Puck

by Marata Eros

  “Bingo,” Viper says quietly. “Noose hacked into the kiddie-mover system without too much trouble, and the last client, Chenille Netter and daughter, Tabitha, had that sadistic fucker Lionel Ritchie there in that house for the last half year.” Viper flicks his jaw at my kitchen table.

  I walk to a neatly stacked pile of papers sitting beside my discarded cell.

  “She just spent a few days in a version of a drunk tank. Detoxing from roofie,” Viper says over my shoulder.

  I had my hand flat on the papers, the edges of photos sticking out from the corners.

  At that statement, I whirl. My stomach does a slow, slick roll.

  Viper nods. “I could have told you outright what I suspected, but it’s better for you to know what she’s up against through your own thought process.”

  Candi approaches, coming to stand at my back. “Oh my God, Puck...” The weight of her forehead fills the dip between my shoulder blades. Her tangible sympathy gives the surreal the weight of reality.

  Viper doesn’t have to say more.

  They’ve very effectively gotten rid of Temp. She was a solid problem in their operation. It’s all so clear now. These single mothers in the system of foster care, the ones who slip between the cracks, make great prostitutes. And well, if they didn’t want to play, there was always a drug that would make them compliant.

  “Puck,” Viper says quietly.

  My inhale is so sharp, my nostrils flatten, and I glare at Viper, boring through him.

  He ignores my asshole behavior, going on, “I’m not saying we’re without hope. But they are disappearing these two girls because Temp got too close. She got noticed. They can’t kill her outright. But they can make her go away.”

  The thought of the rough use Temp could receive in the hands of a prostitution ring like the one that’s moved into Road Kill territory makes my guts clench.

  My protective instincts deepen to a shrieking discordant melody without end.

  “Why take Kendra?” I finally grind out, Candi still clinging to me, offering silent support while the warmth of my sleeping nephew seeps between us.

  “Collateral damage. Wrong place, wrong time. Probably for these sick rapist fucks, it’s a twofer.”

  A twofer. “Viper...” I hate the wounded sound of my voice and not being able to do a fucking thing about it. “She’s an innocent.”

  “I know what Charlotte Temperance is. I know who she is. And I also know if we don’t get to her in the next twenty-four hours, she’ll be buried in their daisy chain of a system. And by God, you know it even better.”

  Candi lets me go and joins Viper at his side, sleeping Gabe in her arms. I notice the cheek that was against her when he was nursing is a bright pink, and my eyes shut as ineffective rage sears my insides. I have a single, heart-rending moment of not knowing what to do next, and the emotion makes me want to tip my head back and bellow at the injustice of what’s happened.

  But I do none of those things.

  My eyes rise to meet Viper’s. My heart thuds in my chest.

  “Got a plan?”

  “I do,” he says. “But you might not like it.”

  When he’s done telling me, he’s right. I don’t like it. Not one, tiny bit.

  But it’s so damn crazy, it just might work.

  I don’t like the risk. And I hate the alternative.

  Chapter 22

  Temp

  The men who assaulted me had finesse. They were careful with their fists. None struck my face or anywhere else that shows.

  My ribs are not broken, but every part of my body hurts.

  I open my eyes, and they meet Kendra’s. Without a word, we reach for each other at the same time, lacing our fingers. She looks worse than I do. Or the same as I do. Considering I was beaten a week ago and hers was a fresh job but not as severe, we’re like fucked-up twins.

  “What the hell is happening?” Kendra asks in a hushed voice.

  I close my eyes, summoning strength to say my next words. Or trying to. I gradually open my eyes again, allowing them to become accustomed to the murk and take in row upon row of cots.

  All full. Of women.

  Women like me. Actually, they’re younger than me. They’re not conscious, though. Not really.

  They seem to be dozing, neither awake nor sleeping.

  The visual should ease me on some level. The silence. The perfect temperature. The lack of immediate threat.

  False security doesn’t swamp me, though. The stillness and amount of females packed into this space is not a comfort, but a horrible portent.

  “Temp,” Kendra whispers, looking around us, “you’re scaring me.”

  “Sorry.” I suck in a sob that threatens to vomit out of me. But I know once I start that, I’ll never stop puking my fear.

  I turn my attention to Kendra. “First, what happened?”

  She sighs, her eyes finding mine. “You weren’t answering your texts. And I’d found a stopping point with this really frustrating code.” Her eyes drop. “And the douche canceled on me.”

  I move as though to find my phone and realize that’s long gone. Probably crushed against my apartment wall.

  Her restless eyes trace my movement, and she goes on, “Anyway, I thought I’d pop by, see if you were okay.” Her inhale is shaky.

  We’re so not okay, I think, briefly closing my eyes.

  “And men... men were in your place, Temp. Throwing your stuff out of drawers and trashing it.”

  I’m to blame. “I dragged you into this somehow.”

  Kendra shakes her head. “No, whatever this is”—her eyes flick around her at the drugged women—“this is bigger than us. We just got caught in something.”

  “I’ve been doing some looking into that fucker Ritchie.” Not much, considering the event just happened a week ago.

  And though his background is sketchy, I was able to find out some basic facts just from looking into him.

  Kendra scans our surroundings again and leans forward like a co-conspirator, our hands still threaded together like two little girls scared of the dark.

  And I am afraid.

  “He seemed like a typical loser trying to use a woman and beat on her and the child.”

  I nod. “Yes, on the surface, it seemed exactly like that.

  But he’s actually some kind of different flavor of pimp.

  He’s making his way through our clients. All of them. If women fall within a certain age demographic and their circumstances are right, then they get tapped to be prostitutes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because Chenille Netter’s not the first woman he’s taken up with. And every one of them have been the same age, better-than-average looking, have kids, and of course, the most common component of all—they’re desperate for the wrong kind of man.” I release Kendra’s hand and put my forearm over my eyes, wincing.

  “I bet I’m the first social worker to put it together.”

  “Yeah. And I bet anything you’re the first one that beat that prick up. And the second dude...” Kendra gives a disgusted grunt. “He was probably insurance you’d get scared and drop it all.”

  Letting my arm fall, I roll on my side, staring at Kendra. “I think they took you because it was opportune. They were coming for me.”

  “It seems like they’re taking a big risk,” Kendra says, her bottom lip trembling. “Tell me what you think they’ll do to us, Temp. Because I can’t lie. The story I’m making up in my head is all horror—and not the fiction kind.”

  I search her face. “Do you want me to guess?”

  “Aren’t we speculating anyway?”

  Slowly, I nod. “The thing is, what I’m thinking is possible, is probably what’s going to happen.”

  “I’m so scared,” Kendra whispers, her fingers tightening around mine. “They didn’t think anything of kidnapping two women. And you’re a state employee. Your absence won’t go unnoticed. They can’t just take us.”

  But they di
d. “Puck,” I say. “Shit.”

  “Isn’t he a cop?” Kendra’s voice sounds hopeful.

  “Not anymore.” I fall against the cot, throwing my forearm over my eyes again, hissing at the tender skin. “I blew him off. We had a fight.” I shake my head slightly. “And now it seems so stupid. So inconsequential.”

  “Everything does,” Kendra agrees forlornly.

  Suddenly, lights flash on, and I have to squint to see. Sitting up in the cot, I shade my eyes from the sudden brightness.

  I wish I could unsee it all. The finer details of the women were lost to the gloom the low lighting afforded.

  Now all the detail of their plight is revealed. The grime of their bodies, lank hair, dirt under nails, skin that has lost the flush of health and youth, bruising—both faded and fresh.

  And their state of dress makes my body clench, my thighs clamping together. Some of the women don’t have any clothing on the lower halves of their bodies.

  When the smell assaults me, I realize that my mind was protecting me from what I couldn’t deal with. I would have never thought that was possible if I wasn’t living it.

  Body odor and urine assail me.

  “Oh my God,” Kendra murmurs, covering her nose with a hand.

  God doesn’t dwell here.

  My eyes rise from the squalor.

  Stalking toward us is Ritchie. His smile is wide, his stride confident.

  I am not shocked by his sudden appearance.

  I assess the threat, realizing I’m pretty beat up to try anything. Still, somewhere in the deepest recesses of my mind, I recognize I want to take him.

  Standing, I ready my body between the rows of semi-conscious females.

  Ritchie’s self-satisfied grin widens.

  Holding out a Taser, he walks into me like a dance step and hits my torso with the electrodes.

  My body dances like it’s on fire.

  Kendra screams, and the women stir within the narrowing vision of my periphery.

  Falling without balance is just falling. I land hard, knocking the wind out of myself.

  I feel the electrodes break loose, and suddenly, Kendra’s soft hands are on me for too short a time. His beefy arms wrap her waist, lifting her away from me.

  “Time to separate you two cunts.” Ritchie grunts.

  My feeling of helplessness and out-of-body experience continues, the scene playing out before me.

  The taking of Kendra.

  My inability to help her or fight for my own body’s preservation. Ritchie drags Kendra off as she bellows at the top of her lungs. The sudden silence and the simultaneous sound of a fist hitting flesh tell me he hit her.

  Shoes appear by my head as I lie there, relearning how to breathe.

  Three pair of shoes.

  “This slip of a woman is the trouble?” A deep chuckle sounds beside my head.

  I try to sit up then lie back down.

  “She is dangerous, Mr. Alexander.”

  I think I know that voice. I squint up at the guy, and he’s the one who went after me in the parking lot when I was drunk.

  “No names. Give her more of the magic pills if she’s such an issue. Frankly, give her an IV drip.” His voice that delivers the order is melodious.

  This time when I sit up, I turn my head like a snake, fighting the effects of the Taser, my fear, and my nausea.

  I clamp my teeth on his shin, trying to meet lower and uppers together.

  He kicks out automatically, hollering and attempting to dislodge me.

  Rough hands rip me away, and I punch whoever has a hold of me in the throat like I’ve been taught—as though my knuckles must tap the wall behind the aggressor.

  Choking, that man collapses to his knees, hands encircling his throat.

  Vomit rises, and I suck air like a drowning victim, sinking to my knees. I reach between the legs of whoever’s closest and grab testicles, testing the weight of them in my hand for a nanosecond. Then I yank.

  The shrieking begins again.

  When something hard hits my head and I fall forward, shoes meet my face. Before I black out, I think my cheekbone will never be the same.

  Not that it matters, if I won’t live to notice.

  Puck

  “I’m not a hundred percent we can get at her,” Noose admits, cupping his chin.

  Wring stops working on his nails with his blade for half a second, his icy eyes sliding to mine. “We’ll get her.” Then he and Noose exchange a look.

  “If we employ the methods we want, sure, there’s a chance. I wanted to get in and out clean,” Noose states.

  Snare and Lariat snort at that. “I don’t think we have the time to be delicate with this kind of shit,” Lariat says, his dark eyes sweeping over them all before coming to rest on me.

  Snare says, “I’m thinking the opportunity for ʻcleanʼ has come and gone.”

  Candi moves to the front of the all-male crowd. “I’ve pumped my tits to death. I’m only good for about six hours, then I need to get back to my baby.”

  The men shuffle their feet, looking uncomfortable.

  “Listen, what do you assholes think tits are for, huh?” Candi’s gold eyes flash.

  “I like tits,” Snare mutters, the scar on his face puckering with a small smile.

  Candi rolls her eyes, nodding emphatically. “I like them too. They’re practical as fuck.” She cages her hands like a second bra around her breasts, moving them up and down.

  It’s about that time I think Noose is swallowing his tongue. The back of his neck turns an unflattering shade of brick red, and he scrubs a hand over his nape. “Thanks for that, Candi.”

  She arches a brow. “Rose nurses.”

  He shakes his head, chuckling. “Yup, sure does. Somehow, though, I don’t look at you two in the same context.”

  “Thank God for small favors,” Snare mutters.

  Noose flips him the bird.

  “I need a smoke,” Noose says, feeling for his pack in the pocket of his cut.

  “Later,” Candi says, doing a cutting motion with her index finger over her throat.

  Viper smiles, studying his feet. “Tell them how it is, Candace.” His voice is full of love for my sister, and his amusement over her dynamite personality and delivery of sensitive facts with the finesse of a hammer to glass is obvious.

  She gives him a sidelong look. “Yes, thank you, I will.”

  Candi is a force of nature.

  Her eyes train on Wring, Lariat, Noose, and Snare. Pointing at them, she says, “I’ve worked with losers like this before. Just plant me, and I’ll do the rest.”

  Eyeing her critically, I say, “Personally, I think you’re too old.”

  Candi cannot get hurt feelings, but her smile is chilly when it touches me, never reaching her eyes. “Thanks, Puck. I’m hoping that my size will fool them some.”

  I cock my head, trying to see my sister as other guys would. She does look young, but we’re both in our late thirties now. I hold up a palm. “I guess if you wear the right clothes...”

  “Like today?”

  Viper walks to her side, drawing Candi against him. “I have liquid guts thinking about this. About you having any role where there’s men as sick as this fucking crew.”

  They part, staring at each other. Candi looks up at him, briefly touching his face. “Let’s pretend this agenda is a final sting.”

  “Old-fashioned terminology,” Storm says from a dim corner, and I don’t turn to look at him. Just seeing him will piss me off. I still want to kick his ass for hurting Candi.

  Viper does a bang-up job of moving past the entire broken-rib bullshit, but a subtle tightening of his eyes and his semi-protective stance in front of Candi tells me he’s not quite over it.

  Join the club.

  “Listen, Storm,” Candi says.

  One dark eyebrow rises, and I’m struck by the memory of when he was dying his hair red while he was undercover. The color had softened his looks some. Now he’s harder than
ever—like all of us. But Storm might be the hardest of all. He hates women. The rest of us alpha-male types, we want women—need them. But Storm’s a different flavor. He fights his basic male urges of protection. And some of the shit I hear about him with the chicks is not cool. BDSM doesn’t even cover it. It’s like Storm can’t get off unless he punishes a female.

  “Yes?” he asks Candi.

  She walks over to Storm, and tension rises like smoke from a fire.

  Candi can take care of herself. But I don’t have to like it. Not one fucking bit.

  “I know you’re my wingman on this,” she tells him.

  I hate that on principle.

  He nods. “Because I don’t give a fuck about the scenery.”

  What we all know he’s referring to are the women they might encounter who are too fucked up to help themselves.

  A regular man might hesitate, get distracted trying to protect females.

  Not Storm.

  Candi doesn’t flinch at his oblique rendition. “Right. But I want to make sure that you’ll be there to grab Temp and her friend.”

  “They’re the acquisitions. The primaries,” Noose states matter-of-factly.

  Storm nods slowly. “Had that factoid. Get the main bitches and get out.”

  I can’t do it. Striding to Storm, I get up in his grill. “Listen, you fucking cold fish.”

  He straightens, and at six feet two, he maybe has me by an inch.

  “Don’t you fucking hurt Temp.”

  Storm’s hands fist. “Stop blaming me for the fed gig. I did what I had to do.”

  “I don’t think so.” I stab his chest with my finger, and Candi is suddenly at my elbow.

  “Stop, Puck,” she says in a low voice. “This isn’t helpful.”

  “Yeah, Puck,” Storm seethes. “Stop.”

  Our chests touching lightly, we’re like peacocks ready to claw each other’s eyes out, jeweled feathers fanned out behind us.

  His light-hazel eyes bore into my brown ones.

  With a deep inhale, I step away. “Fine.”

  “I hate females. I don’t make any bones about that. But I’m not enough of a sick fuck to drug and rape them to make money.”

  Great. Fucking. Thought.

  The brothers just stare at Storm. Might be a bit too much truth for them to stomach.