Dangerously: A Femme Fatale romance Read online

  Dangerously

  M Never

  Contents

  Dangerously

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Also by M Never

  About the Author

  Dangerously

  Copyright © M. NEVER 2020

  All rights reserved

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from author M. Never.

  Cover Design By:

  Marisa Shor, Cover Me, Darling

  Editing By:

  Candice Royer

  Proofreading By:

  Insight Editing Services

  Elaine York

  Formatting By:

  Melissa Gaston

  Take a deep breath and remember who the fuck you are. ~ unknown

  Dangerously

  By M. Never

  A hunter. A killer. A lone wolf.

  A femme fatale caught between two men.

  One a Boston crime boss. The other an Irish gun for hire.

  Both my enemy.

  Both dominant. Deadly. And dangerously seductive.

  Both who want something from me.

  Passion.

  Excitement.

  Adventure.

  Possibly even love?

  The question is, what do I want from them?

  Prologue

  Fallon

  Present day

  The Louisiana bayou is legit the armpit of the world.

  At least in the middle of July.

  The humidity feels like one-hundred-and-eighty percent, and that’s with the windows rolled up and the air conditioning cranked.

  I make a mental note to tell March no more jobs in the Deep South unless it’s in December. And even then, the payout better be bank.

  I pull into the ghostly looking gas station marked on the GPS. The last thing I need is to be driving circles around the swamp and run out of gas.

  I glance at the back seat, checking on my precious cargo. She’s out like a light. Poor thing never knew what hit her. If I ever had a child—and that’s one hell of a massive if—I’m going to make sure I drill the importance of stranger danger into his or her head.

  Swiping her was just too easy. A sweet smile, some light conversation, and one roofied drink, and she was mine.

  I barely had to put in any effort. Easiest job ever. Until I found out where I was dropping her. The middle of fucking nowhere chock full of bugs and alligators.

  Bracing myself to get choked by the thick, wet air, I swing open the door of the Chevy Malibu. Not the most attractive ride, but March is adamant about understated, low-key, and blending in. He’s not wrong. An eyewitness will remember a shiny red Corvette or loud, rumbling Camaro much easier than a run-of-the-mill, midsize sedan. So, I suck it up for the job. It keeps me alive and off the radar.

  Leaning against the car perspiring to death, I watch the archaic pump tick away the gallons. It feels like years are being taken off my life. Time can seriously be torture.

  I spy the back seat again. Sleeping Beauty is undisturbed.

  A couple walks out of the rickety convenience store that looks like it’s about to collapse. They’re young, late teens, early twenties tops. He’s dressed in baggy jeans and a white tank top, similar to mine. She has on a short jean skirt and faded graphic T-shirt. It’s so old I can’t make out the design on her chest. But it’s not the couple themselves that piques my interest; it’s him. And his mannerisms toward the girl. His hostility. The way he grabs her arm and jerks her. The sneer on his face. Her blatant fear of him.

  A dry aggression scratches my throat.

  I keep my head down but my attention alert. It looks as if they’re going to disappear into the backwoods, but they take a hard left instead and head to the offset wooden outhouse people are supposed to mistake for a bathroom. I’d rather pee on a pile of leaves in the middle of the parking lot than go in that sketchy structure.

  I continue to watch, the pump dial reduced to slow motion as the gas tank reaches capacity. Then the nozzle clicks, and the girl cries out. Not in a bloodcurdling scream. More like a frantic whimper.

  That dry aggression scratching my throat is now moving down my esophagus, becoming sharper, hotter, a serpent of vehemence.

  He drags her into the shabby building, her nails leaving scratches in the putrid blue doorframe.

  If I were a smarter woman, I would let this go. I would get in my car and drive away, worrying only about the paycheck in my backseat. But I’m not a smart woman, or a tolerant woman, or a restrained woman.

  I act on impulse.

  I like trouble. I like to find it, and cause it, and shake it up. Which is exactly what I’m about to do now.

  Driving up to the outhouse, I leave the car running outside. I pull a Glock out from under my car seat and holster it in the back of my black, ripped jeans. This should only take a second.

  I hear the girl's cries and pleas through the paper-thin door. She’s begging him to stop. Some boyfriend. It should be the other way around, honey. You should be enjoying it, begging for it, telling him how much you love it, not how much it hurts you. My chest inflates with rage right before I kick in the door. They both startle, but there’s no time to react. I have the upper hand. The element of surprise.

  The girl is bent over the rust-stained stink, her face streaked with tears, her skirt hiked all the way up around her waist.

  “What the fuc–” is about all the guy can blubber before I drag him off her and throw a right hook. It doesn’t stop there. I put a bloody beating on him, relentlessly pounding my fist into his face until his lip is busted open and his eyes are swollen shut. The girl screams behind me, crouching under the sink, no doubt more scared now than she was before.

  Finally, I stomp-kick him in the stomach, sending him flying against the wall. He goes splat like a bug, then falls to the ground. When he slumps over, I get a dark sense of satisfaction.

  I pull the gun from my waist and bend over so he can hear me clearly. “If you ever stick your dick where it isn’t wanted again, I will hunt you down. Skin you alive and set your rapist ass on fire.”

  I pull the trigger and shoot him right in the thigh. He screams like the bitch he is. The girl screams, too. I’m sure traumatized. But I did this for her. I did this because no woman should have to say no more than once. No woman should be forced. No woman should be looked at like she’s less than a human being.

  I turn to her, her slim form shaking in the corner, curled in a ball. “You say when, and how, and with who. You don’t have to be a victim.”

  She gazes up at me with wide, shocked, ebony eyes. I hope I got my point across. With that, I leave. The store clerk can clean up the mess.

  I hop in the car and peel out, my back-seat passenger still dead to the world.

  An hour
later, I pull up to a remote log cabin literally in the middle of nowhere. March had to hook me up to a black-market satellite network just so I could find the place. I’ve been to a lot of questionable areas around the globe, but this Deliverance shit definitely creeps me out the most.

  I don’t get out of the car, as instructed. I’m supposed to wait for him. Who is ‘him’? I have no idea. He’ll be wearing a plaid shirt. That’s all I was told. I can only assume he’ll emerge from the house. A minute after I put the car in park, someone does. A man, in his mid-twenties, same as me, appears on the porch. My heart thumps harder from the sight of him. He has a dark aura for sure, and for a moment, I reconsider this job. I was assured this girl wasn’t going to be harmed. That she was just a puppet in a political game of Russian roulette. A Senator’s daughter to use as a pawn.

  I glance back at the sleeping girl one last time as the man in plaid strides to my car. He stands on the passenger side and motions for me to get out. This is his turf. His rules, his game. I need to follow his direction. Stealthy, I slide my Glock back into the waist of my jeans before opening the car door and getting assailed by the smell of the salty marsh.

  “Lose the gun,” he orders. “This is a nonviolent transaction.”

  “My gun doesn’t mean it’s violent. If anything, it keeps the peace,” I argue.

  He shakes his head. His shaggy black hair and hard, inky eyes give him a sinister look. I don’t like it, but I’ll do it. I drop the gun onto the driver’s seat and shut the door. I tread lightly. I don’t know this guy, and he sure as hell doesn’t know me.

  He waits for me to walk around the back of the Chevy and open the back door. I show him his goods.

  “There she is, unconscious, just like you requested. She should be out for a few more hours. I drugged her up pretty good.”

  He nods. Approving.

  A chill runs down my spine. He isn’t a bad-looking man. He isn’t that intimidating either, but there is something about him. Something ominous underneath that chiseled face and those long eyelashes.

  He goes to reach for her, but I stop him. “Send the text first.” He’s not getting his hands on her until I get paid.

  He nods again, the sounds of strange bayou wildlife echoing in the distance.

  A minute or two later, my phone buzzes with a text from March:

  Transaction complete.

  I step aside, swallowing the lump in my throat. “She’s all yours.” I don’t usually pull jobs like this. I’m more a shoot ’em and leave ’em type of girl. But this was just too easy, and the money was just too good. March practically died of a coronary when I said I had to think about it. He gave me all of five minutes.

  The man in the maroon-and-blue plaid reaches into the back seat and pulls the girl out. My heart flutters faster. He cradles her in his arms like she weighs nothing but doesn’t look at her like she is nothing. No, I know that look. That intrigued stare. He likes what he sees. I don’t think there’s a man alive who wouldn’t. She’s beautiful and young. Olive-skinned and blonde highlighted hair. A thin nose, high cheekbones, and plump, pink lips.

  Someone completely innocent.

  “You can go,” he dismisses me, and that suppressed rage that’s always there rears its ugly head.

  “Hey.” I snatch his arm. “I was told she wasn’t going to be hurt.”

  He looks down at my hand and then back up at me. I’m as intimidating to him as I was to the guy in the bathroom. Looks can be deceiving, especially when it comes to me.

  “Whatever happens after you leave is none of your concern.” There’s a malicious hiss to his tone. “Your job is complete.”

  That answer is not going to fly with me. I pull the knife from my boot and press the tip into his balls before he can take his next breath. “Let me leave you with this parting note. If I find out this girl is hurt, injured, or violated in any way, I’ll come back, cut you into pieces, season your ass with Creole, and feed you to the first alligator I see.” I flick my wrist, and he sucks in a sharp breath. “Next time, it won’t be just the seam of your pants I slice.”

  “I see why they insisted on you now.” There’s actually some respect in his response.

  I cock an eyebrow and accept the roundabout compliment.

  “You have nothing to worry about,” he reassures me in a low, cool, collected tone. It reminds me of a sociopath I once knew.

  “I better not.” I nod.

  I can only take him on his word. It’s unfortunately all the assurance I’ll get.

  Regarding the girl one last time, I disappear back into the car, turn the air conditioning all the way up, and speed away.

  Another day, another dollar

  An hour into my drive back to New Orleans, I receive a phone call from March. I hit the green button on my phone, and a buttery-brown face with big amber eyes and gorgeous, loose, black curls pops up on the screen.

  “And how is my killer assistant?” I ask.

  “Ha. Nice to hear you making jokes. But I’ll leave all the killing to you.”

  I sigh pseudo disappointedly. “I know, you’re no fun.”

  “I’m a hell of a lot of fun, honey. Just find me on Duval Street during Fantasy Fest.”

  “An impromptu trip to Key West sounds good to me.”

  “As much I would love to book two plane tickets to paradise, your presence has been requested.”

  “Oh yeah? By who?”

  “Mr. Ronan Kennedy.”

  “And what does our exceptionally violent Irish mobster want?”

  “Besides to fuck you?” March is achingly sarcastic.

  “Yes, besides that. No mixing business with pleasure. It gets you dead.”

  “And no one wants that.” His snarky streak continues.

  “Nope.”

  “There’s an associate of his being particularly nasty. He’s asking if you can assist one of his guys. Apparently, he isn't getting it done.”

  “Dear God, where does Ronan find these people?” I gripe.

  “What? His muscle or his associates?”

  “Both.” I roll my eyes.

  “The same barrel he found you. You were just floating at the top instead of on the bottom.” March is smug. His opinion of me is way higher than it should be.

  “Where’s the job?” My curiosity is piqued.

  “That’s the beauty of the whole thing. Right in your current backyard. New Orleans herself,” he hums with a freakishly perfect Southern accent.

  “Convenient.”

  “I thought so.”

  “You worked out the price?”

  “Of course. It’s more than generous, like always.”

  “Okay, I’m in.”

  March scoffs. “Like I was giving you another choice.”

  “I don’t remember bestowing you free reign on my career choices.”

  “Nope, you didn’t. I took the liberty myself. I believe it’s why you liked me in the first place—my initiative.”

  “I knew that was going to come back and bite me in the butt,” I complain dryly.

  March smiles cheekily.

  I sigh heavily. Oh, how I love him and how hate him. “Send me all the deets. And book me another hotel room, please.” Looks like I'll be staying a little longer in the dirty South.

  Once we disconnect, the music starts playing through the speakers again. I turn up “Bad Girls” by M.I.A., the edgy melody infecting my senses as I speed down the deserted road.

  I ditch the rental car on the outskirts of the French Quarter and then hop on a streetcar that will take me to my intended destination, or at least close to it.

  March sent me all the info. I’m supposed to meet a man named Declan at an Irish pub in the northern part of the Quarter. How am I supposed to know what Declan looks like? Yeah, I asked that, too. Apparently, I’m looking for a guy in his late twenties with black four-leaf clovers tattooed on the backs of his hands.

  Piece of cake, right?

  I track down the pub and see myself
inside. It’s pushing six in the evening, but it’s still as bright as midday. Outside, that is. Inside, the pub is small, dimly lit, and has that indescribable hole-in-the-wall smell. It’s dark, save for the neon lights on the wall and light bulbs showcasing the array of Irish whiskeys behind the bar. Tucked in an obscure corner, I scan the scattered tables and barstools, looking for anyone fitting my man Declan’s description. Squeezing the straps of my black leather backpack every few seconds, I spy a man at the end of the bar, facing the door with a backwards flat cap. I watch him take a sip of his beer and spot the clover on his hand. Bingo. Here we go.

  I move in closer, cautiously approaching him. Even though we’re supposed to be working together, you can never be too careful in this career field. I don’t know how he’s going to respond to me. He may want my help, he may not. And if he doesn’t, it’s going to make my job a hell of a lot harder.

  I sidle up next to him and catch the bartender's attention.

  “What’ll it be, deary?” He doesn’t have an Irish accent, which is disappointing. It would have made the place so much more authentic.

  I scan the array of whiskies on the shelf. There is an impressive collection. When in Rome, right?

  “I’ll try a Dead Rabbit and Coke, and back up my friend, please.” I gesture with my head to the guy sitting next to me.

  He lifts his eyes to me, and I smile. The bartender walks off, and I use our semi-private moment to confirm he’s who I’m looking for. “Declan?”