Player (A Secret Baby Sports Romance)(214)

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Part III





Scorch: Soldiers of Fortune Book 3





Copyright © 2015 Aubrey Irons



This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademark status of products referred to in this book and acknowledges that trademarks have been used without permission.



All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review purposes.



This book is intended for mature, adult audiences only. It contains sexually explicit and graphic scenes and language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please do not continue reading this book of you are under the age of 18 or are offended by content of this nature.



All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older and are in no way blood relations. All acts of a sexual nature are completely consensual.





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1





Javier




“You’ve been a bad, bad boy, Javier.”

The punch to the gut that immediately follows Warden Juan-Carlos Gustavo’s words knocks the wind from my lungs. But, it doesn’t do shit to knock the grin off my face. The real tragedy here is that the irony of Señor Gustavo’s wife saying the same thing to me not thirty minutes before - albeit in slightly different circumstances - is probably going to be lost on him and his men.

Not, of course, that it’s going to stop me from saying it anyways.

“You know, that’s the second- no, wait, the third time I’ve heard that today.”

The Warden’s eyes narrow at me, making him appear even more piggish if that was even possible from an already fat, sweaty, snout-nosed man. But truth be told, despite his appearance, Warden Gustavo is not a man you should fuck with; least of all when you’re a prisoner in his jail. I’ve learned a few things in my nine months here in Venezuela, but that one sticks out.

Yeah, fucking Venezuela. I learned something when that cargo plane those pricks back in the States put me on touched down in Madrid; if you’re a big enough problem, no one wants you. Spain wanted nothing to do with me, even with being a citizen, and even with the shit they probably had on me from my bullshit there years ago. So instead? They called around, found out about the smuggling charges I’d pulled in Venezuela when I was younger, and figured I was someone else’s problem now. See, not many people really want anything to do with me, which suits me just fine because most of the time, I don’t want a fuckin thing to do with them either.

Except let me tell you, South American jails aren’t anything like the jails they’ve got up north in Los Estados Unidos; not by a Goddamn mile. Sure, up north, prison might be cold, and boring, and possibly not the best place to take a shower if you’re in with the wrong people. But shit, they’ve got electricity, and three meals a day, and a roof that doesn’t leak when it rains. Down here in Venezuela? Yeah, down here things are a little different. Down here, we’ve got El Muerto Viviente; The Living Dead.

Yeah, we’ve also got a touch of flare for the dramatics.

But El Muerto is no fucking joke, I’ll say that. A crumbling, shattered shell of a castle from the colonial days, built up on a cliff and slowly melting into the ocean. It’s treacherous, smells like shit, and Warden Gustavo runs it like a Russian Gulag. So yeah, jail fucking sucks down here.

That is, unless you know where to look for the perks. And in this case, “perks” was fucking the cute prison nurse in terrible, terrible ways in the pharmacy supply closet twice a week for the last two months. Oh, and if that cute nurse happens to be Mrs. Warden Juan-Carlos Gustavo?

Merde, now we’re cooking with fire, aren’t we.

The good Warden’s fist crashes into my face, jolting me back into the now as I shake my head, blinking at the stars flashing through my vision.

“You’ve fucked up for the last Goddamn time, Toro.” He says. He’s grinning; that’s not a good sign. Angry Gustavo acts like every other angry little fat man in the world; that I can read. But when he grins like that, you know something’s wrong. And something is very wrong.

He winks at his lieutenant, a thin man with a wispy mustache, before he turns back to me; “Listen you little marico maricón, this time, I’ve got a special place for you.”