Devil's Bargain

by Natasha Knight

  When he drapes his arm over me, my eyelids fly open.

  “Relax,” he whispers, like he can feel me tense up. I assume he can because he tucks my body into his, my back against his front. He’s warm and his arm is heavy over me, but I don’t mind it.

  “Hawk—”

  “Sleep.”

  “But—”

  “Do as I say and sleep, Melissa. This is hard enough.”

  5

  Hawk

  She’s asleep when I wake in the early morning.

  It took her a long while to fall asleep but when she did, she slept heavy, not moving once as I held her. Her hair is still a little damp and I smell myself on her. My shampoo, the cologne still lingering on my T-shirt that she’s wearing.

  Even after my shower and while I dress, she remains a still form beneath the covers of the bed.

  I leave instructions for her by the coffee machine. When she’s ready, one of my men will drive her home. If she wants breakfast, she can go downstairs to the restaurant. They’ll know to look after her.

  On the elevator, I type a text to my attorney.

  Find out what you can about the Boyd family, Senator Sean Boyd of Maine. I’m interested in the years Melissa Doe was fostered there. She was eleven years old so I’d guess twelve or thirteen years ago. Goes by alias Melissa Chase now. Photo to follow.

  I send both the text and a photo of her fake driver’s license and it seems as soon as I hit send, my phone rings. It’s Axel.

  “It’s early,” I answer. I’ve got a headache and jerking off in the shower didn’t satisfy me nearly as much as sinking my cock into her tight pussy would have.

  “We’ve got a problem.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In the lobby.”

  “Be right there.”

  The elevator doors open and I spot him. “What is it?” I ask as we walk toward the exit. Axel isn’t exactly a morning person and for him to be here like this, it’s bad.

  “Marcus. The girl, Calla. She’s underage.”

  “Fuck. How underage?”

  “Fifteen.”

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  “How bad are we talking?” I ask, berating myself mentally for not insisting on seeing the paperwork myself. For not talking to the girl myself.

  “We got lucky. Twice. She freaked out about having her ass fucked and blurted out the truth before it happened. And Ronny’s the one who bought her. He doesn’t need any trouble.”

  Ronny’s on parole at the moment. If he gets caught with a minor, he’s fucked.

  “Fifteen, huh?” I thought she looked young but not that young.

  “She’s a friend of Marcus’ daughter. Fucking sick prick. Marcus promised her a grand.”

  A single fucking grand while he kept about fifty times as much after paying off his debt to me.

  “Where’s the girl now?”

  “Home.”

  “She okay?”

  “Yeah. I mean, the auction may have been out of her league but this girl wasn’t exactly inexperienced.”

  “Still, underage is underage. And at fifteen, she’s a child.” We climb into the back of the waiting sedan. “Where’s Marcus?”

  “At his house. I’ve got men there.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “I can handle it,” Axel says. “Just needed your go-ahead.”

  “I want to see his face.”

  When we pull up the driveway of Marcus’ house, I see two of my men stationed at the door.

  Axel and I step out. I take in the view, the wide expanse of land so opposite where I came from. I wonder if one day, I will call this place home. Although a part of me knows if it hasn’t happened yet, it’s probably not in the cards.

  We walk up toward the pretentious entrance.

  “Gentlemen,” I greet the men when we reach the door and one of them opens it.

  Axel and I step inside, and I pause to take in the house. It’s been a while since I’ve been here. He seems to have done well for himself. With my money.

  “Hawk.”

  I turn to find Marcus rising from the chair in which he was seated in the large, open kitchen. One of the men behind him puts a hand on his shoulder and encourages him to sit back down.

  “Anyone else in the house?” I ask Axel.

  “Cleared.”

  “It’s not what you think. I really didn’t know,” Marcus whines.

  I enter the kitchen, good choice of location. Tile floors are easier to clean than carpet.

  Taking a chair from the table, I set it across from him backwards and straddle it, resting my arms on the back. “Don’t talk to me like I’m fucking stupid, Marcus.”

  “She wanted it. Was excited for it. You know how girls are. Little sluts.”

  “Is your daughter a slut too? They’re friends, right? Would you put your daughter on the auction block?”

  “What? No. That’s different. Calla’s different.”

  “She’s fifteen. A child.”

  “Not a child, trust me.”

  The way he says it turns my stomach a little. “Yeah, still a child. We’re low on options and I have somewhere I need to be so we’re going to do this quick.”

  His face pales a little. “Hawk, come on. You know me. I’ll get you another girl. You know I’m good for it.”

  “Yeah, no thanks. So now I’m not only out my money but there’s the cost to my reputation. And you know how I feel about being fucking lied to. I’m going to give you a choice, Marcus, because we’re old friends.” I look around me. “House is nice, not my style but not bad. You can probably get half a million for it. I’d take it but then where are your wife and kid going to live?”

  “You have a soft heart, Hawk,” Axel deadpans.

  “Shut up, asshole,” I tell him.

  He chuckles.

  “Hawk, just give me—” Marcus starts.

  “The matter of my reputation, that’s a whole other can of worms. Money can’t fix that, so you have a decision to make. Knee caps, both, or I’ll take your right hand.”

  “No, please, Hawk, please, you can’t mean that. You know I’ve been loyal to you. I’ll do anything for you. I just fucked up. I fucked up big, I get that, but please. Please.”

  “Crying is for girls, Marcus. Little girls like the child, Calla, who you stripped naked and sold in my fucking club!”

  “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

  I hear Axel snort behind me and check my watch. I’m hungry and I’ve got a lot to do today.

  My phone vibrates with a message. I reach for it, swipe the screen to read the text.

  Come by this evening and I’ll have something for you.

  It’s Jack, my attorney. When I need shit like this, Jack takes care of it. When I need assholes like Marcus dealt with, it’s Axel, unless I’m doing it myself.

  “Where was I?” I ask, putting my phone away.

  “You were giving him a choice,” Axel reminds me.

  “That’s right. It was between knee caps or his right hand. Now, if it were me, well, fucking having my knee caps blown out, not sure I’d go for that. I hear it hurts like a mother fucker. But to lose my right hand. I mean, left, I could probably deal with that, but right?”

  “Please, just give me one more chance. I’ll have a girl for you tonight. Two. Ten!”

  I get up, put the chair back at the table.

  “Take care of this, Axel. Let me know what he decides. And hell, if he can’t decide, just do it all.”

  “No!” Marcus is whimpering behind me.

  I take two steps then turn back to look at him, shake my head and leave.

  I don’t mind making an example of an asshole like him. And examples do need to be made. One or two every year.

  It’s when you go soft that they fuck you. Swarm in like vultures with their hunger. Their greed. Always grasping at things they have no right to.

  After a day full of visits similar to this one, I head to Jack’s office. It’s early evening, the sun se
tting on the horizon. It’s my favorite time of day.

  I try to watch it alone when I can. There’s a stillness that belongs only to the sunset and the sunrise. It’s almost peaceful, even inside my head.

  But tonight, my head’s full.

  I’ve known Jack for over a decade. Met him when I started to work for Lanigan.

  Murray Lanigan was about eighty when I met him in an alley where two idiots were trying to rob him. I say idiots because the fools didn’t realize who they were fucking with.

  I knew. I knew from the minute I set foot on the strip.

  What the old man thought he was doing without his bodyguard I have no idea. To this day, I’m certain he suffered from some sort of dementia.

  The casino I own used to be his, but by the time I started working for him, he was old news. A legend, but old news.

  I beat up the two-bit thugs trying to rob him, and he hired me on the spot. I still think it’s because he mistook me for one of his sons, long dead by the time I came on the scene. It was partly my accent, heavier then since I’d just gotten into the country about a month earlier.

  During one of his rare lucid moments, he changed his will, leaving the casino, hotel and the building itself to me. His children were pissed, but fuck them. I was the one who was with the old man the last years of his life. I was there when he was sick. When he was scared. I held his hand when he died.

  And in some ways, he was like a father to me.

  They contested the will, of course, but by that time I was eighteen, legally an adult, and thanks to him, a citizen of this country.

  The will was iron-clad. They couldn’t touch me.

  It’s because of me the casino’s standing and profitable today at a level it never was when he was alive. At his request, I honor my promise to make sure his family is taken care of. Even the vultures.

  Jack was Lanigan’s attorney and I guess I inherited him, too.

  His office is off the strip and by the time I arrive, he’s waiting on me.

  “Hawk, it’s good to see you,” Jack says, shaking my hand.

  “Good to see you, Jack. I hope I’m not too late.” I take a seat in his office and he tells the secretary to bring whiskey.

  “No, you’re right on time. And I’ve got some information for you.” He takes his seat behind his desk and opens a file on his computer.

  After the secretary brings the whiskey, she leaves and he begins.

  “You know the Boyd family, I take it?” he asks as he pours and hands me my glass.

  “Sean Boyd Sr. was a senator on the east coast. Maine. Lived in D.C. for a time. Had a wife and son. Had fostered another girl for a year before taking Melissa Doe in when she was eleven.”

  That’s as far as I got but I want more.

  He knows me well enough not to ask why I’m interested.

  “Wife died a few years ago. Cancer,” he says. “The senator just recently passed away of a heart attack. He was involved in multiple scandals throughout his political career but nothing seemed to stick. The son, Sean, is twenty-six, and Liza, the other girl they fostered was actually adopted by them.”

  “Where’s the son?”

  “Maine. He’s following in his father’s footsteps.”

  “Another dirty politician?”

  Jack smiles. “Something like that. The girl, Liza Boyd, is in town. Has been for a few months. You may know her current whereabouts better than I.”

  I nod once.

  He mimics my motion and goes on, not mentioning Liza’s current state.

  “Now the girl they fostered but didn’t adopt, her name was Melissa Doe. Chase is new.”

  “Where does the Doe come from?”

  “She was a Jane Doe—found when she was about a year old. Left in a public restroom, poor kid.”

  He hands me two print outs of a too-skinny baby. I know it’s her the minute I see her face. It’s the eyes. Almond-shaped, and whiskey-colored and already scared.

  I feel my chest tighten.

  “She was filthy and starved. Had a gold bracelet with the name Melissa on it wrapped around her wrist.”

  I remember the only piece of jewelry she wore last night was a thin gold bracelet. At least she had it on when she was first brought to me. They would have stripped her of everything before the auction. No personal effects.

  “She kept Doe as her name.”

  “Did she legally change it to Chase at some point?”

  “Not legally, no. Not as far as anything I found. And she’s been off the grid for seven years. No social media accounts. No publicly listed number. Nothing. There was some talk about an accusation she made against the senator and his son some years back. Went to the police to report abuse.”

  “What kind of abuse?”

  Jack looks through something on his computer, shakes his head. “There’s no file. Just says it was disproved. This I’m getting from a gossip magazine. No police report to prove she ever even went to them. If there was ever a file, it’s gone now. And then the girl disappeared. I’m guessing after what she did, she’d probably overstayed her welcome at the senator’s house.

  “Now as far as the name Melissa Chase goes…” he trails off, he turns his monitor around. “Three living in the state of Nevada, none in Las Vegas. A Melissa Chase did pass away some years ago. It’s probably where the driver’s license she’s using comes from.”

  “Huh.” I study the screen. What are you hiding from, Melissa Doe?

  Doe.

  Like she doesn’t exist.

  “All right. Thank you, Jack.” I stand. “Let me know if you find out anything else. Dig for that police report. And find more gossip if you can.”

  He stands too, extends his hand to shake mine. “I will. You take care now.”

  6

  Melissa

  I blink my eyes open and wait for the room to come into focus. It’s silent, a quiet I’m not used to, and bright with morning light.

  And the instant I remember where I am, my heart rate picks up.

  I roll onto my back, glance at the empty space beside me. I tug the comforter up, appreciating its weight. I wouldn’t use one so thick at home. It’s too hot in the summer, but it’s cool in the penthouse. Hawk’s got better air-conditioning.

  The pillow still has its indent from where he slept, and I remember the feeling of his arms around me, his body like a solid wall at my back.

  I sit up to take in the room. The bathroom door is ajar, the light out. He’s not here. I know. Not in the bedroom and not in the apartment.

  I get out of the bed. I’m still wearing his shirt and I catch the hint of aftershave clinging to it.

  Barefoot, I pad across the hardwood floor and open the door to step into the hallway, putting a hand to my hair to tamp it down. It seems to grow to three times its size when I sleep.

  My purse is on the couch. My clothes hung up neatly in a dry-cleaning bag on the back of a closet door.

  I open my purse, take out my wallet and from the zippered coin pocket, find my bracelet. I didn’t want to take it off last night, but I’d had to. Their stupid rules.

  A quick peek tells me the twenty-dollar bill I had in there is still there. Although I suppose to people in this world, twenty dollars is like a nickel. No, a penny. Not even.

  Holding my wrist against myself, I close the clasp and touch the gold plate. Melissa. And a date beside it which I’ve always assumed was my birthday. That’s all I have of my life before I became a ward of the state.

  I remember nothing about my mother or father. Not a single thing. But I was only a year old when I was found abandoned in a public restroom. I guess it’s normal for kids not to have memories from that age anyway. I don’t know. The kids I grew up with, the ones in the system, they didn’t.

  But maybe that’s just us.

  I was adopted before I turned two. Young kids are. Babies mostly, but toddlers too. And I lived with my adopted parents until I was seven when they died in a car crash. I then went back into
the system.

  Seven is older. You’re not as cute anymore. Not so much an empty slate for a family to stamp their expectations on you. To make you match them.

  From then on, I bounced around from house to house until the Boyd family took me in.

  They were the last family I lived with.

  I give a shake of my head and walk to the kitchen counter where a mug has been set out and a piece of paper is standing up against it.

  Help yourself to coffee. If you want breakfast, call down for it. One of my men will drive you home when you’re ready.

  Hawk

  I read the note again. His handwriting is different than I think it should be. More old-fashioned. Maybe European, I guess.

  I take the mug and walk to the high-tech coffee machine. I set it down beneath the nozzle and read the various options, then push the button to make a cappuccino. A moment later, it whirs to life, grinding coffee beans and steaming milk from somewhere I can’t see.

  When it’s ready, I take the steaming coffee and walk to the wall of windows to look out over the strip which is already busy in the morning.

  I’m more of a tea person, but I do drink a cup of coffee in the morning, and this is good. Better than my drip coffee at home.

  After finishing the coffee, I return to the kitchen to wash my cup, then open the refrigerator, which is clean and organized, like the rest of the place. Although all that’s in it is a carton of milk, two bottles of champagne, and some fruit in the drawer.

  Opening it, I take an apple and bite into it. Crisp and cold and fresh.

  I look around, peering up in the corners, wondering suddenly if he has cameras in here. Why did he leave me alone? Isn’t he afraid I’ll snoop or steal something? Although I guess he knows where I live. He has my driver’s license, after all.

  And he knew right away that it was a fake. But I guess a man in his line of work would know those things.

  I pick up the hanger with my clothes and notice there’s even one with my cleaned underthings neatly pinned to it—do they dry-clean underwear?