by Marlee Wray
“With guys, it’s a beating? There’s a guy from the neighborhood, Ray. There was a rumor that he robbed the corner store. A couple nights later someone found Ray unconscious and bloody in an alley. He was hospitalized. Just got out, in fact. Someone said that was C Crue.”
“The guy who robbed the corner store cold-cocked old Mr. Caulley who was working the register. The man’s eighty-two. The guy kicked him in the chest, breaking four of his ribs. Mr. Caulley ended up in the hospital for a couple nights too, but he’s doing all right. Getting around a little slower, but he’ll manage. So maybe whoever robbed that store had a beating coming.”
She nods. “We heard that Mr. Caulley fell down during the robbery. No one said he was kicked or that he had broken ribs.”
“Mr. Caulley probably didn’t tell people.”
“But he told you?”
I pause. I wouldn’t usually keep going, but I decide that if I make sure she gets that we’re violent with violent people she’ll be more likely to give me the names I want.
“He as good as told me. Trick talked to him,” I say. I don’t mention that it was Anvil who wanted the details. Apparently as a little kid Anvil had nothing, and Mr. Caulley let him buy things ‘on credit.’ Caulley never kept track of the gum or candy bars he let ‘Vil take. He just put a buck of his own money in the register to cover it. Most kids wouldn’t have kept track either, but Anvil did and anytime he got any money, maybe from a chore he did for a neighbor, he went in and paid off his debt. Apparently it went on like that until Anvil was making enough money from odd jobs to always have cash in his pocket.
Almost no one had cut Anvil a break as a kid, so Ray Gaines kicking Caulley in the ribs while the old man was down on the ground was like Gaines spitting on a six-year-old Anvil. And mob enforcer Anvil who can deadlift five hundred pounds was not having it.
“Ray Gaines is a meth head,” Zoe says.
“Your point being?”
“No point really. Just saying that I’m not sure he even knows what he’s doing half the time. I’m glad Mr. Caulley is okay though. He’s so nice.” She clasps her hands in her lap, the black nail polish that she wore onstage as the blackbird still glossy and perfect. “Is that how you deal with all thieves? Or just the ones that hurt elderly men?”
“I never said anyone from C Crue did anything to Gaines.”
A little smile plays at the corners of her wide, pretty mouth.
“Something funny?” I ask.
“No, I’m just relieved. If you were planning to kill me, there’d be no reason for you to deny the truth.”
My brows rise. She’d been worried I might kill her? Was that because she has a lot more to do with the robbery than she’s letting on? As a friend of Rachel’s she could’ve been at Palermo’s house and overhead things about our operation. Maybe it was intel from her that contributed to the planning.
We already considered that it might’ve been Frank who hit us, but it wasn’t the way he usually does things. A two-man crew pulling the robbery? And our driver left wounded and alive? Not likely. Usually it was at least a group of four hitting a shipment that size. Also, on a Palermo operation, either no one gets shot or they’re all shot dead. Nah, this was something else. From what the wounded driver said, the execution wasn’t smooth. Seemed like maybe the guys were amateurs, and one of them was wounded by our guys. Where was that guy now? Maybe dead. There’d been a lot of blood on the scene. We’ll run down all the details. Eventually. And whatever Zoe is hiding is the key.
* * *
Zoe
The car sidles up to the giant gate that closes off the compound that is C Crue Central. Connor punches in a code and puts his fingerprint on the pad. The gate slides open and the Range Rover rolls forward past artfully clipped shrubs that line the driveway.
The paved stones widen and lead to the edge of an impressive lawn that’s complete with a pergola that has vines climbing up it like we’re on the Mediterranean. C bought four lots in order to build this fenced-in complex, so he can live in the center of the city where he grew up and where he runs his ever-widening operation from.
The McCann mansion is made of beige stone and has turrets, making it look like a castle. I’ve heard the pool has a waterfall. I’ve always wanted to see the inside of this complex, but not under these circumstances where I’m pretty much a prisoner.
He parks, and I notice the other Range Rover with the C Crue 2 license plate. At least one of the other guys is inside. That makes me uncomfortable. I’ll be so outnumbered.
The entryway has a glass mosaic floor in black and shades of charcoal. It could be the print of a Versace dress.
“I like your floor,” I murmur.
He nods, leading me past a grand staircase and down a hall. Everything is luxe. It’s marble and thick wood and polished stone. It’s a guy’s sanctuary when the guy makes millions of dollars a month.
We enter a rec room with a pool table at the center. The monstrous giant, Anvil, and Scott Patrick, aka Trick, are playing. Both men are intimidating. Trick is as handsome as a Hollister model with his sandy brown hair, sea blue eyes, and perfect face. He doesn’t look as deadly as Connor or Anvil, but he has a dangerous reputation, too.
Anvil leans over the table and takes his shot.
Trick, holding his cue, looks me over. “Nice dancing tonight,” he says.
“Thank you.”
His gaze flickers to C. “What’s the word?”
“Zoe and I are trying to work things out. As far as we can figure, someone might have left something in her place for safekeeping during a party.”
“Hmm,” Trick says, sinking a ball in a corner pocket. His next shot is a bank shot that looks impossible. He almost doesn’t make it, but the ball drops in. “When was it and who was there?”
“We’re getting to that now,” C says.
“Open party with a lot of strangers?” Trick asks, and his next shot doesn’t go.
I shake my head.
“She’s holding out? That’s an interesting play,” he says.
Anvil sinks one and then the eight ball. Trick pulls out a hundred-dollar bill and hands it to him.
“How long’s that bill been going back and forth tonight?” C asks.
At pool they’re apparently pretty evenly matched.
Trick shakes his head. “He’s a killer tonight. I’m down four hundred.”
“So, Zoe, who do you want to talk to next?” Connor asks. “I had my turn.”
I stiffen. “Connor,” I say, shaking my head.
Both Anvil and Trick focus their attention on me. Anvil scares me the most, but that’s only based on how he looks.
C rubs a strand of my hair between his thumb and finger. “I’m not sure I can be rough enough with you to get what we need. I’m inclined to get distracted where you’re concerned. Maybe the two of them can convince you. Trick’s the best anyway at putting divergent stories together, and Anvil, well, no one holds out long when he’s—”
I stare into his eyes. “Don’t—please.”
“No?” he says. “So how am I going to convince you to talk? Should I bend you over that pool table, pull your tights down, and whip your ass with my belt?”
My heart slams against my ribs. I can’t bear to look at the other two men. Would they watch? Would they join in the punishment? What else might all three of them do? I can’t breathe. I’ve never heard that they’ve forced a girl to have sex, but it doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened. Sometimes girls don’t say what’s been done to them. Sometimes girls can’t say what’s been done to them.
“I’m scared,” I whisper.
C inclines his head, whispering in my ear. “If you made a mistake, tell me now. I’ll let you make amends.” He nods. “We’ll figure something out. You’ll be all right. But you have to tell me the truth. All of it.”
“I don’t know who put the money in my apartment,” I whisper back, trembling. “I swear it. I’m not lying.”
“Give us a li
st of the people who were at the party at your place. No one innocent will get hurt. I give you my word.”
I don’t know what drives me to step forward. Fear, I guess, and a desperate need to believe him. I can’t escape, so the only thing that makes sense to my reeling senses is to stay close to Connor.
His arms slide around me. “Hey. It’s all right, baby.”
“I feel like a drink,” Trick says. “I’ll make a round.”
“Not in,” Anvil says.
“All right. A round minus one,” Trick says amiably. “You’ve got more mysterious business to attend to, huh, ‘Vil? Do I need to stick a GPS tracker in the sole of your boot?”
“Sure, if you want me to plant it up your ass,” Anvil murmurs.
I smile. This little bit of guy banter eases some of my tension.
“Here,” Connor says, putting me on the couch. “You’re going to drink, and you’re going to talk. Right?”
I nod.
Trick holds out a glass to me.
My hands are a little shaky as I take two big swallows of the Jack and Coke from a heavy tumbler.
“My friends are good people. Mostly theater people. They would never rob anyone, let alone you,” I say. “And the people with them were strangers from out of town. It’s not—none of them could’ve been involved in anything.”
“So there’s no risk in giving us their names.”
I shrug and rattle off a list of people. “Four dancers, three male, one female. An actress. A couple that does set design and their in-laws who were in town. Three singers from out of town who’d come to audition for our next production and their respective boyfriends. My neighbor, Specs, and his wife. They’re high school teachers. Plus Specs’ brother and his boyfriend. I think they live in Boston. And then Rachel.”
“Was Rachel’s fiancé there?” Trick asks.
I shake my head, wondering how much C Crue knows about her engagement.
“So Rachel came alone?” Trick asks. “We hear Frank usually sends a bodyguard or two with her these days.”
“She sometimes goes out without anyone. That night, she did.”
“So she sneaks out?” Trick asks.
I don’t want to answer him, so I don’t. This isn’t about Rachel, and the last thing I want to do is give anyone information that could be passed on as gossip and get back to Frank.
“You don’t think five-foot-three Rachel who weighs a hundred and five pounds was involved in robbing you, do you? And that no one would’ve recognized her when, because of the Instagram account, she’s the most famous person in the city? What would her role have been? The person who climbs through a vent in the ceiling?”
“A vent in the ceiling? How did you know that’s how they got in?” Trick asks.
I flush. “I didn’t! I don’t!”
The three men exchange looks.
“C said he’d been robbed. I just assumed he meant someone had broken into his office.”
“Which office?”
I stare at them. “I don’t know,” I say, realizing I’ve never heard anyone say that they know where C Crue has its business offices. “I guess you work from home?” I ask, trying to work things out. “But I can’t imagine someone breaking in here.”
“That would be something,” Trick says lightly. “Maybe take a swim in the pool. Borrow a towel from Anvil’s cinder block apartment. One of his towels would be like a blanket for someone Rachel’s size, assuming she was in on it, with the vent-crawling.” Trick’s deadpan joking should put me at ease, but it doesn’t, because there’s a dangerous edge to him. I can see that now.
Anvil returns to the pool table, racking the balls for another game.
“I’ll break,” Trick says, turning away from me to play.
Several moments pass. “What’s going on?” I whisper.
“You gave us the information we wanted. Come with me,” he says.
I follow him. “No one broke into an office or a house, did they? Trick just said that to see what else I’d say? It was some other kind of robbery?”
He nods.
“Will you tell me what happened?”
“No. I like listening to you spin your theories.”
I exhale, feeling lighter and more relieved than I’ve been since I saw that mark on my door. He knows I have no idea how that money was taken or how it got into my apartment.
He starts up the stairs. I pause at the bottom.
“What are we doing now?” I say.
“We’re gonna get to know each other better.”
It’s not a good idea. I press a finger against my lips for a moment. “Do I have a choice about that?” I ask, not completely sure what I want the answer to be. He is looking extremely gorgeous to me now that I know he’s not planning to kill me or turn me over to his partners to be tortured. But there’s still his war with Frank. I can’t ever be seen as siding with C Crue on anything, and if I’m not here so he can keep interrogating me, then why am I here now?
“You have a choice about some things, but not about whether you come upstairs. That’s nonnegotiable, so come,” he says, holding out his hand.
I ascend a couple of steps, but don’t put my hand in his, even though I’d like to.
“C, I should go. You should let me go now.”
“Should I?” he asks in a low voice. “I don’t think so.”
My breath catches, but when he beckons me, my body sails on, gliding behind him.
He leads me into a bedroom where there is a king-sized bed with a giant wood frame. The carpet is a swirl of brown and beige. I don’t know what it cost, but I know it’s the most expensive carpet I’ve ever seen. On a whim, I bend forward and run my hand over it.
“Beautiful,” I say. “You have an amazing house.”
“I’m glad you like it.” He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls off his boots. He tosses them into the corner. “Strip down for me. I want to look at you.”
I undress all the time backstage in front of dozens of people, men and women. But here, alone with him, it’s very different. I hesitate, trying to figure a way out of the house.
“I think I could use another drink.”
“Later. First, do what I asked.”
“You’re very good at issuing orders,” I say.
“I’ve had a lot of practice.”
“With everyone? Not just the people who work for you, but in your bedroom, too?”
He nods. “I’m the boss in every room. Not that I usually have women in this room.”
“Where do you have them?” I ask.
“Elsewhere,” he says. “It’s not important.”
I’ve heard things about him and his friends. They’re rumored to like things rough and dirty—very, very dirty. I wonder how much of the gossip is true. A part of me has always wanted to find out the truth for myself.
“Connor, look, I can’t be with you. Frank would see that as a betrayal. He’s done things for me, supported me financially after my mom got sick. You and he are enemies now. A condition of my being allowed to perform at the theater was that I wouldn’t socialize or even speak to you. I can’t help that you brought me here, but I can ask you to let me go now.”
“You gave us some information. Until we verify whether what you told us is true, you’re not going anywhere.”
I stare at him. “I mean—there were a lot of people at my place. You can’t just keep me here as a prisoner until someone talks to all of them. That could take days.”
“I can keep you here as long as I want,” he says.
A knot twists in my belly. I’m both terrified and excited by the prospect of spending days with him.
“If Frank finds out I’m here, I’ll have no choice but to tell him that I was held against my will.”
“Go ahead.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea? Making this personal?”
“It’s always been personal. Frank made it that way.”
“What happened?” I ask. “What made you leave
?”
“That’s enough questions.”
“I really want to know. Why wouldn’t you tell me? I know what business you’re in. Everyone does.”
“It’s time for another lesson,” he says, gesturing to his lap.
I don’t move. “C, no.”
“For the rest of the night, you’re going to call me Sir. Clear?”
I shake my head. In an instant, he grabs me and tosses me over his hard thighs. I struggle as he pulls my leggings down. The first smacks are firm enough to sting badly, and they only intensify.
“Oh, God,” I husk as he pins my leg.
The heat consumes my ass until it throbs. I feel swollen and sore.
“Please, C—I mean, Sir,” I say with a gasp.
He pauses, rubbing my ass. I squirm, friction heightening the pain even as I feel my pussy getting wetter.
“Strip down,” he says. “Sweater and bra off.”
I obey, panting. The sweater drops to the floor. Then I unhook the bra. It slips from my shoulders, and my breasts hang free, shimmying as I move.
“Good girl.”
It’s humiliating. So why am I so wet?
I feel his erection pressing against me.
I’m caught up by his excitement. A reflexive pulse deep in my pussy has me creaming my lace panties. He slides my thong down to my knees.
“Christ, you’re beautiful.” He squeezes my ass, then returns to slapping it.
The heat intensifies. “I—”
He pauses. “What, sweetheart?”
“How much more?” Tears sting my eyes, but I don’t buck or fight.
“A few,” he says. Then he gives me more. And more. The heavy swats intensify.
Finally, I gasp and squirm. “Sir, please!”
He pauses and rubs my backside, letting a low groan escape.
“Relax for me,” he says, fingers delving between my thighs and tracing the seam of my moist lips.
I moan.
His other hand cups my breast and kneads it slowly. “I can spank you long and slow until you’re so hot for me you’ll be wet enough to coat my tongue when I go down on you.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Do you want that?”
“Yes,” I say, because I’m not thinking clearly.
