Manipulate (Deliver 6)

A surge of hunger raced through his veins, and his body hardened as he indulged in an unobtainable fantasy where the three of them fell into bed together. In the heat of passion, Tula gave them the locations of the cartel’s major players in the sex trafficking ring. Martin realized he wanted Ricky as deeply as Ricky wanted him. They vowed to protect the woman in their arms and fucked one another in every position imaginable for the rest of their lives.

“I was going to check the bleeding here.” She glided her palm toward the red splotch on Martin’s waistband.

“It’s not my blood.” Martin watched her from mere inches away.

“Oh. Okay, I might be able to wash it out.”

“I’m not taking off my pants.”

“No, of course not. I…” Her fingers brushed the flat expanse of his abs as she withdrew her hand. “I’ll check your back if you turn around.”

Ricky clenched his teeth and twisted away to clean the broken skin on his knuckles.

The bottle of tequila on the floor caught his eye, and he nudged it closer with his foot. As he finished patching up his hands, he poured the potent drink down his throat, hoping to escalate the D in drunk. Or the E in ebrio, if he wanted to be really Mexican about it.

A moment later, the soft sound of her footsteps approached, bringing with it the feminine scent of her shampoo or soap or whatever the hell she used to make her body smell so damn delicious.

“Want me to clean that cut on your face?” She tapped her fingers on her denim-clad thighs.

“Already took care of it.” He rose and stepped around her, headed toward the sink.

Martin shifted out of his way. He didn’t look at those green eyes as he washed his hands and face, but he felt them burning into the back of his head.

Her cell was too small for the three of them, and ignoring Martin made him feel hot and itchy in his skin.

If he looked at Martin, there would be a confrontation, and this wasn’t the time to clear the air between them. Not with Tula cataloging everything. He didn’t trust her.

A knock sounded on the door.

She opened it, and lo and behold, her scowling guard stood on the other side.

“Their cell is ready.” Garra glared at him and Martin before giving Tula a possessive once-over. “Number 24. Right above you.” He flicked a finger toward the ceiling.

When he strode away, she closed the door and turned.

“You got us our own cell?” Ricky dried off his face with the hem of his shirt.

“Yeah.” Her attention dipped to his exposed abs, and her lips parted.

He lowered the shirt, his thoughts stuck on why and how she arranged a room for them.

“Explain how the rent works.” Martin approached her, voicing Ricky’s chief concern.

If Garra expected sex from her or them in exchange for a cell, he could eat his own dick. They would continue sleeping on the floor in the common area.

“There’s no rent.” She raised her chin.

“How?” Ricky asked.

“I have some leeway here.”

“How?” He asked again, harder this time.

She drew in a breath and released it. “I work directly for the boss.”

“You work for Hector La Rocha?” Martin crossed his arms over his chest. “A little thing like you—”

“Go ahead and misjudge me. That’ll be fun.”

Martin barked a derisive sound of laughter that immediately cut off as she shoved the barrel of her pistol beneath his jaw.

Ricky froze, and his training kicked in.

Her finger wasn’t on the trigger, and most of her weight rested on one leg. He could sweep that foot and redirect the gun before she fired. One miscalculation, however, would put a hole through Martin’s head.

How the hell did she even recover the gun without them noticing? She must’ve grabbed it when she answered the door?

“Tula,” Ricky said slowly and captured her eyes. “The rumor that your boss doesn’t employ women is clearly incorrect. As for the gossip that you can defend yourself against men twice your size? I can dispel that rumor, too.” He looked at the gun and back to her. “You absolutely can.”

She searched his face, her huge eyes shining with distrust and perhaps a hint of appeasement.

He held still, letting the moment work itself out as he drank in her incredible beauty.

Black satiny hair tumbled to her elbows. Tawny skin radiated beneath swirls of ink on her toned arms, and rosy lips pursed with suspicion. She reminded him of fire, glowing in warm hues of red, gold, and black against the cold gray cement of her cell.

Finally, she lowered the gun and opened the door. “Use the stairwell on the left. Your cell is on the second floor. Above mine. Number 24.”

His chest tightened. She was kicking them out.

With a glance at Martin, he stepped into the hall.