The Huntress Page 6

  My cell starts to vibrate across my cherry oak desk. An unsaved number blinks on the screen, but I know who it is, and she knows better than to call me—ever.

  “Remington Black,” I answer after clearing my throat.

  Heather sniffling is all I hear for a few seconds. “Remy, I am sorry to call like this.”

  “You know better than to call me. Sorry doesn’t cut it.”

  I am about to hang up on her when she blurts out, “I’m late.”

  Counting to ten to calm my temper as pure rage vibrates through my entire body, I respond, “I am sure you’re just stressed. Give it a few more wee—”

  “Blood tests don’t lie, Remington,” she interrupts me.

  I hang up quickly and put her number on do not disturb faster than I can count to three.

  A light tap comes on the ajar door that leads into our marble-coated foyer. My gaze snaps up to see my wife meekly drifting in with a crystal carafe full of single barrel whiskey for my wet bar.

  “Who was that?” Her timid demeanor is intriguing. How did I get so lucky to find the perfect little sub to play with and control?

  “Nobody of consequence.” I throw my phone onto the desk, standing to stretch my back out a bit. “You know the rules, though, little girl.”

  Her eyes dart to the floor as she freezes like a deer in headlights. “I didn’t realize you were still working, Remington.” She apologizes profusely.

  I undo my belt, pulling it out of the loops of my slacks as I make my way over to my wife. “You know how I feel about you breaking the rules.” The harsh slap of the leather connecting with Suzanne’s pencil skirt-covered ass rings through the room, echoing into the foyer.

  “I’m sorry, sir. It will not happen again.”

  I chuckle a little before letting the leather fly and connect again, harder this time. “It better not.”

  I let my mind trip back to the day I had my wife sign our agreement. The contract was strict, but any good relationship always has its rules. I can still see the reluctance in her eyes as she scrawled her name on the dotted line and basically made me her master in every sense of the word. She was to do what I wanted, when I asked for it, and however it was going to be pleasing to me. I let her put in a clause for her hard limits—reluctantly, but they’re there. I can’t slice her up with a knife, can’t leave marks where others might see them—within reason—and pretty much everything else is fair game.

  Sinking to her knees, I watch as my training takes control over my wife. She knows she has broken the rule about not listening in on my business calls, and I need to be shown how sorry she truly is.

  Starting with my shoes, she undresses me from the waist down. I rake my fingers through her long blonde hair. “I think you’re missing something, pet.”

  Suzanne slips out of her tan pumps and down to her bare skin before going to the hidden drawer in my bar where I keep her collar and leash, a beautiful diamond-studded specimen of leather and metal. Handing it to me, she gets down on all fours and waits.

  Her ass is high, her back is arched, her mouth is open—the perfect little slut. The fading bruises from her last whipping are little reminders of how far I get to push her limits, how many times my wife cried out in pain but never gave me the safe word she chose: pineapple. I have never heard the word during our sessions, but she knows it is there just in case. Yes, I love dominating my wife, but I am not a complete tyrant. She knows that at the end of the day, she has a sliver of control—but not much more.

  I fasten the collar around her slender neck as she starts to suck on the head of my dick. “You’re not getting it that easily,” I snarl, taking a few steps back.

  On all fours, she follows as I take slow steps, never letting my cock get away from her lips. I back up all the way till my legs make contact with the desk, her leash in hand.

  “Good girl.” I let out a long, deep breath as my wife works her magic. If there is one thing Suzanne Black has mastered over the years, it is the art of giving good head.

  Her eyes are always open, looking up at me. She barely has a gag reflex and has developed the ability to deep throat my length without tearing up anymore. She even moans and drools to show just how much she loves pleasing me, the picture of submissive perfection.

  Grabbing fistfuls of her hair, I thrust deep into the back of her throat, letting my balls slap against her chin, over and over until I can feel myself get to the edge. Without saying a word, Suzanne grabs my pulsing cock and starts to work it hard. I let her hair go, gripping the edge of my desk as my climax takes over my body and hot come peppers my wife’s tits.

  Suzanne stays put while I grab the bar towel from the granite sink and wipe her chest.

  “I was thinking about making New York strips for dinner, how does that sound?” she asks as I undo her collar and hand it to her.

  “Sounds delicious,” I answer, gathering Suzanne’s clothes from the pile at my feet. “I have a late meeting. I should be home around eight or so.”

  “Dinner will be waiting for you when you get home.”

  ***

  “Cole, you really dug yourself in deep this time.” I sit across a white linen-covered table in the back room of Hendrickson’s Steakhouse, the spot reserved for my most discrete clients. Cole Rutledge is just one of those very special clients and a frequent flyer. Between him and the rest of the Satan's Rejects members, I am staring down the barrel of an early retirement.

  Cole fires down the three fingers of Jack in one gulp before even looking at me. “The charges are bullshit.”

  I almost choke on my Jameson and ginger. Murder in the first, aggravated armed robbery, and assault with a deadly weapon are the furthest things from bullshit. “Well, I have my work cut out for me this time, that’s for damn sure.”

  “And that’s why I pay you a fucking arm and a leg for you to clean up my messes.” Cole sucks on his front teeth, nodding to the two men in cuts that are standing by the door. “Leave us.” His men do as they are told and exit the small, dim room.

  Alone, we are finally able to have a real conversation about the severity of my long-term client’s plight.

  “Those guys had it coming, stealing from us. I can’t look weak.”

  I glance over page after page of charges. “At least the cameras were fake in this joint. What were you thinking going in yourself? Don’t you guys have pledges or some shit like that to do this grunt work for you?”

  “Prospects.” He seethes. “I am not one to let someone else do my bidding. A president has to lead by example every once in a while.”

  Cole and Layla aren’t the first murders I have dealt with in my lifetime, and they sure as shit aren’t going to be the last. Hell, I have been knee deep in the seedy underbelly of the world for as long as I can remember.

  Bang! The sound of a shotgun blasting rang through our small ranch. Our home, tucked in the back of a quiet suburban neighborhood in Huntington Station, was usually quiet in the middle of the night. In my Spiderman pajamas, I made my way to the basement door in the kitchen. A large man, who I could only assume was one of my father’s friends, was drinking a beer in the dark at our kitchen table. In the dim moonlight, I could see how weathered the man was—the cracked and wrinkled skin on his face, the snowy unkempt beard, his receding hairline.

  “You might not want to go down there, kid.” His gruff voice was low as to not wake up my sister and mother, who were fast asleep only steps away.

  Not listening, like any normal six-year-old, I slowly opened the door and got to the first step when the man’s hand landed hard on my shoulder, gripping my shirt. “I told you that wasn’t a good idea, kid. Now go back off to bed before your father sees you sneaking around up here.”

  Bang! Another shot rang out in the calm night air. Before I could make a break for it, my father was standing at the bottom of the steps, wiping his blood-splattered face with my mother’s favorite dish towel that had little pink roses on it.

  “Remy?” My father’s
face boiled red as he glared up at his henchman. “Jim, what in God’s name did I tell you?”

  “Sorry, sir.” Jim let go of my shirt.

  My father slowly trudged up the steps, shaking his head. “Remy, you should be asleep. Tomorrow is your first day of school. Don’t you want to be well rested?”

  I shook my head. “I heard a noise, a loud banging.”

  My father scooped me up into his arms, blood all over the front of his shirt and down his biceps. “Why don’t you leave the scary noises to your old man? One day when you’re old enough, you’ll understand why this is grownup stuff.”

  He tucked me back into my blue racecar bed, kissing my forehead.

  “Dad?” I asked just as he was about to turn on a nightlight for me.

  “Yeah, son?” His giant frame took up most of my doorway as he stood with his arms crossed, waiting for me to continue.

  “Was that a gun? Did you kill someone?”

  Taking a seat at the end of my bed, he nodded. “Sometimes grownups have to do awful things to keep the status quo, but that’s nothing you need to worry about.”

  Chapter 8

  New Job

  Ellie

  Slipping out of my heels right next to the door, I sigh with sweet relief. Sometimes there is nothing better than that simple task. I beeline it right for my kitchen to rummage for something to satisfy my unending sweet tooth, finally settling on an unopened container of dark chocolate cake frosting. Grabbing a spoon, a wine glass, and a bottle of pinot from my wine fridge, I make my way to my favorite part of my penthouse: the bathroom, and more specifically, my tub.

  Seattle was just what I needed, but recovery time from my vacation is necessary too. Filling up my huge tub with scalding water, I pour in an overly generous amount of lavender and wild orchid muscle relief bubble bath, watching as the suds start to billow up from the steaming water. The sweet smell consumes my bathroom and I start to relax. Grabbing the tub of chocolate icing after pouring a generous amount of wine into my glass, I let myself sink into the bath. No, spooning icing right out of the plastic container is not a proper dinner, but I don’t give a shit; it is delicious and easy. I’m not much of a cook, and am not home enough to try to learn.

  With a huge spoonful of icing in my mouth, I notice my phone blinking on the edge of the tub next to me with an incoming call from Linc.

  “Hello,” I answer the call on speaker with the icing still rolling around in my mouth.

  “Your lunch with Suzanne is scheduled for tomorrow. She just confirmed.” Linc’s deep voice echoes in the marble-covered room.

  “Perfect. Thank you.”

  “How was your trip?” Linc asks, and I sigh. I hate being interrupted while indulging, but if anyone can get away with it, it’s Linc.

  “Entertaining to say the least. I had a great time.” I gulp down half my wine.

  “Good. You deserve a little fun after all your hard work.”

  “Thank you, Linc. Talk tomorrow?” I am begging for this call to end so I can turn on my Apple TV and find some silly chick flick to top off my evening with.

  “Sounds good. Night, Ellie.” His voice is husky as he ends the call.

  “Night,” I respond before pushing the end button.

  Scrolling through the romantic comedies on Netflix, I see that they added one of my favorite guilty pleasures: A Cinderella Story, the one with Hilary Duff and Chad Michael Murray. Yes, it is completely out of character for me and only a few people know this side of me, but there is something about those mindless silly romances that just gets me in the right mood. Add in Chad Michael Murray to fantasize about, and it is a done deal.

  ***

  Sitting out on the waterside patio of the Rowes Wharf Sea Grille with Suzanne is perfect.

  “I am so glad you suggested this place,” Suzanne says as she beams up from over her menu. Her blonde hair is up in a tight bun, a look I have never seen on her before; I feel like it doesn’t suit her at all. She probably did it to show off the stunning sapphire earrings she purchased during our silent auction. She paid well over their value, but they were gorgeous enough to shell out the extra cash.

  “Linc actually set all this up for us.” I daze out over the calm water, watching as a couple starts to board their yacht.

  We make small talk while eating our weight in bread before the server takes our orders.

  Suzanne goes first. “I will have the yellowfin tuna niçoise,” she says with such sophistication.

  I laugh a little at myself as the server looks over to me to get my lunch order. “And for you, miss?” At least he didn’t call me ma’am.

  “Can I get the chicken fingers with French fries from the kids menu, please?” I am such a child when it comes to my appetite and I freaking love it. Who needs caviar when there is deep-fried goodness in the world? “Oh and wine. Lots of wine,” I add in while handing over my menu.

  “Very good ladies.” Our server tries not to laugh at me as I smile sweetly at him.

  Suzanne sips on her water, eyes fixed on a bird diving in and out of the hedge only a few feet away from us.

  “Got something on your mind, love?” I ask, hoping she will give me the perfect in to dive into the conversation I really want to have with her.

  “He’s a cheating, worthless, piece of shit.” Her voice is eerily calm and she stares at me blankly, but it is the perfect cue.

  “Have you thought about leaving him? Just cutting your losses and getting the fuck out of there?”

  “I can’t. I would have nothing. The kicker is that the little skank is pregnant. It’s the biggest kick in the balls in the world.” Suzanne’s voice is low but venomous. I gasp—I did not see that one coming.

  The server returns with a bottle of zinfandel. “This will go nicely with both of your meals,” he states, showing us the label. I nod to him. “Perfect, thank you,” I say before diving back into our conversation. “How do you know the bitch is pregnant?” I ask as the server fills our glasses. “Leave the bottle,” I order and he nods hurriedly before scurrying away.

  “I looked up the missed call that was on Remington’s phone when I overheard him being an ass to someone that was clearly not one of his clients a few nights ago. It was Heather Forester.”

  I choke on my wine at the name. “You mean the senator’s wife? That fucking, good-for-nothing little douche nozzle.”

  Suzanne nods and continues, “Heather and I go to the same doctor and one of my good friends is a nurse there. She confirmed it.” Suzanne pauses to take a huge gulp of wine. “Her husband is one foot in the grave. I can’t imagine a thirty-two-year-old gold digger is doing anything more with the senator than draining his bank accounts and waiting for him to kick the bucket.”

  “I can offer some assistance.” I narrow my gaze, getting far too excited to offer up my services to one of my best friends. I usually don’t mix business with pleasure, but I need to make an exception for this one. Offing Remington Black would be a win for not just Suzanne or me, but for the good guys in general.

  “What do you mean?” Suzanne questions as the server brings our entrees to us.

  We both thank him and I wait until he is far out of earshot to explain. “I don’t usually tell people this…clients usually seek me out and I never have actual contact with them…but I take care of evil bastards like your husband.”

  I pop a piece of delicious deep-fried chicken smothered in honey mustard into my mouth as I watch the wheels turn in Suzanne’s head. Her eyes get wide as the information finally clicks. “You’re an assassin?” she mutters under her breath.

  I nod. “And this one would be on the house. It would be my pleasure to land this dirt bag six feet under.”

  Suzanne chugs down the rest of her glass, quickly filling it to the brim with deep purple liquid courage. “I don’t know, Ellie…do you really think that would work?”

  I put my hand on hers. “Trust me, I have a perfect plan already.” I pause for a second, hoping I didn’t completely
freak out my friend and blow my cover. “For both of them.” I raise my glass to cheers her and she returns the gesture.

  “I’m in. What do we need to do?” Suzanne sits up straighter in her chair, a fire igniting in her eyes.

  “All you need to do is schedule an appointment for me to meet with Remy. I will handle the rest,” I state before shoving a few fries into my mouth.

  She pulls out her phone. “Let me check his schedule.” She taps away for a few seconds. “How does tomorrow at four sound?” she asks.

  “Perfect. Who knows, you might be a grieving widow before this week is finished.” I give her a little wink, excited that she is on board.

  “What are you going to do with Heather?” The fear that starts to wash over her face is all too noticeable.

  I shake my head. “Don’t worry about her. I have a plan for the whore and her spawn.”

  Killing a pregnant chick is not my style, but I have big plans for the cunt bag that is Suzanne’s breaking point—amazing plans that are going to make more than just one person very happy.

  Chapter 9