Wicked Love

by Michelle Dare

  So I wait. I need to know she’s okay.

  Ten minutes later, she reappears. Her face has been scrubbed, and she’s clothed herself in jeans and a sweater, from where, I’m not sure. Unless this is all part of a routine that she’s used to, that she plans in advance knowing she’ll be needing to re-dress herself later, after ‘the show.’

  She sees me and immediately a look of alarm crosses her young face. She can’t be over sixteen. I gasp as this registers in my mind. “Are you okay?” I ask her, going to stand close to her.

  She nods tentatively. “I’m fine, really. It’s all good.”

  “But . . .” I stammer, “You were bleeding, you were practically strangled, I mean, I don’t understand?”

  She looks at me as if I’m an idiot. “What don’t you understand? This is how I make a living. It’s none of your fucking business.”

  “Wait,” I call after her as she heads into the kitchen and grabs a jacket that’s on one of the chairs. “How old are you?” I blurt. “Fifteen? Sixteen? Look, I can help you out of this shit. You don’t need to do this to survive.”

  She turns to look at me with tired, soulful eyes, “Look,” she says, her impatience surfacing, “My ride is outside. I’ve gotta go. What do you know about survival? What do you know about me? It’s best you don’t ask questions I won’t answer. It’s safer for both of us, trust me.”

  And with that, she’s out the back door to where a dark sedan is indeed waiting for her in the alley. As she gets into the car, another girl gets out and heads into the house, carrying a backpack. I duck back into the hallway near the bathroom and wait for her to come inside.

  As she comes down the dark hallway towards me, she doesn’t notice I’m there at first, she’s tapping something into her cell. She’s another young one, I can see that already.

  “Hello,” I call out softly, startling her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  She eyes me cautiously, “So what’s your theme?” she asks looking at my stupid costume, “Man, this gig just keeps getting weirder.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it,” I reply, grabbing the opportunity of allowing her to think I’m on staff as well since I’m now clued in. “I tell you, it’s my first party and I’m not sure I can hang with it.”

  She steps into the bathroom, switching on the light. “Yeah, well I felt that way too when I had my first ‘party gig.’ But you’ll get used to it,” she continues, pulling a make-up bag out of her backpack. “At least Dan supplies the costumes they end up destroying with their debauchery.” She shakes her head and then starts applying make-up. “I’ve been doing this shit now for two years. Can’t beat the money, and hey, the scars usually heal up if you use the right antibiotic cream.”

  “Two years?” I question.

  She’s putting mascara on her lashes. “Yep. Almost three actually. I was fifteen when I got hired on at The Sanctuary. The Glory Hole. That’s where all the young ones start out. You done your time there?”

  I shake my head. “No, I’m over eighteen,” I reply.

  “Lucky you then. Kandy won’t let us do the better studios until we’re eighteen. Thank fuck I’m almost there.”

  Dan? Kandy?

  “Umm, I’m Carson by the way.”

  “Hey Carson, I’m Diane. Listen, don’t want to be rude, but I’ve got to get into costume before Dan comes looking for me. You done for the night?”

  “Umm . . . yeah, I’m finished. I only had to observe this time. Hey, it was nice meeting you Diane. I’ll probably be seeing you around.”

  “Later,” she replies, pulling off her shirt.

  I close the bathroom door behind me and head back out. I don’t want to go into the main room again, but I need to let Shelby know I’m leaving. When I get back out there, she’s nowhere to be seen. It seems as if things have quieted down a bit. People are mingling and getting high again. It dawns on me they’re taking a break between shows.

  I spot the Marquis standing near the front door, peering outside. “Excuse me,” I start, “I’m looking for my friend, Shelby--have you seen her?”

  “Who?” he asks, feigning ignorance.

  “O,” I correct, “Black leather, sucking your dick the last time I saw her.”

  “She’s upstairs I presume, with Burba and Owletta. I’m sure they won’t mind if you join them,” he finishes with a sneer. “Or stay with me, your choice.”

  “Umm . . . I think I’ll wait on the porch for her. Would you let her know Alice is waiting for a ride home?”

  “Si vous voulez que je livre ce message, vous devez le demander en français,” he replies, being a jerk.

  He wants me to make the request in French.

  So I comply with the bastard. “Pourriez-vous, s’il vous plaît, informer ma copine ‘O’ que je l’attends dehors sur la terrasse, pour qu’elle me ramène chez moi dès qu’elle redescend?” I respond.

  “Certainement, Mademoiselle Alice.”

  He agrees. Eye roll.

  It’s twenty minutes later when Shelby steps outside, and she’s now dressed differently.

  “Carson,” she snaps, “You’re gonna have to Uber it back to your dorm. I’m sticking around for awhile.”

  Now I’m puzzled for sure. “What’s going on, Shelby?”

  She looks nervous; definitely on edge.

  “Listen,” she says quietly as if she’s afraid somebody’s listening, “You need to get out of here. You do realize this place is under surveillance, right?”

  I look around quickly, presuming she’s referring to law enforcement, which I seriously hope is the reality. “Well, damn, I sure hope so,” I reply. “Shelby are you working these parties now?”

  “I pick up some extra bucks when I can. It’s not a regular thing.”

  “Look,” I reply, “That is totally your business, but I’ve got to let you know, I found out these parties and The Sanctuary are sex trafficking with minors. Did you know that? That girl who was dressed as that slave, and another one named Diane who I saw coming in through the back - they’re both underage! Diane was recruited at age fifteen for Chrissake!”

  Her face turns to stone. “Leave it alone, Carson,” she warns. “You don’t want to get involved with this. I’m already in trouble for bringing you here.”

  “What?” I ask, furrowing my brows in confusion.

  “The owners know you were talking to them. This place is always under surveillance. There are hidden cameras everywhere. I thought you came to observe, not pull some fucking ‘Nancy Drew’ stint here. You need to leave. Now.” she hisses.

  She turns her back to go back inside. “Wait, Shelby, I don’t even know what the address is here. How the hell can I call an Uber?”

  “That’s your problem,” she snaps. “But leave, and leave now. You don’t know who you’re messing with here.”

  Naturally, I have to get the last word in because she’s totally pissed me off, and in a way, I feel she used me to somehow join this fucked-up sex cult. “Don’t think I won’t go to the authorities, Shelby. Now you’ve been warned.”

  The door slams as she goes back inside. I pull my cell from the pocket of the white apron that is part of my Alice in Wonderland costume.

  I check the number on the house, and then walk a half-block down so that I can get the street name. Once I do, I click on my Uber link and schedule a car. Lovely. My wait time is twenty-five minutes. The city is busy on a late weekend night what with the drinkers and partiers all out for Halloween celebrations.

  It’s colder than hell out here. I walk back down the block, and decide to sit on the concrete steps leading up to the house next door to the party house. Yeah, Shelby has successfully put the fear in me. I look up at the house and notice the downstairs windows are boarded up. Apparently it’s vacant.

  This street is relatively quiet, and I notice several houses across the street also have boarded up windows which explains why. I shiver as a cold breeze blows, and rub my arms to warm them up. There’s almost
no traffic, and the leaves have all vacated the trees, scraping against the pavement when the wind kicks up causing them to scatter. It’s totally creepy, and the street lighting is almost non-existent.

  I glance at my phone to see how many minutes have gone by since I called. It’s been ten minutes and there’s no text notification yet that my driver, Manny, is even en route.

  “Fuck,” I say aloud.

  No sooner than the word escapes my lips a gloved hand reaches around from behind and covers my mouth. My scream is muffled, and then I feel something hard come down on my head. The pain is only a flash before my world goes black.

  14

  The Thing About Krew

  The thing about Krew is that he understands the pain and torment I’m feeling after our session. The answers I found. The questions I still have. And the pieces of this sick puzzle starting to fit together.

  He’s sitting so close to me right now, his right arm placed over my shoulders. I’m not sure why. I didn’t fall apart. But his comfort is welcome. The truth has taken a load off, but I understand now why my mind was determined not to allow those memories to surface.

  “How are you feeling, Princess?” he asks softly, his warm hand moves to caress my cheek as he gazes down at me.

  I shrug. “I’m okay. You know, it’s kind of like when you have a stomach bug. You get that feeling of nausea, the churning in your gut, the roiling of your stomach, and then the salivating starts. You try your damndest not to puke; you keep swallowing back the bile, and fight the gag reflex, thinking it’s just too gross to give in to it. But then you let go; and it actually feels good to get it out of your system. You wonder why you fought it so much.”

  He gives me a smile. “Great analogy, Carson, notwithstanding the fact I’ve totally lost my appetite now for Chinese.”

  “Chinese?” I ask, sitting up, “Where’d that come from?”

  He chuckles, as he withdraws himself from my side and stands up. He stretches, languidly, and I can’t help but admire his muscles. “It’s been several hours. Aren’t you getting hungry? I was going to order some Chinese for delivery, how about it?”

  It’s then I notice that I am in fact, famished. Apparently the purging of those memories has served to burn a lot of internal energy. Besides that, I’m a sucker for Chinese.

  “Sesame Chicken and a side of Crab Rangoon,” I reply with a smile.

  “Ah, a girl after my own heart,” Krew remarks, grabbing his cell.

  “I’m going to visit the loo,” I say heading out the door. “And Krew, thanks.”

  When I return to his comfort room, I see he’s taken a bottle of chilled Chardonnay from the small refrigerator and filled two wine glasses. “Thought you might enjoy a little wine before dinner,” he says, handing me one. “To purging the past,” he says, raising his glass up for a toast.

  “And breaking up the sex trafficking ring,” I reply, tapping my glass against his, and taking a sip.

  Krew doesn’t do the same. As I lower my glass, I see he’s staring at me with a distinct frown marring his handsome face. “Uh no,” he says, placing his glass on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

  “No?” I ask in confusion.

  “Actually, hell no,” he says firmly. “You almost died at the hands of whoever those thugs were that attacked you that night. This is something you need to turn over to the police to investigate. You need to stay out of it, and not go near those places knowing what you know now, Carson.”

  Okkaay . . . so when did Krew become my alpha keeper?

  I take another sip of wine, so as to not blurt out what I’d just thought to myself. After all, Krew has been a key factor in bringing this to light, and pulling stake-out duty with me. I can't get all rude with him at this point. I simply need to point out the obvious in a nice, polite way.

  “Umm . . . Krew,” I start, “I appreciate all you’ve done to help me, I really do, but this is my business to handle. Of course the authorities should be brought in, when I have more to give them, that is. At this point, it’s simply my word against whose? Shelby Parker’s?”

  He drains his glass of wine in one long swallow. If I didn’t know better, I might think he’s getting pissed. “That’s the name you give to the police. And her address we now have. They can take it from there. You don’t need to play detective here, Princess.”

  “That’s nothing,” I snap, “I need to talk to her, to get the full story. There’s a reason she dropped out of school. She knows the identities of who calls the shots in this thing. If the police call on her, she’ll clam up because there’s no proof. But if I talk to her, there’s a better chance she’ll give up some information.”

  He’s about to argue with me about it when the front buzzer rings. “That’s our food. We’ll talk about this when I get back.”

  He isn’t kidding about that. All through dinner, Krew lectures me. But it does no good. My mind is made up to talk to Shelby. I have her address and I’ll go by myself if I have to, I inform him. And that’s when he gives in.

  “I’m not letting you go there by yourself. Promise you’ll wait until I can go with you,” he finally concedes.

  “If you insist,” I tease, knowing that nobody ‘lets or doesn’t let’ Carson Matthews do what she sets her mind to do.

  15

  Fine Art

  Knowing that Shelby evidently works night shifts and parties for the Sanctuary, I figure the best way to catch her is to stop by her place around noon during the week. This poses a problem with my class schedule, but time is of the essence, so if I need to skip a class or two, that’s just how it has to be.

  On Monday evening I call Krew to see if he’s available on Wednesday around noon to drive me back to East Harlem. He assures me he’ll make himself available.

  Afterwards, I get an idea to do a property record search to see who owns the building that houses the Sanctuary. It’s owned by DKA Holdings, LLC. I search the Secretary of State’s website to find the name of the owner or officer of DKA Holdings, and the only name is that of a New York attorney.

  “Hiding behind a mouthpiece I see,” I mumble to myself. “Worried about liability?”

  Okay, so now I’m talking to myself.

  But the truth is: I am consumed by this and I have every right to be. This is deplorable and it makes me sick when I reflect back on what I witnessed that horrible night last Halloween.

  “DKA, DKA,” I repeat over and over again in my head.

  Dan.

  Kandy--Kandace?

  ARMENTROUT!

  Oh. My. God.

  Professor Armentrout and his wife – Kandace? How can that be? It’s not possible. It has to be a coincidence, right?

  I go into the ACRIS website to see any and all of the properties held in the name of DKA Holdings, LLC in the five boroughs.

  I pull out the notebook and open it to where I jotted down Shelby’s address in East Harlem.

  Boom!

  Recorded owner is DKA Holdings, LLC. There’s another property located in The Bronx belonging to DKA - the party house. It has to be. I scribble that address down so that I have it to provide to the police after I shake down Shelby.

  Geez, which one am I? Cagney or Lacey?

  Even I have to chuckle at that one.

  I pick my cell up and call Krew again.

  “Hey Princess,” he says and I can feel his smile over the phone, for some reason, my belly tingles.

  “Krew, you won’t believe what I’ve found out!” I practically scream. “Are you still at the club?”

  “I am,” he replies, “But getting ready to close up. Want to grab an Uber and meet me here. I’m about ready to go upstairs and hit the shower.

  “Upstairs?” I ask.

  “Duh, yeah, upstairs. It’s where my apartment is Princess.”

  I guess I’d never given any thought to where Krew lived. “Oh, I didn’t know that,” I reply, “That’s convenient right?”

  “It is for me,” he says, “Come on by. I
’m anxious to hear about what you’ve found out, as long as you didn’t find it out by going anywhere.”

  “No worries,” I say with a laugh, “Google is truly my friend right here safely tucked away in my dorm room. Be there in a bit.”

  When I get to the club, Krew is standing inside of the lobby. He unlocks the glass door allowing me to step inside. The wind and rain are coming down in sheets, and it looks like it’s not gonna stop anytime soon. October can be beautiful or it can be a bitch. And since this is just the second week of it, it appears it’s decided to go the bitch route.

  I pull the hood back from my head, and realize my hair likely looks like something from a horror movie. But at least it’s halfway dry, unlike the rest of me.

  “You’re soaked, babe,” he comments, taking the liberty of helping me out of my hoodie. “Let’s get you some dry clothes.”

  Babe.

  I like the endearment.

  “So, how do you access your apartment from here?” I ask, following him, my soaked boots making squishy sounds on the tiled flooring, as I try my best to bring some semblance of order to my tangled hair.

  “Come, I’ll show you the secret door to my private man cave,” he replies, walking down the hallway and opening a door at the end of it. “After you.”

  I walk up the thick-carpeted steps and once I get to the top, I’m impressed by his place. It’s open, kind of a loft type thing, with very masculine decor. Black leather sofa and matching chairs, glass end tables and coffee tables, but it’s his art that totally blows me away.

  The walls are white-washed brick, and the framed art canvases have overhead lighting to bring out the various colors and textures of the abstract oil paintings. I immediately go over to inspect them close-up. “These are breath-taking,” I comment, looking down at the bottom left to identify the artist.

  KB

  I turn quickly to look at Krew. “You did these?” I ask, my eyes widening.