Manipulate

by Pam Godwin

  “If we succeed here, we’ll be saving thousands of women and children. She’ll understand that.”

  “Maybe.” He studied Martin’s expression, resenting the secrets lurking behind those eyes.

  “Whatever’s on your mind, just spit it out.”

  “You want me to fuck her, but she wants both of us. How can I convince her to trust me enough to sleep with me, when I can’t even convince my bisexual best friend to do that?”

  “It’s two completely different things.”

  “It’s the same fucking thing.” Frustration burned through his veins as he rose from the bed. “It took all three of us to start this relationship, and we can’t move forward unless all three of us are committed to it. I know you see that. You’re just…” He pulled in a breath. “You’re too fucking scared.”

  “Yeah?” A dark shadow passed across Martin’s expression.

  Then he attacked. Both hands hit Ricky hard enough in the chest to send him flying backward and crashing onto the bed.

  “I’m scared, you fucking asshole.” Martin followed him down and unleashed a sharp, backhanded blow across his face. “I’m scared for you.”

  “What the fuck?” His jaw stitched with pain as he raised his arms to defend against the next strike.

  Martin aimed low, punching him in the ribs. Ricky grunted in shock and dropped his hands against the hurt, realizing too late he’d exposed his neck.

  A muscled forearm slammed against his throat and nailed him to the mattress. He gulped for air, pulling nothing into his lungs.

  He clung to the arm at his throat, his fingers digging into muscle as he tried to dislodge the choking hold. But beneath the constricting pain stirred a dark desire.

  Martin’s crushing weight, cruel scowl, and unbending restraint—all of it heated Ricky’s blood and tightened his balls.

  “You want me to hurt you?” Martin seethed in his face. “I promise you don’t want my brand of hurt.”

  Give it to me.

  He tried to choke out the words, but they hit the air without sound or breath.

  With a guttural growl, Martin shoved his free hand between them and gripped Ricky’s erection through his jeans.

  Oh, God. Don’t stop.

  His pulse roared. Black spots bloomed across his vision, and all the heat in his body rushed to his dick. He’d never been this hard.

  Martin’s fingers curled around his nuts and squeezed with agonizing pressure. “You’ll beg for death before I’m finished with you.”

  Martin would cut his own arm off before he crossed a line that couldn’t be fixed. To prove it, Ricky shoved his neck against the iron bar of Martin’s arm, seconds from passing out.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  Something passed over Martin’s expression, and he blinked. His features softened, and his eyes looked brighter, sharper.

  He pushed off the bed, and Ricky gulped for air, dragging starved breaths through his bruised throat.

  Martin stabbed his hands in his hair. His chest heaved, and his jeans bulged with the long, engorged evidence of his arousal.

  A second—more impatient—knock rapped on the door.

  “Fuck.” Martin reached for the handle and stopped.

  Glancing down, he adjusted his erection and straightened his shirt in an attempt to hide what was too large to be concealed.

  Ricky moved to the edge of the bed as Martin unlocked the door and opened it.

  Garra stood on the other side, holding a paper bag. He glanced between Martin and Ricky before pushing his way inside.

  “Come on in,” Martin snarled in Spanish.

  Ricky jumped to his feet, and the paper bag dropped on the mattress.

  Garra pointed at it. “Use those. Every time.”

  Curiosity moved Ricky toward the bag. He dug his hand in and pulled out a fistful of condoms.

  Not what he was expecting.

  He dropped the rubbers, unable to conceal the contempt in his voice. “Did you use one when you raped her?”

  “Yes.” Garra shoved his shoulders back.

  No cowering with this one. No sense of self-preservation, either.

  Ricky sent a fist into the motherfucker’s nose. The wet sound of breaking cartilage accompanied a gush of blood.

  Red trickled down Garra’s lips and splattered the gold chains around his neck. He didn’t roar in pain. Didn’t throw a counterstrike.

  The son of a bitch smiled.

  “If you do that out there…” He stabbed a finger at the hallway, his Spanish thick and nasally. “You might keep her alive.”

  What the fuck was happening?

  Garra pivoted and strode out the door. When he reached the corridor, he turned back. “Before you stick your dicks in her, picture this… Her belly round with your child while she sleeps on a filthy cot, scavenges for prison food, and gives birth on the floor surrounded by violent criminals.” He spat a glob of blood in the hall and nodded at the paper bag. “Use the condoms.”

  Then he was gone.

  Martin shut the door and leaned against it. “That isn’t a man who’s just doing his job.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Does he love her?”

  “He delivered condoms to two men he doesn’t know.” Ricky cocked his head. “To use with the woman he loves? I don’t think so.”

  “Good point.” Martin stepped to the bed and peeked into the bag. “Nice right hook. You broke his nose.”

  “I should’ve broken more than his nose.”

  “He solved the condom issue.”

  “We didn’t have a condom issue.” Ricky had intended to hustle prophylactics from one of the prostitutes. He would’ve used flattery, charm, a couple cans of soup, whatever means necessary to obtain protection for Tula. Except sex. Tula was the only woman he wanted.

  Garra saved him the hassle, but he still wanted to kill the guy.

  “Where the fuck is she?” Martin shoved a hand in his hair.

  “We need to go find her.” He moved toward the door.

  “Can you avoid a fight?”

  His stomach tightened. The fights found him, not the other way around. “No promises.”

  Something by The Beatles hummed from Hector’s record player and caressed Tula’s senses. She danced slowly in place, one hand on Hector’s shoulder and the other resting in the loose curl of his fingers.

  The warm cadence of the song calmed her heart. Or maybe it was the warm gaze stroking her face.

  “There’s just something about the sound of vinyl.” She stepped when he stepped, letting his expert foot movements guide her through the slow dance. “It’s richer, more authentic.”

  “You get those little scratches and pops in the records, the hum of the turntable motor, the tactile touch of the needle to the vinyl, and physical friction of the two.”

  “Listen to you. Your English is so elegant it’s poetic. I can barely hear an accent.”

  “I had a good teacher.” He spun her around, making her laugh.

  “I’m getting better at this, right?” She pivoted on clumsy toes and straightened her slouching posture. “Lie if you have to.”

  “I’ve found you’re good at everything, Petula. A natural talent.”

  “Except recruiting.” Her heartbeat quickened. She drew in a long breath and released it. “They said they want to spend their time here quietly and stay away from cartel politics.”

  “Because they don’t like cartels? Or because their loyalties lie elsewhere?”

  “The first one, I think.”

  “If that’s the case, they can’t be here.”

  Her insides turned to ice. “Don’t kill them.”

  He narrowed his dark eyes. “You like them.”

  “I don’t know them well enough to feel one way or another, but I want the opportunity to see if I would like them.”

  She was hedging. The truth was she liked them too much, and she was afraid to admit that to Hector.

  It was that damn a
ccusation they’d planted in her head.

  She wanted to ask Hector about the alleged human trafficking, but if it were true, he wouldn’t tell her. Not if he’d concealed it from her for two years.

  Asking him outright would make her look like she was siding with the enemy, which she would be doing if Ricky Martin were right.

  She couldn’t afford for Hector to be suspicious of her. He needed to trust her, and she wouldn’t give him any reason not to.

  But she wouldn’t turn a blind eye, either. Hector La Rocha wasn’t a benevolent man. He was a cartel boss with a nasty reputation, one he’d probably earned.

  Except he wasn’t nasty to her. He treated her like she meant something to him, like she was an important part of his world. He’d always kept her safe, and her life depended on that protection.

  In return, all she had to do was remain loyal.

  As the song ended, he released her and walked the short distance to the record player.

  With his back to her, he lifted the needle and powered off the turntable. “Have you had sexual relations with them yet?”

  Her face heated. “No. I need more time.”

  “And they haven’t elaborated on why their identities were wiped? Other than the mention of enemies in a past life?”

  “No.” A nervous twitch skittered down her spine. “I know it doesn’t seem like I’m making progress, but I spend every minute with them, feeling them out and earning their trust. They haven’t done anything to make me believe they’re a threat.”

  He shifted to look at her. “Except for their refusals to join me.”

  And their accusations about his business affairs.

  “Give me more time.” She squared her shoulders. “They’re young and athletic, smart and skilled at fighting. They would serve you better alive than dead.”

  A grin stole over his mouth, and he ran a hand through his silver-black hair. “Take all the time you need, Petula. You have my confidence.”

  “Thank you.” She needed to return to the guys but couldn’t leave without asking, “Have you found anything on Vera?”

  His face fell, and his head shook imperceptibly.

  “I’m so sorry.” He stepped forward and rested a warm hand on the side of her face. “One of these days, I’m going to give you a different answer.”

  A lump swelled in her throat, amassing with a horrible combination of doubt and hope.

  Vera had been gone too long to be alive. His news would likely come with the discovery of a body.

  But that would be better than not knowing. She needed closure, so she could finally grieve.

  “Thank you. Again.” She stood taller. “Why are you so kind to me?”

  “You saved my life.” He sat at the table and lit a cigarette. “You taught me English, and I enjoy your company.” His eyes twinkled as tendrils of smoke curled from his nose. “Why are you so kind to me?”

  She laughed, relieved by his answer. “You keep me safe. And I enjoy your company, too.”

  “Very good.” He shooed her away with a hand. “Go recruit the gringos before I change my mind and kill them.”

  His teasing tone made it possible to walk calmly to the door. But as she stepped into the hall, the threat in his words closed a fist around her heart.

  She made a beeline for the stairwell and faltered at the bottom step, her senses buzzing at the commotion of a nearby crowd.

  The din of shouting and squeaking footsteps drifted down from the second floor. Something was happening in the stairwell directly above her.

  “Fuck you!”

  Her heart stopped.

  She knew that American accent.

  She knew it when it was gravelly with desire, sharp with frustration, and now stony with anger.

  Her hand went to the pistol in her waistband. She flipped the safety off and took the first set of steps two at a time.

  At the landing between the flights of stairs, she whipped around the corner and slammed to a stop.

  A dozen men were gathered on the steps above her, and more spilled out of the top floor. At the center of the throng, Ricky lay on his back beneath four inmates, his body pinned to the steps.

  On the landing above him, Martin fought four…five…six men and counting. Every time his fist connected with a body, he received three or more punches in return.

  Her pulse exploded as she aimed the gun at the crowd and shouted in Spanish, “Get away from them!”

  “Don’t interfere, little girl.” The man closest to her stepped into her space and crossed his arms. “This isn’t your business.”

  Two more prisoners flanked him.

  No guns were drawn, but if she fired her weapon, she would be staring down the barrels of a dozen or more guns.

  One of the inmates holding Ricky’s legs rose to his full height.

  Her stomach turned inside out.

  It was Trog. The large, hairy man was known for having a huge penis and a harem of unwilling bed partners.

  A zipper sounded, and Trog whipped out his two-foot dick.

  “Suck on this, bitch.” He wrapped his hand around it, guiding it toward Ricky’s clamped lips.

  Outrage blazed in Ricky’s eyes, his entire body flexing with murderous aggression.

  He’d been disrespected by Trog and his dick. If Trog raped him, it would be the beginning of the end.

  Once a bitch, forever a bitch.

  “Name your price.” She glared at the men in front of her. “And get the fuck out of my way.”

  Bribing them for their cooperation shouldn’t cost more than thirty soups or a couple packs of cigarettes.

  On the top floor, Martin grunted and punched his way through a half dozen prisoners. Outnumbered and losing ground, he would never reach Ricky in time.

  Ricky renewed his efforts to escape as his captors held his head immobile. They pried their fingers into his mouth and stretched his jaw open to accept the massive erection angling toward him.

  Panic chased her heart to her stomach. Her spine slicked with sweat, and the ringing sound of her fear thrashed in her ears.

  She jerked her attention to the men blocking her path. “I need an answer.”

  Ricky bit down on the fingers in his mouth and tried to summon his nonexistent gag reflex. If he could puke on these motherfuckers, it might give him a fleeting moment to escape.

  “You have options.” The grizzly-bearded bastard with the donkey dick glared down at him. “While you’re staring at it, you can hit, kick, whimper, cry, lick, suck, spit, or swallow.”

  What was funny about this was that the scaly, bulbous organ jutting toward his face was the ugliest goddamn dick he’d ever seen. What wasn’t funny was the likelihood of it ramming into the back of his throat.

  “Or you can roll to your stomach, and I’ll visit China,” the grizzly man said. “I’ll leave it up to you and your personal survival instinct. But let’s be honest. You’re getting it one way or another.”

  His survival instinct had been honed by six months of training.

  An outpouring of adrenaline hit his system, boosting his heart rate and blood pressure. A surge of muscle strength made him feel invincible, but he knew he wasn’t.

  No amount of training would get them out of this. There were too many men, and they were out for blood.

  But he sure as hell wouldn’t lie here and take it quietly.

  He jerked his head to the side, coughing away from the body odor as he said in Spanish, “Someone’s deodorant isn’t working.”

  “It’s not me,” one of the dumbfucks said. “I’m not wearing deodorant.”

  A round of laughter erupted, and he used the distraction to twist his arms and break free from the restraining hands.

  With a hard shove of his feet, he gained some distance, moving his position two stairs closer to Martin. Then more hands fell upon him, holding him against the steps.

  Rough fingers opened his fly. Others joined in, yanking his jeans and boxers to his knees. There was even a godd
amn one-armed man in the mix, slamming his only fist into Ricky’s abdomen.

  He tried to fight them off, wrestling and punching for a dominant position, but he was outmuscled and outnumbered.

  With his groin exposed, he couldn’t stop them from grabbing and smacking his junk.

  He trapped a roar behind his sealed lips. His vision clouded. His ears pounded, as the increased blood flow to his extremities energized his strikes, powering his punches harder, faster, with the intent to kill.

  He tried to track the sounds of Martin’s fight above him. God knew how many men he was fending off. He was going to get himself killed.

  Was Tula still standing at the bottom of the stairs? He’d heard her voice amid the shouting but couldn’t see her.

  He didn’t want her anywhere near this shit show. He couldn’t protect her. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t do anything but fight for his life.

  He fell into a zone, locked in tunnel vision and moving on instinct. Arms, legs, the core of his body—his muscle groups worked together to defend his most vulnerable areas and keep that hairy prick away from his mouth.

  Until they flipped him over and shoved his face against a concrete stair.

  Multiple bodies dove onto his back and legs, smothering him in the ripe stench of unwashed armpits. The rest of them restrained his arms above his head.

  He was fucked, and in a few seconds, he was going to be fucked in the literal sense.

  Never mind the diseases he would contract from the grotesque erection jabbing at his ass crack. He would probably survive the rape. He’d endured this before with Van.

  It would be an agony that rivaled death, but that wasn’t what terrified him the most.

  If they won, he would have to endure it again and again. It would earn him a label no prisoner wanted in Jaulaso. For the next three months, he wouldn’t be able to freely walk the halls. They would drag him out of his cell and sell his body for a can of soup.

  He couldn’t let this happen.

  Renewing his efforts, he fought with all his strength to escape the thick press of bodies.

  The noise from every direction was deafening—inmates yelling, stomping, and slamming fists. The stairwell was as hot as Hades, dampening his skin and making it easier to slide out of sweaty grips.