Nicky the Driver (Underboss Insurrection, #2)

by Cate C. Wells

increase the incline again and pump my legs until my exercise shorts are plastered to my ass with sweat. My brain finally, finally disconnects. For a few blessed minutes, I’m floating in nothingness. I’m lungs and muscles and nothing else.

“Bullshit. Name one time you’ve gotten your way. Just one.” I don’t want my way. I want family dinners where the women wear pants if they want to and no one swears in front of the kids. I want a man who asks me to help him study for pharmacology instead of demanding that I tell anyone who asks that he was home Saturday night.

A pretty man and an ugly man. Two sides of the same coin.

I know what men like that want. Something easy. A woman who knows how to keep her mouth and legs shut unless he wants them open. They don’t want to be bothered. They want to drag you along their lives like an undertow, and if you drown, they don’t notice—and if they did happen to notice, they sure as shit wouldn’t care.

Men like him don’t understand how the real world works. They all get married young so that their wives are virgins, and then they fuck around and make the women miserable for the next fifty or sixty years. They don’t have partners; they have women with credit cards in their name who make sure their houses are clean and dinner is on the table at seven.

“What are you anyway? Some errand boy? Lucca’s bitch?” His lips curve. “Gonna be your fuckin’ husband. Maybe you show some respect, eh?” His impassive face breaks into a full smile, flashing bright white teeth. My breath catches at the same time my blood runs cold. He’s not just decent looking. He’s beautiful. And he’s not the least bit pissed off at me for questioning him.

There must be dozens of people in the building. Hundreds on this block. My phone is in my purse. But I can’t scream, and no one can help me. My heart pounds harder in my chest.

I don’t care, but like always, I’m powerless against the feeling. It whispers in my head with the undeniable ring of truth. You’re garbage, and everyone knows it. Worthless. No one expects anything from you, and you can’t even do that. You’re only a body, and not even a good one. Disposable. Forgettable.

“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.

He doesn’t have a normal man’s eyes, he has an addict’s—calculating and fixated and dauntless.

He was so bad at it—we both were—but once it wasn’t like that anymore, it was never as good. It was never like we were in it together again. It became something we did to each other. And then, for the past few years, something I did for him.

When I swallow, his gaze falls to my throat. When I inhale deeply, it drops to my chest. I turn my head to work on my right side, and it rises. It’s like there’s a thread between us. My breath shallows, but it’s not a panicky feeling. It’s an edge-of-your-seat feeling.

I knew it would be like this. She’s still afraid, but soon, she won’t be. Zita’s no coward. She’s a fighter. I can’t wait for her to throw down.

“You know what I don’t get?” Tomas says as he goes to circle the block. “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.”

“Women aren’t action figures, man. They don’t lose value ’cause someone got in their box.”

The first time I saw Zita, her face was dirt streaked, she was barefoot, and her hair stuck out from her lop-sided ponytail like dandelion fluff. She wasn’t pretty. Not back then. She was skinny as a stick with eyes too big for her face. But from that moment on, it’s been Zita Graziano. That’s the answer. A shrink might be able to explain it, but I can’t. Some men have Jesus. God and country. A dream. Ambition. I have Zita.

It’s as inexplicable as the mystery of faith, but it’s real. Physical. Inside me like my heart or my liver.

What word is stronger than regret? Like regret but with teeth. Acid. Boiling oil. Maybe terror describes it better. I can’t get fat. Fat is beautiful. Yumi Nu is beautiful. Ashley Graham. Precious Lee. So beautiful. I know this. But I can’t get fat. Existing is too dangerous as it is. The leers. The contempt. I’m worth nothing now. I can’t be worth even less.

If I’m not pretty, I’m nothing. Not nothing like something you don’t care about. Nothing like someone you can do anything to, and no one will care. I know exactly how fucked up it is and how there is absolutely nothing I can do about it.

The ordinary world. I watch it go by, pedaling in place in an empty apartment. Fixing my fuck up. Protecting myself. Somehow. From something. For some reason.

humans might all be sinners, but we’re habitual cowards, too. If we don’t have to see it, we look past.

The fact that we pretend there is good in the world, and that we’re trying to do it—that’s the mind-boggling part. How do we keep up the act?

Nicky is so stoic and reserved, his quiet lulls your normal defenses into relaxing, and then, like it’s startled awake by a disturbance in the force, your intuition sputters and your survival instinct freaks out.

The way he stares at me—it’s like he’s been missing me forever, and if he looks away, I might disappear, and he’ll never let that happen, not in a million years.

“She doesn’t believe it, but she is. She always has been. She’s a good thing in an ugly world, you know?”

I’m not unafraid—I’m not stupid enough to think I’m safe with him—but I don’t think he’s a scary man. I know scary men. I was raised by one.

My body isn’t me. It’s the puppet at the end of the string. It’s the car I drive, the safest, most popular model I can achieve.

“I’ve gotten us here, Zita,” he says. “I’ll get us the rest of the way.” I don’t know what he means, but it’s not a threat. More like a promise. A vow.

I am broken, but I’m not afraid.

When I fucked her out of her head, she treated me like what I am—hers.

Some men have hearts. Souls. Walls. I have Zita Graziano. I’m not ashamed. I look at her, and something inside me chants “thank you” into the void like a hallelujah. I’m weightless. Superhuman.

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.

“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.

Nicky fucks like he’s lost his mind, and he’s trying to find it between my legs. He fucks like I’m hiding something that he’s desperate for. Like I’m the holy grail, and he’s an infidel, so he doesn’t want to worship me, he wants to convert me, despoil me until I belong to him.

It’s not like it’s a great compliment to be the obsession of a cold-blooded killer, but it sure as shit is mind-blowing.

It’s strange how they set us up—we’re supposed to be beautiful, skinny, and silent, but the love we’re given, it’s always rich in butter, always sweet and forbidden.

What do I want? I want to be able to say no. I want to be so strong that I never have to smile again, or look pretty, or worry that somehow, I’ll drop the ball for a second—a split second—and somehow let myself go. I want to be so strong that no one can ever hurt Mattie, nothing can ever destroy me from the inside. Strong enough to control my brain.