Target on Our Backs
Page 24

Beg for him to keep going.
Beg for him to fuck me into oblivion.
Beg for him to give me more... more... more.
I don't know how much time passes, or how many orgasms rip through me, before my entire body starts to tremble, while he continues to push inside of me. My breathing is labored, my heart hammering hard, as something inside of me seems to break and I give up. I stop fighting. I stop bucking. I give in and let him do what he wants. My body goes limp on the bed, while Naz's body grows taut.
The belt tightens around my neck, cutting off my airflow once more, as another orgasm tears through my spent body. Naz thrusts hard a few times before coming himself, growls echoing from his chest as he lets loose. The second he finishes, he completely stops, dropping the belt, letting it fall.
I inhale sharply, collapsing into the bed when he pulls out.
He sits there behind me, on his knees, not making a sound or even moving. I'm panting, still catching my breath, as I drown myself in the soft comforter. Holy shit, I can't move. I can't do anything but lay here.
My body is nothing but an aching ball of tingles.
I'm thoroughly fucked.
Literally.
Figuratively.
Who really knows?
After a moment, Naz tucks himself away before reaching over and undoing the belt, pulling it from around my neck. He climbs off the bed, and I hear his quiet footsteps crossing the room.
Rolling over, I look at him.
It baffles me how he looks so unruffled.
His shirt is open, sure, but that's all that's askew. I don't even think he broke a sweat. How the hell is that possible?
He puts the belt away before carefully stripping out of his clothes, tossing them aside, before joining me in bed again. Lying beside me, his hand makes its way to my neck, and I tense, but he doesn't squeeze.
He rough fingertips gently caress the skin.
"Probably shouldn't have done that," he says, thumb stroking my throat.
"Why?"
My voice is hoarse, laced with confusion.
"Because," he says, eyes meeting mine, "you're probably going to have to wear a turtleneck tomorrow."
I laugh lightly, reaching up to lay my hand on top of his. "Yeah, well, I'm afraid I don't own any of those. I don't think anybody does."
"I do."
I gape at him. "You do?"
He nods. "A black one."
"I, uh... what? How come I've never seen it?"
"Because I don't wear it," he says. "It's in my closet somewhere."
I've scoured that closet and stolen clothes.
I can't believe I've never noticed it before.
"Why am I not surprised?" I mutter. "I mean turtlenecks were all the rage long ago... you know, when you were my age."
He squeezes my neck playfully as he glowers at me, and I laugh. He gets so worked up when I pick on his age.
"Keep it up," he says, "and I might end up spanking you before this day is over."
Rolling my eyes, I scoot over in the bed, moving closer to him. He wraps his arms around me, pulling my head onto his chest. Neither of us says anything else for a while. Silence overtakes the room. It isn't long before I'm lost in my head again, thinking about everything.
"Do you ever feel guilty?" I ask eventually, curiosity getting the best of me. Okay, maybe I do want to talk about it.
"Guilty about what?"
"Everything," I say. "Anything."
He pauses before saying, "Why are you asking?"
"I don't know," I say. "I guess I'm just wondering."
"You're wondering if I feel bad about the things I've done."
"Yes."
He's quiet again.
I don't really need him to answer.
That silence tells me everything.
"If I had the chance, I might do some things different," he says finally. "But most of it, I'd probably still do. Do I feel guilty? No, not really. I don't think I have it in me to feel that kind of remorse."
That response doesn't surprise me.
It's about what I expected to hear.
J oseph Gladstone.
They call him Fat Joe.
That's all I really know about the man in front of me—his name—but it's more than enough. Armando dug up an address where I could find the guy, which—lucky for him—turned out to be credible. I don't know when he was born or where he's from, don't know if he has a family or if he lives alone, don't know how much money he makes or if he even has any in the bank. Don't know, and don't care, because at the end of the day, it doesn't make a difference.
All that matters, frankly, is that he somehow crossed the wrong path, walked the wrong line, and offended the wrong man.
Me, namely.
But poor Joe doesn't know that yet.
He doesn't know I'm watching him.
He doesn't know I've been following him.
Waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
He walks leisurely¸ like he's got nowhere to be, like he isn't afraid of anything out on these streets. And maybe he isn't. I'm certainly not. But he should be.
It's nearing midnight on a Wednesday. Karissa is at home, in bed, asleep, oblivious that I'm even out here, picking up old habits, prowling the streets. If I'm lucky, she won't wake up until morning, won't even know I left the comfort of our bed to come out here and do this.
Do something I told her I wasn't doing anymore.
The kind of thing good men don't do to other people.
Stepping out of my car, I quietly shut the door, keeping my head down as I follow Joe down the mostly barren street. He walks this route almost every night at this time… every time I've been out here, anyway. I'm not sure where he's going. I never stick around that long to see. He leaves a shitty little apartment above a small grocer in the Lower Eastside and cuts down a few side streets on his way to a park over by the East River.
Tonight, he's not going to make it there.
He cuts down the first alley, and I'm right on his heels. He doesn't notice me in the shadows, doesn't hear my footsteps until it's too late. He starts to turn around, sensing my presence, words on the tip of his tongue that barely break through from his lips when I hit him.
I punch him.
Son of a bitch, his face hurts my fist.
It stuns him but he doesn't drop. Not fat, like his nickname suggests, but the man is massive. It catches him off guard enough to give me the upper hand. I put him in a chokehold, cutting his airflow, strangling him.
He fights.
He's strong.
I can barely keep my grip on him.
He claws at my clothes, trying to hit me, trying to break free. His eyes bulge, his face turning bright red as he panics. He knows he's in trouble.
A lot of trouble.
"You're lucky I don't feel like killing anyone today," I tell him as he starts to fade.
Once he's out cold, I let him drop.
He hits the alley hard, banging his head on the asphalt. A nagging feeling claws at me, taunting me, urging me to finish it. To kill him. I should. I could. Part of me obviously wants to. And as I stare down at him, I almost do it. Wouldn't be hard.
It's never that hard.
I'm just here to send a message. To let them know I'm not just rolling over and taking it. If I wanted him, I could have him, but this pathetic coward isn't worth getting more blood on my hands.