Sasha placed his hand gracefully on the door. "The small matter of payment?" One delicate brow arched itself over a dark chocolate eye.
"Of course," Ezekiel said. With his free hand, he reached into the inside of his jacket and extracted a manila envelope. Theda recognized it as the payment he'd received from the mayor for abducting her. "How much for a private room, say for two nights?"
Without so much as looking at the envelope, Sasha stretched his palm out. "You know full well the room is 400 per night, the smears, the leash, the silence is a thousand."
Theda watched him count out several $100 bills, her mind racing. The payment included a room for two nights as well as smears and silence. Perhaps this was the safest place for her. So what if she had to wear a stupid belt that connected her to Ezekiel in a demeaning way, she could ignore it if it got her a warm bed and a few smears to pass the time. She just hoped he'd leave her the Taser just in case this worm of a man next to them got any weird ideas.
"Just how much did they pay you for me?" she asked.
He cocked his head. "A goodly sum."
"Does Bridget know you come here?" She said, at least wanting to get in one parting shot before he saw her to her room and went back to his lover.
He yanked on her leash irritably. "I don't want to talk about Bridget."
He pulled her through the door into a room filled with a different sort of john than she'd seen in the reception area. Here, through the haze of tobacco and pot smoke, there was a mix of women and men in various states of dress and undress. A group of young men circled together in the far corner, standing around in a familiar way that reminded Theda of a time during her childhood when one of her friends was getting bullied. Then, they'd circled around him, protecting him from prying eyes as each one of them took turns beating on him. She was just making the connection between that episode and what she was seeing when she realized that each of the young men in the spitters' den was pushing his pants to his knees.
"What--" she started to say.
"Don't look at what you don't want to see," Ezekiel told her, but it was too late. She realized exactly what they were doing even as she caught sight of a girl about her own age reclining on a sofa in the middle of them. She wore a collar around her neck and nothing else. Her fingers were buried in her sex, and the glazed over look that kept her eyes from focusing never strayed to the sight of a dozen erect members aiming for her bare skin. It just pinned itself to the ceiling as though she were wishing herself aloft.
"Oh, dear heaven," Theda blurted when a lanky youth jammed his erection into the girl's pliant mouth and began pumping.
"Don't use that terminology here," Ezekiel said, pulling on the leash, aiming her away from viewing the corner. "I'm working hard at a good cover and I don't want your sultry, haunted voice to blow it."
"Are you making fun of me?"
"Never," he said, crossing two fingers over his heart, a smile playing over his mouth.
Theda looked around her more closely, wincing as she witnessed scene after scene of hedonism. "I thought maybe they just came here to--"
"Use?" He chuckled. "It's more complex than that," he said. "Some are actually here voluntarily."
"Because of the godspit," she guessed.
"Smart girl," he said. "Those work for it, and the patrons take advantage of their addiction." He sighed. "They're all trash, really."
Trash, like her, she knew he wanted to say, and mentally tipped her hat to his restraint. She took note of the room in full. Several young women performing a miscellany of sexual acts, some more violent than others, some more risqué: all of them just to the right of ordinary. There were men too, and not just as johns, but as the gigolo: some with women, some with men. Those with men seemed to fare worse than the rest. Theda found she couldn't look at the pairs of them; it was just too violent.
"So that's what the owner meant when he asked you if you were renting, returning, or buying. He meant me."
He nodded. "You have spitter written all over you, Minou. Sorry."
"And the non-volunteers?"
"You have to ask?"
She shuddered. Slaves. All here because of the godspit.
"You wanted me to see this," she said, realization dawning. She turned to him in accusation. "You intended all along to bring me here; why didn't you just bring me while I was blissed out."
He gave her a sardonic grin and pulled on the chain, making her stumble. "And have you miss the show?" He tugged on her chain again, this time with more purpose; it rattled noisily. She would have resisted except his cocky grin had shifted to something just shy of apologetic.
"You needed to see it. This room is just the tip of the iceberg; worse things go on in the private rooms. This place, while worse than reception, is for those who can't afford to buy the kind of anonymity and silence that the more shocking activities require."
For a second she felt sick and the feeling of freefall rushed back, making her dizzy. "Why are you taking me there then?" She pulled back on the chain, putting her weight into it until he stepped closer, close enough to put his Palm behind her back to guide her gently forward.
"Relax. We just need the anonymity and silence. I don't plan on doing anything shocking to you." He lifted a brow playfully. "Of course if you wish to do so to me, I'd have to tell you I draw the line at sharing you with another man."
The reference to his vision made her clamp her mouth closed and seeing it, he let go a throaty chuckle. she trotted toward a hallway behind him, trying to avoid making eye contact with any of the occupants of the room. She knew that he was doing this to try and get her off the drugs, give her a reason to go straight, but all that he'd managed to do was push it that much closer to the front of her mind. She could see that some of the crowd was completely in the throes of euphoria, that regardless of what was being done to them, they looked so completely ecstatic that all she could think was how badly her skin itched, how a smear could smooth out the sensory overload of reality. She had to swallow down a sudden flood of water and will it to stay down until they stood outside a broad, oak door. Her home for the next few days. She couldn't pretend it wasn't a dozen steps up from grotto or drainage pipe.
Their room reminded Theda of old Earth movies with dungeons and torture chambers. Despite her earlier reflection that it was a decent alternative, she balked at the door when Ezekiel pushed it open and she saw a small cage large enough to fit a large breed dog. She knew right away what the cage was for even before she noticed the assortment of whips and handcuffs hanging beside it. A table in the corner held a dozen candles, and a chest hunkered threateningly beside it.
"I promise I won't hurt you," he said.
"I'm not sure I want to know exactly how you knew this place existed," she said, stepping into the room and pressing her back against the wall opposite the cage. She eyed it warily. There was a stainless bowl in the corner. "And I don't want to know how you know Sasha."
He eased the door closed and drew his hands along her chain until she had to step forward close enough that he could wrap his fingers on the belt. Two twists and he had it adroitly opened.
"And I really don't want to know how you got that open so easily," she mumbled.
He peered up at her. "I guess I have some experience," he said, smiling.
He dropped the belt to the floor in a heap atop the chain, then sighed heavily. "I suppose you can shower if you like; I'll see if I can find something for you to put on. Maybe get you some food." He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering a little too long on her navel. "Meanwhile, why not find something to put on?"
He nodded toward a king size box spring and mattress that was covered with what looked like black vinyl. She couldn't imagine how that clammy looking material would feel against her skin, but it had to be better than the way he kept trying to avoid looking at her. She had the nearly irresistible urge to turn away from that gaze, but she knew that her back view was just as revealing.
She inched toward the bed
and pulled the cover off, wrapping it around herself sarong style. She was right: it felt disgusting. She didn't even want to admit to herself that the sheets beneath it were made of plastic.
"The door locks from inside," he said to her. "Can I trust you to let me back in?"
She chewed her lip at that. "I have no doubt Sasha will find some way to punish me if I don't."
"It's nothing to what I'll do to you." He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets, seeming to be considering something. "Don't let anyone else in," he finally said.
She held up her hand in mock surrender. "All right, already. No worries."
There was a long, tense moment as they regarded each other. It seemed there was something being left unsaid, but she couldn't imagine what it was. She thought of Bridget and what she would say if she realized her lover was here in this place, wrangling a room for a sex slave.
"It's safe here," he said. "You'll be okay 'til I get back."
She eyed him warily. "Get back?"
"Sure," he said. "I'm just going for clothes."
She watched the outline of his hands in his pockets, the fingers twisting about in there until he finally pulled them free and with a haggard sigh pulled the envelope again from inside the breast pocket. He peeled a series of bills from the much thinner pile of bounty and passed them to her.
"Just in case," he said.
She took them hesitantly, thinking it was a trick, watching him run his tongue into the corner of his mouth, considering, before he turned on his booted heel and left. Theda looked down at the money in her hand after he'd gone: four $100 bills. Enough for an extra night in this godforsaken place. Enough for at least a few dozen egg salad sandwiches and pot after pot of hot coffee.
Enough for half a dozen godspit smears.
It was that last thought that sent a gasp from her lungs like a quiet exhale of surprised pleasure.
Dragon: Act 4
She waited as long as she could; perched on the edge of the plastic sheet, making sure Ezekiel was good and gone. By her reckoning, at least half an hour had passed, plenty of time for him to get out of the building. A niggle in the back of her mind nagged her about being trusted, of taking advantage of trust, but she squashed each thought ruthlessly. If he was foolish enough to leave a girl alone with four hundred dollars, then he deserved what he got. It wasn't as though she had to use the smears right away. All she had to do was buy them and hide them and then she could have one anytime she needed it. She didn't have to wait to see if he'd parcel out the ones from his stash or worse: decide not to give them to her at all.
She could be in control, get some harness put on this sense of freefall, reign in this motherfucken carriage so to speak. She was in the perfect place to score. In fact, she was in better shape here than she would be plying her trade on the streets. It would be insane not to use the opportunity.
She turned to the wall of mirrors and adjusted the black vinyl bedspread so that it was knotted between her breasts, then realized that the white sports bra ruined the effect. Far easier to score if she looked the part, so she stripped herself of the bedspread and peeled out of the bra. She left the thong on, for all the coverage it offered, and retied the bedspread around her breasts again. The material snaked behind her like a train that could be considered quite chic if she played her cards right. And she intended to play them well.
Clenching the bills, she let herself out of the room and made sure to leave it unlocked so she could get back in. A sense of excitement began to build in her chest, making her breath come in short spasms, the feeling of anticipation, of knowing that soon she would have her hands on enough smears to take her through an entire week.
She walked down the hallway head down, with purposeful steps. If a girl wanted to look like she belonged, she didn't go gawking around as though she was a tourist. Halfway down the corridor, a man exited a room, pulling along a sloe-eyed teenage girl wearing a Cleopatra type costume. It was cleverly designed so that the manacles on her wrist were gold colored and painted to look like they were inlaid with lapis lazuli. Except for the fact that the girl had a decidedly vacant stare and rattled along behind her master of the moment, the costume could have been quite stunning. Theda was just beginning to think Sasha was some sort of genius when the man turned on his slave and backhanded her hard enough across the cheek that she stumbled backward and fell against the wall. She slid down it and crumpled into a pile.
Theda's first instinct was to run; this was no business of hers, but as she tried to inch past, the girl whimpered pitifully. Theda made the mistake of making eye contact.
"Please," the girl said, but Theda wasn't sure who she was pleading with.
The man loomed over the girl and grabbed her by the hair, pulling her to her feet. "You forget yourself, Salima," he growled and twisted the girl close to him, glaring down at her face as he pulled her head back. "A queen doesn't beg," he said. "Must I return you to the boutique?"
Theda tried to ease her way past, but the girl had begun to sob uncontrollably despite the orders to shut up, despite the vicious shaking the man had begun to deliver. Theda didn't know what the boutique was, but the word seemed to have stolen the last of the girl's buzz and sent her into a fit of wailing that only infuriated her master more. It must be one powerful motherfucker of a word.
"Excuse me?" Theda said and wished even as the words came from her mouth that she could bite her tongue. This was no way to get her fix. No way at all.
The man whirled on her, pulling the girl along in a renewed whimpering mess. He had pock marks on his nose large enough that the dirt within made them look like moles. Theda tried her best to disguise the shudder that moved up her spine. He looked like he would speak except for the rage that had captured his tongue.
Theda locked eyes with Salima's. They were black and wide and even in the light of the hallway, she couldn't tell where the girl's pupils ended and irises began. Cleopatra was a perfect persona for the girl. Theda bent over delicately, in a purposefully subtle bow toward the pile of dung that still gripped the girl by her hair.
"You purchased her from the boutique?"
She couldn't see him from her subjugated position, but she could tell by the tightness of his voice that his entire face had become a pinched up pile of muscle. "That's none of your business, bitch. Now move on."
She showed him her fist of money. "Is this enough to get me into the boutique?"
There was a pause and she dared peer up at the piece of shit. He'd relaxed his hold on the girl's hair just enough that the skin around her eyes returned to normal. "A girl like you doesn't need money to get in," he said, staring at her without blinking.
"How fortunate," she said, hoping that the small respite had made him forget his anger at the girl. It wasn't much, but it was all Theda had to offer. Salima had already stopped whimpering and was making barely audible little choking sounds that indicated she was gathering her wits back together. Theda offered her a brief look of apology and then turned to make her way down the rest of the hallway. She got nearly a dozen paces before the man called out to her.
"Hey, spitter," he said and waited for her to turn around.
When she didn't, he chuckled loudly enough that Theda could make out the undercurrent of cruelty within it.
"Tell them I sent you," he called after her. "Maybe they'll turn you into an Anne Boleyn." At this he laughed straight out and Theda could hear the chain rattling again, Salima's sobs renewing.
That was about as much salvation as Theda had in her. She fled the rest of the hallway, her bare feet catching in the material of the bed spread as she stumbled into the yawning expanse of the common room. She took a few moments to catch her breath, and realized her cheeks were wet.
If she ever needed a godspit fix, it was now.
She sent harried looks about the room, trying not to take in any actual activities, trying only to assess the faces and postures of those within. Surely one of them had a smear for sale. Surely one of them could tell her
where she could score a fist-full-of-cash worth.
It was like trying to find the least of all evils, trying to lay her eyes on an obvious dealer. The haze of the room barely disguised the glazed looks of the spitters who were obviously just out of the peak of the bliss, coming down, in some cases landing hard. It was when they were the most vulnerable, Theda knew. It was the time when they would do anything for the promise of another fix. It was the time they felt the most shame and the most need in equal measures. Exactly how she felt right then.
Either no one in the room cared what was happening around them, or they had long become desensitized to it. For Theda, it was like a Virgin peek at hard-core pornography; it was a forensic look at a newborn.
The smell of pot permeated the room but couldn't disguise the stink of sex and blood. It confused itself with that of sweat until, stumbling through the crowds of patrons and spitters alike, Theda couldn't tell whether the haze came from the smoke or from the stink. It was tough to avert her gaze from the faces of the spitters as they performed whatever act they were bid; there was a desperation behind their eyes that Theda knew so well that her mouth watered.
Her gaze settled on a couple on the far side of the room. He looked to be thirty something and his companion, obviously a spitter, knelt in front of him as he stroked his member with such fierceness and determination that she couldn't pull her eyes away until a female voice came from beside, breaking the spell.
"Why do you suppose it's always in the eye?"
Theda turned. "What's that?" she asked, tearing her gaze away and onto the lithe redhead beside her. A sense of elegant poise quivered in every line of the woman's body.
"The eye. Why do you suppose they like to shoot into the eye?" The woman inclined her head toward the couple and Theda followed her gaze. Indeed, the girl on her knees was wiping semen from her left eyebrow and off her eyelashes.
Theda couldn't help chuckling softly. "And always the left one," she said to the redhead. Now that she really looked at her, Theda could see that despite the sense of elegance, the woman's makeup was heavy and artificial. Almost, too perfect.
Wicked Legends: A Dystopian Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Collection Page 85
