| BOOK SIX | THE LONDON CRIME KING | A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE NOVEL |
This book contains adult language and subject matter, including graphic violence, drugs and explicit sex that may be disturbing to some readers.
This series is NOT a typical romance...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Dressed for the occasion in all-black attire, rugged boots, a timeless leather jacket and a sinewy body of intricate tattoos, Jace came to the driver's side window, swept his eyes over me with curious laziness and gave Brad a fist bump.
"What's good?" Jace asked, and Brad mumbled something unintelligible. "Tommy is unpacking." He proffered a half-smoked joint. "He won't be too much longer."
"You might want to bring refreshments." Brad used a white-hot Clipper flame to re-light the joint. When he inhaled, long and deep, I witnessed burning consolation in his eyes and serene calmness wash over him. His body instantly relaxed, the cords of muscle in his arms and shoulders unravelling. Marijuana is his most preferred vice. He functioned better with it intermixed with his blood. "Grendon is a two-hour drive."
"Oh, I got the good stuff." With a naughty twinkle in his eye, Jace flourished an expensive bottle of Russian vodka. "Do you want some?" His quizzical stare briefly flickered to me, then back to Brad. "You look like you could use a drink and a strong one at that."
"No," Brad declined after a slight pause. "I will overdrink if I put the bottle to my lips. Alcohol, drugs and emotional turmoil? It's a bad mix." He toyed with the infotainment system. "Besides, you don't want me to crash the car now, do you?"
A door rattled on its hinges in the distance. Jace glanced over one shoulder to ask Tommy, advancing toward the car with measured strides, if he'd locked up the tattoo parlour.
The two men held a conversation, and soon, Big Guy joined in to confabulate about trivial matters, such as infamous bank robbers, fashion through the ages, fast food chains and urban legends, all whilst I sat in mute silence, feeling like I belonged anywhere but here.
In all honesty, I was so uncomfortable by today's turn of events. I unbuckled the seatbelt and crept into the backseat. When I caught Big Guy's eyes in the rearview mirror, he looked relieved. He also needed space, but he was not rude enough to ask.
Tommy, with an unlit cigarette tucked behind the ear, drew in my appearance greedily as he slipped into the back. He never buckled up. He sat there, thighs wide in relaxation.
As I did not want to bear the brunt of the well-documented short fuse of Brad Jones, I only smiled, then veered my gaze to the window. I would rather watch cars pass on by in the night than have another debate with the man prone to speed race and rip people to shreds when infuriated.
"I am a proud Queen fan." Jace, who had claimed the front seat, is debating genres with Brad. "They are a global presence. Bohemian Rhapsody is a masterpiece."
"The song has no continuity." Brad is driving toward London's Inner Ring road. "It does not make an iota of sense."
My eyes felt sore and heavy, and soreness and heaviness were not due to tiredness but second-hand marijuana smoke and expensive cologne in the air.
