by Wolfe, Layla
While Brenda was occupied catching up with Sax, Rhetta introduced me with excitement. “Beatrix, this is Santiago. Santiago Slayer.”
While I pondered on the meaning of his name, he took my hand and actually kissed it. His voice was richly modulated, the enunciation of a well-educated man from Mexico City. “Madam. I am at your service. I have heard of the horrible, the most gruesome, vomit-inducing things that have happened to your business partner, Cassie. I am here to ensure that vengeance is served.”
Was Santiago…was he a sicario? Somehow, I didn’t picture sicarios walking around in two-toned white patent leather shoes. He didn’t fit the image at all. Sax, however, did.
When I stood, Sax did too, brushing away Brenda and her babblings. I said, “So you’re willing to take care of our problem? Because Sax here just agreed to help us out too.”
Santiago drew himself up at the mention of a rival. He formally placed one hand against his stomach and glared at Sax, nodding tightly. “Sir. May the race be swift and the best man win. But I can guarantee you women, you will not regret having engaged the services of Santiago Slayer, famed sicario to many organizations throughout the southwest.”
I looked to Rhetta. She explained, “I knew Santiago from the ashram. Our leader used him as sort of an enforcer when people weren’t behaving.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I don’t need to know the details.”
“Santiago Slayer,” stated Sax. “I’ve heard of you. Didn’t you let some mark go cruising on by down at the Desert Diamond Casino in Tucson because you had to duck into a bathroom to fix your hair?”
“Sir!” barked Slayer. “I would never compromise a mission due to false vanity that I do not possess, and I’ll have you know, my hair would never need fixing in the cool air conditioned environment of a casino!”
I could tell by Sax’s satisfied smile that he was correct in his assessment of Slayer, as well as his vanity. It would be an interesting rivalry if we were to hire both men for our job. Maybe they’d spur each other to greater heights of accomplishment.
CHAPTER FOUR
SAX
Seeing that vain, shallow polyester stallion who dressed as though he’d traveled through time pricked at Sax’s memory banks.
He remembered Santiago Slayer from when he was just a Ken doll of a hitman. He had started out as an actor in Mexico City and had somehow been swept up in cartel living. Maybe the ego boost of belonging to a cartel was greater than that of being on daytime telenovelas. Slayer seemed much too big of a pussy to ever actually kill anyone, the reason no one had taken him seriously for quite a long time. But when a rival cartel member wound up hanging from a bridge down in Magdalena, Sonora, a traffic camera caught Santiago Slayer doing the deed, and his name rang in the streets from then on in.
Sax knew Slayer could achieve Beatrix’s goal for her. He could have just walked away once he knew Slayer was on the job. But for some reason, Slayer’s obnoxious posturing got to Sax. He felt a rivalry coming on. Maybe because Beatrix was watching, he suddenly felt the need to prove something to her.
She had really gotten under his skin in the short time he’d known her. Her camp counselor’s attire, her innocent, virtuous face as though gleaming from a spring shower, her underlying naughtiness all brought out the supreme, domineering side of him. Fantasies ran rampant in his mind. In addition to her cooking nearly naked for him, Sax could see taking his time making complex patterns against her skin with jute rope. Her mask would fall, she would show herself baldly to him. He would subdue her arms first with his tight binding, positioning, tugging, shaking and holding the rope. Her creamy white thighs would be the next wrapped. He’d part them with precision, allowing his fingertips to barely brush her outer pussy lips as he passed the rope by. By the time he hoisted her in the air with the pulley—
“I’ll have you know, my hair would never need fixing in the cool air conditioned environment of a casino!”
Sax grinned. “Doesn’t the air conditioning suck all the moisture from the air? Your bathroom visit was why the guy escaped the entire casino and lived to kill another member of the cartel you were working for.”
He was pleased when Slayer sputtered. He almost looked about to stamp his foot petulantly. “That is a baseless lie and accusation. All to be expected coming from the man who is not even welcome in his own babyish motorcycle club!” Assuming a calm, assured face, he looked at the women, thumping his chest with a fist. “Can you imagine? In Mexico we do not need babyish patches to proclaim who we are. We know deep down in the pits of our souls that we alone control the fabric of the universe!”
Sax was surprised when Beatrix spoke up. “Yes. You guys just make idiotic Facebook pages, posing with pouty lips and piles of semiautomatics.”
Slayer glared at the stranger. “I do not have a Facebook page! I even cancelled my Twitter account when El Winnie the Pooh was caught tweeting a photo of himself in Hermosillo with a dead body propped up next to him. Such arrogance will be the downfall of many a man.”
“Well,” said Rhetta, thumbing her smartphone, “you did just Instagram a picture of you at a party in Tucson—”
“I was doing undercover work!”
“—with four women, two on each arm—”
“I was not even the one who posted that! Someone at the party did!”
“It’s hilarious,” said Rhetta, showing the other women the photo. “But you were the one who tagged it with your name.”
Sax couldn’t help quipping, “Some undercover work.”
Slayer huffed and puffed. “I was trying to draw the interest of the mark! I figured he’d see that, know I was hot on his trail, and become nervous.”
Sax had no idea why it would behoove a sicario to make the mark nervous. After glancing at the photo of Slayer practically covered with the four boob-enhanced women, it was clear that the guy had done it strictly for an egotistical boost. Perhaps he wasn’t so competent after all. “Yes, and the photos are embedded with geographical metadata,” Sax pointed out. “Anyone could’ve figured out exactly where you were.”
Slayer jabbed the ceiling with an idealistic forefinger. “That was my plan!”
Rhetta added, “And Instagram was how I found you just now, when I wanted you for this job.”
Slayer’s eyes flashed with an anger that showed Sax he was clearly capable of murder. “One must stay abreast of the modern age if one is to beat these criminals at their own game! You cannot be in the technological Stone Age and keep up with the lightning speed of communication these days. And now, if you do not mind, I shall begin my odyssey to find Tony Tormenta for you lovely ladies, instead of wasting time standing around in a”—Slayer looked about himself with dread and nausea—“biker bar all day long.”
Turning proudly on his two-toned heel, Slayer stalked out. He almost sashayed, his fingers held out stiffly as though not wishing to ruin his manicure, giving Sax second thoughts about his hitman capabilities. But Sax would rise to the challenge, as polyester and effeminate as it was. No doubt more challengers would come forward to claim the women’s money. Sax didn’t want or need that. Suddenly he absolutely needed to prove to Beatrix Hellman that he was at one with the club. That’s where his sympathies lay, despite what his NOMAD patch proclaimed.
“I don’t know if you know,” he said to the other three women, “but this persuasive lady has talked me into taking on the job, too.”
“He doesn’t want any money,” Beatrix assured the women excitedly.
“I’m a brother in the club,” Sax explained. “It would be unpatriotic of me not to take on the job. I’ve talked to Leo, and he doesn’t want me sticking my nose in. So let’s just keep it between us. Harte doesn’t even need to know.”
“I agree,” Brenda Ridings said heatedly. Her voice was gravelly from smoking too many cigarettes. She had been ridden hard and put away wet, and she wasn’t going to stand for what had been done to her friend. “Harte’s sympathies sometimes lie with his father. He te
nds to flip flop on issues, like he’s not sure which way to vote, which way to go.”
Beatrix cut in, even putting her hands on Sax’s bicep. “Just knowing this man for an hour has convinced me he’s the right one. Set both of these guys on the trail of Tormenta. See which one gets there first.”
“I can guaran-fucking-tee you it’ll be me,” Sax said gruffly. “Tormenta’s so vain he probably texts himself. And now, dear ladies. Like that sissy pantywaist just said. I’d best be getting a move on. Beatrix? Let me drive you back to your cage.”
She smiled pertly at him as she took his arm. “Yes, that’d be nice.”
“Santiago Slayer is an arrogant asshat,” Sax said as he held the front door of the bar for Beatrix. “But if you think he can find the guy for you…” He knew he was fishing for compliments, and he got them in spades.
“Oh, no!” she protested, wide-eyed. Moving into the sun, he saw her luxuriant head of hair light up with varying natural highlights of red, scarlet, and orange. She was a true fire bush, a real potato eater of the Emerald Isle, probably raised a Catholic. Maybe she was rebelling against that by wearing some asshole’s collar. Sax just knew her Dom was some asshole. Maybe it was the way they’d never discussed fidelity. That was the most basic thing. Sax usually got that out of the way at the beginning. Maybe because he never required fidelity, and hadn’t collared anyone in about eight years. He just told his subs they could fuck whoever they wanted, as long as he wasn’t in town. “No, I’m convinced you’re our man, Sax. The other girls can hire whoever the fuck they want. They can hire one, three, five more guys, however many want to join the race.”
“Hope we don’t get tangled up in each other,” mumbled Sax as he handed her his brain bucket.
He was hyper aware of her clinging to his back like a monkey as they rode. She had more of a young woman’s figure, a shape that hadn’t developed yet, not a full-blown woman’s curves, but her vibrancy seeped through his pores and turned him on. What was it about her that was getting to him so deeply? Was he aroused by the contrast between her seeming innocence and her apparent kinkiness? She might look like a Girl Scout, but her collar, and the idea of her crawling around on all fours with her naked butt in the air, told Sax different.
The Drawing Board had parking in the front as well as the side, but Sax chose to boldly park out front. He took Beatrix by the upper arms. She seemed pleasantly surprised he was touching her. There was no mistaking the slight grin at the edges of her mouth.
“I’m not going directly to P and E. I’ll get Harte to escort you to Ford and Madison’s.”
Her smile crumbled. She looked like a petulant child, her lower lip trembling slightly. “Business?” She knew well enough not to ask a patch holder directly what his plans were.
“Business.” Caving, too, he added, “I’m going to our warehouse in Winona to check something out.” He was already telling her things she didn’t need to know.
She instantly said, “I’ll wait for you. Winona is only twenty minutes away.”
That was true. “All right. But hang here with the girls, with Harte. Get someone to cover for you at your job. Don’t say a word to anyone else.”
He didn’t know what possessed him. Maybe it was the feeling of ownership he got, gripping her by the arms like that. Maybe her lost, helpless expression got to him. Or maybe he just liked dominating any proceedings. But he took her sculpted chin in his fingers and kissed her.
She immediately melted into the kiss. Her chest pressed to his, her lips parted to allow him to lick and suck, and his free arm clasped around her waist, holding her to him.
He was ballsy, doing this right in front of the blacked-out front windows. He’d only been in town a few hours and already he was claiming one of his brother’s women. The forbidden quality of the kiss roused him to action. He splayed his hand flat against Bee’s lower back as he feasted on her shapely lips. The idea that he was old enough to be her father had his prick up like a hammer against her belly, seed surging from his balls.
He could have easily fucked her up against the brick wall of the alley. He did stuff like that all the time in clubs—or used to, anyway, before the recent boredom and restlessness had sunk into him. Now he put his stamp on Bee, slowly sucking her lower lip between his teeth, sensuously rubbing the small of her back, allowing her to feel his erection pulsating against her stomach.
“Hey, hey, hey.”
As expected, some moron came out front to ruin things. But Sax wasn’t pissed as he broke the kiss and pulled back, gazing fuzzy-eyed at Bee. How could he be pissed when he’d just stolen the best kiss of his entire life? In that moment, he felt closer to Bee than he had to any of his subs in a long, long time.
Harte grabbed his sleeve. “Hey. Are you trying to get yourself killed? Leo’s already steamed enough at you for sticking your nose into his business. You’d better get out of here.”
Sax snapped out of it, releasing Bee’s arms. “That’s the plan. Is Funkhauser around? Never mind. I’ll call him later. Can I get the key to the Winona warehouse off you?”
Although Harte seemed suspicious, he relinquished the key, and Sax was on his way. The entire ride, he went over and over the way Beatrix had last looked at him. With adoration. There was no fucking mistaking that look. He had snared her interest. But what about the alleged Dom she thought she was collared to? Already Sax hated him. He wanted him as gone as Tony Tormenta was about to be.
What am I thinking? I’m not sticking around here. I’ve got gem shows to attend. If he took Beatrix away from her Dom, he’d damned well better treat her like more than just another in his harem of subs. One didn’t just ruin a sub’s prior relationship, then vanish into thin air. Well, one shouldn’t, anyway. Not that he hadn’t in the past.
The Winona warehouse was usually used for stashing big shipments of guns. Sax hadn’t wanted to tip Harte off about what he was looking for, so he hadn’t asked him the location of the trap door. He had to look around for half an hour or so during which he swiped a nice forty-five auto Glock, sticking it into the waistband of his pants. He didn’t normally pack a piece, of course, going to gem shows. Now, for safety’s sake, he took another Ruger semi-auto, shoving that in there too. It felt strange, packing. He hadn’t really done this in ten years. He still went to the shooting range, of course, when at home in Kachina Village. But he certainly didn’t bring any of his irons on the road with him. Why would he?
He finally found the trap door Harte had spoken of. He chastised himself for not having noticed it was under the only pile of hay in the entire warehouse. Why would they have hay in a gun warehouse? They wouldn’t, so that should’ve been his first tip-off. The pit was dark, vile-smelling, and, as expected, empty, and he had to go to his saddlebags to get his flashlight to see what the fuck was in there.
Disgusting. The stench of excrement wafted up at him, but there were other items in there he needed to investigate. “Holy Jesus on a stick,” he muttered. He couldn’t walk away without looking at those crumpled pieces of paper, those colorful, ah, things scattered around the floor of the dungeon.
He remembered a stick-looking thing he’d seen propped against a wall. It turned out to be a fucking six foot long cattle prod of all things, giving credence to Harte’s story about humans in the pit. With the switch in the “off” position, Sax was able to poke some of the crumpled paper and slide it up the slimy wall. He didn’t want to ruin his leather gloves, so barehanded and gingerly as hell he took the pieces of paper, hoping they’d reveal something.
Most were notes scribbled in Spanish. Sax could make out a list reminding the shopper to get mangoes, pineapples, and soda. Another folded-up piece was an eerie photo of someone’s daughter in a frilly dress. That was almost more disturbing than the stench of human shit. Another was a business card for a nail salon in Pure and Easy, Carla Madrona, Owner.
The items Sax dragged up from the bottom of the pit seemed to be just bottle caps or pop-top tabs from that sugary soda Mexi
cans liked. When he pulled up some fake fingernails, some cracked and jagged, crusted with filth from having clawed the sides of the pit, he knew his next step.
“Funkhauser. I’m at the Winona warehouse. What the fuck is going on with nail salons and Mexican women?” He was direct with his old friend. What did he have to lose?
But his old school brother wasn’t forthcoming. “What gives you the idea there’s anything going on with a nail salon? Listen, you shouldn’t even be in the warehouse. What’re you doing there?”
“That’s sort of beside the point, isn’t it? I’m a member of the club and this is club property. What do you know about smuggling Mexican women? You don’t need to cover up, Funkhauser. Harte told me he saw women in this smelly pit.”
Funkhauser sighed. “Yah, we’ve had women in there off and on, sure. But you don’t want to get involved in this, Sax.”
“I’m already involved. Just tell me. Does Tony Tormenta have anything to do with these women? Just a simple yes or no.”
The sergeant-at-arms paused for a long fucking time. Sax knew he was still there, though, by his heavy breathing. Finally, one word. “Yes.”
Sax confirmed. “Yes Tormenta’s involved in the human smuggling? That’s all I need to know.”
Now the words tumbled from Funkhauser’s mouth. “Sax! There’ll be blowback if you get involved in this, I promise you! And I have no control over what happens once you begin poking your nose into shit that doesn’t concern you.”
“Yeah, well.” Sax wrinkled his nose. Speaking of shit. He’d have to pull in at that truck stop outside of Flag and take a thoroughly antiseptic shower before going to escort Beatrix into Pure and Easy. “I’m already in the shit, Funkhauser. Don’t worry. It won’t concern you.”
