clapped me on the shoulder, and we shook hands. "I am Ivar. You are Puck." He glanced at the women. "The rest of the introductions shall have to wait. I do not have an interest in dealing with the local authorities."

  "Me neither."

  He glanced past me at the man we'd taken hostage, sitting with his back against the tree, knees drawn up, looking green around the gills. "Who is he?"

  I shrugged. "He surrendered. I couldn't just--"

  Ivar reached into his suit coat, withdrew a compact 9mm, fired once, and replaced it, the whole thing done as casually as anyone else might swat a fly. "Loose ends kill you." He gestured at the Rover. "Shall we?"

  I blinked at the now-dead guy, a neat round hole directly between his eyebrows, and nodded. "Let's get this shitshow on the road."

  6: No Foolin'

  I'd seen some crazy stuff in my life. As a homeless person, especially in New York, you saw some crazy-ass shit go down. People wearing all sorts of goofy nonsense, fights, murders--I saw a group of guys trying to steal a grand piano; I saw a guy in full clown costume running from three policemen, cackling; I saw drunk people fucking in alleys on a regular basis; I watched a guy get caught cheating and then get chased mostly naked down the street by both women. Point was, I'd seen death, and I'd known violence.

  What Puck was capable of . . . was different. He was frighteningly good at it, made it look easy, effortless. Yet he was articulate, and surprisingly open with me,
and seemed in touch with his emotions. He was an enigma. Like, if I'd met him on the street or at the bar, I probably wouldn't have thought about him twice. I mean, he just wasn't my type. I wasn't sure I had a type, but if I did, Puck wasn't it. The guys I'd dated mostly fit into a mold: a few inches taller than me, clean-cut, well dressed, well educated. And I hadn't dated any one of them for more than a couple months, because they were all fucking boring. Nice, easy to talk to, decent in bed--and boring.

  Or at least, if I compared them to Puck, that was how they seemed now. I mean, he was anything but boring. He was a natural storyteller, and he was educated, obviously, but he cursed like a sailor, and the clothes he wore were . . . um, interesting. That shirt? I used to panhandle outside a bar that hosted a lot of heavy metal bands, and I got to know a few of the regular patrons, most of whom wore shirts like Puck's, which was the only reason I knew what all that angry red lettering was supposed to say. And his build? He was the exact opposite of the guys I usually dated. They were tall, sleek, elegant, and Puck was . . . not. Decidedly not. He called those kinds of men pussies, I surmised. They never took me anywhere that could have even possibly led to physical violence, but if we'd ended up in some kind of situation, looking back . . . I'd have been the one to jump into a fight before most of those guys. I could walk down the darkest, scariest street anywhere in the world, and if Puck was with me, I'd feel perfectly safe.

  With those guys, conversation never went anywhere deep. We talked about movies, or books, or social issues, or mutual friends, or business, and we never really got to anything deep or personal. I mean, we talked about important political issues, but it never got personal. I never told any of them about my parents or what Craig did, and I sure as hell never discussed my heroin addiction. I had the feeling none of them would understand, and I knew several of them would have cut all association with me had they known.

  Puck was just . . . different. I didn't know.

  And the more I talked to him, the more I found out about him, the more interested I was. He talked a good game, that was for damn sure. Dirty talk had never really been a thing for me. One guy tried, and I just laughed, because it sounded so stupid and corny, like he tried to sound like a porno. When Puck talked dirty . . . it was fucking hot. Why, I wasn't sure, but it was. The timbre of his voice, the way it rumbled in my ear . . . the heat of him, the way my skin tingled when he touched me . . . I don't know. And that beard, god. The whole time we were on the park bench talking, I wanted to bury my fingers in that beard and pull him closer, jerk him in for a kiss. And he would've liked that, I could tell. When I touched his beard, when I tugged on it, his nostrils flared and he sucked in a breath, and I could just tell he'd like it if I used his beard to make him do what I wanted.

  The other thing about Puck that had me hot and bothered was the forcefulness of his personality, how intense and dominant he was. He'd let me have my way when it suited him, but he'd be in control. And . . . I liked that. Most of the guys I'd dated or slept with weren't like that. I was always in control. I was a pushy, in-control sort of girl. I was in charge of myself. I didn't allow anyone to push me around or manipulate me. But deep down, I wanted to give in, a little. It'd have to be the right circumstances, which was why I'd never let anyone see that part of me. But with Puck, I saw it.

  He'd take care of me. I'd be safe letting him push me around a little, letting him have control.

  What that would look like, where it would go, I didn't know--and that was what scared me.

  He sat in the front passenger seat, talking to Ivar. I tuned into the conversation, but it was mostly about guns, which I'm not super interested in. I was behind Ivar, and Layla was beside me with Temple on the other side of her; Lola and Kyrie were stretched out in the trunk.

  Layla nudged me, keeping her voice low. "So, you and Puck?"

  "So me and Puck, what?"

  "You like him?"

  I snorted a laugh. "A little soon to tell."

  "Oh, bullshit. You like him." She teased my kneecap with her fingertips. "He had his fingers under your skirt."

  I blushed. "He's . . . different."

  "That's one word for him." She indicated the road behind us with a nod of her head. "All this, what are you thinking?"

  I lifted a shoulder. "It's scary. But Puck seems to be able to handle whatever comes at us."

  "I don't trust many people, but I trust him."

  I eyed her, hesitating. "You trust him in terms of all the shooting, and I get why, watching him do what he does. But on a personal level?"

  Layla gave my question thought, which I appreciated. "Honestly, I don't know. If you can handle his personality, I think there's a lot more to Puck than most people would give him credit for. I don't think he's ever been serious about anyone, but I don't know for sure. We don't get into a lot of deep, personal discussions. Either we're working, or it's poker night with the guys at the compound, and we're drinking and bullshitting. Not exactly share-circle moments, you know?"

  As close as Puck and Layla seemed to be, it didn't sound like he'd told her anything about his past, which made everything he'd told me seem pretty important. I had the feeling he didn't talk about his past any more than I did. Which meant our conversations . . . meant something. But what?

  Hell if I knew.

  I wasn't sure what to say to Layla, though, because it was obvious he hadn't told her what he'd told me.

  Layla's expression brightened, and she poked me in the ribs. "He shared with you, didn't he?"

  I shrugged uncomfortably. "We talked."

  "He did!" She muffled a squeal. "He totally shared with you."

  I eyed her. "Why are you getting so worked up about this?"

  She grabbed my arm and shook it. "Because Puck doesn't share. I've killed people with the man, and he hasn't told me dick about himself. All of the guys are like that--they only share with someone they feel is different, someone that means something. We're all family, but we tend to keep our own counsel when it comes to heavy personal shit."

  "So what are you saying?"

  She let go of me and folded her hands on her lap. "Nothing."

  "Layla."

  She shrugged. "I'm not saying anything. I'm just pointing out a pattern. Make of it what you will." She was suddenly subdued.

  I noticed Puck was watching us in the rearview mirror.

  "Stop interrogating the woman, Layla," Puck growled.

  "I'm not interrogating," Layla said. "We're just talking."

  Puck just snorted. "You were pumping her for information."

  "Girl talk."

  "Gossip."

  "Idle backseat chitchat."

  "Puck, it's fine." I met his eyes in the mirror. "For real."

  Ivar cut in from the driver's seat. "There is trouble."

  "Company?" Puck asked, leaning forward to check the side-view mirror.

  "Ja. We are still some ways from the airfield yet, and I would like to dispose of them before we get there."

  Puck checked the magazine of his pistol, then set another one in the cup holder, handle facing up. "Let 'em get closer. I can handle them."

  "Better yet," Layla said, "if Temple switches places with me, we can both handle them."

  "How many people does this Cain guy have on call to send after us?" I asked.

  "A lot," Layla, Puck, and Ivar all answered in unison.

  "Oh."

  "He has a lot of resources," Puck said, clarifying. "He can put the word out that he needs someone killed or captured, and anyone from the criminal element in the area will respond in droves, because Cain can and will pay out big. Plus, he has operational cells all over the world."

  "He sounds like a problem," I said.

  Puck snorted. "That's an understatement."

  Layla had traded places with Temple and ejected the magazine of her pistol, then replaced it. "Only got a few rounds left in here, and no spare."

  Without taking his eyes off the road, Ivar reached out with his right hand and ope
ned the glove box, withdrew another pistol, and handed it back to Layla.

  Puck eyed Ivar. "Yo, you got any heavy iron in this ride?"

  Ivar smirked. "Reach under your seat."

  Puck bent over, reached under his seat, and straightened up, holding a compact black machine gun. "Hell yeah, now this is what I'm talking about!"

  "And what you do call that?" I asked.

  My time in a gang had only exposed me to handguns, and even then, it never really mattered what type or brand, since they all shot the same to me, and I hated touching them regardless of what they were.

  Puck checked the magazine, pulled back a slide, and extended a shoulder butt thing. "This, hot stuff, is a Heckler & Koch MP5K. A fully automatic ultra-compact submachine gun."

  I just blinked. "Oh."

  Puck laughed, opening the window, Layla following suit. "Just means little boomstick shoot many bullets very fast."

  I rolled my eyes at him. "Jackass."

  Ivar cut in. "Traffic around us is minimal. Time to make the move. Ladies, the shooting will be very loud in the auto. You should all lie down on the floor, for maximum safety, and cover your ears as well." He glanced over his shoulder, then at Puck and then Layla. "Ready? Eins . . . zwei . . . drei."

  On drei, Ivar swerved to the left and jammed the brakes hard, and we were thrown forward, tires skidding. A black four-door sedan shot forward on our right side, and Ivar floored the gas pedal, pinning us back against the seats as we rocketed forward once more. We were parallel with the sedan, and Puck had the ultra-auto-submachine gun aimed out the window. He squeezed the trigger, and three loud concussions blasted the air, making my ears ring from the deafening reports, and then Layla's gun barked. Temple was on the floor between the seats, and Lola and Kyrie were flat on the floor of the trunk. There wasn't anywhere for me to go, so I leaned forward a little, at least I felt like I took some kind of precaution rather than just sitting there all nonchalant while bullets flew. The other car had their windows opened too, and a figure leaned out the window, with a gun similar to the one Puck had.

  As seemed normal, Puck's shots hit first, shattering the driver's window and painting the interior red, and then a split second later, one of Layla's shots hit the guy with the gun, and he vanished in a spray of crimson. The sedan continued forward for a few seconds, and then the dead driver slumped to one side, and the steering wheel twisted, and the sedan veered away, turned sharply at speed, and then bucked over into a roll.