Voracious Vixens, 13 Novels of Sexy Horror and Hot Paranormal Romance

by Travis Luedke

  He didn’t recall if he had spoken to Angela beyond his dumbstruck nods of acknowledgement. He was too numbed with shock. He packed his clothes and stuff and moved into Kyle’s apartment that very evening. When asked about it by Kyle and friends, Aaron answered simply, “It’s the right time.”

  Until this very moment, lying in bed with Michelle’s glorious naked body wrapped around him, Aaron never had a reason to look back on the past. It wasn’t necessary.

  Delia had never cared about Aaron’s past, and Kyle had seemed to understand in a silent agreement that there was nothing to discuss regarding Aaron’s mother. Aaron and Angela’s relationship degenerated to the bare bones minimum of contact. He spoke to her on the required holidays in the American Christian custom. They exchanged gifts through the mail at Christmas and birthdays. Beyond that, neither one existed to the other.

  Aaron kept on rolling forward, avoiding the need to think back and remember those bygone days when he’d once known what it was like to have a family. Those memories were too painful and always sparked resentment towards his mother. He blocked those memories away, trying his best to forget. There his memories stayed, buried in the riverbed of his life. He never found cause to dig into the soil and expose the past. It was easy for Aaron to fill the empty hours of his days with Kyle and Delia. As long as he kept busy, he had no time to brood on the past.

  He lived his life cheerfully ignorant of the rest of the world outside Kyle and Delia until the day the world put Michelle in his path. Fate had gifted him––or cursed him––with this new turn of events. Aaron lay in bed holding the most beautiful woman in the world, bearing his soul through their mutual psychic bond, tears of blood streaming down his face from the remembrance of grief, pain and frustration he’d suppressed for years.

  Michelle now knew everything about him: his past, his pain, his grief, his loneliness, and the little shoebox of a life he’d lived prior to meeting her. She was his confessional, his priest, his savior, his own personal Jesus Christ, laying his demons to rest with her touch, presence, and silent acceptance.

  Purged of his sadness, allowing the memories to drift away to return to the vault of things better forgotten, Michelle agreed through silent psychic communication that this would never be spoken of again. Happy, limbs tangled together, they rested, content. She felt the satisfaction of problems resolved, demons conquered, and the comfort of a deeply rewarding connection. As dawn peeked over the horizon she drifted off to sleep like the dead in his embrace.

  CHAPTER 12

  Talco pounded pavement for three nights straight, passing around the artist’s rendering of the blonde tramp to every pimp, prostitute, and hustler he could find. Not one person recognized her. No one had ever seen or heard of her before. She’d never worked these streets, at least not anywhere near 60th and Palmetto.

  He considered it a risk to speak with most of these people, many were ex-cons. The rules of his probation forbid contact with felons. It was completely absurd. How should he know if someone was a felon? Was he supposed to ask? “Hello, my name’s Talco, oh ... by the way, are you a felon? I was just wondering because I’m on probation.”

  What an awesome way to make friends and influence people. How can a man get anywhere in life saddled with such ridiculous rules? In most cases he could tell whether or not a person had been to prison before by simply looking at them. But on the streets? In the ghettos? Talco suspected his probation could get revoked simply for being in these areas. It looked way suspicious. And it made him extremely nervous.

  This whole idea seemed stupid. Escorts don’t find dates on street corners, it’s foolish and suspicious, and a sure way to get tossed in jail. Girls didn’t need to do that anymore. Not with free classified ad websites.

  The more time he spent on this pointless, high risk activity, the more pissed off he became. He was certain she wasn’t out walking these streets. So why was he beating the streets looking for this puta like a retard?

  After three consecutive nights of wasted time he gave up. He’d have to find some other way to placate Los Demonios. Probably have to pay them off. The detectives certainly weren’t giving him credit for his efforts without results. This was exactly what he’d been afraid of.

  He had a wife and newborn baby at home who needed him. He definitely didn’t need this shit. When he came home at midnight, Evita awaited him with a kiss and a smile, six month old Mateo held in the crook of her arm. They were the best thing that ever happened to him. He’d gained so much in so little time, but he stood to lose it all with this foolish business.

  “What’s wrong, baby? Que paso?” Evita smoothed away the tension from his forehead with her free hand, baby Mateo cooing quietly in her other arm.

  She was so beautiful as a mother. She’d truly blossomed with Mateo’s birth. Talco couldn’t imagine life without her and his son. He knew if he went to prison again, Evita might not be there by the time he got out. There were only so many mistakes a girl would put up with. Her golden skin, spicy Colombian attitude, and beautiful hazel eyes would surely attract another man if Talco went down for too long. He had to find a way out of this mess. He had to stop chasing the easy money and go legit. He had to get away from those bastard detectives.

  He answered Evita as he embraced her, “Todo está bien mi amor. I’m okay. You know I love you? Tu eres mi vida, mi corazón.”

  She had cooked his favorite dinner, fajitas Evita-style, with freshly prepared salsa and guacamole on the side. Beyond being the most gorgeous Colombian woman he’d ever met, she was also a damn good cook.

  Evita Rodriguez, formerly Evita Valenzuela, had come to New York on a visa paid for by Colombian cartel, her stomach filled with tiny latex balloons of high purity cocaine. It was a fairly common way to catch a paid vacation to New York for Colombians who otherwise didn’t have a dime to their name. She survived the ordeal without a single package bursting in her belly, collected her $5000 dollar payoff, and promptly disappeared into the streets of New York City.

  Barely twenty when Talco met her, she began selling her body to make ends meet. They became close after several months of working together. She told him she loved him. Many girls say that, but rarely do they mean it. And then came the night of his arrest. She proved just how much she loved him when she spent herself broke paying for his legal defense.

  By the time he started serving his sentence, he demanded she get off the streets and marry him. She did exactly as he wished, working a waitressing job at a local Denny’s for the entire year he spent locked up. She stuck by him, wrote letters every week and visited the prison every weekend. She was his rock. She paid off the worthless defense attorney’s bill from her tips and overtime at the restaurant.

  Two years had gone by, and Evita hadn’t worked the streets since. Talco was determined she would never again sell her body to pay the rent.

  Evita was his angel, a godsend. How could he ever let her go?

  Upon his release from prison he made it his mission in life to give her a child. The doctor told them the date of conception for Mateo was probably within the first week of his freedom.

  He had never been happier, married to this gorgeous woman whose devotion had withstood every hardship imaginable, and a beautiful son to show for it. If only he could keep it going. If only he could avoid ruining all their lives with his mistakes.

  He thought of opening a restaurant; let the New Yorkers have a taste of his wife’s fabulous cooking. He’d even name it after her, Evita’s. With the birth of his son, Mateo Rodriguez, he had new inspiration, a new reason to make something positive of his life. He began plotting and planning.

  He spent endless hours working with the Small Business Administration––SBA. They had the business plans, financial plans, and guidance he needed to make it happen. He worked up a menu, designed the graphics for the neon sign, and even calculated twelve month projections of overhead and income. The SBA could provide small loans for business startup, but Talco needed to have a certain a
mount of his own cash vested in the project. That was the catch. He needed more money.

  By his estimates he had two to three months left of running his little escort service to save up enough cash to start the restaurant. But that was before the devil sent Oberman and Konowicz into his life to torment him. All his grand plans screeched to a grinding halt when Los Demonios began taxing the life out of him, threatening everything he was trying to build.

  Evita gave him that angry stare. The girl was a real stinger when she knew he was up to something. “Papi, I want you to stop. You don’t need the girls. We don’t need that much money.”

  “I know baby, but we’re so close. We’re almost ready to start the restaurant.”

  “Papi, how many times do I have to tell you, I don’t care about the money. I want us to be happy. If you quit working with the girls you can get rid of those detectives. They can’t get to you if you’re not doing anything illegal. Don’t you see how this is hurting us?”

  “Aye corazón, you don’t understand how probation works. And these cops are dirty. You don’t even know how fucked-up they are. It doesn’t matter if I’m doing anything illegal. Los Demonios can lock me up con nada más que un acusación. I gotta do what they want or I’m goin’ back to prison. Ain’t no judge or jury for me. If the pigs start pointing fingers, I’ll be revoked like that!” He snapped his fingers in demonstration, “That’s the way it is.”

  “Please Papi, just quit it. Do it for me ... can’t you do it for me?”

  “Si, querida. If that’s what you want, I’ll quit. Right now. I’m done with this shit!” He assured her vehemently. And he meant it. “I’m gonna call all the girls and tell ‘em they’re on their own. Talco’s goin’ legit. Next time the detectives call I’ll tell ‘em to stick it where the sun don’t shine!”

  CHAPTER 13

  Konowicz stood with Oberman outside the front door to Bemichis Restaurant with Trish Anstrom, a thirty-something single mom who worked nights as a waitress.

  “I saw her pick him up off the ground, and take off running down the street carrying him. It was the damnedest thing ever. Yeah, like I said on the phone, I heard a noise like a gun shot, and by the time I got a chance to look out the door, that’s what I saw. I think the police arrived a few minutes later. I couldn’t really see well. It was midnight and the streetlamp is over there.” She pointed across the road to the light post, huffed another huge whiff off her cigarette and continued, “Like I mentioned on the phone, I hope it wasn’t Aaron. But he hasn’t been to work since he left that night, and all this happened not ten minutes after he walked out the door.” Finishing her cigarette, she reached into her pack for another one to light from the glowing butt of the first.

  Konowicz addressed her, “So let me see if I got all the facts straight. His name is Aaron Pilan, he’s twenty-two, about five feet eleven inches, approximately one hundred seventy pounds with dark brown hair and eyes, lives in the Reisner Apartment Building over on 52nd street, about ten blocks down. He doesn’t answer calls or text messages, and his voicemail is full. He was last seen leaving here at midnight August 26th, and somebody called asking for him. You think it was his roommate who hasn’t seen him in days. Is that correct, Ms. Anstrom?” She nodded yes repeatedly through the haze of cigarette smoke.

  “Was there anything you could think of to add to this? Have you ever seen the woman who you said, picked him up and ran off with him? Did you recognize her?” Konowicz pressed, still evidencing a slight nasal quality to his speech.

  She finished her second cigarette, stomping it out in the planter, and again shook her head no. “Like I said before, I’m not even sure it was Aaron.”

  Oberman showed Trish the artist’s rendering of a blonde woman. “Do you recognize her? Was this the girl you saw that night?”

  She frowned. “Maybe. Couldn’t see real well. I can’t say for sure.”

  “Do you have any pictures of Aaron?”

  She started shaking her head. “Wait a minute.” She turned and entered the restaurant, motioning them to follow.

  “Here, on the wall, a picture from a wedding party we did a couple months ago. I’m sure Aaron’s in it.”

  “Yeah, dat’s him alright,” Oberman mumbled to Konowicz.

  Konowicz turned to her abruptly. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Anstrom, you’ve been very helpful.”

  “You’ll let me know if you find out anything? He’s such a sweet boy. I’m worried about him.”

  “Sure thing. We’ll be in touch.” Konowicz’s toothy smile did not reach his eyes.

  * * * *

  In the evening, as their official workday came to a close, Konowicz brought glad tidings to his partner, dropping a scrap of paper with a scrawled note on his desk.

  “I got the address connected to that cell phone for the Pilan kid. He’s in number 204 at the Reisner Apartments. You got time to go pay a visit?” Konowicz smiled at Oberman. He could feel they were getting real close.

  Oberman grinned, his first genuine smile of the day. “Looks like we’re doin’ some overtime.”

  * * * *

  “Hello, I’m Detective Oberman and this is Detective Konowicz. We’re with the 124th precinct, New York P.D. We’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind. May we come in?”

  Kyle instantly went on guard. These two characters looked like they had real badges, but he smelled something malicious and sinister––apart from their body odor. He didn’t trust them enough to allow entry.

  “Well, I’m not sure what this is all about. Is there a problem?” He didn’t like the idea of these two inside the door. They were pushy. Oberman actually slid his foot in the door as they stood there staring down Kyle with you-don’t-want-to-mess-with-us looks. Kyle stared right back and let them continue speaking from the hallway.

  “We’re here to see Aaron Pilan. Is he here now? We need to talk with him.”

  That struck him weird. Aaron was about as harmless and law-abiding as they came. He couldn’t imagine what these two might possibly want with Aaron. He paused for a moment, and then decided to play along.

  “No, actually he’s not. Um ... I haven’t seen him in days. If he’s in trouble I’d like to know about it, and how I can help. He’s a good friend.” His instinctive reaction was to make sure they didn’t catch Aaron by surprise.

  “You know anything about his involvement with this woman?” Oberman showed Kyle the artist’s rendering of Michelle and pushed his bulk into the door a couple more inches. Kyle held his ground, letting the door push up against his body as he tried to look casually at what was a pretty damn accurate drawing of Michelle. He pretended not to notice how they watched him, or how they tried to force their way into his door. They pretended to care about his rights and privacy. None of them were very good actors.

  “No, I’ve never seen her before. Can you tell me what this is all about?” He knew if he gave up Michelle he’d be giving up Aaron, so he continued to stonewall.

  “Look, we know he was with her a week ago. We know he lives at this address. We can’t go into details because of the on-going investigation. If you know somethin’ and you’re not telling us, it’s only gonna hurt Aaron in the end. If you wanna help your friend, you need to help us find him.” Oberman played the standard authoritarian manipulation game.

  Kyle knew there was very little these two creeps could do to help Aaron. Cops like this rarely ever helped anyone but themselves.

  “I’ve already told you I don’t know anything. I haven’t seen him or heard from him in days. His cell phone is disconnected. I don’t know what else I can do to help you.” He put more pressure on the door, forcing Oberman to back up a couple inches.

  Konowicz stepped toward Kyle menacingly, as if he would shove past Oberman and force his way through the door. “Listen here. We’re gonna find out everything eventually. We’ll find out all about you, your friends, and all the comings and goings here at your little bachelor pad. I’m pretty sure we’re gonna find some
thin’ you won’t like. Maybe one of your buddies smokes weed, snorts a little blow, maybe someone’s poppin’ somebody else’s prescription pills. It’s a given. You would do a lot more for yourself and your friends if you cooperate with us.”

  “I don’t do drugs, and I don’t hang out with anyone that does,” he informed them calmly. He waved his hand in dismissal of their bullshit. “You can threaten all you want, I don’t know where Aaron is and there’s nothing illegal happening at my apartment.”

  Konowicz snapped back, losing his cool, “If I learn you’ve been lying to us, I’ll book your ass for obstruction of justice! You’ll sit in lock-up just long enough to lose your job and this shit-hole apartment you squat in! Don’t fuck with me punk!”

  “I’ve said all I have to say. I’m done with you. Good day, Officers.” He shoved the door closed in the detective’s faces. He heard cursing and some back and forth whispering, and then they slipped a note under the door with an N.Y.P.D. business card.

  Call me with any new information you get about Aaron Pilan and the woman.

  Scott Konowicz

  Kyle stood there for a moment, debating what to do about the situation. Should he tell them about Michelle? Should he call and leave an anonymous tip? Should he just warn Aaron and stay out of it? The detective’s threats seemed to be mostly intimidation tactics. They didn’t have anything on him, and he didn’t know anything. What you don’t know can’t hurt you ... right?