Cocky Jerk Read online

  “Is that your polite way of firing me?”

  Soraya laughs.

  “If I was firing you, you’d know it.” She points both thumbs toward her chest. “Queen of second chances, remember?”

  Antonia doesn’t look all that convinced and for some reason I feel compelled to intervene.

  “Yeah, this one doesn’t hold back. If she wanted you gone, she’d have me escort your ass out of the building.”

  As soon as the words leave my lips, I realize I should’ve kept my mouth shut because this crazy girl hates me and when she turns to glare at me, she proves just that.

  “I’d like to see you try.”

  Suppressing a grin, I shrug my shoulders.

  I’m game if she is.

  “Might be fun.”

  “Marco, leave her alone,” Soraya reprimands, but it’s hard to take her seriously when she’s trying not to chuckle. Turning back to Antonia, she assures her that her job will still be there tomorrow and tells her to take the rest of the day to figure out her license situation. Antonia reluctantly disappears toward her cubical to grab her belongings as I toy with the idea of going back to where I pulled her over to see if her license is still in the street.

  Feeling Soraya’s gaze on me, I push the wayward idea to the back of my head and focus on my longtime friend.

  “What?” I question.

  Smirking, she shakes her head.

  “Nothing. Let’s go, I’m starving,” she says, taking my hand as she drags me toward the elevator and stabs the button with her finger.

  “Your husband knows about our little lunch date, right? He’s not going to magically appear at the restaurant and bust my face open with a right hook, again, is he?”

  Yeah, that happened.

  Once upon a time, Soraya called on me to make her now husband jealous. Ever the helpful friend, I volunteered my services and posed as the new guy in her life. I suppose our mission succeeded since the pretty boy dislocated my jaw. But, hey, I’m trying to let bygones be bygones. I even shook the guy’s hand and gave them a fat envelope at their wedding.

  I’m all for being the bigger man.

  * * *

  We go to Katz deli for lunch. They have the best pastrami in all of New York City and that’s not a matter of opinion, it’s a damn fact. I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise. I’m halfway finished with my sandwich when Soraya whips out a notebook and pulls a pen from her cleavage. Completely unfazed by her ways, I take another bite as she goes over her checklist.

  About a month ago she called me, asking to meet up for lunch. Soraya’s best friends and my cousins, Tig and Delia, are celebrating their tenth wedding anniversary in a couple of weeks and since they’ve been having a rough time lately, Soraya thought a surprise party would lift their spirits. Tig is a giant pain in my ass, but him and Delia are family and when family hurts, I hurt. Besides, I’m all for a good party. We met two days later and have been communicating through text daily. It’s the most we’ve spoken since she got hitched, and I realize I kinda miss having her as a constant in my life. So what if her husband is a stuck-up suit, Soraya is good people and you can never surround yourself with too much of that, especially when there are so many assholes in this world.

  “Are you listening to me?” she asks as the wrapper of her straw hits my forehead.

  I have no fucking idea what she said, but I nod with my mouthful of pastrami and reach across the table to snatch the lonely pickle on her plate. It’s a sin to waste food.

  “So, what do you suggest we do?” she presses.

  Fuck.

  “About what?” I reply, forcing the pastrami down my throat. She sighs exasperatedly and flips her Pocahontas like hair over her shoulder.

  “You weren’t listening!”

  “I’m sorry, repeat it one more time, dollface,” I say, grinning at her sheepishly. It’s a piss-poor consolation prize for not paying attention to her. The last thing anyone needs is for those blue tips to turn red. Graham will have my ass, I’ll be stuck planning this party by myself and everything will turn to shit.

  “You need to figure out a way to get Tig and Delia to the party.”

  “Whoa,” I say, nearly choking. “Why are we giving me the hardest job?” Tig and Delia own a tattoo shop on Eighth Avenue and unless there is an apocalypse there is no way in Hell they’re going to shut down their shop on my account.

  “Someone has to do it.”

  “And we think that someone should be me?”

  “Why not? You’re going to have to connive a way to get them both out of working. It’s a miracle they showed to my wedding, and that was just a small thing in City Hall.” She pauses to frown. “If you had a girlfriend, this would be easier.”

  How does me not having a girlfriend relate to any of this?

  “Excuse me?” I question.

  “We could tell them you were proposing or something. They wouldn’t miss that for anything.”

  She’s right.

  Because they’d have to see me down on one knee to believe it was happening.

  Like Antonia is a no-fly zone, so is fucking marriage.

  “Right, okay, so marriage and a girlfriend are not an option,” I tell her.

  I can’t believe I have to even say that out loud.

  Crazy, I tell you. The whole fucking female species is absolutely nuts.

  “That’s a shame,” she volleys, taking a massive bite of her sandwich. “I saw you checking out my new intern and…” her voice trails as she chews. “…don’t try to deny it or spin me some bullshit story like you did with her. Checking out her tailpipe? Really, Marco? Is that the best you could come up with?”

  I thought that was pretty creative.

  “And did you really pull her over and give her all those tickets?”

  I stare at her blankly.

  Is she kidding me with that question?

  “You make it sound like I did something wrong.”

  She shrugs her shoulders.

  “I mean, you didn’t have to give her three tickets. Hell, you didn’t have to give her any at all, you could’ve let her go with a warning. Especially if you’re attracted to her.”

  “It’s my job to give tickets.”

  She rolls her eyes and takes another bite of her sandwich.

  “You’re a cop Marco, not a fucking meter maid, and Tig told me a story where you pulled over three girls in one day and got all their numbers.”

  “It was one time, and I was fresh out of the academy,” I argue, silently cursing my cousin.

  He’s worse than a gossiping woman.

  “So, you didn’t pull over my intern because she’s smoking hot?”

  When did the conversation go from planning a surprise party to me picking up chicks? I need to start paying more attention to people when they talk and stop robbing food from their plates when they’re not looking. Then I can avoid ridiculous conversations like this one.

  “You know what I think.”

  Christ, please make it stop.

  “Maybe you did pull her over because she disobeyed some traffic regulation, but once you got a dose of her, you wanted more. Let’s be real, Marco, you like them hot and feisty. You wanted to see if you could get a rise out of her, so you gave her three tickets. But you dropped the ball. Instead of getting her digits and a date for Friday, you’re the one who got a rise. Am I right?”

  And this is why we stopped talking on the regular even before she got herself a husband. Soraya has no fucking filter and no problem sticking her nose in other people’s business.

  “You’re out of your mind,” I scoff, shoving another pickle into my mouth. “She sped right through a red light. Hot or not, I would’ve pulled anyone who did that over.”

  “Ahah! So you admit she’s hot.”

  “Well, I’m not denying it,” I say, crunching down on the pickle. “Why the hell do you have an intern, anyway?”

  “Ida has taken a lighter load, so now that I have more responsibilities, An
tonia is the one who will be filtering through the submissions.”

  I ponder that, trying to picture the Harley riding hottie behind a computer screen from nine to five.

  “She doesn’t seem like the type for office work,” I comment.

  “You know her five minutes.”

  That may be true, but I’m a good judge of character and confining that woman to a cubicle for eight hours a day would be as successful as trying to baptize a cat.

  “Shit,” Soraya says, glancing down at her phone. “I have to go. Graham is tied up at the office and I have to get Chloe from school.”

  She reaches into her bag for her wallet and I stretch my arm across the table, gripping her wrist.

  “Get out of here,” I tell her. “I got lunch.”

  We go back and forth for a moment and she offers to leave the tip. When I finally convince her to put her goddamn money away, she hitches her purse over her shoulder and tosses me a saucy grin, advising me to make nice with her new intern the next time I drop in for a party planning session.

  She’s barely out the door when my phone dings with a text.

  Soraya: You should send her one of those edible fruit arrangements. I hear she’s a fan. Oh, and don’t forget to figure out a way to get Tig and Delia to the party.

  There’s no use in arguing with Soraya and so I don’t bother with a reply. Instead, I order myself another pastrami sandwich to go, pay the bill and drag my ass out the door. Before I start my journey back to Brooklyn, I make a pit stop to where I pulled Antonia over. I decide if I find her license in the street, it’s a sign to make nice with the fiery intern. If it isn’t there, well, then I guess I’ll push her out of my head, like all the others.

  It’s a good plan.

  A solid one.

  So tell me how come I don’t follow it.

  Chapter Four

  Antonia

  Stalking through the clubhouse, I slam my helmet down on top of the wooden bar. My eyes connect with the man standing behind it and a groan erupts from the back of my throat. How do you make a horrible day worse? Throw the guy you once thought you loved into the mix.

  Sergio, more commonly known around these parts as Hound, turns around from the fully stocked shelves behind the bar and meets my gaze. Raising a pierced eyebrow, he drinks me in. There used to be a time when the way he looked at me excited me and made me feel wanted. Then I realized I wasn’t special, that he looked at everyone with a pair of tits and a vagina the same way—hence his road name.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t the princess,” Hound taunts playfully. A frown ticks the corner of my lips as I continue to stare at him. It’s a shame he’s such a jerk because he’s a Rockstar in bed and he’s not all that bad to look at. He’s a lot more rugged than the hunky cop, and his eyes aren’t nearly as intoxicating—Christ.

  Did I just admit to myself that I find a cop’s eyes intoxicating?

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  Shaking my head, I divert my attention away from my ex-bedmate and step behind the bar.

  “Fuck off, Hound, I’m not in the mood,” I sneer, plucking a bottle of tequila from the shelf.

  “Hey, I didn’t log that, yet,” he says, trying to snatch it from my hands.

  Ignoring him, I move the bottle out of his reach and unscrew the top. I don’t waste time reaching for a glass and bring the bottle to my lips, taking a long swig. I welcome the burn that spreads down my throat and warms my chest. A couple more shots and maybe I can forget all about this day.

  “Whoa,” Hound says. “You might want to go easy on that, Princess. That’s the hard shit. But you like it hard, don’t you?”

  Such a jerk.

  Lowering the bottle from my lips, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and roll my eyes.

  “You know what I hate more than someone telling me what I should and should not do? Having someone call me princess. I fucking loathe that.”

  “Everyone here has been calling you princess since you were in your mother’s womb,” he says. “Now, it’s suddenly a problem?”

  Nope, it’s been a problem for years, but no one wants to acknowledge it. They say I’m spoiled and call me a bitch. To everyone with a patch, I’m an ungrateful pain in the ass they’re stuck protecting.

  Tank DeLuca’s princess.

  Untouchable.

  Unfuckable.

  Unlovable.

  One and three only applied to Hound. He had no problem fucking me just so long as my dad didn’t find out. Heaven forbid his patch be in jeopardy because of little old me.

  Taking another pull from the bottle, I set it down and meet Hound’s gaze.

  “Where’s Mouse?” I ask, already losing my patience with him.

  “What do you want with Mouse?” he volleys, removing the bottle from my reach. I don’t argue with him. Instead, I watch as he scribbles a check on the clipboard and returns the tequila to the shelf where I snatched it from.

  Mouse is the tech guy, the only one of the Corrupt Hellraisers with a talent for something useful. He can give you a new identity and a million dollars in an offshore account, all with the flick of his wrist. This also means he can whip up a copy of my license and I can try this intern shit again tomorrow without any hiccups.

  I don’t owe Hound any explanations, though.

  “Why don’t you just tell me where he is?”

  He considers my question for a second before placing the clipboard on the bar and crossing his arms against his chest.

  “You know your father is looking for you,” he counters. “Nearly blew his fucking lid when I told him you were starting your new job today.” He pauses to uncross his arms and braces both hands on the edge of the bar. Leaning forward, his gaze drops to my mouth for a split second a familiar pull tugs at me.

  Maybe he’s not the jerk after all.

  Maybe it’s me.

  I’m the jerk.

  The jerk who still wants him because she’s lonely and miserable.

  “Why didn’t you tell him you got the internship?”

  The bad thing about kicking Hound out of my bed and severing ties with his dick is that I also lost my only confidant here. Being Tank’s daughter is a lonely job and sometimes after we were done having sex, I’d talk to him about what was going on in my life. The things I wanted to achieve and the things I hoped to see. I don’t think he paid much attention, but he laid there quietly and didn’t interrupt me. I don’t miss him, but I miss that.

  Maybe that’s why I engage.

  “So he could talk me out of it?” I say with a sigh.

  Hound shakes his head. His face grows rigid as he angrily narrows his eyes on me.

  “You ever think there’s a reason he might do that? That it isn’t safe for you to be parading around without security? For fuck’s sake why do you think he moved you into the compound?” he fumes.

  Anger floods me and before I can think better of it, I grip the edge of the bar and match his stance.

  “I don’t know why he moved me into the compound because my father doesn’t tell me shit. He orders me around like I’m some little puppet…like I’m a possession. And you all treat me the same. It’s like the Corrupt Hellraisers own me.”

  He inches even closer to me and his eyes flicker with something I can’t quite place, but my position doesn’t falter. If you’ve seen one menace, you’ve seen them all and when your father is the king, not much scares you.

  “Newsflash, Princess, we do own you and the fact that you are constantly being reckless is another problem this club don’t need. Not when things are—”

  “Hound!” my father bellows from behind me. “That’s enough.”

  Hound’s jaw ticks with annoyance as his gaze flits over my shoulder. Without another word, he backs away from the bar and holds his hands up as if he’s surrendering.

  “She’s all yours, Prez. Good luck.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I challenge.

  “Antonia,” my father sna
ps. His Brooklyn accent sounds heavier than usual. “Backroom. Now,” he orders roughly.

  Great.

  If I go back there, I know what’s going to happen. He’s going to tell me to quit my job or find some sort of way to control me. It’s what he does. He doesn’t mean any harm; he just doesn’t know any other way. When chaos and mayhem are the banes of your existence, you can’t help yourself. You try to control the little that you can. Like your daughter. But I’m done being controlled. It’s not about defying my dad; it’s about becoming my own person. Maybe this job at “Ask Ida” isn’t where I’m supposed to end up. I mean, let’s be real if I make it a week it’ll be a miracle. But it’s a step in the right direction. A step away from this place.

  Unwilling to meet my father’s gaze, I push away from the bar and keep my back to him.

  “No,” I argue.

  Hound mutters a curse, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging him. Blowing out a ragged breath, I tuck my hair behind my ears and take a step toward the door.

  “Antonia, where the hell do you think you’re going?” my father barks. “I said—”

  I pause mid stride and finally turn to face him. His dark brown eyes soften instantly and for a minute, I’m not a woman asking her dad to let her go. For one single minute, I’m his little girl. The little girl whose hair he’d braid when all the kids at school made fun of her wild curls.

  “Tonia,” he murmurs on a sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face.

  I don’t know how many times we’re going to have the same conversation. I wish someone would just tell me what it’s going to take, what I’m going to have to say to get him to understand. I love him, but I hate what he stands for and I’m so tired of feeling like I’m stuck.

  Swallowing, I force myself to look him in the eye.

  “This is your life, your choice and no one can take that from you. All I want is a chance to choose a life that I love too.”

  He doesn’t respond, but that’s nothing new.

  “Going home,” I say, pausing to swallow the boulder clogging my throat. “Home, Dad, where all our pictures are, and Grandma’s china sits in the cabinet untouched.”