by RJ Blain
“You little shit!” Mom cuffed the back of my head, and I yelped. “That cabinet was locked. How’d you get into it?”
“I told you not to hide the keys between the mattresses,” Dad muttered.
“Did you really think I was going to sit around the house unarmed? It’s all Lewis’s fault.”
“How is it my fault?”
“You brought a vest for me, you encouraged me to borrow Mom’s gun, and you brought two bikes, helmets, and biker jackets. I’m pretty sure you begged me to come after them.”
“I’m sorry, Patsy. He looked so sad and lonely. I couldn’t leave him home by himself. I installed a tracker on his phone, so when we use him as bait, if they kidnap him and sell him as a sex slave, we’ll be able to track him.”
My parents’ eyes bulged, and they gaped at my godfather.
Dad recovered first. “Why would they want Shane as a sex slave?”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“You weren’t modeling before you got yourself a marble for an eye, son.”
“Think this through carefully, Justin. He’s your son. Werewolves have a reputation for a reason. If they find out he’s a werewolf’s puppy, he’ll rise to the top of their list of potential victims. Once he decides to settle down and finds the woman of his dreams, she’s going to be a very happy lady.”
My mom’s cheeks turned pink. “You may have a point.”
“Mom!”
“Oh, don’t you start, Shane. You’re a grown man. There’s no need to be embarrassed.”
“You know what, I’m going to take a shower while you all discuss my future career as a sex slave because I don’t want to hear it. Try to have something resembling a plan by the time I’m done.”
“If you want a shower, you’ll have to go to your room, because we have a jet tub instead.”
If they thought I was going to my room when theirs had a jet tub, they were insane. “I think I’ll manage.”
Chapter Eight
Nothing was better than napping while soothing jets massaged my sore muscles. A persistent knock at the bathroom door woke me, and I grumbled curses at the cooled water.
“Did you drown, Shane?” my father asked. “Unless you come out or at least acknowledge me, I’ll break this door down.”
“Don’t break the hotel, Dad.”
“Get out of there already. We’re ready to get to work. Apparently, leaving you in the hotel isn’t an option.”
I almost regretted missing my godfather arguing with my parents about including me in plans that could get me killed or forced to be an unwilling participant in a sex trafficking operation. I definitely didn’t want to be involved unless I was taking part in a raid to destroy it. “All right, all right. Keep your pants on, Dad. I’ll get out in a few minutes.”
“How about you get out now? You’re going to fall asleep again. I’d rather my son didn’t drown today.”
“So it’s okay if I drown a different day?”
“No. Get out of the tub so we can put this plan together.”
My mother laughed. “Expect to be cuddled into submission, Shane.”
If Dad was feeling needy enough Mom felt the need to warn me, I was going to have to endure at least an hour of him hovering. “You may have one hug after I’ve finished my bath and gotten dressed, Dad. One. Not two, not one that lasts an hour, one normal hug.”
“Thanks, Patsy,” Dad grumbled. “Five minutes, Shane. Don’t make me come in there.”
“I’m a grown man. I can take as long as I want in a bath, damn it!”
“You’re a grown man in my hotel room using my tub. Stop whining.”
My godfather laughed. “Give him a break, Justin. The kiddo’s had a rough couple of days. He’s probably sore and tired. I wouldn’t want to get out of the tub, either.”
If I didn’t get out, Dad would break the door to get in, which was enough to get me moving. Groaning, I turned the jets off, taking a few minutes to check my shoulder while I dried off. Although I still ached, only faint bruising and two pale scars betrayed where I’d been shot. Instead of dressing, I threw on Dad’s bathrobe, giving my dirty laundry a kick.
Next time I’d remember to bring my clean clothes into the bathroom with me.
When I emerged, Dad scowled at me. “That’s my robe.”
“I didn’t take my clean clothes into the bathroom.” I pointed at my new duffle, which was near the door. “I’ll change later.”
“But that’s my robe.”
“I’m just grateful you did your laundry before coming here. What’s the plan?”
My parents and godfather stared at each other, and I waited it out, sitting on the edge of the bed. After a few minutes, I wondered if they’d ever get around to letting me in on their scheming.
I worried they’d decided the worst plan was the one most likely to succeed. “I’m beginning to think you want to sell me into slavery.”
Dad sighed. “That might be the easiest way to track them down, find out how they turned a woman into an alpaca—if they did turn a woman into an alpaca. Lewis seems to think it’s possible. Your mother and I have been informed you’re actually a handsome enough man, and that little scar of yours gives you a certain bad boy flair, which might be appealing to certain women looking for a male escort for an evening.”
“And I’ve heard rumors he’s rather delicious in a uniform,” my godfather announced.
“And the bullshit levels in this room have risen to absurd levels. There are no such rumors about me. Can you three take this seriously?”
“We are.” Dad sat beside me, wrapped his arms around me, and squeezed hard enough I squeaked. “At first, I wouldn’t even consider selling you into slavery, but then Lewis suggested I might be able to get a good rate for you since you’re my son and possess werewolf genes. Since you seem to favor the werewolf way of picking a wife, you’ll probably be a beast in bed, just like me.”
“Please let’s never discuss this ever again. I did not need to know that.”
“He can’t help that it’s the truth,” Mom replied.
I groaned and struggled to escape my father’s hold. “You’re not selling me into slavery.”
“It might not be an option. If something goes wrong, you might end up a victim just like Sally.”
“Shooting me and leaving me to die on the side of the road leads me to believe they don’t want to make me a sex slave. Make a contingency plan in case something like that happens, but why don’t we focus our attention on rescuing Sally and breaking up the ring?” I squirmed out of my father’s arms, and to prevent him from bothering me further, I fetched my new clothes and headed for the bathroom. “Let me get changed into real clothes so Dad will stop whining I’m wearing his robe.”
“You should pose for us so see if you’re physique is appropriate for the sex trade.” My godfather flashed a grin at me.
I smacked him with my duffle as hard as I could on the way by. “No.”
“But we’re curious.”
“No.”
Dad looked me over from head to toe. “Come on, Shane. It’s relevant and important. You are my son. You’d probably make a good sex slave with appropriate training.”
My mother grinned. “I bet a virgin is worth more, too. If they’re running a sex trade operation, they have to have an incubus or succubus on board. One look at you, and you’d be a top sell. Between your resistance to the lycanthropy virus and your exceptional heritage, you’d bring in a pretty penny. Add in that scar, and you might even classify as exotic.”
“This is punishment for having gotten shot, isn’t it?”
Ruffling my hair, Dad gave me a shove towards the bathroom. “We’ve only begun, boy.”
It turned out the trio of troublemakers had a plan, and true to Lewis’s initial proposal, I was to serve as the bait to lure out O’Conners and any potential friends. Thanks to Dad’s sensitive nose, we even had a rough idea of where he’d taken Sally.
Like many cities in Nebraska, fa
rmland skirted Des Moines. Dad got a rental car and drove us to a cattle ranch twenty minutes beyond the city limits. “This is the place. They breed cattle for slaughter, and the owner is also a heavy investor in several nightclubs in the city. The nightclubs are probably the front for the sex trafficking ring. For your cover, you’re looking for a girlfriend—someone you can trust to be loyal.”
I arched a brow. “You want me to hit on women in a nightclub.”
“I’m not telling you to bend a girl over your knee, spank her, and get her to call you her daddy, son. You’re on vacation, looking for love—the usual things a newly retired young man might do. You’re just doing it in a way you’ll catch attention from our prey.”
I could always trust my father to be, well, a werewolf. Sighing, I shook my head. “All right. So I go into these clubs and look for a girl. What do I hope to have happen?”
“We’re hoping you’ll find someone interested in hooking you up with an escort or a prostitute. Maybe for a night, maybe for longer. Discuss the idea, act a bit uncertain and shy. Show some interest, especially if you’re offered something like being matched with a woman for a long-term relationship. Be cautious, but find out how much a match like that would cost you. If you’re lucky, they may make arrangements for you to meet some women. That’s what we’re hoping for.” Dad chuckled. “Lewis will be doing the same. We’re going to be watching your tracker on our phones.”
“What’s the probability I’m going to end up a sex slave?”
My parents glanced at each other and said nothing. I turned my glare to Lewis, who shared the back seat with me. “Lewis?”
“Fifty-fifty.”
“I’m going to need a spare battery and a pair of boots.”
My godfather frowned. “Why?”
“A spare phone is going in my boot with the spare battery. That way, it might actually be useful. It’ll have that tracking software installed, too.”
“You raised a smart boy, Justin. Where can I get one like him?”
“Take that up with your wife. I recommend begging. Just don’t expect her to go through mating more than once. Patsy still refuses to even consider going through it again. I keep telling her it’ll be better once she shifts for the first time.”
I put my hands over my ears. “I don’t want to hear about werewolf mating rituals.”
Mom snickered. “It’s not that big of a deal, Shane.”
Why couldn’t I have dignified parents? “You are the reason I’m an awful son.”
“Can’t say he’s wrong,” my godfather agreed.
“Stop being such a child about this, Shane,” Dad ordered. “First, it’s what makes you appealing to a sex trafficking operation while werewolves aren’t. While you were snoozing in the tub, I talked to some Des Moines cops who’ve been working on busting rings here. Typical uninfected children of werewolves enjoy heightened sexual prowess without the complications werewolf men face.”
“I suppose I should be grateful you haven’t explained these complications to me before.”
“It wasn’t necessary; you’ve never been infected, so it hasn’t been an issue. If you become infected, I’ll teach you, as it’s very easy for an ignorant puppy to cause his woman substantial discomfort.”
I wanted to put my fingers in my ears and hum to avoid the discussion. Instead, I surrendered to the inevitable and asked, “Fine. What complications?”
“Male werewolves share certain physical attributes with mundane wolves,” Dad explained.
“That’s not a helpful answer. I haven’t exactly studied natural wolves.”
“I’ll explain it, darling. You’ll dance around the subject all night long and make him more uncomfortable than necessary. Shane, male werewolves go into a frenzy, and once they start trying for a puppy, they don’t stop until certain there’s a puppy on the way. Since male werewolves can smell when a woman is fertile, they’re rather insistent on ensuring pregnancy. Let’s just say your father and I were inseparable for twelve hours. He refused to quit until he could detect the changes in my scent. Fortunately, as I was already infected with the lycanthropy virus, it didn’t take as long as it would for a regular human woman. Long story short, it’s really not comfortable. Worth it, since you were the result, but not something I look forward to doing again anytime soon—at least not until my first shift. It’s supposedly a much better experience when the woman is a werewolf. I’ll consider a sibling for you then.”
With the unwanted mental image of my mother and father having twelve hours of non-stop sex to conceive me rattling around in my head, I tried to steer the conversation back towards safer territory. “So why is being a werewolf’s son a big deal for a sex trafficking ring?”
“You’ll probably be able to have the twelve hours of sex without the issue of being inseparable from your partner. With a bit of work on your part, you’ll be able to give women the ride of their lives. Unfortunately, it won’t be good for your emotional well-being, as you’re like your father. You don’t want just any woman, do you? You want the perfect woman for you.”
The easiest way to deal with my mother was to tell her the truth. “Yes.”
“So there you have it. You’d be a good target if they figure out you’re a werewolf’s son.”
“That’s just what I wanted to know. So, what if I were a daughter instead of a son?”
“They wouldn’t want you. You’d be useless to them unless you were really pretty. I don’t think you’d make a pretty girl.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Anytime, baby.”
The next time my parents sent me into a nightclub, I’d remember to ask what type of nightclub before going in. When I thought of a nightclub, I thought of dancing, loud music, and a lot of inappropriate hip grinding. I found the hip grinding, but it involved a lot of scantily clad women on the laps of appreciative men ready to part with their money. Fifty dollars got me in the door, and within five minutes, I doubted I’d ever feel clean again.
Unfortunately, to get to the bottom of the sex trafficking operation and find Sally, I needed to get my hands dirty. With a thousand dollars burning a hole in my wallet, greasing the wheels wouldn’t be a problem, assuming I remained calm.
Strip clubs weren’t illegal. Prostitution wasn’t even illegal. Forcing girls to work in strip clubs or as prostitutes, however, was extremely illegal and fed sex trafficking rings. I should have realized the type of club it was before I’d gotten inside, but I avoided the places as a general rule.
I was oddly disturbed I’d been to more brothels than strip clubs, but my work in Chicago had required me to visit them on occasion. It bothered me the Chicago brothels were more classy and discreet than the Des Moines club. I hadn’t been expecting to grease the wheels by paying girls to dance for me. I headed straight for the bar, one of the few places the strippers and lap dancers avoided. I disliked drinking on the job, but I browsed the selection of alcohols, my gaze settling on an old bottle of Scotch.
The barkeeper looked me over, strolled closer, and asked, “What can I get for you?”
Asking for a double of the barkeeper’s best Scotch might cost me a fortune but would send an important message about my money and my willingness to spend it. I braced for the damage, put my credit card on the bar, and ordered. Unlike me, the barkeeper was dressed like many of the clients, blending the strict formality of a black suit with a splash of color in the form of a bright red tie.
He looked down his nose at me before selecting a bottle from the top row and snagging a whisky snifter. “How do you want it?”
“Whatever you feel is best to bring out its true potential.” Some Scotches needed a few drops of water to make them bloom while others went down better neat. My answer earned me the hint of a smile. After pouring, he dribbled a few drops of water into the glass.
He took my credit card to the payment terminal, and while he swiped, I dug out a twenty for a tip. Then, satisfied I’d begun the process of securing the barkeeper as a new f
riend, I paid more attention to my drink than to him.
He did the Scotch justice, and I savored the way the whisky’s smoke and peat tones partnered with a faint floral sweetness. When the barkeeper returned my credit card, he lingered.
“You know your Scotch.” I lifted my snifter in a salute. “You have my thanks.”
“You’re a new face around here.”
“On an extended vacation, so I thought I’d take a drive across the country, get out and see the world, maybe meet a girl worth settling down with.” I paused, glancing in the direction of the many scantily clad women working the men scattered around the tables and booths. “Take in the scenery.”
“How are you liking the scenery so far?”
I chuckled, making a show of looking over the women. Many of them were pretty and delicate, perfect targets for sick perverts on power trips. I hated myself for noticing them, for knowing some—if not all—might not be working the club because they wanted to. “This is the nicest place I’ve been to in a while.”
Hating myself for the truth wouldn’t change anything.
“You’ll find the girls are friendly. We have a new one starting tonight. She’s a bit shy, but if that’s the kind of lady you’re looking for, arrangements can be made. She might not be the greatest dancer yet, but if you’re looking for some conversation, she might do.” The barkeeper nodded towards one of the alcoves deeper in the nightclub.
The dim lighting did a good job of obscuring the young woman occupying the booth, who wore the same barely there style as the women working the tables. Her blond hair was tied into a messy bun, and her attention was fixed on her drink as though she hoped to find salvation at the bottom of her glass.
“And how much is this conversation going to cost me?”
The barkeeper’s grin turned sly and lecherous enough I tensed. “Got some proof you’re not from around these parts? We’re going to have a bit of a party later. I might be able to get you in. Consider it a gift from one Scotch lover to another.”
