Missy Johnson: Provoke

“I was told you might be able to help me,” I said. My hands were shaking so damn much I could barely hold the fucking phone to my ear. Could he hear the fear in my voice? Could he tell I had no fucking clue what I was doing? Yeah, I was shitting myself.

“Yeah? With what?” Suspicion clouded his voice.

“A job. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Don’t fuck with me, dude. You don’t even want to know what I’m capable of.”

He chuckled. “You want this job, then I think I do have a fair idea. How did you get my number?”

“A friend. Never mind who. I know a lot about you though.” I paused and chuckled, trying to sound confident. “More than you want me to know.”

“Is that so?” He paused. “Things like this don’t come free, you know.”

“What do you want?”

“Ten thousand. That will get you in. Whether or not you stay in is up to you.”

I snorted. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Do I sound like I’m fucking joking?” No. He didn’t.

I sighed. “If I had that kind cash lying around, do you really think I’d be crawling to you right now?”

“Not my problem. I think you know the kind of cash you’ll be making shits all over that measly ten fucking grand.”

“Fine. I’ll get the cash.”

“Good. Call me when it’s ready and we’ll arrange a meeting.”

#

He’s late. I shifted in my seat, and every now and then I glanced over at the entrance of the roadhouse. Sighing, I signalled to the waitress for another refill. My phone buzzed. I picked it up and saw it was Leeta. I pressed ignore, the guilt nearly consuming me.

Calm down, or you’ll fuck this up.

“You sure your friend is gonna show?” the waitress asked as she filled my cup. I eyed the thick black liquid that looked more like tar than coffee, my gaze travelling up to her tired, bored expression.

“He’ll be here.”

She smirked at me

The bell above the door rang. I looked up. It’s him. It has to be him. His dark eyes darted around the empty restaurant as he walked toward me. He wore a black leather jacket and faded jeans. He looked ordinary. Completely normal. I laughed to myself. Why the hell was I so shocked? What the fuck had I been expecting, a neon sign above his head?

He slid into the booth and picked up the menu.

“Mace, I presume?” He didn’t look up. God, this guy was smooth. He oozed confidence. Though it was three in the fucking morning, and I was the only person in the place. It was a pretty safe guess that I was me.

“Yep.”

“You got my cash?” He looked up, his dark his eyes meeting mine. Reaching into my jacket, I pulled out the envelope and pushed it across the table to him. He picked it up and used his fingernail to fan through the thick pile of hundreds. My heart pounded as I began to sweat. Now was not the time to be second-guessing myself. It was too late to pussy out.

He nodded and slipped the cash into his pocket.

“Number one, don’t ask me any questions. You’ll be emailed everything you need to know, which isn’t much. A job comes up, you’ll be emailed. No phone calls, no contact beyond this meeting, okay?”

I nodded.

“You look for us again? You try and contact anyone else?” He chuckled and reached for my coffee. “Let’s just say I won’t be able to guarantee your safety.” He stood up and stalked toward the door, my coffee still in his hand.

“Hold up,” I called out. I threw a twenty down on the table and followed him out. “That’s it? How do I know you’re not just bailing with my money?”

He smiled, shaking his head as he lit a cigarette. “Guess you’ll just have to trust me.” He took a sip from my coffee before handing it back to me and getting into his car.

I stood there, gobsmacked that it had all been that easy. Two words, some cash, and just like that, I was in.

Leeta

Laughing, I tried to duck out of the way as I tried to get dressed. He wasn’t making things easy.

“You,” he said, pulling me into his arms, “are fucking beautiful.”

“That isn’t going to get you out of dinner with my parents tomorrow.” I laughed as he nibbled on my ear. The feel of his tongue circling the tip of my lobe was making me wet. The things that boy could do with his tongue . . .

If he keeps this up, I’ll have to change my clothes.

“You sure about that?” he mumbled, tugging at the buttons on my shirt. “I mean, I can make it worth your while.”

His fingers slipped underneath the cup of my bra, tweaking at my nipple. I giggled as he kissed my neck, my hands running over his tattooed, muscular forearms, up his neck to his thick, dark hair. At twenty-six, Mace was far from perfect, but he was perfect for me.

“I’m sure you could,” I giggled, pulling away. I re-buttoned my shirt. “But unfortunately, right now I have to get to work, and you will be meeting my parents tomorrow night.”

He groaned, defeated. “Fine. But be warned, parents and I usually don’t mix.” He held out his arms, as if he were presenting evidence to support his argument. I shook my head and smiled.

All I saw was an incredibly hot guy in a tight black tee that hugged his sexy body, and a pair of faded jeans. He was my rough-talking tough guy, but more than that, he was a sweet, thoughtful man who would do anything for me. I’d lost count of the number of times he’d come home with a bouquet of flowers, or a box of chocolates and some wine. He was a romantic at heart, which, looking at him, you would struggle to believe.

Everything about Mace made me squirm in the best way—from little things like him wiping an eyelash from my cheek, right through to the mind-blowing sex he delivered to me night after night. Sometimes it was like he knew me better than I did. I thought I’d experienced passion before I met him, but he made every man I had ever experienced seem bland and empty.

He was the type of guy who didn’t give a shit want anyone thought of him, and did what he wanted. But with me, he was himself: no barriers, no attitude—just Mace.

That was one of the many things I loved about him, but people often took his straightforward attitude the wrong way. People like my parents.

#

Not that I’d ever tell him, but he was right: Mace was far from what my parents would consider a suitable match for their precious only daughter. Between the numerous—albeit sexy—tattoos, the bike, and the whole father-and-brother-in-prison factor, he was never going to be good enough for the prestigious Colonel Derrick Drake and his wife, Matilda.

Ugh. I hated this. I was freaking twenty-three, and my parents still treated me like I was fifteen. I hated it even more that deep down it actually mattered to me what they thought. I wanted them to like Mace. I wanted everyone to see what I saw. But prior experience had taught me that they wouldn’t get past his appearance to see the man that I was in love with. They saw what they wanted to.

I was a good girl prosecutor in love with the son of a notorious gangland killer. I lived by the law, where his family made their own. There was no doubt in my mind that Dad would have heard of his family. Everyone had. The history of the infamous Jordan family went back many years, and they were definitely people you wouldn’t want to piss off. Hell, I’d done a freaking paper on his great-grandfather for my Criminal Law unit at university. I never thought I’d fall for someone so different . . . but I had, and I was damn happy about it.