by Alta Hensley
“You do that to her?” I asked, nodding toward the bloodied woman.
He swallowed hard and took another half step back. “Listen, man. I don’t know who you are, but I got nothing to offer you. I’m broke. That dirty old whore owes me money for last night’s jobs. Go ahead and get the money from her. It’s yours. Like I said, I want no trouble.”
Of course he would say those words. I was the one with the fucking gun pointed at his head. Damn pimp and whore situation. I hated these more than anything. No woman should ever be owned. Especially by a dirty prick like this man nearly shitting himself before me. Pimps were the sickest of all men. I ran with ruthless fuckers. I knew the bad guys and would rarely judge. Monsters among men. But not dirty street pimps. I fucking hated pimps.
“You owe him money?” I asked the woman.
She shook her head. “I got jumped last night. I didn’t collect. I lost everything.” When she opened her mouth to speak, I could see she was missing most of her teeth, and what remained were stained and crooked.
“Lying cunt,” the man snapped.
Without hesitation, I struck the side of his head with the weight of my gun. He stumbled back until he fell against the wall, lifting his dirt-encrusted hand to the blood dripping from the wound near his temple.
“Don’t ever call a woman that name,” I lectured in the same even toned voice I had been using since entering the apartment. I looked back at the woman. “Are you lying?”
She shook her head as tears cascaded down her bruised face. “No, sir. I swear it.” Her body shook, and when she went to wrap her arms around her skinny frame, I saw the track marks running along her inner arm. Junkie or not, she didn’t deserve a beating.
“Did he do this to you?” I asked, using my free hand to motion up and down her body.
She nodded.
“Does he do this to you often?”
She nodded again, shame adding to the fear on her face.
“What would you like me to do?” I asked. The pimp asshole remained frozen against the wall. I knew he would. I wasn’t concerned he would try anything. A good pistol whipping had a way of making any man compliant.
“Excuse me?” she asked in a frail voice.
“I asked you what you wanted me to do. To him.”
She glanced at her attacker, and then back at me.
“Make him leave me alone.”
“Forever?” I asked to clarify.
She nodded as she looked back at the man I had no doubt caused her great misery. For a few moments I saw courage and dignity wash over her eyes, but it quickly disappeared when the dumb fuck said, “Shut your mouth. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even have a roof over your head, bitch.”
I hit him again with the gun—harder this time—causing his head to slam against the wall, knocking off a nearby picture. The sound of breaking glass blended with his own cry. Yeah, that shit hurt. Being hit with a gun was nowhere near like being hit with a fist. I knew this. And now this asshole sure as hell did as well.
“If I left here, would he leave you alone? Tomorrow? The day after that?” I asked, turning my attention back to the woman.
She looked down at the stained carpet and shook her head. “He’ll never leave me alone.” I could barely hear the words coming from her bloody lips.
“But you want him to?” I asked.
She nodded. “So much so. But…”
I took hold of the cheap polyester-covered arm of the pimp jackass and pushed him into the bathroom a few feet away. He stumbled but didn’t resist. I shoved him up against the chipped bathtub with an ugly plastic floral shower curtain behind him. I pointed my gun to his head again.
“Please, man,” he begged. “I’ll leave. I’ll never return. Whatever you want.”
I inhaled deeply. The smell of fear. Fuck yeah.
His eyes narrowed in on the tattoo of the skull that took up the entire front of my throat. Red eyes of death staring back at him. Every man I killed who actually saw me always looked at my tattoo right before I pulled the trigger. It would be the last thing they would see. The skull with the red eyes.
“I’ll leave and never say a word. I’ll never see her again. Never. I swear it,” was his one last plea.
“No, you won’t,” I said as I pulled the trigger and shot the bastard through the eye with the ease of an assassin. No feeling. No care. No remorse.
His body fell backward into the tub, pulling the shower curtain down with him. A little trick I had learned along the way on my career path. Kept shit clean. He was all wrapped up with the blood pouring onto the plastic, and if any escaped, the tub would catch the rest. Easy. Clean. No mess. No blood on my shoes.
I placed the gun back in my waistband against my spine and went to the rusted bathroom sink to wash my hands and to clean the splattered blood off my face. It wasn’t the blood that bothered me as much as the surroundings I wanted to cleanse myself from. I fucking hated dirt and grime. Germ freak? Maybe. But I fucking hated it. After washing my face and hands and using my own pants to dry them because I didn’t trust the shabby mauve towel hanging nearby, I walked out to where the woman stood. She hadn’t moved an inch.
She was terrified. I could see it in how she cowered against the wall and trembled. I could hear it in her rapid breathing. And fuck… I could smell it. My cock twitched, but not enough to want to do anything about it.
“Done. He’ll leave you alone forever.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a money clip. After paying off the landlord, I only had a little over two thousand dollars on me, but I knew it would mean the world to this woman. I handed it to her. “Here. Take this. Wait for eight hours before calling the police. Tell them some man stormed in claiming he wanted his drug money and then shot him.” I had used a silencer, so I doubted anyone really had heard the gunshot, and even if they did, I doubted they gave a fuck. It wasn’t their problem. Those who lived in hellholes like this didn’t make other people’s problems theirs.
Tentatively, she reached out and took the wad of cash. “Okay. Thank you.” Her voice cracked.
Many people would say something to her about not shooting it all into her arm, or to get out of the roach-infested apartment, but I wouldn’t. Why? Who cares? It wasn’t like I would keep track of her. The reality was she would still march down her fucked up and dark path. We all did. Her story was already written, and she already had her ending. I sure as fuck wasn’t the hero in her story. I was the goddamn villain in it.
Chapter Two
Marlowe Masters
When I was a little girl, I wanted to stare the monster in my closet straight in the eye. I was never the child who asked for the light to be left on or the door to be cracked. I wanted it black. As black as it would go in the tiny room I shared with my two younger sisters in hopes he would come. I’d fight to keep my eyes open, staring at the blackness of my open closet… waiting. He never showed himself. Night after night, I waited for a glimpse of his red eyes and pointed teeth I had imagined he’d have. But nothing. I never saw the boogieman no matter how hard I had tried.
So maybe that was why I felt the way I felt now. And why I did what I did.
Why I watched him. Why I lusted for the man. Craved him in a way I had craved no other.
Harley Crow.
I didn’t care if he was a killer like they said. A monster, the bad guy, even the Devil himself. In fact, it made me want him more.
One glance, one tiny look, was all I wanted from the man, but unfortunately never got. Night after night, week after week, I worked my waitress shift at Spiked Roses in the heart of New Orleans and all but stalked his ass. I studied him, memorized his every move. I actually felt as if I could hear his heartbeat from a distance, smell his deadly essence from afar… deadly, for one smell would surely be my undoing.
He drank his vodka chilled. No ice. Nothing mixed with it. Just chilled vodka.
He wore black. Always black and nothing more. His hair was black, facial hair too, and though I could nev
er get close enough to see, I had always assumed his eyes were black as well. Black. All black. He blended in with the shadows of the club.
Unlike the other rich fucks who frequented this members-only gentlemen’s club, Spiked Roses, he never wore a suit or tie. By his appearance alone, you would have no idea he was a wealthy man. The only giveaway was that he was one of the owners of the club. The men’s club full of billionaires and ruthless power players of the world.
He was different than the rest of them. I could see it. I could feel it. And maybe that was why I couldn’t stop my sick infatuation for this man I had never met, no matter how hard I’d tried.
Tattoos. He had tattoos on almost every inch of exposed flesh I could see. His hands were inked, including his knuckles. His neck. His neck was what captivated me the most. A tattoo of a skull with red eyes rested against his Adam’s apple. The red eyes, just like the boogieman I had waited my entire childhood to get a glimpse of.
Harley Crow.
He was the boogieman.
He always sat at the same table in the same chair, staring ahead and watching the room—but never watching me.
Although, I watched him. I couldn’t help it. And when I wasn’t watching him, I’d fantasize about what his body would feel like against mine. How his touch would scorch my flesh, only to have the tip of his tongue soothe the burn.
“Girl, you are about two seconds away from me locking your Latina ass up in the loony bin,” a thick southern accented voice said from behind me.
I didn’t jump, but it did snap me out of my Harley Crow trance enough to turn around to see my manager, Tennessee Charles, with his hands on his hips looking at me with his firm stare.
I glanced back at Harley longingly. “Why does your cracker ass insist on me always wearing the red lace costume? I could rock the black leather, and you know it.”
Tennessee ran a tight ship and was definitely a boss none of the girls would cross, but he did allow sarcastic banter… hell, it was almost a job requirement of his for you to do so. He acted as the house ‘mother’ for all the women who worked the club. And he was the one who decided what the staff wore. There were two choices. Red lace with diamonds, or black leather and a collar with a silver chain. Certain tables of the club were to be served by the red lace girls, and the other tables, ones that had a hook to fasten the chain around the waitress’s neck, were the tables served by the girls in the black leather uniform.
Harley Crow unfortunately always sat at the table the black leather girls would serve.
Tennessee rolled his eyes. “So you can become crazy psycho girl to that poor man? No thank you.” He ran his gaze down my body. “Besides, chica, that Mexican booty of yours fills out that red dress like no other. Hell, you could turn a gay man straight. Not my gay ass, but some other weaker fool.” He chuckled, and it was hard not to smile at his pathetic attempt at speaking any form of Spanish to me. Bless his heart, as his southern self would say. The way he spoke always amused me. He could be a real pain in my ass, but he was, by far, the best supervisor I had ever had.
“One night is all I ask. Then you can commit me to the loony bin. It’d be worth it,” I said, looking back at where Harley sat and sipped out of his crystal tumbler. He seemed broodier than normal tonight, though every time I saw him, he possessed some level of melancholy. “I just want him to notice me. I’ve worked here for almost a year, and I don’t think he even knows I exist.”
“And why in the world would I want to give you even one night to make a fool of yourself? Girl, you practically have drool dripping off your chin. You should thank me. I’m saving you from yourself. And you’re just asking for trouble. That man kills people. For money. Can you imagine taking that fella home to dinner to meet your mama? Oh lordy, no. Lordy, lordy, lordy, no.” He flew his hands in the air above him dramatically, looking up at the ceiling in the most theatrical way, which reminded me of an old black woman in a southern Baptist church who had just found Jesus.
“Tennessee… come on.”
“Call me a twat or a cock block all you want. But hell to the no. And besides, that long black hair of yours combined with the leather leotard would make you look like a damn vampire. We ain’t no gothic bodice ripper novel here. No, ma’am. You will just have to do your job, serve those damn drinks waiting for you at the bar to the other rich fucks in here, and keep your mind off that bad boy.” He glanced at Harley and then back at me. “Didn’t your mama ever tell you to stay away from the bad boys?”
I shook my head. “My father was the leader of a Mexican motorcycle gang, so I think it’s fair to say she liked her men bad.”
And she did. I was definitely my mother’s daughter.
“You are such a liar,” Tennessee said with a half laugh. “Mexican motorcycle gang—ha! You don’t have that interesting of a past. You’re boring like everyone else who moved to New Orleans in the hopes of some excitement. You probably grew up in the suburbs of Ohio watching reruns of Gilligan’s Island like the rest of us.”
I smirked. If he only knew. And knew why I’d really moved to New Orleans. But I had no real desire to convince him otherwise or even go down the path of past memories and family drama. Who wanted that shit?
I had always liked the rugged, the tattooed, and frankly, in all my history with men… the assholes. I didn’t like the new and shiny cars, but rather the truck with rusted parts. Which made it ironic that I worked in a place that literally reeked of money. The odor of decadence oozed from every single nook and cranny of this joint. Men drank booze out of fancy glasses that cost more than I made in an entire month… unless I did a Tasting.
The Tasting Room in Spiked Roses and the Tastings that occurred in that room were a different story. I could make a shitload of money at one of those, and I had. Each Tasting in the room would have a different theme for the night revolving around sexual kinks, fantasies or fetishes. Women who worked the Tastings and engaged in the acts made more money than one could imagine. It was all about the contract. Everything that was expected to take place would be contracted out and followed to a tee. Spiked Roses had a managing member by the name of Kenneth Saxon, a ball buster attorney, who made damn sure of it. He made sure all the details were laid out in black and white. No questions asked. I liked that.
The rules were simple. Essentially, one of the men would own the girl for a night, a weekend, a week, or whatever was negotiated out in the contract and for a hefty price. Completely consensual to both signing parties. Was it prostitution? It could be considered that, I suppose. Though I never allowed sex to be in my contracts. I would do everything else. But no rich dick was entering my pussy. It meant I didn’t make as much money, and often the men would pass on me and choose another woman at the Tasting instead, but I was fine with it. I would suck, just not fuck. It wasn’t like I had some moral standing that prevented me from having sex, but none of the men who attended these Tastings did it for me. They all lacked the asshole bad boy quality I guess I was foolishly attracted to. I actually liked sex, and I wanted to keep it that way. Having sex with some silver spoon-fed mama’s boy would be the quickest way to kill whatever sexual drive I had. But I was usually willing to play whatever kinky game they wanted for a price. Just leave their cock out of my pussy.
Would my parents be proud of me? No. But I had given up on trying to gain their approval a long time ago, and they had no room to talk. My savings account was larger than my mama or father had accumulated in a lifetime. But I refused to touch it. It was my safety net. My escape card if I were to ever need it. I knew my youth and looks wouldn’t last forever, and I had no real skills other than playing the classic Spanish guitar. A skill that hadn’t served me one ounce of good up to this point of my life. I had learned a long time ago that strumming the strings and barely paying the bills was not a life I wanted to live.
I glanced back at Harley who sat with a sexy slouch in the leather chair just begging for me to straddle him and ride his cock like no woman had ever done before. I wo
uld too. I wouldn’t hold back with that man. I just needed him to notice me. He clearly didn’t like señoritas in red lace, and it was driving me crazy.
Tennessee noticed where I stared, and said, “Oh you poor thing. You are just doomed for never settling down and finding a good man. Take my advice. You need to go flirt with one of those CEOs mingling around here. Or find yourself a nice banker with a stick up his ass. They’ll set you up nice and good, and you can go shop at Pottery Barn and get your nails done all purty and shit. Messing around with the bad boys will only get you fucked. Fucked with no lube, and ain’t no one wants any part of that.”
“I carry my own lube, thank you very much. So, I’m safe there,” I said with a wink.
Tennessee laughed, which was rich and full and could dominate an entire room with its volume. “Lordy, you are about to stroke my ass out. This conversation is over. Unless you want your ass fired, get to work. Stop getting your panties all wet over that man, and get it together. Stalker is not a good look on you.”
“Fine,” I said with a pout. “You really are a cock block.”
“And a twat,” he added with a devilish grin.
Tennessee seemed pleased when I picked up my serving tray and started walking toward the bar. But then as if a thought had just popped into his head, he added, “Are you doing the Tasting tomorrow night? I don’t have you down on my list of sign ups.”
I shrugged with a slight grimace. “I’m kind of over those for a bit. The last barn theme Tasting weirded me out. I can’t look at a cow the same way now.” I stopped walking and looked over my shoulder at him with a smile. “I have a feeling that theme was your idea.”
He laughed. “Moo, motherfucker. Moo.” He laughed louder, but then he regained his composure as he straightened his silk cravat. “I’m serious though. This Tasting isn’t like that one.”
“What’s the theme?”
