Madison Avenue Ch. 02

Madison, on the other hand, was absolutely radiant. She was glowing from start to finish, laughing and smiling and melting my cynical heart in a way that only she could. I may have been apprehensive, but I wouldn't have traded watching her that night for anything, dancing and shaking and gliding, so graceful and angelic, as though she'd been doing it every day for her whole life. She was just that way; put her in any situation and it's exactly where she's supposed to be. Madison was the featured attraction of the night, and I was just another witness to the parade. The only difference between me and the rest of the guys she enchanted that night with her smile and her body and the look in her eyes was that I brought her, and I took her home.

Of course, it isn't going there that I look back on coldly, and it sure isn't the time we spent in the bar. It's what awaited us in the parking lot.

We laughed our way through the big, swinging doors on our way outside, me holding the cowboy hat that had become too damn hot to wear anymore, Madison draped against my arm, beaming from ear to ear, thanking me over and over, promising she'd be thanking me in her own special way very soon.

I stopped at the top step, frozen. There was an unmarked Crown Victoria parked next to my car and two very out-of-place guys leaning against it, arms crossed. My eyes narrowed. You didn't have to be Angelo Moretti's kid to know a cop when you saw one.

"Chris, what is it?" Madison asked as we stood there and I glared at the two feds. "Who are they?"

"It's the Anti Italian-American Coalition," I said, loud enough for them to hear me as I quickly moved down the steps, pulling away from Madison as I stalked up to the men leaning on the car.

"I didn't know the FBI was interested in the Boot Scootin' Boogie," I said, stopping a few feet short of them.

"Christian Moretti?" one of them asked. He was a smarmy looking prick with red hair and cheap sunglasses. His partner moved around behind me.

"Like you don't know who I am," I snapped, turning my head around as his partner approached Madison. "Dude, back the fuck off."

"Don't mind him," the ginger-headed fed said, drawing my attention back to him. "I'm Agent Richard McAllister. That's Agent Kelly James."

"He's got two first names," I said, "and if he wants to leave here with two working arms, he won't touch her."

"Agent James," McAllister said, motioning with his hand for his partner to come back to the car before turning back to me. "You know why we're here?"

"I'm Italian, and my father runs an Italian restaurant. And you hate garlic. Are you a vampire?"

"Hey, smartass, just ... don't," he said as he took his sunglasses off.

James came up around the side of me and joined his partner against the car. Madison came up to my side, though she stayed just behind my arm.

"Your father runs more than just a restaurant, and you know that, Chris," James said.

"It's Christian," I said, "and I know. He's also the president of the local Sons of Italy lodge and the manager of a youth football team. Wait, is the FBI investigating point shaving in youth football games?"

"You got some attitude, you little punk," James said, clearly ignoring the fact that he was giving up about 6 inches and 100 or so pounds.

"Look, Christian," McAllister said, "the investigation into your father's business dealings is growing."

"What does this have to do with me? Am I under investigation? Am I a target, a suspect? 'Cause I know for damn sure I ain't a witness."

"We just wanted to check in with you," McAllister said, "just stop by and see if there was anything you wanted to talk about."

"Is that what this is? Feels more like harassment, following me, bothering me when I'm out with my girlfriend for her birthday."

"Oh, my apologies," McAllister said. "I didn't realize it was a special occasion." He leaned his head to the side, looking past me to Madison. "Happy Birthday, Miss Harper."

Madison didn't respond.

"Don't talk to her," I said. "And don't talk to me. In fact, the next time I see you, you'd better have a warrant to compel my cooperation or more guys." I looked at James. "Bigger guys might help, too."

I turned my body, wrapping my arm around Madison and turning my back to the feds.

"Here," McAllister said, trying to hand me his card. I brushed his hand away.

I led Madison to the passenger side of the car, opened the door for her and let her in, shutting the door behind her, and moving around to the driver's side. I didn't look back at the agents until I was pulling out of the parking lot, one last look in the rearview mirror.

It was a 20-minute drive from the bar to my parents' house. It was a quiet 20 minutes. Madison sat silently, letting me stew, but holding tightly onto my hand. And having her there — and having her let me not have to talk about what had just happened — was enough to let the anger boil itself away in the time the drive took. I was still young, still unscarred, still able to brush things off without too much analysis. It was dark by the time we pulled in the driveway, and all the lights in the house were off.

"Where is everyone?" Madison asked as I held the door open for her, letting her out of the car.

"Mom's visiting her sister in Virginia," I said, holding her hand as we moved through the garage and into the house. "Dad said not to wait up, so who knows?"

She smiled at me — not quite enough to bring up the dimple, though — as we walked into the kitchen. I unbuttoned the flannel shirt and tossed it on the counter as she hopped up on a stool at the island. I reached into the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water, opening it and taking a long sip before handing the bottle to her. I stood on the opposite side of the island from her, watching her take a drink, a few drops dribbling down her chin and over her neck.

"I'm sorry, Madison."

"Chris, you didn't do anything." She set the bottle next to her and took off her cowboy hat, shaking her hair free and running her hands through it, settling her messy hair down enough that she was satisfied.

"You said you wanted one night where you didn't have to be reminded that you were Mr. Moretti's son's girlfriend." I paused, hanging my head and shaking it before looking back up into her warm, green eyes. "I can't think of a way I could've failed more in that regard than what just happened."

"Chris, YOU didn't do anything. That wasn't you. Hell, that wasn't even your father's fault."

I was closer to Madison than I'd ever been to anyone, talked with her about things I didn't talk about with anyone — fears, fantasies, hopes, concerns — but we never really talked about my father, what he did, who he was, who he was thought to be. Rumors, conjecture, stories, they all passed around town. Madison never really bothered to ask me about him, and I didn't talk about him. "Chris, he treats me just fine, and I've never seen him do anything wrong," she'd said once after I'd gotten into an argument with a guy in a restaurant over my father.

And that was it. Sure, there were little comments — like "your father's fault" or being "Mr. Moretti's son" — but even those had more to do with what other people said about my father than what I said or what she thought.

"Besides," she said, snapping me back to attention, her fingers unsnapping the top couple of buttons of her top as my eyes watched closely (hey, I was 19 years old; breasts — or even the hint of, promise of or tease of breasts — can snap a guy that age out of any funk). "You were something else tonight."

"I'm a helluva dancer, what can I say?" I said with a laugh.

"No, not that," she said, chuckling. "You were awful. After, in the parking lot, with those two guys."

I shrugged, standing up and reaching out to take the bottle of water, finishing it off.

"What about it?"

"You were so ... I don't know ... fierce." Her lips curled up in a smile. "The little one, I thought he was going to shit himself."

"I wasn't anything. I was just, I guess, reacting. I didn't think about it. I don't lie in bed at night thinking about how to be a tough guy."

"I know," she said, rising up off the stool and walking around the island. "That's what made it so hot, that you were so protective, so strong. They had guns."

"I've seen guns before, Madison. Cops with guns aren't scary. Cops with papers in their hands, that's scary."

"Look at you, Mr. Moretti," she said, cocking her head to the side as she moved around the island, approaching me slowly, undoing two more buttons so that her cleavage was fully on display. "Watch yourself, Christian. You've got more of your old man in you than you might think."

"I'm not my father, Madison," I said, tearing my eyes away from her partially hidden breasts to look up into her face. "But so help me if someone like those two threatens someone I care about."

"Like I said, Mr. Moretti," she whispered, walking right up to me and then brushing past me, "fierce, kind of like an animal."

"Oh, you want me to show you how much of an animal I can be?" I asked, turning as she walked past me, watching as she stopped in the doorway and turned to face me.

"But Mr. Moretti, I'm certain that this isn't what my boyfriend had in mind when he said he wanted me to stop by your house to pay you that money he owes you," she said, voice low and husky, eyes wide. "I brought my checkbook."

I shook my head and raised an eyebrow, confused. She winked.

"I'm sure I can just write a check and be able to cover his debt, Mr. Moretti," she said, playing idly with the unsnapped buttons of her blouse with one hand as the other ran down her side. "He didn't say anything about what you're suggesting."

I'm slow. I get that. But I finally got onto her little game.

"I'm sorry, Miss Harper, really," I said, walking toward her slowly, arms crossed over my chest, still wearing the cowboy boots, my jeans, and the undershirt I had on under the flannel. "Your boyfriend, nice guy though he may be, owes me far too much money for either of you to pay. We agreed on ... other arrangements."

"But Mr. Moretti, I don't know. I mean, I've never done anything like this."

"Of course you haven't," I said stopping a foot from her, looking down into her eyes, trying hard to not smile and failing mostly. "That's why I agreed to his offer."

"His offer? He suggested this, that I come over and ..." She let her voice trail off, playing her role much better than I was mine. Her tone suggested shock and indignation and still some confusion as to what would come next.

"Yes, Madison. His offer. In order to save his own ass, your boyfriend offered me, well, yours." This time when I smiled, it fit the moment, and I made sure to act the part as I leaned against the frame of the doorway, inches from her as she took a deep breath.

"That son of a bitch," she spat out, winking at me. "Well, fuck him. Ex-boyfriend is more like it. What a pussy he is." She winked at me.

I turned and walked back toward the kitchen, shrugging my shoulders.

"Well, that's your decision," I said, turning back to face her as I leaned against the sink. "I'm not going to force myself on you. You refuse, you refuse. He pays the price."

"What's the price?" she asked, moving back into the room.

"You know the price. But what do you care? Ex-boyfriend, right?"

"Well, yes, but that doesn't mean I want to see him ... you know."

I shrugged again, wiping my hands.

"There aren't any other options?" she asked, stepping timidly closer, about 10 feet from me. She never wanted to be an actress, but hell, she was good.

"I'm sorry, Madison. I'm a businessman."

"Businessman!" she spat out, angry.

"Yes, businessman," I said, fighting off the urge to laugh and somehow staying serious. "And once the terms of a deal have been reached, I don't renegotiate. That's not how I do business."

"You're an animal."

"And you date men with gambling problems. I've never wagered something I wasn't willing to lose. Perhaps your boyfriend should be so enlightened."

Her head sunk, eyes dropping to the floor, hands on her hips, a defeated pose. But she looked so damn sexy. And she was playing the role to perfection.

"So what's my side? What do I owe to get him off the hook?" she asked without looking up.

"You owe what you owe. You pay with your body. And it is such a lovely body, Madison. I don't believe I've ever had the opportunity to be with a woman as tall as you, with such a lovely, curvy figure. I don't particularly like some parts of my business, but this, I think I'll appreciate fully."

She actually blushed, cheeks flushing as she looked up at me.

"Okay, Mr. Moretti. You promise you won't force me to do anything I just can't do?"

"Like I said, Miss Harper, I intend to appreciate you."

She nodded, looking at me timidly, silently.

"I'll take a scotch," I said, nodding toward the bar. "Fix yourself anything you'd like. I'll be waiting for you in the den."

I moved past her, walking out of the kitchen and down a hallway to the den, my hands shaking. I'd certainly never fantasized about playing a role like this, the mobster, in control of a situation. It didn't really suit me, but it excited the hell out of me. I had to take a few deep breaths before I could sit down in the large, leather chair in the corner of the den, the lights dim as I waited for her. The wait was hell; it took forever. Just like Madison, taking the right amount of time, building the tension. We done some experimenting since that January night of our first time, tried all sorts of things, had sex whenever we could find the time. But this was new, yet I was a willing participant. This was her birthday after all, and if I couldn't give her a night where she wasn't reminded of whose son I was, then I was sure as hell going to give her this, whatever this was.

I sat silently in the chair, calming myself, forcing myself to remain patient and stay in character. She showed up in the doorway about 10 minutes later, holding two glasses of scotch. I nodded at her presence, beckoning her toward me with one hand. She'd removed her boots, and she moved across the den silently, slowly, walking with measured, yet uneasy steps, stopping front of me to hand me the glass.

"I didn't picture you as a scotch drinker, Madison," I said, reaching up to take the glass from her hand and clinking mine against the glass in her other hand.

"I didn't picture me as doing this, Mr. Moretti," she said, downing the scotch in one gulp, coughing as it burned its way down her throat. "God, that burns."

"Yes, it does," I said, taking just a sip of mine, relaxing back against the chair. "I meant what I said earlier, about how incredibly sexy I think you are."

"Thank you, sir," she whispered with a blush, tucking her hair behind one ear as her eyes danced nervously back and forth between me and the floor. "How would you like to, um, start?"

"These boots are rather uncomfortable," I said, looking down with a frown.

She nodded, dropping to her knees in front of me, gently removing the boot from my right foot and then the left. She set them neatly next to the chair and stood back up.

"Much better," I said, taking another sip, and setting the glass down on the table to the left of the chair.

"You have such a wonderful body, Madison. But you know that, don't you?"

"I guess, I mean, it's okay."

I smiled. False humility was definitely part of the role.

"Of course you know you do," I said, making a twirling motion with my fingers. "Turn for me, let me see it all."

She did as I requested, hands at her sides, doing a slow spin with her head down and turning back to face me.

"What's your favorite part of your body, Madison?"

"My b-b-butt, Mr. Moretti." She blushed brightly, bringing her hands around behind her back.

"Mmm, it is a lovely backside, dear," I said, taking a deep breath and smiling. "Those jeans are pretty tight. Aren't they uncomfortable?"

"No, sir, I love the way they feel," she said, looking into my eyes.

"You mean you love the way they make you feel, don't you, Madison? You love the attention they draw."

"I don't care about the attention, Mr. Moretti. But I do like feeling ... sexy."

"You are certainly that, Madison."

"Would you like me to take them off?" she asked, hands still behind her back as she rocked back and forth slightly, nervously.

"I would like that very much," I said, resting my arms on the huge arms of the chair. "But do it slowly."

She nodded and brought her hands around to the front, fumbling with the button before snapping it free and slowly dragging the zipper down, her eyes again moving back and forth between the floor and my face. I made the turning motion again with my fingers and she nodded, turning her back to me. Her ass filled her jeans so nicely that it was all I could do to not break from the role and rush to her.

"Your boyfriend has to be a real loser, Madison," I said, chuckling. "There's no debt, no amount of money that would let me allow another man to see you like this, to touch you. Over my dead body — or somebody's."

"I'm starting to think you're right, Mr. Moretti. But a girl has to do what she's gotta do."

And at that moment, what Madison had to was start to shimmy her hips, pushing her jeans down slowly over the curve of her ass, revealing as she went a tiny black thong, the strings wrapping around her hips and forming a triangle, down to a thin black strap that separated and disappeared between the lovely cheeks of her ass as it went down. She bent at the waist, forcing the tight denim down off of her skin, propping up her ass for my lusting, hungry eyes, her hips softly swaying as she pushed her jeans all the way down to her ankles before standing up and stepping out of them.

"Mmm, each layer removed reveals something more wonderful underneath, Miss Harper."

"Thank you, sir," she said, her voice barely a whisper as she turned back to face me, standing before me in just her thong and a mostly unbuttoned blouse.

I lifted one hand and motioned her toward me with one finger. She complied, stepping forward nervously, hands at her sides. It was almost impossible for me to tell that she was acting; every mannerism seemed so natural. She stopped in front of me, looking down expectantly, her eyes now moving back and forth from my face to my lap.

"The blouse, please, dear."

She nodded again, reaching up to unfasten the last few remaining buttons and shrugging her shoulders back, letting the light blouse fall softly to the floor, her hands coming around to nervously stroke her stomach, an action that caused her arms to squeeze her full breasts tightly together.

"Madison."

"Yes?"

"Your nipples are hard, dear."

"Yes."

"Are you excited by this?"

"No." She shook her head firmly, breaking eye contact.

"Are you sure?"

"I don't know."

"Okay, I won't make you admit that you are," I said, not sure whether I was being me or playing the role. "Will you help me out of my jeans?"

"Yes, Mr. Moretti," she said, looking down to my lap and bending down as I leaned back.

Her breasts swayed softly as she bent over, smoothly unsnapping my jeans and unzipping them. I stood up slowly and she leaned back upright, looking me in the eyes, batting her eyelashes, blushing and biting her lower lip nervously. I nodded downward and she bent again, hooking her thumbs into the waistband of my jeans and my boxers, pulling them down slowly, simultaneously, dropping to her knees as she pulled them down lower. My cock, which had been achingly hard since I realized the game she was playing, sprung free, almost catching her cheek as she leaned back, covering her mouth with one hand, trying to stifle a gasp at the surprise.

"You've seen one of those before, right Madison? I mean, you have a boyfriend."