The Perversion Trilogy: Perversion, Possession & Permission

by T. M. Frazier

  “Nothing…yet,” I grumble, snagging a towel from the rack and drying my face.

  “Anything I can help with?” She saunters over. Although her frame is microscopic compared to mine, she’s suddenly taking up every inch of available space in the bathroom.

  “No,” I say. It comes out rougher than I intended. “I don’t need your help. I don’t need anything from you.”

  She doesn’t scowl. Doesn’t react in any way.

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Let me fix this. Let me fix you,” she offers. Standing up on her tiptoes, she presses her chin against my shoulder and looks at my reflection in the mirror. “Let me help you feel better.” She reaches around, placing her palm flat on my chest, slowly trailing it down my abs.

  I meet her gaze in the mirror. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “I’ve been waiting for you. Always for you,” she says, darting out her pink tongue and wetting her even pinker lips. She’s the perfect mix of innocence and defiance, and I can’t turn around to face her. Not yet. I’m…afraid?

  Afraid.

  ME. AFRAID.

  The thought causes me physical pain, from my chest all the way down to my throbbing cock

  “I’ve been waiting for you, too.”

  I wake from my dream covered in sweat. I reach for the whiskey on the table only to realize it’s empty. I head into the main house and tear open the liquor cabinet in the living room.

  “Something troubling you?” Marci asks.

  “Nothing that drowning myself in liquor won’t fix.”

  “I seriously doubt that,” Marci says. “This about Emma Jean?”

  I freeze at the sound of her name.

  Marci sits on the couch and pats the sofa. “I know everything, Grim. More than you.”

  “You don’t know everything,” I mutter. Turning back to the liquor cabinet, I locate a full bottle in the back and twist off the cap. I chug from the bottle, not bothering with a glass.

  “And here I thought that Tricks being with Marco and Los Muertos was something.”

  I spit the liquor in a spray all over the floor. I told Sandy and Haze but not Marci or Belly.

  “You’re cleaning that up,” she remarks. “Now, I think it’s time for you and me to have a little talk.”

  “There’s no point. I didn’t find out until this afternoon, or yesterday afternoon, at the sit-down at Marco’s. Then, she came here. I sent her away. You won’t have to worry about her being around.” I wipe my mouth and take another swallow from the bottle.

  “You sent her away? How?” Marci narrows her eyes.

  “The only way I know.” Guilt, regret and anger boil up inside of me. “I can’t break the truce over a piece of ass.”

  Marci looks at me, and for the very first time, she looks disappointed. It burns in my gut along with the whiskey.

  “Sit the fuck down, son, and listen to Marci,” Belly says.

  “I take it you know, too,” I say.

  He nods. “I know what she knows. We’re a team. A unit. We don’t have secrets between us,” Belly explains. “You should know that. And LEARN from that.”

  “I’m not the one keeping secrets,” I tell him, my words a double-edged sword.

  “Sit,” Belly says. “It’s not a fucking request.”

  I sit down on the couch with my bottle and light a cigarette, rubbing my temples with my hand holding my smoke.

  Marci lights a joint and passes it to Belly. “Emma Jean Parish is being held against her will by Marco and Los Muertos.”

  Belly perches on the side of the couch and takes the joint from her hands.

  I shrug. “She said she didn’t want to be there, but she should have thought of that before she joined up with those motherfuckers in the first place. You don’t get to have regrets after you join. She had to know what she was getting into. She’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever met,” I say in disbelief.

  “She is. But you’re not,” Belly says. “She never joined up. She was taken against her will and forced to earn for Marco. She’s there under the threat of death or being whored out along with Gabriella, Marco’s own sister. The only way she’s been able to escape those things until now was to earn.”

  “For how long?” I ask. My throat dries, and I’m finding it hard to swallow. I assumed she joined up after she went to the new foster home she told me about, but dread washes over me as the realization that I was wrong takes hold. “How long has she fucking’ been there?”

  Marci sighs. “Since she was twelve. Since she disappeared from foster care.”

  “Oh fuck,” I bend over and set the bottle on the table. I feel fucking sick. I feel murderous. “She tried to tell me. I didn’t fucking listen.”

  “Like you said, the girl is smart,” Marci says, taking a long drag off her joint. “And those smarts have bought her time. She’s managed to keep Marco’s paws off her for five years and to keep her and Gabby safe. That’s a lot of burden to bear for a kid.”

  “But, she’s almost eighteen now, and Marco’s governed her by family rules,” Belly adds.

  I know where he’s going with this because I know Marco’s fucked up laws. Girls of age are fair game for all members of Los Muertos. Unless he wants her for himself, which he’s shown he does.

  “I’m going to be sick,” I say, and it’s not because of the whiskey.

  “As you should,” Belly says adding insult to the most painful injury I’ve ever experienced, and I’ve been fucking shot. Twice.

  I swallow hard and ball my fists as I speak her reality out loud. “Her time’s run out.”

  Twenty-Two

  The first thing I do when I get back to the compound is tell Gabby about the bus tickets and Grim.

  “Oh, shit,” she says. “Let’s go. Let’s do it.”

  She starts packing our backpacks and hides them in the air vents. “I’m going to make a run for supplies. I’ll meet you back here in an hour.”

  While she’s gone, I rinse the color from my hair and let it dry naturally. My need to be truthful to myself outweighs the need to blend in or to match the ID I’m about to use perfectly. My bouncy blonde curls spring back to life.

  “There you are,” I say, reaching out to touch the mirror.

  I open my notebook to retrieve the bus tickets. They aren’t stuffed between the pages where I left them. I check again. They’re still not there. The last time I saw them was at the park. I dropped the notebook when Memo threatened me. I managed to shove it back into my bag before the bullets rang out and Grim carried me off but…Memo.

  Leo bursts through the door with a wild look on her face. “Marco wants you to come down to the courtyard. He has a…surprise for you.” She can’t even look me in the eye.

  Marco has a surprise for me.

  Dread immediately fills my entire being.

  I want to run and hide, but there’s no hiding when it comes to Marco. I nod, and she leads me out into the courtyard where Marco is waiting, surrounded by angry, tattooed girls and women I recognize as other members of Los Muertos.

  “I like the new look,” Marco says. “Missed that crazy hair of yours.”

  “What’s all this?” I ask, but I already know. I’ve seen it before from my window.

  “This is where you prove your fucking loyalty like you should have done years ago,” Marco says, roughly grabbing my arm.

  “Why?” I ask, “I’ve been loyal. I’ve—" Marco’s shuts me up by holding up a pair of bus tickets.

  MY bus tickets.

  Shit.

  Memo chuckles from behind Marco and blows me a kiss.

  “I was going to make you my queen, and THIS is how you repay me?” Marco asks loudly for all to hear, his chest rising and falling with his anger. “But don’t worry. You’ll still get a chance to be my queen. IF you survive your initiation.” He lowers his voice; pulling me close he whispers in my ear. “You were in the palace, bitch. Welcome to gen-pop.”

  He shoves me into the circle. I
stumble and hunch my shoulders, trying to make myself as invisible as possible, but it’s no use.

  The first girl comes at me, and I manage to block a few of her blows and deliver a few of my own. Marco is cheering with his soldiers from the sidelines. Their laughter piercing through the circle like an arrow. I can fight them off one by one without problem. I’m strong, athletic, and I’ve been in a scrap or two.

  But there’s no way I can win when the group crowds me in on all sides. I raise my arms to cover my face as they begin brutally beating me. One blow after another until a faint whistle enters my blood-filled ears. The crowd parts, and Marco picks me up by what’s left of my shirt.

  “Go get the next one,” he barks to someone.

  “No, not Gabby. No,” I rasp as blood trickles from my lip.

  “Awe, that’s so sweet that you’re worried about her, Blanquita. But naw, she gets special exception because she’s blood. Family. You got special exception, too. Then, you went and fucked it all up by lying to me. Time to show me some loyalty, bitch. Now, let’s see how you handle your walk of shame.”

  I would’ve laughed if I was capable or if I didn’t fear Marco’s retaliation.

  I’m dizzier than I’ve ever been as I’m placed in the open bed of a truck. Marco barks orders in Spanish to whoever is driving to take me to the devil’s den.

  Then, we’re off. Every bump in the road is another punch to my ribcage as I collide with the ribbed metal of the truck bed. When we finally stop, it’s like I’ve been beaten all over again.

  I’m unceremoniously lifted and dumped out onto a concrete sidewalk by a man I recognize as Gil. “If you survive the night and find your way back to the compound by morning, Marco won’t kill you. If you die out here…well, then you die.” Gil laughs, amused by his own sick joke. “Oh, and I almost forgot. Marco wants me to remind you that if you so much as think of running, Gabby will go through the same initiation with three times as many against her. And if they don’t kill her, he will.”

  He reaches into his back pocket and takes out a can of spray paint, but it’s not the walls he tags. It’s me. I cough through the fumes as he covers me in yellow paint, spraying me from head to toe.

  The truck takes off, and I’m left lying on the side of some building. I hear the faint sounds of a buzzing street light. I look up and see nothing but darkness. Either the street light isn’t working, or I’m high from the paint fumes.

  Or both.

  Marco is a sociopath. A thug to his very core and not in the cool political way Tupac defined the word. Because I’m delirious, I hear the faint sounds of Tupac’s “Gangsta Party” playing in the distance. Or in my head. I hum along until the landscape around me grows from fuzzy to only sort of fuzzy, and I try to figure out where the hell I am.

  I prop myself up slowly feeling the pain of my beating all over again as I try and do so. I look down and realize beside the paint, I’m almost naked.

  My shirt is torn to shreds, and since I’m not wearing a bra, I’m fully exposed. There isn’t even enough fabric left to arrange any sort of cover. I spot graffiti on the wall above me, along with the winged symbol for The Immortal Kings.

  Shit.

  I begin to panic. I officially understand what Marco meant when he said ‘if I survive the night’ and he wasn’t referring to my wounds. I’m vulnerable out here.

  The Immortals, along with everyone else in this town, know that someone left battered on their doorstep covered in yellow is fair game in their twisted gang rules. They can do whatever they want to me. Truce or no truce.

  The only thing they can’t do is help.

  I use the wall at my back as leverage to stand. A shooting pain up my spine tells me it’s a horrible idea. I fall back on my ass sending another stabbing pain down the back of my legs.

  “Come on, EJ. Get your ass up,” I mutter angrily to myself. Another voice speaks to me, this one in my head, but’s is as real as if he’s whispering in my ear.

  The voice is Grim’s.

  You’re stronger than this. You’re stronger than him. He thinks he’s manipulative and cunning but you’re better. Marco has no idea who he’s fucking with. Now is your time to show him. Get up, Tricks. Come to me.

  With his imaginary words fueling me, I manage to pull myself up to a somewhat upright position. I would jump and rejoice if I didn’t think I might break a vertebra in the process.

  “Thank you,” I say to the voice in my head.

  “Who you talking to little lady?” A voice asks.

  I look over to find Damon, the leader of the Immortals, looking me up and down with an amused expression on his face.

  “None of your fucking business,” I growl, glaring a laser-like warning at him so hard I’m surprised and disappointed I don’t decimate him where he stands.

  “Oooohhh, she’s got bite,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “But you see, it is my business. You’re in Immortals territory. MY territory, which means YOU, yellow girl, are very much my business.”

  “What’s going on?” Another male voice asks. A man stands next to Damon. Taking notice of me, his eyes widen with interest.

  Damon bends over with his hands on his knees to meet my eyes. “It seems Marco has left us a gift,” he muses, scratching at his beard. “Although, this one is scrawnier than most of the others.”

  “Not where it counts,” the other man chuckles. I glance up, and he’s staring at my breasts. My adrenaline kicks in, and I mentally count to three.

  One.

  Two.

  I can’t even wait until three.

  I’m bolting down the street barefooted with my breasts exposed while the two men give chase. I’m not fast, but I don’t think they’re trying too hard either. Sixth Street. I just passed Sixth Street. One more street and I’ll be in Bedlam territory.

  Grim. Get to Grim.

  If he wants to kill me, so be it. I’d rather be killed by Grim than by these fuckers.

  My hair is tugged from behind, and I fall back onto the concrete with a force that knocks the wind from my lungs and sends a sharp bolt of pain through my spine.

  “What in the hell do you two think you’re doing?” shouts a female voice.

  “None of your fuckin’ business,” Damon shouts.

  “Oh, no, you did not just say that to me. Boy, I’ll cut out your god damned tongue. Have some fucking respect for your mama for once. If not for me or her, then at least for yourself.”

  “Ma…” he whines as if she’s just taken away a toy and sent him to time out.

  “Go on, get. That skank Jocelyn is at your house. I ain’t dealing with her shit tonight, so go and set that right before I light her on fire and throw you on top for kindling.”

  “Fuck, not Jocelyn again,” Damon mutters.

  “Thought she was in rehab?” the other man asks.

  “Must have escaped,” he replies. Their footsteps and voices fade as they retreat.

  The woman leans over me, and I recognize her instantly as Margaret, The lady from the park. From the sit-down with Marco and Grim. She’s never been kind or unkind to me. Mostly, we just steer clear of one another and exchange polite smiles.

  “Listen, Emma Jean, I want to help you. I really do. But I can’t interfere in the business of Los Muertos. I can tell from that ass-whooping that it wasn’t no cat fight between girlfriends, so I tell you what. I can’t touch you, but I’ll walk behind you in the shadows until you cross Seventh to make sure you make it there. Beyond my territory, it’s all up to you. You think you can walk?”

  I nod and hiss when I bring myself to a standing position without Margaret’s help. “I really do want to help, you know. But I can’t be starting a war and losing my boys over this. You get that?”

  “I know,” I rasp, each lungful of air more painful than the next. “I get it. You can kill me, but you can’t help me.”

  “It’s fucked up, I know,” she says with a sigh.

  “It’s like a real life, more fucked up versio
n of The Hunger Games,” I groan.

  “Ain’t that the fucking truth.” She chuckles. “If this was any other town and any other situation, I’d get my fucking gun and teach that piece of shit Marco a lesson on how to treat a woman. It’s hard being a feminist in Lacking. This wouldn’t happen where I’m from in England. The whole fucking town would be at the Los Muertos gate with pitchforks.”

  “Too bad we’re not in England,” I offer.

  Margaret takes out her phone and taps a few keys before shoving it back inside her pocket.

  I take a few shuffling steps forward. Margaret stays true to her word. “Move on, boys. Ain’t nothing to see here,” she shouts from the shadows as two men pass by, pointing in my direction. They quickly move to the other side of the street.

  “Something tells me that there’s more to you than the lady who serves lunch to the homeless in the park on Sundays,” I say, shuffling forward at a pace that would lose a snail race. I’m getting dizzier by the second, but I concentrate on moving forward toward the obstacle in the gangster gauntlet.

  Margaret laughs. “I’m a woman, baby. There’s more to us than any man will ever begin to understand.”

  The moment I cross Seventh Street I know Margaret is gone.

  I’ve got to make it back to Los Muertos to save Gabby. It’s more than three miles. But I can make it. I look up to the sky, the stars begin to swirl around and around. I quickly realize I’m wrong. I’m not going to make it. I know this because I’m now looking at those same swirling stars on my back.

  I hear footsteps and voices, but I’m tired. A warm blanket of oblivion is being pulled over me, and I relax into it.

  Oh, so fucking tired.

  Of Marco.

  Of this town.

  Of this life.

  Twenty-Three

  I’m in my truck the second I get the text from Margaret. I don’t know how she knows or why, but I don’t give a fuck right now. I’m almost to the edge of Bedlam territory when I spot something that doesn’t look right and certainly doesn’t feel right. Three grown-ass men are looming over something on the sidewalk. One lifts a paper bag to his mouth to take a swig of whatever’s inside. I slow my truck and open the window.