Puck by Wilder Jasinda

  Puck's eyes narrowed as he cut a glance at me. "You count cards?"

  I bobbled my head side to side. "Yeah?"

  He was quiet for a minute. "Hmm. Did you cheat a lot?"

  I shook my head. "That's how you get caught, doing it all the time. The trick to getting away with it is to make sure you lose frequently enough that no one suspects you. If you win every hand, they'll figure it out pretty quick. I only really counted the cards when the stakes were high enough that I couldn't afford to lose."

  "So if we played poker..."

  I laughed. "It would depend on the stakes. I don't gamble anymore, but--"

  "Bullshit," Puck interrupted.

  "What?"

  "I said, bullshit. You don't just stop, not when you play poker the way we do."

  "I'm not a gambling addict, Puck," I said, feeling defensive and a little angry.

  He raised both hands. "Neither am I. But there's no rush in the world like a high-stakes poker game."

  I sighed. "True enough. I still play now and again. Some of the guys at work play every Friday, and I'll cash in sometimes. They're my friends and coworkers though, so I don't take too much of their money. I don't play high-stakes games anymore." I shrugged. "No need, and the risk isn't worth the reward. In college, I played for spending cash. I had a job that helped pay for books and offset the cost of tuition and whatever, but I put all of it into keeping my debt down. Poker was so I'd have money for the club and new shoes and whatever. If I lost too much, it wouldn't ruin me. Nowadays, I have rent and bills, and if I gamble away my paycheck, I'm fucked. Even counting cards, you can still lose, and those high-stakes games are closely watched, especially in New York. And besides, that's how you piss off the wrong people, cheating at high-stakes poker in New York City."

  Puck laughed. "Ain't that the truth."

  The rundown urban sprawl had become a fairly nice-looking downtown area with the occasional five-or six-story apartment building, shops, cafes, and restaurants.

  Layla poked her head between the front seats. "The troops are getting restless back here, Puck. We need to stretch our legs if possible."

  "I was just thinking it was about time to stop." He pointed at a park on our right and pulled the van to a stop at the curb beside it. "How about this?"

  The park wasn't much more than an open area with some trees and benches and an aging, rusting playset covered in graffiti, but it was back from the main road quite a way and had lots of trees to shield us from prying eyes, at least a little bit. There were buildings on three sides, so the only place anyone could approach us was from the street, which Puck was positioned to keep watch on.

  We unloaded from the van and spread out into the park. The group of rescued women naturally split off into pairs and groups according to shared language, and Lola, Kyrie, Temple, and Layla clustered together on one bench, discussing something that involved a lot of giggles and glances at Puck and me, alone together on our own bench.

  Puck looked over at the group of gossips, and then at me. "Wonder what them biddies are gigglin' about? I'll give you three guesses, and the first two don't count."

  I snorted. "No kidding." I sighed at them. "They seem so relaxed about this whole thing. It's taking everything I've got to stay calm, and they're sitting there giggling like schoolgirls."

  "This is old news for them. And, like you, they're probably doing a lot of pretending they're less affected than they might really be, deep down." He shifted so he was a little closer to me, his thigh brushing up against mine; I didn't move away from his touch. "Does that bug you? That my friends are talking about us?"

  I shrugged. "Not really. What are they saying, you think?"

  He dug his cigar out of his pocket, blew lint off the ash end and a loose thread off the mouth end, lit it, puffing until it was trickling thick, gray tendrils. "Probably whether we'll shack up, when, and if it'll stick."

  "What do you mean, if it'll stick?"

  He blew a cloud of smoke away from me. "These bother you?" he asked, lifting the cigar in gesture.

  I shook my head negative. "Nah. Cigars and cigarettes are kind of unavoidable when you play poker with a bunch of serious poker bros."

  "You smoke?"

  I shook my head. "Nope. I did, for a while. While I was trying to kick heroin, I sort of replaced the smack with Newports."

  He chuckled. "Oh man, Newports. I almost miss those fuckers."

  "You smoked Newports?"

  He nodded. "In the Army. The whole 'smoke 'em if you got 'em' thing was usually the only break you got. My buddy Dante was the one who got me into Newports."

  I gauged his suddenly closed expression, the quietness of his voice. "Something tells me Dante is the reason for the M16 and helmet tattoo."

  He nodded again, staring down between his feet. "IED."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Me too. And thanks, Colbie."

  "Most people, when you say you're sorry for their loss, they say something like what are you sorry for."

  He leaned back against the bench, eyeing the cherry of his cigar. "I've always thought that was a bullshit answer. Disingenuous at best, off-puttingly dickish at worst." He put the cigar to his lips and his cheeks hollowed, and then he blew out a series of concentrically smaller smoke rings, shooting one ring through the next. "Folks tell you're they're sorry when you're talking about someone you lost, they're just expressing sympathy, not offering an apology. That shit is obvious enough, right? So why be a dick about it? Just say thanks for the sympathy and move on."

  I bumped his knee with mine. "You never answered what you meant about Layla and the others wondering if it'll stick between us."

  He let his head hang backward with a groaning chuckle. "You really don't let shit go, do you?"

  "Nope. I'm a bulldog about getting what I want."

  He sat up again, extending his arm along the back of the bench, behind me; his arm wasn't touching me, so it didn't precisely count as being around me, but it was close enough that my heart pitter-pattered, which was stupid and ridiculous. "Well, you see, the company I work for, Alpha One Security, or as we call it, A-One-S--we started out as six confirmed bachelors. Then Harris and Layla hooked up during that Brazil snafu and just sort of stayed together. Then Thresh went and snagged himself Lola, and now it seems Duke has somehow managed to score himself a fuckin' celebrity girlfriend, because of course that pretty fuck would end up dating a hot famous chick. So the going theory is that by the time shit finally settles down, all of us will be paired off. And those girls are figuring I'm next, with you."

  "And what are you thinking?"

  He let out a long breath and tapped his cigar to knock loose a chunk of ash. "I don't know yet. A bit soon to be putting labels on our shit when I ain't even kissed you yet."

  "You know what I can't figure out?"

  He eyed me. "Whassat?"

  "Sometimes you talk exactly like a man with a PhD, and sometimes you talk like a foul-mouthed redneck."

  Puck's laugh was a loud, genuine bark of amusement. "That's 'cuz I'm one hundred percent both, sweetheart."

  "Oh. I guess that would explain it."

  He grinned at me around his cigar. "That's me, Puck Lawson, a remarkably well-educated redneck with a potty mouth."

  "Is your given name really Puck?" I asked.

  I wasn't ready to ask him why he'd said he hadn't kissed me yet--mostly because I knew the answer, and I wasn't ready for him to kiss me--and I also wasn't ready to know how he'd managed to bang a virgin, nor was I ready to share any part of my sexual history with him.

  He grinned. "Colbie-baby, the answer to that is something I have never revealed to anyone. Nor will I."

  I frowned. "Why?"

  A shrug. "Personal choice. Puck's my name, and that's all anyone needs to know."

  "Does the military know your given name?"

  Puck's grin was mischievous, his eyes twinkling. "Handy part of working with one of the world's most skilled hackers is that he can take care of
pesky things like records."

  I tilted my head. "Who do you know that's a hacker?"

  "One of the guys on the team. His name is Lear Winter."

  "And he can erase military records?"

  Puck snorted. "He wanted a job with NSA when he graduated from MIT, so he hacked into the director's private computer and left his resume."

  "Holy shit." I eyed Puck. "So if I wanted my vagrancy and possession arrests to go away . . ."

  "Shit, I could do that," Puck said. "Those give you problems at work?"

  I shrugged. "It has in the past, yes. I love my current job, but I would like to advance, and having a police record is troublesome, as you might imagine. I can usually explain the arrests, but it's annoying. You live homeless as long as I did, you're pretty much going to get arrested for vagrancy at least once."

  Puck chewed on his cigar as he eyed me. "I can take care of that for you when we get back to the States."

  "Really?"

  He nodded. "Easy as pie." He smirked at me. "It'll cost you, though."

  I sighed and rolled my eyes. "Figures." I gave him a sarcastic, sidelong stare. "Let me guess--you'll want a blowjob or something."

  Puck's expression seemed genuinely disconcerted as he dropped the cigar butt on the ground and crushed it with his boot heel. "What kind of douchebag do I seem like? Jesus. No, I was gonna say a date." He was irritated, but then he turned his serious, heated gaze on me. "When I get a blowjob outta you, it'll be done of your own volition, because you wanted to give it to me."

  I felt a little faint, a little irritated at his presumptuousness, and a lot turned on. "Oh." I sounded breathy and stupid, so I tried again. "Oh really." There, that was better--sarcastic, caustic, disbelieving.

  He leaned close, and his nose brushed the side of my neck, and then his lips brushed my ear--I shivered, and felt my nipples harden. "Yes, really. You'll beg to put those beautiful lips of yours around my cock."

  "I have never begged anyone for fucking anything in my life," I hiss. "And I'm not about to start, not even for you, Puck Lawson."

  His laugh was a low rumble. "You'll beg, Colbie." His teeth nipped my earlobe, and I gasped. "And I'll oblige you willingly."

  "What makes you so sure?" I managed to sound fairly in control of my voice, so kudos to me for that little victory.

  "Because all I'm doing is talking, and you've got headlights poking through your shirt and bra." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I bet you've got beautiful nipples, Colbie. Thick and plump and pink, with nice big dark areolae. Don't you?"

  I glanced down and saw that he was right: my nipples were prominently on display. "Maybe they're small and flat and ugly, with no areolae at all," I whispered back.

  I flinched and my gasp was squeaky and breathy when he pinched my nipple, a quick, sharp bite of sudden stinging pleasure that I felt in my pussy even with two layers of fabric between my flesh and his finger and thumb.

  He laughed. "No way. You're too responsive."

  "Stop, Puck," I breathed. "Everyone's watching."

  "Who cares?"

  I leaned away from him. "I care."

  He let me put a little distance between us. "Now imagine what I'll make you feel when I get you alone and in private."

  I was breathing a little heavily, my thighs were pressed together, my nipples were throbbing and erect, and my pussy was aching and wet. He'd gotten me this hot and bothered in public with a few words and one quick pinch. Jesus, maybe he was right about everything he said he could do.

  5: Shitshow

  Holy. Shit.

  This chick.

  This chick, man. She didn't give an inch. She gave nothing away for free. She was into me, I could tell that much, don't get me wrong, but goddamn . . . she was not making that shit easy.

  I liked it. I liked it a lot. If I wanted to make her gasp, I'd have to work for it. If I wanted to see her writhe and squirm because she was so turned on she couldn't help it, but didn't want to be turned on by me, then I'd have to fuckin' put an effort into it.

  Getting a kiss from her was going to require patience and skill and honesty and all the game I had; getting her naked and riding my cock? Ohh man . . . that might very well be the greatest challenge of my life.

  Challenge accepted.

  I felt a vibration in my pocket and a second later heard an electronic ring; I dug the phone out of my pocket and accepted the call. "Hello?"

  "Puck Lawson?" The voice on the other end was quiet and almost soft, but icy.

  "That's me."

  "I am Ivar Krieg. We have a friend in common."

  "Anselm, yeah. Thanks for calling, man."

  "Ja, es nichts. You are in Kiev, ja?"

  "Yeah."

  "Do you know where, precisely?"

  I glanced at Colbie. "Can you figure out our cross streets?"

  She nodded. "Yeah. One sec."

  I went back to Ivar. "Hold on a minute and I can tell you."

  "Okay."

  Colbie trotted from the bench to the nearest intersection, and my eyes never left her--primarily to keep an eye on her and to make sure nothing untoward happened in the hundred-some feet from the bench to the corner, but also because her ass was phenomenal and because a woman running in heels was an incredible sight performing an incredible feat, if you asked me. She trotted back and I relayed the cross streets to Ivar.

  "Ah. I know exactly where you are. How many of you are there, and are you safe there for the immediate future?" His English was impeccable, even smoother than Anselm's.

  "We're at the park not far from the intersection. We're safe for now, but Cain's boys have a way of showing up unannounced. If they do show up, we're gonna have to make tracks and fast," I said. "There're twenty of us."

  "Scheisse," Ivar hissed. "That is a lot of people."

  "Don't I know it, brother." I heard a diesel engine roar and tracked the sound, but it was a city bus groaning and swaying to the next stop. "How much did Anselm tell you?"

  "Enough. That you have stolen from Cain his human trafficking merchandise, and that you require assistance in Kiev."

  "One of the girls has a tracer in her, we're relatively certain, so you can safely assume that wherever we go, they won't be far behind."

  "I know someone who can neutralize that easily, although she operates out of Prague." Ivar hesitated, thinking. "Twenty people, one chipped . . . are you armed?"

  "Minimal. Two nines, a forty-five, and a forty, mag and a spare for each."

  "Not so much, considering. You will need more." His cadence quickened, taking on the authority of someone who gave orders and was used to them being followed. "Remain where you are if at all possible--it is a good spot. If you receive company, dispose of them if possible. To attempt to elude them with so many extra bodies around is impossible. Can you split up if necessary?"

  "Affirmative. Thirteen of the nineteen are unknowns. They were on the plane and I wasn't gonna just leave 'em there. There are five girls who I cannot and will not separate from."

  "The thirteen, they are locals?"

  "Negative. Assorted nationalities. Most are not native English speakers, and none of them are locals from what I can tell."

  "And you know nothing of their places of origin?"

  "Most of them I can't communicate with, so no. If you can have 'em dumped at a consulate or something, they can become someone else's problem."

  "Nein, I have a better idea. I know someone who specializes in placing victims of trafficking in safe houses where they can be reunited with family if possible, or given a new life, if not."

  "Yeah, Anselm mentioned that human trafficking is a bit of a . . . ah, sore spot for you."

  "I have made it my personal mission to hunt down and end human traffickers. It is a vendetta for me. And this man, this Cain . . . he is a personal enemy of mine in particular. It was he, I believe, who was responsible for my sister's kidnapping, enslavement, and death. I have sworn a blood oath that I will put a bullet in his skull."

/>   "Well, Ivar, you know what they say--the enemy of my enemy is my friend, and I wouldn't mind putting a hole or seven in that piece 'o shit my own self."

  Ivar's laugh was an icy rattle. "I believe we understand each other very well, Herr Lawson."

  "Indeed we do, Mr. Krieg, indeed we do."

  "I am in the air as we speak. Your man Harris was able to secure a flight for me from Berlin."

  "ETA?" I asked.

  "Less than two hours until landing, and perhaps twenty minutes after that to your location. I have ground transport arranged already in Kiev."

  "Sounds good. See you in a couple hours then, Ivar."

  "Jawohl. I look forward to our meeting."

  He clicked off, and I replaced the phone in my pocket. "Well, he seems like he'll work out just fine," I said to Colbie.

  "Nice guy?"

  I chuckled. "I hope not."

  Colbie frowned. "I don't follow."

  "I don't need a nice guy, I need a competent guy. I need the kind of guy who can get hold of untraceable firearms. I need a guy who can dispose of corpses. I need a guy who knows what to do with a bunch of scared, innocent women who all speak different languages, kidnapped from who the fuck knows where." I withdrew one of the pistols I'd taken from the guys in the panel van and set it on my leg between us. "Any guy who meets those criteria probably ain't a nice guy, know what I'm sayin'?"

  Colbie eyed the pistol. "I see what you're saying." Her gaze went to me. "So . . . are you a nice guy?"

  I snorted. "Not by a long shot. Wasn't even a nice kid, and only got meaner as I grew up." I smirked at her. "Nice is really fuckin' overrated, you ask me." Sliding the pistol toward her, I met her eyes. "Ever use one of these?"

  She nodded. "Once."

  "Cap someone?" I asked, my voice neutral.

  She shrugged. "I dunno. It was . . . chaotic. Probably not, to be honest. I wasn't really . . ." She trailed off, unsure how to finish her statement.

  I knew what she meant, though. "In gun battles, the majority of shots fired miss. An untrained kid, scared, in a gangland shootout? I doubt you came within a dozen feet." I overrode the objection I saw bubbling up. "You didn't want to hurt anyone, you were just going along with what was in front of you. Doing what you had to do."

  She nodded. "I'd hoped to never be in that position again."