Nicky the Driver (Underboss Insurrection, #2)

by Cate C. Wells

He’s not pissed. Or concerned. Or grossed out. He’s—fuck, I don’t know what to call it. He’s fascinated.

My sleep shorts are barely long enough to cover my ass cheeks. My nose is running. I’m standing next to a puddle of puke. And a man in an impeccably tailored suit is looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world.

“What are you anyway? Some errand boy? Lucca’s bitch?” His lips curve. “Gonna be your fuckin’ husband.

“Is this when you rape me?” I squeeze my balled fists tighter, so hard my knuckles ache. He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling, his mouth twisting in the corners. “Not tonight. I got a headache,” he says. And then he closes his eyes and doesn’t say another word.

?!?!

At some point, Nicky was in my dorm room. Holy shit. What do I do with that?

“You want to come over and talk shit to my face?” he says. There’s no anger in his voice. Only cautious amusement.

“You gonna just stand over there?” he asks. “Until I work up the nerve to throw myself out.”

“Come and sit.” “Are you gonna make me?” “Do you want me to?”

I can’t fight him now. I ate his tomatoes.

Before she rolled onto her side and gave me her back, she said, “You lied. You touched me.” She’s trying to guilt me. She can’t—not over inconsequential shit like that—but I get that she’s gonna try. She’s a woman.

???

Lucca saw a movie about Henry the Fifth a few years ago, and now he always talks like he’s giving a speech from on top of a horse. If I get paid in cash, and he leaves Zita to me, he can talk however he wants.

“You want this woman so bad, but you let this douchebag fuck her?” I scan the neighboring buildings for CCTV. “Pussy’s a renewable resource, man. She’s not gonna run out.”

Oh my god

No, it’s gonna kill Paul DeStefano. One day when Zita doesn’t give a shit about him anymore, I’m going to decapitate him with a hacksaw and punt his head off the Widow’s Bluff overlook into the Luckahannock.

“Women aren’t action figures, man. They don’t lose value ’cause someone got in their box.” He snorts a laugh. “Where do you get this shit?” “TikTok.”

Some men have Jesus. God and country. A dream. Ambition. I have Zita.

Zita’s asleep, but she rouses when I lie down on the covers and exhale. “You smell like smoke,” she mumbles, so I drag my ass into the shower before I pass out beside her.

“You’re wet,” he says, so close I feel his warm breath on my lips. “You’re bleeding.” “You like it.” “Fuck you.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” I say, fisting his hair again and pulling. “I don’t want you to be.”

I’m the guitar solo in “Freebird.” I keep going because I started, and now I can’t stop.

Your pride?” He finishes swallowing the last bite of cookie and crumples the napkin. “I think I’ve proved I have none when it comes to you.”

Paul was fairly insatiable when we lost our virginity to each other, but he never fucked me like that. Like he’d been waiting his whole life.

Between rounds, when she was satisfied and sleepy, she got bossy. She dragged my arm until she tucked it exactly where she wanted it, pried at my calves until I let her slip her cold feet between them. When I fucked her out of her head, she treated me like what I am—hers.

Now we’re back to stewing in silence, stealing glances at each other. Well, she steals. I take.

Some men have hearts. Souls. Walls. I have Zita Graziano.

She can lie to me if she wants. I’ll listen. I’m not gonna believe her, though.

“You’re not okay.” But I am. I pull down the ramp to the garage and a weight rises off my chest. I turn off the engine, engage the emergency brake, and for a minute, I sit in the stuffy silence and fumes. “Maybe not,” I say. “But I could be. We could be. You make me okay. I make you okay.”

I reach over and smooth the hair already tucked neatly behind her ear. She doesn’t jerk away. Almost imperceptibly, in a move so slight it could be mistaken for the wind riffling her hair, except we’re in an airless garage, she inclines her head into my touch. A vise grips my lungs.

She turns back to the screen. Seconds later, she checks out my biceps stretched along the back of the couch. I can’t help but flex a little when she does. I feel stupid, but she lets her gaze linger, and more blood rushes to my cock.

Zita hasn’t figured out yet that she can ask for whatever she wants.

She and I aren’t drowning, though. Every day, we’re working on our escape, and she doesn’t know it, but I’m not leaving her behind. She’s my strength. If I hadn’t found her, my lungs would’ve taken on water years ago, but she saved me.

“You’re perfect.” I can’t help but say it, even though I know her eyes will flicker, and she’ll shift, nervous fingers fluttering to rearrange her pajamas to cover her perfect thighs, her perfect middle, her perfect breasts.

“I’ll make you feel good,” I tell her. I’ll drive all the demons out of her mind. I’ll break her free, and I’ll build her a new life. I’m gonna see her laugh out loud. The little crease on the bridge of her nose is going to disappear forever.

I lower my head, run my nose down the soft skin of her belly, smile as the muscles under her padding tense.

She smells faintly like her body wash, but also like musky, tangy woman. My woman.

I want her to fuck my face, let go, let this happen. She wriggles her butt away. Oh, hell no.

I brush her damp hair aside and press a kiss to the soft skin behind her ear. She grumbles. “Just because you make me come, doesn’t mean I want to marry you,” she mutters sleepily, making no move to escape my arms. I tilt her face and kiss her stubborn chin. “You can’t blackmail people into happily ever after,” she says. I brush a kiss across her sweet lips. “You need therapy,” she says against my mouth. “I need therapy.” She sighs. I kiss her again.

Nicky fucks like he’s lost his mind, and he’s trying to find it between my legs.

I reach up to graze his cheek with my fingertips—I’m not sure why. He grunts, grabs my hand, and tucks it back to my waist. I guess no one’s getting between him and his microwaved spaghetti.

“Yeah, this makes me happy.” He leaves the button undone and starts playing with the next one. I shift so his erection isn’t poking directly against my spine, draping my legs over his so my heels bump against his shins. “Why?” I feel his shoulders lift. “Hot food. Hot woman.”

“I’ll always give you what you want,” he says, breathless in my ear, his weight covering me. “Just ask. Always.”

Sometimes it feels like he can read my mind. Sometimes it feels like he’s politely refraining from doing it.

He’s a stalker. He’s my stalker. He’s Nicky.

Not the smallest bit of him belongs to anyone but me.