by Jasmin Quinn
Her conscience maybe. But what the fuck did she owe Aaron? He wouldn’t even listen to her, let her explain what happened. And her law career? It was in tatters. If she defended Robert Creed, no one would touch her, no one in the world. The only job she’d ever have as a lawyer would be working for Jack Creed, and even if the revulsion of him wasn’t enough to put her off, she thought of his cruelness, his lies, his use of her. That’s what he did. Used people. She’d defend Robert, get him off and then… what then? She’d have done her job, outlived her usefulness. Would she one day disappear? Would anyone notice or care?
She stared at herself in the antique mirror propped on the mantel of her electric fireplace. He’d said she was beautiful, had touched her hair, stroked her face, kissed her body. Tears burned her eyes as she studied herself. He lied to her and she was so stupid, believing him. Most men didn’t want her, not for the long-run. Most men didn’t like her commitment to her career, her seriousness, the constant frown that played at her lips. And her mind, always flitting to work, forgetting to focus on small talk, forgetting to be interested in their personal lives. Except Jack. When she was with him, the rest of her world faded. He made it that way, demanded it of her. It was her job to be his fucktoy and he made her understand the seriousness of that job through his dominance, his rough handling, his tender caresses. He knew what she needed, knew how to force her supplication.
She shuddered as she turned away from her reflection. She fucking hated herself. She stumbled to the kitchen, pulled a bottle of red wine from the cabinet and unscrewed it, taking a long swallow straight from the bottle before pouring some into a stemless wine glass. Several more gulps helped settle her a little and she leaned on the counter, holding her hand against her throbbing forehead. Her head hurt, her face was raw, and her eyes felt like they’d been scored by sandpaper.
She couldn’t run, because there would be no point. Jack would ruin her with his photos. She imagined them. Her on her knees, licking his cock, her screaming his name as he invaded her, the vibrator in her hand, pressed against her clit as he fucked her ass. Despair ripped through her.
If she ran, he’d bring her back or he’d hunt her down and kill her, and maybe Aaron and his family. Aaron would be ruined anyway, if the media got their hands on the pictures. Her stomach clenched around the red wine as she drained the glass, refilled it and swallowed down another long pull. Then she clattered the glass on the counter, barely registering that it fell over. She twisted to the sink and vomited, her gut wrenching as the bile rose in her throat and spewed out through her lips, stomach heaving even when there was nothing left inside.
When she stopped throwing up, she slid down to the floor, curling her arms around her belly, curling her body in on itself, and she wept herself into a stupor, then into blessed unconsciousness. There in her kitchen on the floor, vomit in her sink, wine dripping off the counter, she wished she would die. When she woke up it was dark. She was not dead. And she wept again.
She stayed on the floor until the cold roused her, then used the counter as an anchor to leverage herself up as she balanced herself on shaky legs. Her body was stiff, sore from the hardness of the kitchen tiles, but the sleep settled her mind, helped her reorient. Her life was in tatters, she was owned by the Creeds now. But she was still alive and she was smart, though she was doubting that assessment. Still, she hadn’t come as far as she had, climbed the ladder so quickly without having a working brain in her head. It was time to start using it, planning, finding a way to keep her stupidity off the front pages, keep Aaron and his family safe, keep herself from being killed by Jack Creed when she’d outlived her usefulness to him.
She had no choice, she’d have to go to him, offer her services to his brother, defend Robert Creed and set him free. She doubted that he was innocent of anything. The bullshit tale Jack told her couldn’t be trusted, nothing from his mouth could be trusted, but she’d do as he wanted of her. Let a murderer free. And Jack, he was dead to her. He’d never touch her again, she’d kill him if he tried. The pain gnawing inside her shifted to fury, which fueled her resolve.
It was time to go to him, she decided with a shudder. He was expecting her, she knew that. If she didn’t go to him soon, he’d send someone to fetch her anyway. She didn’t want one of his goons in her house, whispering threats in her ear again, not now, not ever. But fuck him if he thought she was going to fall into line. Fuck if she was going to clean up and present herself to him like a virgin to a God. Let him see what he did to her, let him see her destroyed. She doubted that it would move him, the heartless prick. He had no humanity. Tears burned her eyes as she shoved her feet into the pumps she’d worn this morning. Hate was not a strong enough word to describe how she felt about him.
She locked her door behind her, forgetting her purse, forgetting her pride as she slid into her car. Right now, Jack needed her to save his brother. Robert needed her. Both needed her way more than she needed him. She would do this thing, humiliate herself and when it was over, she’d find a way to destroy Jack Creed. It didn’t matter if she died in the process. Nothing mattered anymore. The thought gave her strength as she drove to his nightclub.
Twenty
Mira slid out of the car, locked it with her key fob, then dropped the keys into the pocket of her suit jacket. She ran nervous hands across the front of her skirt, smoothing it. There was a queue outside the club, people waiting to get in, but fuck if she was going to stand in line to get to Jack. Her anger powered her courage and she threaded her way between parked cars, to the road. She waited for an opening then strode across, to the front of the line, to the large, threatening muscle-head blocking the door.
“I need to see Jack Creed,” she snapped as she craned her head upward. Mr. Muscle-head had a shaved dome, tattoos and a snarling gash for a mouth.
“No one sees Mr. Creed without an appointment.” He looked her up and down and dismissed her as some overdressed bitch that looked like shit and wasn’t worth the time to fuck. He nodded at the four men at the front of the line and opened the door for them, then stopped the next group with his hand. “Not yet,” he said to three young underdressed over made-up women who were openly flirting with him.
“I have an appointment,” she snarled bringing his attention back to her. “I’m Mira Richardson.”
He grinned ferociously and nodded. “Ah, Mr. Creed said you might be dropping by. Didn’t recognize you from his description. He said you were pretty.”
Mira’s anger seared through, causing her to shake. She clenched her hands to her sides. She wanted to punch the arrogant grin right off this asshole’s face. She wanted to pounce on him and pummel him until he was raw, until he was nothing but a puddle of sinew, blood and bones. A small part of her brain warned her to settle, told her she was losing control. That this was not the way she wanted this to play out. But the logic was too quiet, too far off in a corner where it couldn’t easily reach her. Her emotions were roaring at her, pounding through her, drowning her voice of reason.
The muscle-head opened the door and waved his hand at her, beckoning like she was royalty. She heard the giggles of the silly girls as the bouncer said something to them, and then she was swallowed up in the dimness of the room, the strobe lights, the music, the crush of bodies. She slowed as she stepped further into the club, threading her way past people then stopping and looking around.
A waitress approached her, “Who are you trying to find, honey?”
Mira turned to her, pretty, her scant clothes barely covering her tits and ass, 4-inch heels. “Jack Creed,” she sneered his name at the woman.
“Oh, honey, I don’t think…” but Mira didn’t hear the rest of the words, because she saw him, at the bar, casually leaning against it, half-turned and deep in conversation with two other men. All were holding drinks. His laughter floated to her ears, over the music and the voices. It enraged her and she approached him swiftly, furiously. His companions’ eyes registered her first, their surprised expressions causing
Jack to straighten and turn. As his eyes found hers, he smiled broadly and said, “Mira, how are you doing?”
She lost it then. Her name on his lips, the arrogant smile, the mocking lilt to his question. She balled her hand into a fist and felt satisfaction at the flicker of surprise in Jack’s eyes just before she punched him in the face. She was further gratified by the force of her blow, knocking his head sideways, the raised stones in the ring on her right hand cutting a swath of skin across his cheekbone, blood trickling out. He dropped his drink at her assault and the whiskey splashed on her as the glass hit the floor.
She tried for another punch, but he grabbed her arm, wrenching it painfully up her back as he flipped her around, a fistful of her hair in his other hand as he slammed her hard on the counter of the bar, bending her over. Tumblers on the bar went flying, more drinks spilled, glass broke, and people stopped talking. Two men stepped up to the bar, one of them Andre, and shielded Jack from prying eyes. Then Jack bent over her, his body pressing against her back, his hands still holding her, pinning her, hurting her. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” He was angry with her. He. Was. Angry. With. Her!
“You motherfucking prick of a whore. Fucking shitty excuse for a human being,” she spat at him and he yanked her up and slammed her down on the bar again. Pain rippled through her.
He said into her ear, his warm breath caressing it, his own words ugly. “Get hold of yourself, you stupid little...” He didn’t finish the thought, instead saying, “You keep disrespecting me out here in front of everyone and I’ll have to knock you around until you can’t stand up.” He gave her a shake and wrenched her arm higher. “Shut your fucking mouth before you get hurt.”
Mira cried out in pain. She thought he was going to snap her arm he held it so hard, but the physical pain jarred her back to her tenuous situation and her fury crashed, burning up. She bit her next savage words back. She bit them all back. And she stilled as tears pooled in her eyes and exhaustion swept over her. He waited a few seconds, then yanked her up off the bar and shoved her towards the two men who had been shielding them. “Get her the fuck out of here,” he snarled. “Upstairs, in my room. Restrain her so she doesn’t fucking destroy the place.”
The one who caught her, Andre, narrowed his eyes at her as he gripped her arms. He flipped her around, wrenched her arm in the same painful way Jack had and grabbed her by the back of her collar with the other, propelling her forward. The other man, Hector, walked beside them, menacingly staring down onlookers as they passed. Down a hall, past the bathrooms, through a door and upstairs. Mira stumbled along, had no choice as Andre manhandled her into a room.
It was déjà vu but it wasn’t. The room that they entered was a bedroom and everything about Jack’s seduction, his use of her flooded back. Fuck no, this couldn’t be happening. She couldn’t be here in Jack’s bedroom, with Jack. Panic overwhelmed her, and she struggled, twisting in Andre’s arms, flailing at him, screeching, until they both lost their balance and fell to the floor, she on her belly, Andre on her back. He sat up on her swiftly, wrenched her arms behind her back, then captured her wrists in one hand as he yanked her head with her hair so far back she thought her neck might snap.
“Find something to gag her with,” he growled at his companion and then her mouth was full of cloth, held in place with a tie.
Andre was snarling as he yanked her to her feet. He whipped her around towards him, then threw her from him. She crashed to the floor, stunned. “I don’t know what the hell the boss sees in you. He should have fucking killed you when he had the chance!”
His words were the bucket of ice water Mira needed. They were a reminder of her vulnerability, of her mortality. She couldn’t speak to try to calm him, so she calmed herself instead. Sitting on the floor, stilling herself. Her eyes down, tears sliding from the corners. Andre was not moved. He snarled at Hector to get some cable ties on her hands and in less then a minute, she was dragged by her ass to the corner of the room, her wrists pinned together, and arms stretched overhead, secured to a rail on the wall.
“Stay here,” Andre ordered the other man. He headed to the door but looked back, his eyes on Mira, then flicking across the room. “Hector, don’t touch her. The boss will fucking cut you to ribbons if you do.” He left before he caught Hector’s nod.
Hector said nothing to Mira. He moved one of the armchairs to the wall, facing her and sat down, folding his arms over his chest. His dark eyes raked her; her skirt was riding up her thighs, her hose ruined, her shoes lost in the struggle with Andre. She pressed her ass on the floor, her back against the wall. Kept her eyes down. She was a fucking mess and this Hector was staring at her like she was a piece of meat. Which is exactly what she was. Jack’s fucktoy. His whore, his submissive cunt, for him to use and abuse.
Shame and self-loathing flooded her. She didn’t think that she would care if Hector came to her right now and knelt between her legs. Maybe it’s what she wanted, maybe it’s what she deserved. Not more than that. She was too stupid, too dull. A nothing. She stared at Hector then, stared until she caught his eyes. Then she parted her legs slightly, an invitation. Come fuck me, you asshole.
He leered as he caught her proposition but didn’t move. “You’re not pretty enough to get skinned over.” His laugh mocked her as his words shredded the last of her self-worth. Now she did want to die. She wanted blackness, nothingness. Death. She banged the back of her head against the wall, as hard as she could. The pain jarred through her and made her hesitate. Then she did it again, and again, the physical pain overriding the deep-rooted hurt in her heart, helping her rise out of the morass of emotion. Hector was on her, grabbing her hair, holding her head in his hand. “Stop, you stupid bitch.” he hissed. “You’re gonna get me killed.”
Mira looked at him dully and shrugged. So the fuck what?
“C’mon lady, I have kids, two girls.”
Mira turned her head away from him and slumped her shoulders in defeat. First Aaron and his wife and kids and now this asshole. When did she become the guardian mother of the innocents? But fine, she’d stop, let Hector who thought her too ugly to fuck off the hook. Besides she wanted to bash in Jack’s head before she died. Hector patted her shoulder like she was an obedient dog as he released her hair and returned to his chair.
Twenty-One
Jack stood at the bar, another scotch held carelessly between his fingers as he continued his conversation with Nils and Anders Jensen, the one that was interrupted when Mira flew at him with her fists. He hadn’t expected it, hadn’t anticipated that her reaction would be as violent as it was. She was distraught, furious, broken. It shocked him.
He schooled his features so no one else was aware of his inner turmoil. The rest of the world needed to see him as the unfeeling, merciless prick he generally was. After Andre and Hector dragged Mira away, he’d accepted a handkerchief from Nils and wiped the blood from his cheek. She’d caught him with her ring, sliced him open. Under any other circumstance he might have found it amusing, but she’d made a public show of it and that would start people talking.
There were already enough problems in his world right now and he needed Mira not to be one of them. What he needed her to do was get her fucking head on straight and get Rob out of jail. Jack needed his brother. Their world was under siege, their authority being challenged on every level. Men of his murdered without motive, associates he once thought loyal subtly shifting their business from him. Maybe it was because Rob was in prison instead of out defending their territory, maybe it was something else. Either way it didn’t matter. Jack needed Rob out and by his side, protecting their interests, entrenching their foothold in Vegas.
“Is it your wife?” Anders asked as they were sipping another round of drinks. “Did you make your girlfriend pregnant?” The brothers grinned at him and he smiled back, a veneer masking his fury that they were making light of Mira.
“Something like that,” he said casually. “Fucking women. That’s the problem, r
ight?”
And they all laughed. Then Andre was there, next to him. He said to Jack, “I’ve settled the missus, boss.”
Jack cocked his head toward the large man. “She okay for a while?”
Andre flicked his eyes from Jack to the Norwegians, then nodded. “She’ll keep.” He left then, walking back to the end of the bar, standing at attention, hands in front of him. No one was fooled. Andre was a weapon, Jack’s weapon. The best he had.
He turned his attention back to his companions and continued their talk of mutual interests and opportunities. He sent them off to his casino with a voucher. Best room, best women, best booze, best blow. Whatever they wanted. They would reconnect in two days to hammer out the terms for a deal that would be mutually beneficial. Jack watched them leave and then approached Andre.
“I’m done for the night. Get Hector to find Mira’s car and move it out to the house. I don’t want it sitting in a lot where it’ll get ticketed and towed.
Andre nodded as Jack walked by him.
When he opened the door to his room, two sets of eyes settled on them, one relieved, the other dark, furious and hurt. He turned to Hector. “See Andre when you get downstairs. He has a job.” Hector nodded and left, closing the door behind him. Jack turned the bolt then sat down in the chair Hector had vacated, leaning his elbows on his knees and wrapping his fingers together as he bent forward towards Mira. He studied the woman across the room from him.
