by Nina Levine
I want to giggle because, ya know, I am in a dumpster.
Not that it is funny—yet it is. Hilarious even.
I’m coughing and giggling, trying to get myself under control before I choke to death.
I have Kingdom of Wigs to run. Wigs to sell to all the beautiful balding heads, keeping them warm and pretty. I am a wig soldier.
Insert soft belly giggle.
“Daisy!”
My giggling stops.
That’s my name. I’m Daisy Duke, and this stinky dumpster is my kingdom.
There’s my name again, but this time the voice sounds disappointed.
Blake?
A shiver runs right down my spine, making me shake myself a little more awake, but my mind doesn’t want to play nice.
A car door shuts.
I bang my heeled boots against the side once. The loud echo makes me groan from the piercing pain in my head.
I hear a car running. I need to get out of here.
Mustering all the strength I can find, I bang my heels as many times as I have the power to do against the metal.
And then I scream for King and country, tearing my throat up, without a clue how appropriate that thought is in this moment.
And then I giggle.
4
King
I land in a crouch beside Daisy, crushing a bag of garbage underneath me. Something sharp tears through the leg of my jeans; the metallic odor is winning out against the stench of rubbish.
My blood or Daisy’s?
I curse under my breath.
Daisy is lying at an awkward angle with her arms wrenched behind her back. Her top lip’s split, and she’s missing more hair than is left on her head. Long strands of silver hair dust the inside of the dumpster, her shoulder, and chest, as though deliberately scattered around like a sick form of artistry, leaving a few longer strands intact.
Her head is wobbling back and forth, and she’s giggling incoherently—make that snorting.
“Daisy, it’s Blake.” I gently touch her leg. I can feel Hemsworth glaring at me from the top of the dumpster.” Not now, Hemsworth,” I grind out, unable to take my eyes off the helpless bartender. “I’m going to take the blindfold off you and then remove the bandana tied around your mouth. I won’t hurt you.” She nods her head slowly, a soft, throaty giggle escaping her.
Is she drugged?
I gently work my way around her body once I have removed the blindfold and gag. “Hemsworth, I need something to cut through the zip-tie binding her wrists.”
“One moment, sir.” He leaves, taking the light with him.
“Whoops… lights out.” Daisy giggles. She’s not in a good way.
“Hang on a sec, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Your safe with me.” I get my phone out, switching on the torch app.
“He-looow, Blakey…” Her voice is husky from screaming. She drags in a deep breath. “Pree-ty Blakey. Blakey with the biiiig willy. Who gave me the best orgasm… ever.”
“The one and only, sweetheart. I’ve also brought along my trusty sidekick, Hemsworth. You can trust both of us to take care of you.” I’m careful not to touch her in a way that will cause her any further distress, although everything seems amusing to her at present.
“Poowhahh… you stink.” Daisy screws her face up. She’s behaving like she’s stoned. What the hell did her attacker give her? “Guuud… kiss-er. Round ass. Nice ass.” Daisy’s slurring her words while giving me a lazy, wasted grin, her eyes hooded like she is having trouble keeping them open. She needs a doctor.
“Here, sir.” Hemsworth has returned, handing a switchblade down to me, and he’s had the foresight to bring my tailored jacket.
I arch an eyebrow at the switchblade. “And your first instinct was to grab the pepper spray?”
He shrugs.
I take the items from him, draping the jacket across her chest. It’s too cold at this time of the morning for a girl wearing sprayed on shorts and a tank top in September. “Daisy, I’m going to free your wrists by cutting the zip-tie. I won’t hurt you. Do you understand?”
She nods lethargically, moaning in relief as I swiftly cut her free. “I’m going to help you move your arms. Your shoulders might hurt. I’m sorry if you are in pain. Can you move them yourself?”
“Yeeeah.” She slowly drags them around to the front of her body with little help from me. “Better,” she sighs, falling against my chest. “Tired.” She puffs her cheeks up, blowing out air.
“Dai—”
“Who’s Daisy? I’m Queeeen-iee. Queen-ieee. Not Dai-see.”
“Dai—”
She pokes me in the chest. “Quee-nieee. Jussh like the tav-ern.
“Okay, Queenie. I think you got drugged.”
“Do you take aall the girls to a dumpster after giving them orgas—?”
Hemsworth clears his throat.
I ignore the silly question because I know the chemical in her is messing with her mind. She’s a sexy, intelligent woman. “Does any part of your body feel sore or broken?” I don’t want to move her until I understand if she’s badly hurt.
The good thing: Queenie’s clothes are still on. The bad thing: It doesn’t lessen my fears she could have been subjected to sexual, physical abuse.
With her face still plastered against my chest, she moves her arms and hands like they are wet noodles in a stiff breeze.
“All in working order, boss.”
I’m still not ruling out rape. Whoever did this to Queenie wanted the message sent loud and clear: she is disposable.
“Queenie, honey, can you open your eyes for me?”
The struggle is real.
“So tired.”
“That’s okay, honey. I’ll get you out of here.”
“I remember.”
“What do you remember?”
“Two men. Needle… thingie… in… neck. Cold. Need…shower. Stinky.”
“Queenie, I’m going to get you out of here now.” More slow nodding.
“Hemsworth, we need to get her to a hospital.”
“Sir!”
“Can it wait until we get Queenie out of here?”
“No, there’s an envelope stuck to the outside of the dumpster we missed. It’s addressed to Lorenzo Rossi.”
Through my rage, I snap out, “Read it.”
Hemsworth goes quiet. Then he’s cursing like a sailor.
“Tell me,” I order.
“Blake (Hemsworth dislikes the fact I’ve not given Queenie my real name), in short, the letter reads no police to be involved. I would prefer you to read it for yourself.” I hear the tap-tap of his phone and then the ping of a response.
“Hemsworth—?”
“As we speak, trusted friends of mine have agreed to come to our aide. He and his wife are on their way now to assist your lady friend, and they will offer great assistance with the contents of the envelope.” Shit, that bad. “Blake, we should get the young lady inside. Fern, who has studied medicine and is a qualified doctor, will be able to examine her to see for any signs she has been—”
“Good.” I cut my driver/friend off, not wanting Queenie to hear the rest of that sentence.
I know the old guy has his contacts, and I trust Hemsworth’s people if he does. He’s loyal to a fault, and he knows how to keep secrets. He was once the family butler, but I see no need for the extravagance, so I gave him a job as my driver and ‘gopher.’
I help Queenie into my jacket. It wraps around her lean frame like a blanket, reaching down to her knees.
“Hemsworth, I need you to swap places with me.”
“I’m coming down, sir.” At least I am back to ‘sir.’ He lands gracefully for a sixty-eight-year-old without hurting himself, trash bags crunching under his lean weight.
“Sweetheart, wrap your arm around my neck and hold on best you can?”
I help guide her arm into place, then slide my arms under her bare legs. “Now, don’t let go, Queenie.”
She nods, her head loll
ing as I stand with her curled up in my arms. She weighs less than a postage stamp. “Good girl. I’m now going to pass you over to Hemsworth, who will take good care of you while I climb back out of the dumpster, and then he’s going to pass you to me. Do you understand?”
Queenie forces her eyes open. “Hems…worth. Cool name.” She releases a silly giggle. She is so wasted, but it’s better than crying. “George… Clooney. Handsome… old guy.”
“Whatever works for you. If you think of him as George Clooney, I am sure Hemsworth is flattered.” More slow nodding. “Heeey, George.”
Fuck, how much shit did they give her?
“Hey, Miss Queenie.”
I pass her to Hemsworth and climb out of the dumpster.
“Sir, the envelope is on the ground. Read it.” I locate it at my feet.
Carefully I open the quality stock paper envelope and unfold the crisp white paper. It reeks of money before I lay eyes on the words.
I scan my eyes over the direct threat, cursing under my breath.
Mr. ROSSI,
NO DEAL.
TSK-TSK FOR THINKING YOU CAN TRADE AND THEN AVOID ME.
THE GIRL IS UNHARMED.
THIS TIME.
IT IS YOUR ONLY WARNING.
PAY THE DEBT OWED IN FULL.
48-HOURS.
OR NEXT TIME I’LL LET MY BOYS TOUCH HER.
THEN SHE’S DEAD.
YOU WILL BE DEAD.
AND I TAKE EVERYTHING.
WIN-WIN FOR ME.
NO POLICE.
WE ARE WATCHING.
Charlie Roemer
Relief washes over me, knowing she didn’t get raped by the street rats that do this criminal’s bidding.
“Fucking Roemer,” I hiss in disgust. My relief is transferring to rage. He’s a thug and loan shark, a known creep—a Chicago pest—who has made his money and reputation off the blood and sweat of others. He’s scum. Roemer thinks he’s untouchable.
He’s wrong.
He hasn’t met me.
I don’t appreciate getting mixed up in this shit, but at the same time, I’m looking forward to settling the score, for Queenie’s sake.
I look around at the darkness, worried the rats are lurking in the shadows, ready to report back.
“Sir, I know what you’re thinking, but now is not the time. There will be time later to rage for the injustice done to your new friend the right way.”
I place the letter back inside the envelope and pocket it in my pants before leaning over the dumpster as Hemsworth raises his arms to me.
“I’ve got you, Queenie.” Accepting her limp body from Hemsworth. “Is there anyone else upstairs in the bar, sweetheart?”
“Only me. Stepfather… away… until tomorrow.”
She understands my questions, which is a good sign.
I turn to leave my old friend to get out of the dumpster by himself, not doubting the old guy has it in him, and start walking toward the back door of Queenie’s. Thankful the brick is still propping the door open.
“Hemsworth!”
I stop walking, turn, hearing my friend’s name shouted by a deep, smooth male voice I don’t recognize. There is an odd slight accent to it that I can’t put my finger on.
The guy is with a beautiful, sexy, leggy woman—a brunette—carrying a black old-fashioned doctor’s bag. He has a firm grip on her hand. Both dressed as though they have been enjoying an expensive night out. She’s got the grace of a ballerina.
She’s the type of female I have listed under speed-dial I take out to dinner and fuck afterward. Businesswomen, doctors, lawyers, the rich and spoilt—not Queenie’s type—yet I feel no desire toward the stunning brunette walking down the alley looking like a supermodel.
I know money when I see it. An expensive top-designer suit for the guy and his female is possibly wearing an original black Chanel creation, and they are both wearing diamonds. She’s got a sizeable diamond rock on her ring finger that looks early twentieth-century.
Where is their car? Their driver? Their security team?
These two are looking to get mugged.
“Lorcan and Fern, lovely to see you, and thank you for coming at such short notice.” Hemsworth has one leg over the dumpster, but he still manages to shake hands with the guy.
The rich guy isn’t afraid of a dirty dumpster; most wouldn’t touch the hand of somebody climbing out of one. The friendship with Hemsworth is solid.
“Do you need a hand, old man?” the guy says in his hard-to-pick watered-down accent. I would say a rock-solid friendship.
“Thank you… for hearing me,” Queenie slurs softly, her eyes still closed, distracting me from watching Hemsworth get out of the dumpster. “I thought… I was dead.”
I look up to see Hemsworth following me with his friends, so I continue walking.“You’re very much alive. I’m not going to let anything happen to you again.” She scrunches her face up, trying to work out what that means, but I have a few ideas.
I’m about to nudge the back door open with my foot when—
“Sir, hold-up!” I look over my shoulder. All three are standing behind me. “Please excuse the speedy introductions. Bradford King, I introduce Lorcan and Fern Gregario to you.” Hemsworth produces a low bow, for whose benefit, I am not sure.
Wow. Hemsworth’s bursting with pride for the couple, who now stand in my personal space, looking down at Queenie in my arms.
I nod my head. My hands are otherwise engaged. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both, and thank you for coming.” I’m trusting in Hemsworth this couple will live up to his expectations.
“Mr. King, she will be in safe hands with my wife in a moment, but if you could please wait inside the door with the girl. My wife and I will clear the premises and ensure it is secure for you to bring the injured girl to her rooms. Hemsworth, lock this door once we are inside. Two undesirables are watching from another building. We know their scent. They will get dealt with.”
Did I hear correctly? Did Lorcan say, ‘scent?’
I need to keep an eye on this couple; shit feels off. “Queenie, I am going to hand you over to Hemsworth while I go assist with checking the bar and upstairs. You can trust him with your life. I can vouch for him.” Not that you have known me for more than a few hours.
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. King. Fern and I are quite capable.” This Lorcan is so formal and believes every word he utters.
I start to protest. I don’t like getting told what to do by these unknown people. I look Lorcan in the eye and—
“You are content with holding your female in your arms while we declare her home safe.”
A sensation washes over me. “I am content,” I parrot.
And then they are gone.
Hemsworth makes a spluttering sound before waving his arm in front of himself, waiting for me to walk through into the back area, and then he secures the door.
“I thought you would leave me when I got up.” Queenie gives a weak smile. “But… here you are.” The back of her hand smacks lazily against my chest. “Blakey with the biiig snakey.”
Christ! She’s going to hate me in the morning if I remind her of this behavior. “Queenie, do you know a Mr. Rossi?”
“Hmmm…”
“Honey, is that a yes?” The drug in her system is still keeping her drowsy.
“Step…father... bossy Rossi.”
I silently curse the fucker for leaving his stepdaughter alone to deal with his misgivings. She’s got angry welts around her wrists, and there will be bruises I haven’t seen.
Unacceptable!
It isn’t the fuckers first warning. Bastard is late on his payment, and he would have known when it was due. I don’t think it’s a coincidence he took off for the weekend. It’s like he left her to deal with the consequences by herself.
Charlie Roemer is a serious fucker. Rossi must have been desperate to hook up with him. You can’t skip out on Roemer and pretend to give yourself an extension.
Lorenz
o Rossi will pay for this.
And it’s going to hurt.
“Hemsworth, who are these people you value so highly you bow to them?”
“Sir, the Gregario’s will finish their sweep of the premises any moment. Let’s save the conversation for after you get the girl cared for by Fern.”
“Certainly. It will be more appropriate.” I move to a barstool and prop myself on it, cradling Queenie closer to me.
I’ve never had to doubt Hemsworth’s wisdom before, but I can’t help thinking the couple looks too perfect. They appeared to glide out of nowhere like their feet weren’t touching the ground.
“Sir, she’s dozing off. Might be for the best,” Hemsworth says softly beside me.
“Queenie could be concussed.” I give her a gentle shake, but her only response is a soft snore. Then I take the time to really look at her.
Earlier I had on whiskey goggles, and I thought she was stunning, but now, with all her hair stolen, she manages to look even more beautiful with her facial features standing on their own feet—even with a swollen split lip.
Anger bubbles up again. This female is not trash to carelessly get thrown away, which is part of the bastard’s message to her stepfather.
Lorcan and his wife appear, standing too close to us, causing me to curl my arms in closer to my chest protectively. Where the hell did they come from? “Mr. King, it is safe to bring your lady upstairs, and my wife will attend to her. Or would you like me to take her for you while Hemsworth looks at your injured leg?”
“I can take her,” I growl possessively. I’m not sure where that outburst comes from, but I’ve managed to forget about my leg, my focus being solely on Queenie.
Lorcan holds his hands up in surrender. “I was only thinking to assist,” he says gently. “I wouldn’t let anybody touch my wife either.” He looks approvingly at me.
Hemsworth unlinks the garish chain, which is supposed to deter customers from wandering up the stairs to the other floors where they shouldn’t be.
We all parade up the staircase, Fern walking ahead.
The second floor serves as a private function area with a small bar, a pool table, and tables and barstools randomly pressed up against the walls. This space doesn’t get used often, if at all, from the looks of things. It could get put to better use.
