jack traven x reader Bittersweet alternate ending AU. After escaping John Wick you move to L.A. Keanuverse encounters abound...(tom ludlow, donaka mark, et al.) *warnings: MDNI!!! did i mention this is a dark fic? violence. misogyny. elements of n0n-c0n, victim blaming herself (def not healthy)
27. i will show you my dark secret
You come back to the world slowly, a pounding headache drumming behind your eyes before you even dare to open them. Cautiously you peer out through your lashes; low golden light doesn't offer more shooting pain, so you blink, trying to get your bearings.
"Fuck…" you groan, sitting up on your elbows, holding your head so that your brains don't slide out your ears. You're laying on some kind of long couch—the fine upholstery is smooth and soft beneath you. Just beyond your nose you make out it's a chinoiserie print of chrysanthemums and birds…you'd like to curl up and sleep on it for a few more hours, but something tells you that would be a bad idea.
That's when you start to remember everything else.
John Wick found you.
Your whole world is going to burn.
"There she is. I was afraid my boys overdosed you. Was it necessary to give them such a hard time?"
Slowly you turn your head to find Donaka Mark seated in a carved ebony throne of a chair at the head of a long dining room table, self-satisfied as a man who has finally won a long game of chess.
"Donaka…you. Fucking. Idiot."
His amusement shifts into a terrible frown, eyes narrowing to anthracite slits.
"That's not how you want to start this off, y/n."
You sit up, too fast, and the vast room spins. You brace yourself, and wonder how mad he'd be if you threw up all over his beautiful silk pillows. What the fuck did he drug you with?
You swallow back the urge to blow chunks. You can always save that for later. "I'm going to level with you," you groan, closing your eyes against another wave of nausea.
"At long last."
"I am on the run from someone."
"I know."
"He found me. Tonight. I locked him in a room at the shop, but that won't hold him for long—"
"I know."
"What do you mean you know?"
He smirks down at you, having fun again.
"I told you I've been watching you, y/n. We noticed a new player skulking around your normal haunts a few days ago. It was obvious."
You blink, the urge to slap that smug smirk off his handsome face burning so real that you clench your fist. He knew. He knew, and he didn't tell you.
"He's a very dangerous man."
Donaka just chuckles at you. "So I hear."
"You don't understand."
"Has it occured to you that maybe you don't understand? Come eat something, I promise you'll feel better." He removes a lid from a dish to tempt you, and an amazing savory smell wafts through the room.
Shaking your head, you finally feel well enough to push to your feet. "I don't have time for this."
You make it two steps before Donaka is on you, lithe as a panther, picking you up like you weigh nothing at all. The current state of your muscle control is no match for him—god he's a big man—he actually laughs as you struggle, pushing against him until he plops you down in the chair next to his, pinning your hands on the arms.
"Calm. Down."
"I'm warning you, Donaka. I'm a curse you do not want a piece of. He'll kill you. He'll kill everyone here."
With a sigh Donaka picks up a set of chopsticks and expertly starts doling out bite-size tidbits onto your plate. "You do remember my business is security, sweetheart? I employ the most skilled and ruthless ex-military contractors in my personal detail. If that man comes here, he'll have a bad night."
He holds up a small dumpling to your lips in offering, and a pregnant pause weighs between you like a physical testing of wills. "Eat."
"I can't," you plead. "Please, just let me use your phone. I have to call Jack—"
Donaka throws the chopsticks; they skitter across the fine table setting with a clang, overturning a small cloisonné enamel vase of flowers. "Jack, Jack, Jack. You are safe with me. I have delivered you from what I can only assume is your worst fear, and all you can talk about is Jack?"
"I have to go now!"
You push out your chair from the table, trying to scramble away, but he's on you again in the blink of an eye, catching you with an arm around the waist. This time he's not so gentle, slamming you down on the table and pinning you beneath him. Silverware clatters and rings—china shatters on the floor. You try to get your leg under his torso for leverage but he locks his lower body against yours, wedged between your legs, holding your hands over your head with a grip that makes the bones in your wrists creak. You scream and thrash and snarl against him until you physically cannot do it anymore, heaving for breath while baring your teeth.
The buttons of his shirt strain across his broad chest as it heaves, looking down at you with all the sympathy of a tiger with a tasty deer in its jaws. He smirks, assessing your disheveled state, all wild eyes and still ready to bite. His usually so carefully coiffured hair has fallen down into his eyes; they are sharp and shining as obsidian blades.
He is beautiful, and terrible, and you would stab him with a fork right now if you could only get your hand free.
As though to emphasize your defeat he deliberately grinds his hips against yours, punishing you with the hard bulge of his erection at your center.
"Creep!" you snarl, struggling again for spite, though you really are out of steam.
"You are a little fighter," he pants, short of breath from your battle. "I have to admit. This is the most fun I've had in a long time."
He shifts to hold your wrists with one massive hand, reaching down to unbuckle his belt like he has all the time in the world to play with you now. This is when you start to cry, your lips trembling as fat tears roll from the corners of your eyes. All you can think is I'm sorry, Jack. You fought as hard as you could…but you aren't strong enough to prevent this betrayal. You're afraid you'll never be able to look him in the eye again. This all flashes through your mind in a matter of seconds, this pervading feeling of defeat and treachery sinking into your bones.
"Aw, don't start crying now, you little hellion," he mocks you. "Surrender, and I'll still let you cum."
The thought twists like a vile knife in your guts.
"Donaka…please don't. I know you're a better man than this," you plead, choking out your last word.
Strangely this is the thing that gives him pause, looking down at you with that timeless dark gaze that has always made you squirm. He lays his palm flat over your chest, not groping you, but to feel the hammering rhythm of your heart beneath the spread of his hand. "I'm really not, y/n. Though I might have kept up the charade for a little while longer, just for you."
"I'll hate you forever," you warn him, your words like sandpaper in your throat.
"No you won't," he scoffs. He has not taken a single word you've said tonight seriously. You wonder if he'll pay for it with his life.
"Just you wait."
"Suit yourself. I've got you where I want you now."
He goes back to his belt, flipping it free, undoing the top button of his designer slacks.
The bark of a gunshot startles both of you, plaster raining down from the ceiling.
A booming command of "FREEZE, MOTHERFUCKER!" cuts through the room, and you sag with relief, your head knocking against the table.
Jack.
He stands in the doorway with his gun drawn, your knight in shining white t-shirt.
Thank god.
He's so tall and fit and true, the veins in his arms and his neck popping with his fury. You can't hold back your sigh, even if you know you're not out of the woods yet.
Donaka doesn't even look up at first, smirking down at you. "Officer Traven. Late to the party, as usual."
"Back away with your hands on your head!"
Considering Jack has a large caliber weapon pointed at him and a look of pure murder on his handsome face, Donaka decides it might be prudent, though he still does it as though he is merely indulging the police officer's childish demands.
"How ever did you find us?"
"911 call comes in from her shop and she was missing? You were my first suspect, asshole."
"Is that why you're here alone, without backup?"
Jack just frowns, caught out that he's cowboying on this one, alone.
"Sounds like you didn't have any evidence for a warrant…"
"Does it look like I need a warrant?"
"Does he even know about…?" Donaka gives you a pointed look with a lifted brow, like not even he wants to utter the Baba Yaga's name.
"Shut up. Back away from her, slowly. No funny business. I'm itching for an excuse to shoot you."
"You won't shoot me," taunts Donaka. "You're one of the good guys, Traven."
"Not feelin' so good right now, believe me. Turn around." Jack crosses the room, gun in one hand, cuffs in the other. You gingerly push yourself off the table, standing on legs that still tremble. Donaka watches you with a smirk, and you contemplate hitting him in the face with the last remaining china plate on the table.
"You ok, baby?" There's nothing you want more than to hide in his arms right now, but you know he has his hands full.
Jack dares to glance your way while cuffing your kidnapper.
It was a mistake.
Donaka explodes into action, knocking away Jack's gun and pouncing on him. The two tumble and exchange blows like rabid dogs engaged in battle, snarling and punching. Unfortunately…the millionaire actually knows how to fight. This is why his hands aren't soft, you think to yourself in a panic, looking around for a weapon. The gun has skittered off somewhere and the two powerful men are exchanging blows that sound like they could fell an ox. Donaka actually manages to get on top of Jack, rearing back to hit him when you pick up a very large, very old, very expensive blue and white Ming vase from a side table and crash it on Donaka's head as hard as you can.
He doesn't go down quite like you hoped he would, but the shock of it gives Jack just enough of a window to flip him. He manages to get one hand cuffed with a knee on Donaka's spine when shouts from the door fill the room.
"Freeze!"
"Get on the ground!"
Suddenly the room is filled with four security guys kitted out in full tactical gear with weapons drawn. They're Donaka's well-paid attack dogs, and you absolutely believe that they will shoot both of you with so much as a nod from Donaka.
With a hangdog look of apology that cleaves your heart Jack raises his hands, slowly dismounting from the millionaire he was trying to arrest.
Maybe Jack should have just shot him.
Furious and bloody, Donaka lands a sucker punch that makes you scream. Jack falls back as you run towards them, forgetting the guns in a very stupid moment of animal instinct to protect your mate. Perhaps it's lucky for you, that Donaka grabs you up before the guards turn you into Swiss cheese.
"Restrain him," Donaka snarls, kicking Jack in the ribs.
"Stop!" you plead, struggling in his vise-like grip, crying and carrying on like a mad woman again.
"Be still," hisses Donaka, twining your hair in his fist, pulling your head back at a merciless angle as he pins you against him.
You are so consumed with the fear of what he intends to do with Jack that you tremble like a leaf, so hopped up with adrenaline you don't even feel the pain. You realize you weren't afraid before. Not really. Not like this. Now you're ready to beg on your knees—ready to trade anything for Jack's life—but you are all interrupted by a smattering of gunfire at the other side of the house. The crisp pow pow pow is unmistakeable, and you don't know if you are terrified or relieved.
"What the fuck was that?" snarls Donaka, pulling your hair as though you are personally responsible.
"We're under attack, sir. We need to evacuate you to a more secure location."
There's more gunfire, nearing closer, and with a strange sense of acceptance you just listen, knowing very well what's coming their way.
Death wears a kevlar suit, and they're about to find out he wears it well.
Kevin's eyes darkened, that familiar hungry glint returning as he looked down at you. He didn't care about the interruption; he only cared about the friction between your bodies. "Don't 'wait' me, baby," he groaned, his voice dropping into that drawl that always made your knees go weak. "It's my birthday, and you know damn well there's no better gift than you making a mess of these expensive sheets."
He didn't give you a chance to argue further. He scooped you up, your small frame feeling weightless in his powerful arms, and carried you toward the master suite. But halfway there, he paused, a devious, cocky grin spreading across his face. "Wait, hold on. I forgot the most important part of the celebration." He set you down on the edge of the bed, but instead of diving in, he hurried toward the mahogany dresser, returning a moment later with a sleek, heavy, and obscenely expensive Leica camera. He set it up on a tripod with the precision of a man closing a multi million dollar merger.
"Kevin, what on earth are you doing?" you laughed, the tension breaking into a fit of giggles as you watched him obsess over the lens settings. "We're supposed to be celebrating, not filming a documentary!"
"Shush," he commanded playfully, clicking a button and giving you a wink that was pure arrogance. "This thing cost more than most people's cars, and it's gonna capture every single beautiful, filthy inch of you. I want to see the look on your face when I'm deep inside you, in high definition. It's called documentation, sweetheart. Professionalism if you may."
It’s baked potato season! I’m sure other breeds do it as well, but pitties are notorious for laying out like a big potato when it’s sunny. That also means he doesn’t wanna come inside when we call him because he found a good sunny spot to bask in. Preferably soft and grassy, but grandma‘s in-progress flower bed works too. Really it doesn’t matter if we’re at grandma‘s or home, as soon as he finds some sunshine, I’m chopped liver 😆
Drum has been very polite the last few weeks, I’ve been super busy but he doesn’t seem to mind as long as he has some ice cubes or a frozen treat Kong. 
Drumstick updates on the 14th and 28th of each month
THE FINAL CHAPTER! you meet Tex Johnson on a plane...some hijinks ensue. WARNINGS??? Tex being Tex. Mild violence. Nothing worse than the show, its pretty camp. Refer to beginning of Ch 2 so you don't get lost! 😁. and as always MDNI! ... chapter map spotify playlist i swear the lyrics are actually relevant if u translate them 😂
5. 🌺🌴🌺🌴🌺🌴🌺🌴🌺
“Are you sure it’s a good idea to go out tonight?” asks one of your friends, clearly concerned about your dinner plans for the evening.
“It’ll be fine,” you assure them. “I’ll be with Tex. What's the worst that can happen?”
They exchange looks with their beaus that tell you they've been having their own discussions about their suspicions about Tex.
“Well…”
Like the gremlin you are, you can't help but savor their second thoughts about this whole mess, and you let them squirm about it. “Oh come on, you said it was your turn to pick,” you tease with no real malice. “It was my vote to drown him in the pool.”
“Yeah right,” answers your friend with a playful glare. “You were salivating for that man right along with us!”
“You’re the one who said he was fuckable!” you cackle, pointing. And boy howdy, was your friend right about that.
This admission makes Johnny frown a little. Jack is inscrutable as stone, and you do wonder if there's something to what Tex said about these men actually being in law enforcement.
“Just…be careful, ok?”
“Of course. Not my first rodeo, babes.”
“We know…”
“We just love you.”
“I love you too. I’ll be back later. Bye boys!”
Is Tex rubbing off on you, that you feel you have to taunt the [alleged] cops? You definitely don’t grasp the true gravity of your situation, fluttering along in vacation mode, convinced nothing truly bad can happen to you. You've committed to the bit, and you're determined to play it out now, even if you suspect it’s going to hurt your heart later.
You slip out the door with a finger wave, skipping off to meet Tex downstairs.
You just kind of assumed you were going to take a taxi to whatever destination Tex had in mind. But he is leaning against a black vintage muscle car with his arms crossed, the outlaw of your dreams dressed all in black. He lets out a wolf whistle as you approach, appraising the cut of your flowy tropical dress over the top of his dark shades.
“Oh my god,” you say under your breath, and he smirks like he heard you. “Tex, where did you get this?”
“I borrowed it.”
You steady yourself with palms on his solid chest as you lean in for a kiss, and his hands sneak around your waist with an approving rumble. “You didn’t steal this car, did you?” you whisper, voice low so no one can hear.
The idea of it makes him chuckle darkly, hands following the curve of your spine, perilously close to your ass as he pulls you full against him. Uff, this man is built solid as a tree. You’re almost too distracted to register his simple denial of, “No.”
Not sure you really believe him, you search his face. You can hear the doormen behind you talking and whistling low amongst themselves, you’re pretty sure about the car. He lets you stew in your uncertainty, clearly amused as he looks down at you. Finally you say, “I believe you, only because if you did steal it you’re so vain you’d brag about it.”
This wins you a bark of laughter and a smack on the derriere. “Get in your ass in this car, pretty mama. I’m taking you for a ride.”
You have no idea how prophetic this seemingly innocuous declaration will prove.
Maybe it’s stupid, how quickly you unwind, all your knee-jerk fears of earlier forgotten, while roaring down the seaside highway in this beast of a car with the windows down, holding Tex’s hand between shifting the gears.
In a change of pace the two of you don’t talk [fight] much, blissfully content to watch the palm trees race by with the warm breeze on your faces, the glittering waters beyond gilded in rose gold by the setting sun.
This place truly is a paradise.
“Having fun?” he asks while kissing your hand with a smoldering look, his rough twang underscored with the barest note of earnestness that squeezes your heart. You haven’t known this man long at all, but you’re beginning to learn the subtle cues he keeps hidden beneath the boisterous good ol’ boy facade he wears for the world.
He’s got a soft spot under all that armor; maybe it’s how he so adroitly recognized the same tender underbelly on you. The thought makes you squeeze his fingers in yours; every minute that goes by in this man’s company makes you dread more and more the moment when you’ll have to let go.
You do know it won’t last. Even if you stay, it never lasts, and the ache of this only intensifies the thrill, like scratching an itch with a razor-sharp blade.
“Yes.”
This wins you a roguish smile that quickens your heart like the ridiculous creature you are.
“Hard to keep my eyes on the road,” he admits, shifting to rest his hand in the soft crevice of your inner thigh.
“Tex!” you giggle, and he chuckles in kind, pinching you lightly to make you squirm in your seat.
“You are the worst,” you sigh wistfully, squeezing his hand between your legs.
You think you’ll remember the sound of his happy laughter for the rest of your life, and you know that no matter what happens…you will be forever changed by this man, and the wild bliss he’s called up from the razed earth of your heart these past few days
His shapely mouth curls in a half-smile for this, and he at least pretends to pay attention to the road while his thumb draws maddening circles upon your thigh.
Your trip ends outside the touristy parts of town, where the buildings are smaller and older and a little rundown. You like it immediately, and when he parks in front of a brightly painted little place on the beach constructed out of cinder blocks and old wood, the patio seemingly held together by twining bougainvillea, baling wire, and palm fronds, you believe that you are indeed in for a genuine taste of this beautiful country.
The patio wraps around the back with a breathtaking view of the beach, and the waitress gives you a little table with a front row view by the railing. “You like?” asks Tex with a half smile, clearly enjoying your wide-eyed wonder.
“Very much,” you tell him, taking his hand. He tangles you up in his long legs under the table, and the two of you stay that way for the duration of the meal. Over margaritas, tequila shots, cochinita pibil and moharra frita you feel something shift in Tex as you’re talking. Some small barrier has fallen between you, and you feel like he’s not completely bullshitting you with every word he says. Maybe you’re not as guarded as you usually are either, when he asks you about your family and your life and the places you’ve been. It’s...nice, and it makes the sting of certain impermanence hurt all the more.
A varied crowd of people fills the seaside restaurant. There are some tourists, but mostly it’s locals filling the chairs and the stools along the long bar that wraps around the back of the building. “How did you hear about this place?” you ask Tex, chasing the last bit of fruity goodness in the bottom of your margarita glass with a straw.
“Got a rec from one of my…business associates,” he tells you. This makes some sense to you, as the night goes on and you don’t think you’re imagining that some of the clientele seem to have a certain edge to them. And a few at the bar seem to be paying a particular attention to you, or Tex, or at least the general direction of your table. Despite the uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach, you tell yourself you’re just being paranoid, and when the waitress swings by you don’t object to Tex ordering another round of margaritas.
“Gotta hit the head,” he tells you, leaning over to kiss your cheek before ambling around the building towards [you assume] the location of the facilities. You pass the alone time by looking out over the ocean. The sun has set by now, but the moon has risen, and you can see the glitter of the ever-moving water along with the distant sound of the surf. The patio is lit up by strings of festive fairy lights, you’ve got a great buzz from the tequila and a belly full of good food, and for a fleeting moment you are perfectly content.
Then a shadow falls over your table, and you look up to see two of those tough looking men from the bar have come to loom over you.
“Where’s your novio?” one with a scar over his eye demands, his voice like tires driving over broken glass.
“He…went to the bathroom,” you stammer, your Spanish evaporating in the face of this tense situation.
The two heavies look at each other knowingly, one hissing with disbelief through his teeth, the other reaching out to grasp you by the back of the neck. “Hey!” you protest, but quickly shut your mouth as the other flashes a chrome-plated handgun stuck in his waistband under his shirt.
“You wanna see him again? Shut up, puta.”
Deep down, you know you should resist. You should make a big fucking scene, scream and shout and tip over tables. Make yourself memorable, at least, in case someone with a connection to your embassy might be watching. You should not go quietly, sandwiched between these scary men with eyes as sharp as the volcanic stone their ancestors once used to carve out the hearts of their enemies.
But something freezes inside of you. Something gets stuck between fight or flight, and you just watch, hoping deep down that Tex will come to your rescue at the last minute.
You walk out the restaurant, and across the car park, and you don’t see or hear a peep out of him as Big Tough #1 shoves you into the back seat of a Mercedes G-Wagon, and sits beside you with the gun pressed into your ribs.
Tex, you son of a bitch.
🌴🌴🌴
Deafening gunfire echoes through the cavernous warehouse, and you struggle in your chair, desperate to get free. One of the henchmen takes a bullet to the chest, collapsing at your feet. Something wet and hot splashes the side of your face, and you can’t bring yourself to admit what you know: it’s totally blood.
Puke or cry, puke or cry? The dilemmas facing a modern woman these days…
Drawing a gold-plated Desert Eagle from his waistband while reciting a string of rapid-fire expletives, the leader of the trio takes cover behind you, pressing the barrel of the gun to your temple.
“Your stupid boyfriend has become a real pain in my ass,” hisses the Jefe in your ear, poking you viciously with the gun for good measure.
“Welcome to the fucking club,” you snarl back, as pissed at him as you are at Tex. Fucking men.
“Don Juan!” bellows a voice from behind a crate.
Why does your stupid heart still sing at the sound of that shifty motherfucker’s voice? You should hate Tex’s guts, but there is still a small part of you that hopes against hope he didn’t abandon you at the restaurant, and there is still some sliver of hope that he actually cares about you…enough to get you out of this mess, at least.
“You lousy cheating hijo de puta! Did you really think you could sell me fakes and get away with it?” your captor answers, poking you with the barrel of the gun with each word. Goddamn, dude, ease up.
“Well…”
“Wrong answer, cabrón!”
“Ow!!” you scream as Juan wrenches your head back with a grip in your hair.
“Hey now, easy on the goods, partner!”
“You want her back alive? You better get me my money back with interest, for a start.”
“Uhhh…”
“TEX!” you snarl, so fucking fed-up with his shit. You can’t help but think back on that amazing night you spent together, interrupted by his midnight sojourn, and him returning in that sharp suit. You don’t know what kind of grift he pulled on this guy, but you are so fucking pissed that you’re in the middle of it now. “GIVE HIM his FUCKING MONEY BACK!”
Juan laughs softly behind you. “Your lady is smarter than you, señor. I’d take her advice.”
“Yeah. About that…I–”
The roar of an engine and the explosion of a car crashing through the side of the warehouse interrupts Tex mid-sentence. Chaos rains down and gunfire fills the air as more of Juan’s goons fire at the vintage muscle car drifting through the stacks of crates and shipping containers. Somehow–while steering and shifting–the driver picks them all off one by one. The shock of the spectacle might be what saves you all–Don Juan does not run from his cover of using your paltry form as a human shield. He watches in disbelief as the Mustang circles your chair in a burnout that positions the driver at the perfect angle to put a bullet between your captor’s eyes.
Suddenly the warehouse is quiet as a cemetery at midnight–because everyone is dead.
More blood has spattered onto your face–you do not care, unable to tear your eyes from the dark and terrible form that emerges from the driver’s side of the car. He is tall, clad in a beautifully tailored black suit, his crisp white shirt specked with blood, a matte 9mm clasped in his large hand at his side. You lose time as he turns to look at you with eyes like dark pits that hold all the sorrow of the world, falling into those fathomless orbs.
You cannot look away.
He looks like Tex…but not.
“You alright?” he grumbles, almost begrudgingly, as though speaking is something he’d rather not do and words are in limited supply for him.
“I think so?” you squeak, though deep down your limbs have begun to shake and you don’t think you can stop.
You gasp as he produces a knife from seemingly thin air, but relax as you realize he’s using it to cut your bonds. He crouches beside you, looking you over as though he didn’t believe you when you said you were fine. You’re not sure he likes what he sees, from the tired way he sighs. “You poor thing. Didn’t have a clue, did you?”
You try not to cry as he pulls a white linen handkerchief from inside his smart jacket and wipes the blood off of your face.
“Thanks.”
“Whew!” Tex finally emerges from behind his cover of haphazard crates, his boot heels clicking on the concrete. “That was some driving, budd–” In the blink of an eye this newcomer has Tex up against the side of the Mustang in a choke hold, cutting off his air supply with his forearm on his neck.
“You,” snarls your savior, none too happy to see his doppelganger.
“Hegh—John–C’mon–” Tex taps at the iron bar of an arm against his windpipe, but John only presses harder for a few seconds more.
“You. Stole Viggo’s blue diamonds. And sold them to Juan fucking Aragón–while pretending to be me? You. Fucking. Asshole!”
“They were fake diamonds!” Tex protests.
“I don’t fucking care!”
“Aww, c’mon. What are brothers for?”
“You're not my brother.”
“I’m your twin!”
“You can’t talk your way out of this one. I have to bring you back.”
“I can’t go back.”
“You don’t get a choice.”
“John…c’mon.”
“Dead or alive. Your choice.”
You involuntarily make a pitiful little sound behind them. As though he forgot you were even there, this terrible killer turns his attention to you again. “Who's she?”
“Just some girl. Don't hurt her.”
Gee, thanks.
“I’m not going to hurt her.” He fixes narrowed eyes on Tex. “But you're not getting out of this.”
Tex looks past his brother to you with forlorn puppy eyes, and fuck if you don’t melt a little, like the fucking idiot you are. “Can I at least say goodbye?”
“Fine,” John growls. “But make it quick.” He releases his brother, and Tex makes a show of brushing himself off, looking at John with a raised eyebrow.
All it earns him is a snarl before the assassin turns his back on both of you.
Tex sidles your way with that come-hither smirk curling his oh-so-kissable lips. This manchild thinks all this was funny.
He doesn’t even see it coming when you wind up and slap him across the face. “Ouch! Easy darlin’!”
You can’t stop yourself from shoving your finger in his face, even if you have to stand on tiptoe to do it. “You asshole! You left me–”
With the speed of a pouncing leopard this man snatches you up in his arms–and slants his mouth over yours. You struggle for about 2.5 seconds before you hate to admit–you give in to it, all your good sense going up in smoke with those clever lips and that devilish tongue lighting up your world one more time. He kisses you like he means to devour you from the mouth down, like he would like to permanently imprint the taste of you on his tongue. He is definitely holding you up by the time he’s done with you, and you forget how to speak when he draws back to look down into your eyes.
“I didn’t leave you, honey. I just…had to time it right, or I knew I wasn’t going to get you back.”
You can't help but think it was his brother who saved all your bacon. Yet when this menace of a man sweeps your hair behind your ear, you can’t stop yourself from leaning into him.
“Sorry I got you mixed up in all this.”
You whimper out of frustration, knowing you shouldn’t believe him, but wanting to. Your attempt to pound on his chest with your fist is thwarted by his arms locked tight around you.
“Tex…is he going to hurt you?” you can’t help but ask, looking at his lethal twin who is clearly losing his patience, leaning against his baddass car.
“Nah. We’ll work it out. Always do.” Tex winks at you with that trickster’s sparkle in his eye, and you strangely sympathize with the mafia assassin having to deal with this wild man who somehow worms his way into your heart, despite all the trouble he causes.
Tex chucks you under the chin when he sees it quivering with the urge to cry. “Here’s–”
“If you say ‘Here’s looking at you, kid,’ I will knee you in the junk, Humpy Bogart.”
He laughs at that, a full-on head-back guffaw. “Baby…I’m going to miss you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Sorry we’re wrapping early. I had some elaborate plans for your juicy little pu–”
“Tex!” you giggle, squirming as he nuzzles your neck with a wicked chuckle, his big hand grabbing your ass low, his long fingers brushing your center. He captures your lips again in a long wet kiss that curls your toes in your shoes and your fingers in his shirt.
“Time’s up, Romeo,” growls the other brother in black, and Tex sighs. There are sirens in the distance, but getting closer. Lots of them.
“Gotta go, darlin’.”
“Wait…how am I getting back?”
“Eh. They’ll give you a ride.”
“Who are they? Hey, wait!”
But Tex veritably lopes on those long legs, hopping in the passenger side of the Mustang in three strides. The assassin named John doesn’t even look at you before getting behind the wheel and starting the car with a roar. As the warehouse is filled with the wails of the police sirens the outlaws are burning rubber in the opposite direction, making a new hole in the other side of the building.
One of the official cars tries to follow them, but you doubt it will get far. That man can drive.
You are practically blinded by the flashing lights all around you, huddling in your little dress with your arms crossed, praying they don’t mistake you for a bandida and shoot you. There’s a lot of yelling of “¡Manos arriba!” and pointed guns.
Shit, it’s all old hat to you now.
You do as you’re told, lifting your hands above your head.
A team of Federales fan out into the warehouse, looking for targets. All they find are bodies.
One of them cuffs you, and you stand there feeling sorry for yourself while they tear the warehouse apart looking for clues or evidence or the Easter Bunny. They bring out some drug-sniffing dogs who are very interested in the crates Tex was hiding behind.
Great.
The thing that shocks you out of your heartbroken stupor is Jack and Johnny striding up in commando gear, looking ridiculously fine in their bullet proof vests, big guns holstered on their hips. “Where did Tex go?” they ask.
“Fuck if I know. Are you DEA?” you ask back, more relieved than you would like to admit that they’re here and maybe sorta on your side. But then again…maybe not.
“I’m Special Agent Utah, FBI,” Johnny answers, flashing a badge.
“Detective Traven, LAPD,” Jack echoes, unclipping the badge on his belt for you to see. “We’re gonna have to ask you some questions.”
“Yeah. I figured.”
“Did you know he’s a hitman?” Jack asks in a deep, no-nonsense LEO voice, very different from the easy going guy who was canoodling with your friend just this afternoon.
“What?” John was obvious, but Tex? Ok, maybe you sensed something dangerous about him, but…?
“He’s a contract killer. We’ve been tracking him for years.”
Bewildered, you shake your head, the last bit of wind blown out of your sails this night.
“No. He just…sold some bogus diamonds to this cartel guy, apparently.”
“Any idea where he stashed the money?”
You snort. “Nope.”
“You’re not lying to us, I hope.”
You just sigh, suddenly so very tired. “No.”
“You’re in a tricky situation here, ma’am,” says Johnny, like he wasn’t joking with you by your first name with your friends in the pool just this morning. “Juan Aragón was the head of the serpent, but some of his underlings might still want revenge. You’ll be wanting to fly home tonight–but we can only make that happen if you're telling us everything you know.”
“I am!” Oh god. “What about my friends?”
“We’ve already got them at the airport with a detail,” Traven answers, and you sigh with relief.
So much for a carefree vacation…
Boy, do you know how to pick them.
Or maybe, you think, this time…he picked you.
And deep down…in the deepest dungeon of your heart…in a place you’ll never reveal to anyone else…it’s possible…you’re glad he did.
🌺🌺🌺
A year goes by in a fog for you. You swing between hating yourself for being such a fucking idiot to missing that dark-eyed bandit with every cell of your stupid little being.
The FBI and LAPD question you a few more times, but eventually they’re satisfied that you really were just a random vacation hookup, and had no true connections to Tex Johnson’s criminal activities.
This truce might have been helped along by the fact that your friends are still dating Agent Utah and Officer Traven. Who honey-potted who?
You’re so happy for them. Jack will surely be popping the question any time now, and Johnny is just as smitten. Not all vacation flings have to end in total disaster…
But sometimes, late at night when you’re alone in bed and consumed by the fever of a nebulous wet dream–you wish you'd jumped in that Mustang while waving your middle finger goodbye to your stable, boring life.
You try dating.
It’s a joke.
No one gives you that bone-deep thrill like one wink from that outlaw cowboy could. No one else can match your wit or your temper; they just run for the hills like the cowards they are.
No one else calls up that red-hot desire that threatens to burn you alive from the inside out.
Maybe you are a hot fucking mess, but as time goes on you start to fear more and more that Tex really was your perfect pairing, like gasoline and a careless match.
It doesn’t matter.
You know you’ll never see him again.
The knowledge of this sinks into your bones, heavy as lead. You accept it, even if you don't know how to get past the dark cloud that constantly hovers over you.
After a very long day you sit down on your couch with a glass of wine to go through your mail. It’s mostly bills, offers for credit cards you don’t want, and some magazines. You almost miss a bright little postcard of the Golden Buddha of Wat Khao Rang, a temple in Phuket, Thailand, tucked into an ad circular by the postman.
Your heart leaps into your throat while racing a mile a minute. Your hand starts shaking as you get up the courage to flip that piece of cardstock in your fingers.
Somehow…you just know, and you're not sure if it's a good thing or not.
Finally you turn it over, finding a short message in a barely legible left-handed scrawl:
Do you still think about me?
◻️Yes ◻️No
A ridiculous smile spreads over your cheeks, and you collapse back into your pillows, holding the card over your heart that’s suddenly turned into a butterfly house.
Later that evening, you find yourself browsing flights to Bangkok on your laptop.
If insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly while hoping for different results…
Fuck it.
☁✈
The END…
…or is it?👀🤭
Thank you everyone for reading to the end! I hope you enjoyed! Your comments make my day! 💖💖💖💖
*All pics stolen from pinterest. yarrrrr.🏴☠️
