Squinting in the light, I see a faded red “Closed” sign in the window of the restaurant, and my shoulders slump. My kidnappers clearly aren’t taking me to lunch. Something nefarious is going to happen, like me being murdered in this lonely place and my body left in a giant dumpster in back. Oh no. What do I do now?
But before I can formulate a plan, one of the guys grabs my elbow and drags me, stumbling, to the front door of Sal’s.
“Open it,” he grunts at one of his friends.
“This isn’t my fault,” the smaller man whines while unlocking the door. “I didn’t ask to bring her. It all happened so fast, and no one knew where the hospital was except her!”
“Shut up,” my captor grunts. “Come on,” he says.
We step into the interior of Sal’s, which looks like the set of a diner from the fifties that no one’s set foot in for years. The leather upholstery on the booths is faded and cracked, with foam stuffing popping out in some places. The counter’s the kind that makes a U-shape, with bar stools placed along one side, and in back I can make out an ancient refrigerator that’s long stopped working. Dust an inch thick covers every item of furniture, not to mention the floor.
“I have asthma,” wheezes one guy. “We need to get out of here.”
“Shut up Wiz,” says my captor, “Just shut up. Fuck, you guys are like schoolgirls instead of a crew. Damn.”
He hustles me to the back of the restaurant and through a set of doors. We move down a hallway with peeling linoleum floors and paint cracking off the walls.
“Come on,” he says, stopping before a gray door.
“Rmmm?” I grunt through my gag.
“Someone take it off her,” he says tiredly. “There’s no one here. No one’s going to hear.”
Invisible hands tear my gag free and I cough at first, bending over and hacking. There really is a lot of dust in this place.
“Where are we?” I manage in a hoarse whisper, tears smarting my eyes. “What is this place?”
“You’ll see,” says one of the guys dryly. “It’s no place you want to be, but I guess it’s too late for that now.”
Suddenly, the door before us whisks open and I start in shock. It looked like a normal door, but in fact, it hid an elevator. I’m hustled into the small cube with three of my grimy attackers, and then the door shuts once more before locking with an ominous click.
“All the way down,” says my captor grimly, still grabbing my elbow for good measure. “We’re going deep for this one.”
One man presses a button on a box he has in his hand, and with a jolt, the elevator begins to move. Or more accurately, it begins to descend into the bowels of the Earth. How is this possible? I thought we were at Sal’s Diner, which should have a kitchen, a dining area, and maybe a rest area for the staff. Plus, a basement where they keep supplies and whatnot. But instead, we’re descending at light speed, so fast that we must be a few miles beneath the surface. What is going on?
I shrink into the corner of the elevator, warily eyeing my captors. The three men are weak-looking in their black outfits, their balaclavas pulled up to their foreheads. They’re stringy and small, with rough hands and dirty fingernails. Can I take them? I’ve heard that when you’re kidnapped, you have to fight your hardest at the beginning, otherwise you risk being dragged into even more danger. And clearly, that’s what’s happening. I’m being escorted into some underground dungeon, where escape will be even more difficult if I don’t act now.
So despite my curvy shape, I give myself no time to think it over. I have to try, or risk even more danger to myself. Lifting my elbow, I smack one guy in the face with simultaneously kicking his friend in the balls.
“Aaaagh!” he screeches, grabbing at his crotch while doubling over in pain.
“Eeee!” screams the other as he grabs his face futilely, blood spurting between his hands. That leaves only one man left. I tackle him and push him to the ground, our limbs tangling in the small space. Desperately, I try to wrench the box from his hands. The box is controlling this elevator, and I need to go up and out, not down to wherever we’re headed.
“Which button gets us out of this hellhole?” I scream, my face red with fear and exertion. But I’m not waiting for an answer, because taking advantage of the situation, I knee him in the groin before reaching one hand down to grab his balls and twist. His face goes white, then purple, and he lets out a burble of pain.
“Eeeef!” is his high-pitched squeak. “Fuuuuck!”
“Out!” I scream again. “I have to get out!”
I snatch the box from his hands and begin pressing every button on the surface. One of these has to do something. But it’s too late because the elevator’s already grinding to a halt, and I scramble to my feet. My three captors are lying on the floor, howling and groaning in pain as they clutch various body parts. I’m ready to attack whoever shows their face once this door slides open.
But when the doors finally hiss open, the man standing on the other side makes me go still with shock. He’s gorgeous and huge, dressed in an immaculate black suit with a white button-down underneath. He’s got coal-black hair, piercing blue eyes, and cheekbones that could cut glass. He definitely doesn’t look like the type to mix with the men who just kidnapped me.
And evidently, the sight that greets him isn’t what he expected either. One black eyebrow raises as he takes in my curvy, panting form holding the controller as the three lowlifes grunt and moan with pain on the ground.
“Well, well, well,” the tall man remarks. “Looks like she got the best of you, huh fellas? Come on in, Gemma. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Oh my god. How does this man know my name? How does he know what happened? I stare into his amused gaze and swallow. Somehow, with this man, I know I’m in more danger than ever before.
Chapter 5
Pete
When the door slides open, I almost double over in laughter. I always knew the Whatnot Crew was lame, but I didn’t realize they’d be this incompetent. The girl they have with them can’t be more than five five, with brown curls and a shapely figure. Meanwhile, they’re a criminal gang. They couldn’t handle her? Really?
But my eyes don’t lie. Tommy, JC and Greenboy are writhing on the ground right now, moaning their agony. There’s blood spattered everywhere and to my amusement, Tommy and Greenboy look like they got kicked in the nuts. Serves them right. If a woman does this to you, you probably deserved it. Especially since it was clearly three on one in the elevator, and yet she got the best of them.
“You didn’t tie her up?” I ask my men rhetorically. “Shit, how stupid can you be?”
“Boss,” gasps JC. “We did tie her up. She must have slipped the bonds.”
Sure enough, on the floor of the elevator is a raggedy old handkerchief, twisted and gnarled.
“You tied her up with a handkerchief. Shit, my dog could have escaped from that,” I say in disgust. Clearly, the Billionaires Club can’t be doing business with the Whatnot Crew anymore. They’re just too dumb and incompetent, with not one iota of common sense. It’s crazy, I tell you. We’re not expecting people with college degrees, but we are expecting guys who know the basics about doing our dirty work. Shit. I’m going to have to terminate their contract.
“Come on,” I say shortly. “Get up. Get out of here. I don’t need to see your ugly mugs.”
By now, Tommy, JC and Greenboy have managed to struggle to their feet and are about to limp out of the elevator. But I stop them, throwing one arm across the entrance.
“Did you hear me?” I repeat roughly. “Get out of here. Your work for the Billionaires Club is over. I’ll contact you about payment for this last job even though it was completely botched.”
JC’s face goes pale.
“I swear, it wasn’t us,” he whines. “It was them. The Silver Star was better protected than we anticipated, and then Greenboy shot that fat manager, and they said we’d get Murder One if the manager died! He was bleeding so much, so
we had to take him to the hospital! Oh god, it wasn’t me, Mr. Carmichael, I swear!”
I can’t believe he’s babbling, and to be honest, shit like this really gets me because I hate when people don’t take responsibility for their actions. It’s something that’s bothered me ever since I was a kid. Despite being a billionaire now, I wasn’t born to the manor. Hardly. I was raised in the hood, struggling to earn street cred, and one of the first lessons drilled into my psyche when I was twelve or so was that you have to own up to what’s happened. The buck stops with you. No one likes a whiner, especially the guys who make their living on the street.
But evidently these men (if you can call them that) never got the memo because all three of them look like they’re going to cry now. Great. What I hate even worse than whining is crying, and all three of these guys look like they’re about to turn into blubbering fools. So I do what I do best. I press a hidden button on the wall, and the elevator door slides shut even as they continue to protest.
“It wasn’t me!” squeaks Greenboy.
“It was them!” adds JC.
“It was their idea!” throws in Tommy as a Hail Mary. “I swear!”
But the elevator’s already in motion, whooshing them back up the surface and out of my life. Hopefully permanently. Throw a little money their way, and they’ll be gone, grateful for getting off easy considering that they completely botched this job.
Because we hired the Whatnot Crew to shake up the Silver Bullet, not the Silver Star. What idiots. The Silver Bullet is a check cashing joint that owes the Billionaires Club some cash. Not a lot, just some. So we wanted to put the fear of god into its owner, and sent Whatnot to shake things up a little and scare them a bit.
But these nincompoops completely fucked it up because they held up a diner instead of the check cashing place. Those incompetents stormed into the wrong place in the middle of the day, waving their guns and screaming bloody murder. The folks in the diner must have been scared witless. Someone must have called 9-1-1 immediately.
But it just gets worse. The Whatnot Crew actually fired on someone at the diner, blowing their bloody kneecap off. Shit. A knee injury is bad because frankly, there’s no way to recover from it. Not really. If your knee cap is badly damaged, it’ll be like that for life. Even if they give you a new metal one, you’ll be in physical therapy for years, and the artificial prosthesis is nowhere near as good. So Murder One wasn’t the only rap on the table. There was probably aggravated assault, battery, and all sorts of charges for violent crimes. Plus, haven’t these guys heard of video cameras? Even the lowliest corner bodega has at least three in the interior and exterior. These guys were probably caught on film red-handed as they bumbled their way through the hold-up.
Just my luck. Saddled with the most incompetent group of criminals in all of Las Vegas. I suppose it’s my fault. I’m the Sergeant-At-Arms this year, the one tasked this year with maintaining order and security for the Club, and for us, that means getting things like the Silver Bullet taken care of. I just never thought the Whatnots would screw up so bad as to attack the Silver Star, instead of the Silver Bullet. Fuck. What a mistake.
But like I mentioned, I’m a man who owns up to his errors. I’ll have to appear before the governing body because of the magnitude of this fuck-up. It’s not going to be fun, but so long as I’m honest and above-board, I’m sure it’ll turn out okay. After all, what can they do? Slaughter every single member of the Whatnots? Disband the Whatnots and scatter its members among other crews? It’ll be easier just to pay them their money and ignore all future requests for “collaboration.” Fuck that. Never again.
But for now, I have a beautiful, creamy girl on my hands. I knew they’d kidnapped someone as part of this run gone wrong, but they hadn’t mentioned that it was a woman who was drop dead gorgeous. Because looking at her now, my mouth starts watering. She’s of middling height, with curly brunette locks, and a curvy body that can bring a man to his knees. Soft, generous tits are paired with a narrow waist flaring out to wide hips, and a giant booty in back. Everything that I adore in one sweet, luscious package. The only problem is that she’s glaring at me now like I’m one of the bad guys. What the hell? I’d never be so incompetent.
And true to word, she puts her hands on her hips, her brown eyes accusatory.
“So,” the girl says in a melodic lilt. “What’s going on? Where am I? Is this some kind of dungeon where you keep girls in cages?”
I grin, flashing even white teeth.
“Even better than that, sweetheart,” is my nonchalant reply. “This is a place where our girls work for a living, and given your experience?” I say, throwing a glance at her stained waitress outfit. “I have just the job for you.”
She blushes hotly, even while meeting my eyes straight on.
“You can’t make me stay here,” she says tightly. “That’s against the law.”
I throw my head back and laugh.
“There are no laws here. Well, at least not the way that you’re thinking. You see, sweetheart, you’re at the Billionaires Club, and the laws that govern the club are our own. So get ready to work because I’ve got a job for you.”
She opens her mouth to speak again, but I hold one hand up.
“Nuh uh. Not now. You’re filthy, and I don’t want people to see you looking like this. We billionaires like our girls fresh, ripe, and beautiful, so you’ve got to get cleaned up first. Mary,” I call out. Immediately, a middle aged woman in a white smock materializes by my elbow. “Can you please take Ms. … um, what was your name again?”
“Gemma,” the beautiful brunette says tightly. “My name is Gemma Kane.”
“Right. Mary, can you take Ms. Kane to the spa please? Give her the works, and then bring her by my office.”
Mary nods and gestures to a hallway behind us.
“Ms. Kane? After you, please.”
The curvy girl looks like she’s about to refuse, but I still her with one hand.
“You have a nasty cut on your forehead,” I say. “At least get that taken care of. After all, we’re at the Billionaires Club, and we have access to the best medical services. So do it for your health,” I state with one eyebrow raised. “We’ll talk later, I promise.”
Again, Gemma looks like she’s going to protest, but then she spins on her heel and marches off down the hallway. I watch with unabated interest as that curvy ass swings right and left. Man, I’d love getting to know her better. I’d love to grab that ass as she moans, and to touch the crevice between her thighs. She’d be wet, I know it. Gemma’s one of those girls who looks like she can get wet in thirty seconds, if the man’s right.
And suddenly, I know exactly where this is headed. After all, this is the Billionaires Club. It’s a retreat for men of great wealth where none of the usual rules apply. The best food? Check. The best entertainment? Check. The best women? Check check. Gemma Kane is definitely going to be put to work … and I’m going to sample every pleasure she has to offer.
Chapter 6
Gemma
What the hell is going on? I was just kidnapped, bound and gagged, and thrown into a speeding van. Then my attackers decided to push me into an elevator where we descended to some godawful place called the Billionaires Club. But all that happened after I beat the crap out of the three lowlifes who kidnapped me. I guess my judo skills came in handy.
I’m not an athletic girl, not by a long shot. When you’ve got thirty pounds to lose, work-outs aren’t exactly fun. The treadmill is a bore, and I hate how my thighs seem to clap with every step I take on the belt. Gym clothes aren’t really exciting to wear either because they’re too revealing, and as a result, I usually don an oversized t-shirt and shorts when it comes time to getting sweaty.
But I don’t skip out on my work outs. Just because I’m overweight doesn’t mean that it’s an excuse to be unhealthy. You can be heavy and healthy, and that’s what I am. My curves are tight, and my booty and breasts shake and roll in the best way possible. Sure
, I have some flab, but doesn’t everyone? After all, even supermodels get cellulite.
But another important reason for why I exercise is because I live in the hood. My apartment is in the worst part of town. There are beat-up cars parked all along the sidewalk, and my building hasn’t seen a coat of paint since the sixties. Not only that, but sometimes during the winter, there isn’t heat or hot water. The super says they’re always going to fix it, and they do, but it always takes a couple days. I guess I’m lucky to live in Vegas because it never gets that cold. Chilly, but not super freezing or anything.
But back to the work-outs. My neighborhood is filled with gangs. They run the hood, and sometimes when I leave for work in the mornings, there’s a dealer standing just inside the foyer of my building ready to do business.
“You wanna party?” he asks. “You get your paycheck yet, Gem?”
Please. Like I’m going to spend my hard-earned money on drugs. It’s more like I’m saving it for food and rent. But I always nod and smile, and pray that the thug doesn’t get any ideas about hurting me. You never know when it comes to junkies, and as a result, it’s important to stay fit. I watch judo videos, and try to avoid dark places. I walk with my keys gripped in my hand, with one jagged edge poking out in case I need to take out an attacker. It’s called being prepared.
But right now, it looks like the man I just met wants me prepared in a different way. What the hell is he talking about? Spa treatments? The fact is that I’ve never been to a spa because it’s way out of my budget. There have been a few times when I’ve watched some chick flick or other, and the girls get together for a “spa day,” but I’ve never actually been to one in real life. It always seemed like the ultimate luxury – fluffy white towels, lavender scents, plus aroma oils and someone to do your nails. What bliss!
Claiming Her At the Bar Page 3
