by Kane, Janine
“What’d I say about lying to me, bitch? Huh?” Billy rounded the table, brandishing half of the cue. He had raised it just above his head when it was yanked from his hand with a suddenness he found worryingly inexplicable.
“My mother always told me not to talk to girls like that,” came a voice behind him. “Didn’t your mom teach you that, too?”
The plaid-shirted drunkard turned to find his eyes level with the chest of a looming six-foot four veteran. “Huh?” was all he managed.
“You need to apologize to your lady here,” advised Zack. “She didn’t move the ball. I know, I saw.”
“I was trying to tell ya’,” she began, tears in her eyes.
“Bitch, you shut up if you don’t wanna . . .” Billy found himself physically lifted off the floor, his feet momentarily dangling, and then felt his legs swept aside and his knees crash down hard. As he toppled forward onto his side, the firm pressure of a knee in his back kept him going, while strong hands gathered his forearms behind his back and pressed upward, angling his elbows outward until his hands met between his shoulder blades. The pain in his upper arms was suddenly blinding.
He tried to kick out but immediately felt a boot stamp down on his thigh, a deadening, numbing blow which knocked the remaining fight out of him. “What did I say about how we talk to ladies?” asked Zack, kneeling on the guy’s back and forcing his captive’s hands further up, until Mitch felt that an arm might actually break.
“Zack, buddy . . . he ain’t a towel head, man. Take it easy.”
“And what have I told you about racial slurs?” Zack yelled. Mitch gulped. “You want some of this, too?” His friend knew when Zack’s buttons had been pressed, and wisely muttered an apology.
“Don’t hurt him, please.” This was the girl, sniffling with fear and confusion, her make-up smeared. “He don’t mean no harm.”
CJ emerged from behind the bar carrying a loaded sawn-off shotgun “Zack, we’re done here,” he said. “I don’t take kindly disturbances. Let him up, OK?”
Billy found himself hauled to his feet. He massaged sore wrists and leaned heavily against the pool table, the feeling in his right leg returning only slowly. “Sir, I’d say you’ve had enough for tonight. Make your way on home, you hear?” The drunkard was silent, humiliated, unsure how his evening had taken such an odd turn. “And if I see you go near your car out there, it won’t just be Zack dissuading you, it’ll be Mr. Remington,” he warned, patting the shotgun for clarity.
Within minutes the place had settled, the pool-playing duo had a cab outside, and the dude had finished his steak and left, shaking his head in despair at the state of the world. “Most every time we’re in here, something like this happens,” Flynn reminded them. “I mean, he’s cussing at his lady but there weren’t no need to get involved like that, Zack.”
Norcross pushed away the dregs of his beer and stood. “No, sure. I was wrong. I should’ve just watched that girl get beat up. We should all just let violence win, ’cos it’s easier. Right, Flynn?”
Flynn’s hands were up in surrender. “He was out of line, I’m with ya there. But that’s why we have cops, Zack.”
“Whatever,” he replied. “I’m going to get some air. You guys come out when you’re ready and I’ll drive you back into town.” Zack left, the air around him crackling with discontent and barely contained anger.
Mitch finished his third beer and motioned to Flynn to drink up. “You know,” CJ reminded them, “Zack’s momma had a tough time off of his dad. Showed up here a few times looking like they went three rounds, only he weren’t wearing no gloves, ya know?”
“I remember,” admitted Flynn. “He just hates that shit. Can’t even watch a girl in a movie getting a beating. Just flicks a switch in him, or something.”
“Well, fellas,” said CJ thoughtfully. “I think – just right now - it’d be a good idea to keep Mr. Norcross away from things that flick his switch.” He slid the shotgun back onto its shelf under the bar. “Let him take out his aggression in the ring, like he used to.”
“He is,” Flynn replied. “He got his membership back and he’s been training there twice a week.”
“Well that’s good,” said CJ, clearing away their empty glasses.
“Yes and no,” said Mitch, bring a raised eyebrow from the barman. “They said he’s different from before. More . . . angry, the guy said. Meaner.”
“You can see it in his eyes,” Flynn confirmed. “It’s almost like he wants revenge or something.”
CJ shook his head. “Got to handle him with kid gloves,” he said. “They all just need to be real careful.”
Chapter 4 – Collect Caller
Stockdale, TX
Friday
Her phone had been ringing for nearly a minute when she finally found it at the bottom of her bag. “Oh, God, not again.” Eva sent the call to voicemail for the third time that morning. “Leave me alone,” she breathed. The old Pontiac started without complaint, and Eva pulled out into the patchy traffic of a Friday lunchtime. Her second shift at Cheryl’s Bakery had been exhausting, in no small measure because of the 5:30AM start, but her new boss couldn’t have been happier. Once the rolls and cookies were in the oven, Cheryl had sent her to bus tables and ring up some checks. She learned quickly, smiled almost all the time, and enjoyed meeting the morning crowd, all of whom had a friendly word of welcome.
Eva relaxed into the drive. She had changed out of her work-wear – apron, hairnet, short-sleeved white blouse and white, draw-string cotton pants – and was in her more familiar jeans and a comfortable sweater. She turned on the radio and hummed along for a while, scanning the road carefully as she always did. One of the older male customers had called her ‘pretty as a peach blossom’, which had made her day. Glancing in the mirror she found, for the first time in a while, that she liked what she saw. Tyler’s big breakfasts were putting meat back on her bones, and her color had improved the instant she had left Illinois.
The phone rang again. Eva growled angrily but decided to take the call; at least, here in the car, nobody else would hear and, if she needed to yell at Hank, she could do so without raising any concerns. With the new law in place, she had to pull over into a farm entrance before reluctantly pushing the green button.
“Hank, for the love of God, what do you want?”
“How’s that for sisterly kindness?” asked the voice on the line. “You’re a tough lady to get a hold of.”
“I’ve been at work, Hank,” she explained as if to a child. “You remember, the thing that most people do where they leave their house, contribute to society, and bring back a paycheck?”
Hank gasped. “Sounds awful. What kinda work?”
The less he knew, Eva had learned, the smaller a problem he would be. Hank had been mooching off his sister for two years, and her patience had expired long before. There were, in truth, a whole list of reasons why she had left Illinois, but Hank was certainly on that list. “Never you mind,” she replied sternly. “I’m more interested in what work you’re going to be doing.”
“Oh, I’m doing fine,” he said, although Eva was skeptical as usual. “I got a nice job lined up and I’m going to be making more than enough.”
Yes, I’m sure crime pays better than getting a real job, she didn’t say. “Does it come with benefits?” she quipped. Drug gangs tended to balk at providing health insurance for their ‘employees’.
“I’m taking care of things,” was his reply. “I miss you, Sis.”
Eva had gone as far as to read a book about addicts and how to deal with their crazy-making behavior. To give them money or support, or even kindness, was seen from one point of view as simply enabling their addictive tendencies. Tough love was called for, not soft-hearted pandering; that would only make things worse. The problem was that Hank was her only brother, the only one of her family who would still speak to her, even if it was to beg for money ninety percent of the time. Her tactics were carefully chosen for their balance of s
trict boundary-setting and the compassion necessarily shown to family.
“Hank, I want you to call me a week from today, OK?”
“Sure, but . . .”
“And when you call me,” she spelled out, “I want you to give me the address of the new place you’re working at. I don’t care what it is. A burger joint, a supermarket, a goddamned cleaning service, whatever. Give me their address, the next time we talk.”
“You got it, Sis. The thing is . . .”
She cut him off, something she had learned to do. “You’re not going to buy any this week.”
“I’m not, but there’s this guy and he says I owe, and I don’t really, it’s just bad accounting, and . . .”
“I don’t want to hear it. You pay him off, and all the others, when you get the job.” Her patience was audibly wearing thin. “We talked about this, remember? No more short cuts.”
The line was quiet. Then in a resigned tone, Hank said, “OK, Evie. You got it. Talk to you in a week.”
Eva drove the remaining five miles to Sutherland with tears in her eyes.
***
The house was quiet when she returned. She poured herself a tall glass of iced tea and settled down in her room with her notebook. Right now, she judged, there were six different ideas for a novel, all of them wildly compelling, and in her idle moments she imagined her characters, the exotic settings she had in mind, the dangers and pit-falls they would face. She discarder her sweater and jeans, and slid under the bed sheet with her notebook to scribble yet more notes.
Her favorite theme was about two young lovers whose parents were in a centuries-old feud. It had more than a little Romeo and Juliet to its narrative, but with a modern twist; almost their whole relationship takes place via the Internet, and Eva was considering having this as the venue for their first sexual encounter. It was merely research, she told herself one night after a few drinks, to sign up to one of those sex-chat sites and see how it might work. Eva played the role of a shy, naive Juliet who had almost never uttered an f-word in her life. She had met a host of different men, many with an extremely limited vocabulary and very few with whom she felt comfortable having any kind of conversation. There were a lot of entreaties to share details of her body, her preferences, the color of her underwear, and so on, but it was difficult – to an extent which pretty well undermined her nascent arousal – to actual get something going.
But this was going about it the wrong way, she decided after a few days’ reflection. The two lovers would already have gotten to know each other very well through phone calls, emails and actual meetings; they wouldn’t need to stagger awkwardly through the ‘asl’ and ‘lol’ phases of their relationship. One night, she decided instead, they would have an illicit Skype liaison which would be a pivotal moment in their relationship. It was time, she decided, for a little experiment.
With her roommates both on dates for the evening, Eva was mercifully alone in her little apartment in suburban Chicago. She excitedly brought together the ingredients for her online experiment. Anonymity would be absolutely key; it was only when she found the Zorro mask from her high school Halloween costume that the idea of appearing on camera became at all feasible. Then, rummaging through the spectacular clothes-plosion in her closet, the whole act seemed to come together: the incredibly sexy, black wrap dress she had worn to a wedding when she was 19, and her laciest, prettiest matching black bra and panties which, up until then, no man had been lucky enough to see her in. A little makeup, her hair up in a neat chignon. Another glass of wine.
Eva explained the story to herself as she finished dressing up: Juliet had returned from a masked ball and was now eagerly awaiting her Romeo on Skype. What would her dashing lover be required to say, she wondered, to persuade his chaste, virginal Juliet to part with her clothing? In her mind’s eye, of course, Romeo was also possessed of a wonderfully large and powerful manhood, but it was only his powers of seduction and persuasion which could win the day, on this occasion.
After some research and more wine, Eva Googled around and found a ‘how-to’ written by an experienced web model. There were suggestions for a website where regular people such as her posed, danced, played and otherwise entertained whosoever might choose to watch. It had ‘newbies’ in mind, didn’t ask too many invasive questions, and quickly connected her camera and microphone. She chose the handle ‘ThisYearsEve’, set up her profile, opened a second bottle of Chardonnay and settled into her lovely, big wing-backed chair; an heirloom inherited from a previous tenant; it had always put her in mind of Miss Havisham’s house from Great Expectations and would, Eva figured, give her image a touch of class.
She would have to ignore the obvious flaw: her ‘audience’ would not be known to her, as Juliet’s Romeo would have been; it was easier though, she found, to ignore the peculiarities of the research session once the wine had been flowing for a while.
Eva clicked around, trying things out. Now a ‘model’, as the women on the site were known, Eva had a handy counter for the number of people watching her camera; she could also watch other models as they performed. Curious, she brought up a few different cameras and watched the girls at work . . . or was it play? A British girl did her own take on the ‘sexy secretary’, very slowly unbuttoning a white blouse which hid wonderfully full breasts, and then rolling hard nipples between her fingers as she moaned for her audience. There was a super-pretty, ‘all American girl’ type, a slender blonde in a blue bikini, who was further through her show; she had already pulled aside her panties to play with herself, and sucked her fingers with a kinky smile. As Eva watched, her eyes drawn to the girl’s perfect, petite figure, the model withdrew two wet fingers from between her legs and showed the audience her juices, sticky and delicious, before licking off her own taste.
She found herself particularly curious about one Russian girl named Nadia (or so she claimed; did it really matter?) Nadia had built a gigantic fan base and had won awards from the site: Solo Girl (July), Dance Routine (September) and Tip Magnet (December). Her audience climbed through 1000 as Eva watched her flirt teasingly with hundreds of invisible strangers. She looked directly at the camera and smiled naughtily as she read the comments from her adoring audience, running her fingers idly over her lips as she read, her mind seemingly wandering towards sex without her realizing it.
One comment made Nadia laugh. “Thor? Is that your real name?” She giggled again. “And you want me to do what?” Her feigned dismay was wonderfully sexy, Eva thought, teasing her audience with her ‘good girl’ side, but also leaving them in no doubt that she would – for the right price – do almost anything they asked. “Well, Thor, I’m not even sure I know what that is,” she purred innocently in the sexiest Russian accent Eva had ever heard. “What if,” she said, finger to her lips as she considered her next move, “what if I lie down here and touch my pussy for you?”
A chorus of beeps and dings showed the approval of her audience. “That’ll be only a thousand tokens,” she quipped, a deliberately astronomical quote, but what harm was there for a girl to prize her sexiest places so highly? “No . . . ? Well, for now, why I don’t I play with my breasts?” She relaxed on her bed and began to run her fingers over the tops of her breasts, down to the line of her sexy, fuchsia teddy. She caressed steadily lower, between her firm, 36C breasts, down her tummy, and beyond the camera’s reach, closing her eyes from the pleasures of her unseen, gently probing fingers.
Eva found her own fingertips copying Nadia’s, gentle patterns across her chest, running up and down just inside the material of her wrap dress, lifting it slightly to entice her viewers with an extra inch or two of what they wanted. Nadia’s hands cupped her breasts, and Eva’s did the same, smoothing over them, up and back, the better to please her nipples which ached for any contact. Nadia’s, by this time, were visibly hard under her teddy, which she pulled down tighter, her mere breathing now enough to bring her nipples peeking cutely above the line of her lingerie.
Suddenly, t
here were 100 men watching Eva. It was the dress, she quickly found, which had ensnared them; there were plenty of comments about its plunging neckline and its thigh-high slit which showed almost all of her smooth, well-toned thigh and the very edge of her black panties; it was perfect for tonight, just short of slutty but inarguably provocative. Several of her viewers wondered aloud whether she was, in fact, wearing anything under it, and she decided to let them guess for a while. Some were less patient, yelling at her in capital letters to SHOW BOOBS, but a helpful comment early on seemed to solve that problem:
Darren860: Hey Eve... if you check the box ‘Members Only Chat’ in your Settings, only members can chat with you. Might keep the trolls out. ;)
Darren 860: PS, I’m a member... it makes me happy and very horny to talk with you... what a dress... hmmm sexy
“Thanks, Darren,” she said into the microphone a moment later. “I think this will be much better.” Her willingness to speak to the camera, rather than typing and playing crappy pop music in the background, as most models did, was also a huge draw. A lot of men were swooning over the sound of her voice; being able to read their increasingly amorous comments at her leisure gave her time to watch Nadia as her own room filled up quickly. The sexy Russian blonde received tidal waves of tokens in exchange for slowly undoing the laces of her tidy and, slipping off the straps, revealing her hard, pink nipples. Eva watched, entranced, as Nadia turned around to pat and slap her bottom for the audience, which now numbered 1800. “Wow, does she ever know how to hook them and reel them in.”
This caused a flurry of activity in her chatroom, as men clamored to figure out who she was watching. “That’s my business,” she told the inquirers. A fan offered 50 tokens just for this information, but Darren was there again with some good advice:
