by M. Never
“He actually said that?”
“Yup. Kinda hard to believe a pimp is being so positive, right?” She laughs. “He really doesn’t feel like a pimp, though. He’s more like a hot-ass Mr. Miyagi,” she giggles at her own joke. “He isn’t like any of the other ones I’ve had. He reminds me of a Master, no, a doting Dom.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met a doting Dom,” I hiss pessimistically.
“I don’t think there’s anyone else like Jett on the planet, so that’s maybe why.”
“You’ve got me there. He is unique.”
We both giggle now. I can’t remember the last time I did that.
“Jenna? How many pimps have you had?”
“A couple. Been on the streets since I was fourteen. My mom was a junkie, and I never knew my dad. I had to eat somehow. So one of her ‘boyfriends’ set me up. He was a real asshole. And it started from there.”
I listen to her sadly. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” She chews on her fingernail. “There are worse places to end up than here, right? Beautiful mansion, fancy clothes, high-class johns. No one hits you or beats you or rapes you or tells you that you’re worthless.”
This is the sickening truth.
“There are definitely worse places,” I agree dejectedly.
“Something tells me you’ve been there.” The girl is wise beyond her years, but has no idea.
“Is that your camera?” She perks up when she sees the body and lenses scattered all over a table.
“Yup. And I have no idea what to do with it.”
Jenna hurries over excitedly and picks it up. “This is awesome.” She starts snapping away.
I’m glad someone isn’t afraid to use it.
“Maybe we should switch. I’ll have the conversation with Jett in French, and you can be the photographer.”
“Sounds like a fair trade.” The shutter clicks. “Tell you what. You help me with French, and I’ll help you set up a Pinterest page so you can learn how this thing works. Twinkie did that when she wanted to learn how to apply all this crazy makeup. She’s killer with cosmetics now.”
I consider her suggestion. “I guess it couldn’t hurt.”
“Definitely not. And what did you just tell me? Practice makes perfect, right?” She hands me the camera. “Don’t think. Just point and shoot.”
I take the Canon. “That seems too easy.”
“Gotta start somewhere. I’ll even be your first model.” She strikes a pose.
“I’ll direct you in French.” I snap her picture.
“It’s a done deal.”
I CAN’T MEDITATE FOR SHIT.
All I can think about is London. For the past two months, she’s done nothing but occupy my mind. I relive her sighs when I touch her, her moans when I fuck her, and her submission when I demand it (which is almost always).
She’s my most dangerous distraction, and I don’t even care.
I inhale a deep breath, maintaining my balance in an advanced toe stand—crouched on the ground with my right foot tucked in the crease of my hip—searching for my center, but all I find is London and the hidden treasures of her body. Recalling all the things she allows me to do, and all the heights she allows me to take us to.
I’ve been with countless women. Too many to even put a number on, and I can’t recall one of them possessing the ability to slither into spaces within me the way London does. How far she reaches without even trying. All the things she gives without even realizing it.
She truly is otherworldly. A deity among men. The shrine I secretly worship.
But I can’t breathe a word about how I feel. About how my affection—my obsession—is rapidly growing. It could jeopardize everything. Erode the tangled and intricate world I’ve erected. There’s too much at stake, so I keep her at arm’s length, hoping we can weather the storm. Hoping that when I touch her, when I murmur her name, I subconsciously communicate the depth of my emotions. The irrevocable connection I feel.
My skin prickles from a sudden gust of an insidious energy. All my senses go on alert, but I don’t move a muscle. I just stay crouched and cross-legged, continuing with my meditation.
I lay in wait, and at the precise moment, I stretch out my hand and catch the foot flying toward my face. With an iron grasp, I open my eyes to find my elusive uncle standing over me, one second away from getting taken down. I smile cunningly before I flick my wrist and send him spinning to the floor. He lands with a thud and then laughs.
“How did you know?” he asks with mirth.
“The student has surpassed the teacher,” I declare peacefully in my toe stand. “It’s nice of you to resurface.” I slip out of my position and rise, offering a hand to Alistair.
He smacks it away amicably before bounding onto his feet like a cat. He’s as proficient in martial arts as I am, and the reason I turned to it in the first place. It saved my life and helped mold me into the man I am today. Martial arts and Alistair both did.
Alistair is the only father figure I’ve ever known. He’s only seventeen years my senior, but I’ve looked up to him my entire life. He and my mother fled Ukraine when she found out she was pregnant with me. They didn’t want me to grow up in the same impoverished, exploited environment as they did. My mother was groomed for the sex trade early, and by the time she was fourteen, she found herself pregnant. She doesn’t know who my biological father is, but I’ve always loved the man who raised me. Nothing in my life feels like it’s missing. I’m whole, and I always have been. They made sure of it. I don’t need the genetic makeup of a random man who spent one meaningless night with my mother to help define who I am.
Alistair bows, dressed in black slacks and button-up shirt. Always the epitome of put together. Not exactly sparring attire, but if he wants to fight, we can fight.
I bow in return and then it’s on. With a huge, taunting smile, Alistair begins to circle. I just stand in place, following him with my eyes.
“You going to tell me where you’ve been?”
“Here and there.” He offers no solid response.
“Sounds interesting.” He moves out of my eye line.
“It was,” he confirms, before kicking low at my knee. I deflect the kick and land a blow on his ribcage.
“Easy, old man. You’re not as quick as you used to be.” We’re facing each other, circling around my dojo in an entangled dance.
“You should have more respect for your elders.”
“I only call them like I see them.” He strikes with a lightning fast combination of kicks and punches, landing one on my stomach. I lurch back but regain my footing quickly.
“What were you saying, Jetson?”
“Don’t call me that.” I grit my teeth.
“It’s your name.”
“Not in this house, and you know it.”
“It will be your name whether you are in this house or not.”
I growl, then throw a punch catching Alistair on the chin.
“Little fucker.” He laughs, aggression dancing in his hazel eyes.
“You wanna hit me?” We continue to circle.
“I want to beat the fuck out of you.”
“Let’s see you try.” We attack in a wicked wrangle of hook kicks, knee strikes, and cross jabs. I back handspring out of the crossfire and land on my feet with a haughty smirk.
“Now, you’re just showing off,” he huffs.
“I know.” My smirk grows into an obnoxious smile.
“You always were flashy.” He slaps me with an insult.
“I’m a product of my environment.”
“Speaking of environments, I noticed the new addition. Redhead, very nice,” Alistair comments lewdly with a predatory look in his eye. All my defenses go up. If there’s one person more cajoling than I am, it’s Alistair. And I’m not letting him get within ten feet of my territory.
“She’s off-limits. You already have one slain heart blowing in the wind.”
“Whose?�
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“Amber,” I remind him.
“Oh, her.” His facial expression freezes over.
“That girl has been pining after you since the moment you left. I’m lucky she isn’t too lovesick to work.”
“Not my fault she got attached. I’m skilled at what I do.” He makes no apologies.
“Just fix it before you disappear again. And stay away from Sugar. You need a fix, pick another girl. Amber, perhaps.”
“Territorial over the redhead, Jetson? That’s new.” He studies me intently.
“I’m not territorial,” I dispute. Bullshit! “Sugar is one of my most profitable girls. I don’t want you fucking that up.”
“Mmm hmm.” He steps closer to me. Closer and closer until he’s practically in my face. “I helped build this empire. Be mindful of who you’re talking to. I taught you everything you know. You have what you have because of me. I have no boundaries or restrictions. And if I want to fuck the redhead, I will.”
Anger sparks within me like an explosion, and with eradicated restraint, I haul off and punch Alistair square in the face.
“You little shit!” He holds his nose as blood trickles down his face.
“No boundaries or restrictions, huh?” I prepare for a backlash.
His hazel eyes flash with malice as he rushes me. It’s on. No more friendly fire. It’s all-out war.
We punch and jab and kick, landing blow after blow after blow. I’m a little faster and much more agile from years of studying Capoeira, a Brazilian martial art that has elements of dance and acrobatics. If I wanted to, I could seriously injure Alistair with only a few quick and complex moves. But this is my family, my blood, so I’ll just teach him a lesson he’ll never forget. I attack several of his pressure points in a speedy combination, striking his thigh, ribs, and throat to incapacitate him. Then I sweep his leg, sending him flying to his back.
Thump.
I bow as he chokes and squirms on the floor. “You were saying?”
“If I didn’t love you, I’d fucking kill you.”
“You could try.” I extend a peace-offering hand. “The redhead is off-limits.” I drive the stake into the ground.
“Whatever.” He brushes me off—ego bruised—and stands without my help.
No one comes into my house and stakes a claim. Not even fucking Alistair.
“Is playtime over?” Kayne’s voice travels through my sparring room. We both look over to find him leaning casually against the doorframe.
“How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to know not to fuck the redhead.” We share a clandestine look.
“Jett has a pet,” Alistair mocks.
Jealous?
“She is quite the contributor.” Kayne has my back.
He and Alistair shake hands as the three of us meet in the center of the room. “It’s been a minute, bro.”
“I needed to stretch my wings a bit.” He wipes some blood from his nose.
“Here.” I yank off my T-shirt and hand it to him. It’s sweaty anyway.
He uses it with no objection.
“If you two are done with the theatrics, I have news,” Kayne broadcasts. “I got the call. He’s coming.”
“Both of them?” I question.
“Who? Who’s coming?” Alistair interjects.
“Javier and El Rey,” Kayne relays ominously. He’s out for blood, and it looks like he’s finally going to make good on his promise.
“El Rey, El Rey? The cocaine kingpin?”
“One and the same,” Kayne confirms.
Alistair extends a troubled look. “Don’t you think you two are getting in over your heads? We’re talking about a powerful, synthesized narcotrafficker.”
“We’ve been waiting for this break for six years. It’s the whole reason Mansion even exists. This is what we were implemented to do,” Kayne argues.
“I know. It’s just . . . El Rey.” Alistair is clearly concerned.
“You don’t have to stay. We can handle it without you,” I offer him an out.
“It’s not me I’m concerned about.” He puts his hand on my bare shoulder. “Your mother will murder me if anything happens to you.”
We all laugh.
“She knew the business I was getting into when I joined the secret service.”
“Yes, and look at how well that turned out.” He grimaces.
I roll my eyes. “That was a misfortunate understanding.”
“Yes, that cost you your career. I don’t want any other misfortunate understandings to cost you your life.”
“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
“One we’re both willing to take,” Kayne declares.
“Cowboys.” Alistair shakes his head.
“You knew something like this was always a possibility.”
“Yes, but possibility and reality are two starkly different things.” He sighs, his deep timbre resonating.
“It’s happening whether we like it or not now. We have to tell Juice.” Kayne turns all business. “We need to prepare. I’m not letting these fuckers slip through our fingers.”
“Let’s do it then.” We bump fists. “Get cleaned up,” I direct Alistair with a smack on the stomach. “We’ll have some dinner and start strategizing once Kayne and I are done.”
Kayne and I drop into the gaming chairs positioned in front of the seventy-inch television hanging on the wall. If you’re going to play video games, this is the only way to do it. State-of-the-art liquid crystal display with eardrum exploding surround sound.
Yeah.
I punch the buttons on the controller to bring up the sleeping Call of Duty session. I scroll through the players until I find JuicyJuice69. Kayne and I both slip on headsets, and I speak into the mic. “Yo, shithead.”
“Yo, yourself.” Automatic machine guns echo.
“Seen daylight at all?” Kayne snarks as he blasts the shit out of some bad guys.
“Daylight. What’s that?” Juice shoots back. CJ, or Juice as we affectionately call him for numerous reasons, has been our handler for the last six years. He’s our only link to the outside world. Our operation is top secret, black ops. If he goes dark, we go dark. This game is our only mode of two-way communication. He’s linked into the cameras in the house so he can see everything, which means he’s exposed to a lot but has extremely limited interaction.
“You need to get out more,” Kayne ridicules.
“Easier said than done,” Juice sneers, assassinating a virtual opponent.
“We might be able to help with that,” I interject.
“Oh, yeah? Granting me a window in my cell?”
“Building you a fucking greenhouse.”
“Do tell.”
“We’re getting an import. Big package.”
“Intriguing.”
“Estimated delivery, four weeks.”
“I’ll mark the big event on my calendar.”
“Something to finally look forward to.” Kayne continues to heckle Juice.
“About fucking time,” Juice fires back.
Kayne, Juice, and I continue playing until we beat the level.
“Hey, Juice,” Kayne calls. “Don’t beat the meat too hard.”
“Fuck off, asshole.” Juice signs off, and just like that, the wheels have been set in motion.
After a long, involved dinner with Kayne and Alistair brainstorming, strategizing, and devising possible plans of attack, I make my rounds through the house. Everything is working like the well-oiled machine I tinkered it to be. The girls are happy and so are the clients. Both are coming and going, and as usual, that familiar air of aphrodisiac is breezing through the halls. It may not be traditional, or even socially acceptable, but this is the world I know. This is the world I grew up in. This is what I’m good at—among other things. When my mother and Alistair fled to America, they needed a way to support us. Besides holding a few odds-and-ends jobs at first, they turned to what they knew. Tricks.
And it was lucrative.
And educational.
It didn’t always make my life easy, though. Once my peers and the community caught wind of the rumors of my household, there was definitely a backlash. During most of middle school and high school, terms like whore and slut circulated, and I was the target of more than one beating. Which is why Alistair got me involved in martial arts—so when six guys ganged up on me I could defend myself. It’s not like I was ever big or overly strong. I’m long and lean and muscular. But nothing like Kayne, or even Alistair, who has an imposing presence. I had to search for my strength. Which I found comes from within. From my mind, my wits, and my agility.
The ironic part of it all is that the same guys who used to beat the hell out of me are the same guys who showed up on my doorstep to get laid years later. Fucking losers.
All those experiences worked in my favor, though. It taught me who I was. Sent me on a quest and brought me to where I am now. As bumpy as that road was, when I see London walk down the hall with Amber and Jenna, draped in only pearl necklaces and a matching skimpy thong, I know there’s no other place I want to be. No other place I belong.
They smile as they pass, and at the last second, I snatch London’s hand and haul her into the closest doorway. I barely have any control when I see her on a normal day, but when I see her scantily clad and built to sin, a fire lights within me. An engulfing line of flames ignites from the top of my chest to the bottom of my balls.
I shove her up against the bedroom wall, my front to her back, and pin her hands over her head and grind my throbbing cock into her ass. I can barely contain the raging lust burning a hole through my body. An inferno ensues every time I’m near her.
London moans that titillating sound as I skim my lips over her skin and reach around her chest to pull at one of her nipples. She stretches, feeding into my ministrations, fueling the raging fire.
“Don’t come tonight.” I suck on her shoulder ravenously, squeezing her breast. “Save it all for me.”
“You want me to fake it?” She shivers as I slide my hand gluttonously down her torso.
“Yes.” I play with the pearls covering her little pearl.
“I think that might be bad for business.” She gasps as I pinch her clit.
