The Pimp (Colombian Cartel Book 2)

by Suzanne Steele

  The cars slow down as they pass me and I know it isn’t dope they’re looking for. It’s all I care to deal in. The idea of fucking some stranger for a place to sleep causes my stomach to roil. I quickly push the thought away. I haven’t given this pussy to anyone yet, and I sure as hell am not going to sell it.

  I spot a scraggly looking white guy shuffling toward me. He matches the description of my contact and I can’t help but feel some elation at the fact that I’ll at least get this kilo unloaded and make it back to the warehouse tonight. His greeting begins as he’s still halfway up the sidewalk.

  “What’s up? Your name’s Tick, right?”

  “Yeah, man, that’s me.” I’m such a fuckin’ liar. I’ve spent years perfecting the wall I have around me and I’m not about to tell him or anyone else out here my real name. It’s the name the guy at the warehouse gave me and it works for now.

  “So, is Tick your real name?”

  “Yep, that’s what’s on my birth certificate.” Okay…let’s get off this subject.

  “So that’s why they brand a tick on the baggies.”

  “Look, this shit’s twice as strong as anything you’ll find around here and cheaper too. I guess they want people to know who they should come to for the best product.” I just want to get this deal done. Staying at a warehouse is better than getting busted and spending the night in jail. “I need to see some cash.”

  I flip off one of the guys slowing down to look at me and he speeds off. Better to take my frustration out on a john rather than this customer. “Let’s just get this deal done already.”

  I reach into the inside pocket of my coat and pull out the coke. I pull my hand back when he reaches for it. “Don’t fuck me over. I swear I’ll hunt you down and beat the shit out of you—if I don’t kill you first. Give me the cash.”

  “Everybody knows your people are crazy, Tick. I mean, they shot and killed the guy you’re taking over for…”

  Great. The guy who had this job before me was killed for God knows what. Probably tried to rip them off.

  “Nice to know. I feel so much better about my life.”

  “Santiago’s a crazy fucker,” he whispers as if he didn’t hear what I just said. Okay, I was right; Santiago is in charge of this human trafficking and drug ring they’ve got going on. Every name I hear I’m filing in my memory for future reference – because if he’s the man in charge then he’s the one who’s going to die for putting me in this situation.

  I take three stacks of bills from him. A quick check confirms that each stack is ten thousand dollars. Thirty thousand dollars would go a long way if it wasn’t for the man already headed toward me to take it from my hand after the deal’s done.

  “Hey, Tick, nice doing business with you. Be careful out here. You are one fine piece of ass…You sure you’re not up for making some money for yourself?” he asks hopefully as he tilts his head over toward the alley in invitation. I just stare at him and don’t say a word. Asshole. He clears his throat and continues as he starts walking backwards a few paces. “I’d hate to see you end up like the last guy. I mean, you seem like a nice girl and all.”

  “Then keep your mouth shut about seeing me,” I yell as he turns and heads back the way he came. I don’t need anybody to tell me how much danger I’m in right now. I grew up in Sinaloa. The whole idea of leaving was to get away from the cartel.

  “Come on, bitch,” Mateo says as he stuffs the money in his jacket pocket. “The boss wants to see you.”

  “I’m nobody’s bitch.”

  “You are now. You’re Santiago’s bitch. You just don’t know it yet.”

  “Like hell. Take me back to my cell, then; I want to get out of this hooker outfit,” I demand. These clothes are ridiculous.

  “The boss specifically told me to bring you to him with no stops along the way. So, sorry,” he gloats with a small smile.

  “Sorry but not sorry, is more like it.” He just shrugs but his poor efforts to hide his amusement tell me otherwise.

  If talking to that dirt bag again means getting off this cold sidewalk, then so be it. I climb into Mateo’s waiting SUV and yank yet again on the hem of my skirt as he pulls away from the curb. Maybe this outfit will serve a purpose after all by distracting Santiago so he’ll talk more freely. If I’m ever going to get out of here, I need to talk to him long enough to try to figure out how he operates.

  Chapter Two

  Diego

  I look around at the interior of The Club -- my pride and joy. It’s a lot like the one Antonio Wayne ran in New York before he and his brother, Ricardo, relocated here to Louisville. We’ve gone through our share of shit along the way. In the end, we all came to the conclusion that we’re stronger if we work together.

  The Ramirez brothers run the Colombian Cartel and I know better than to be on their bad side. Although they predominately deal in women, guns, and gambling, they have the ties necessary to start a Colombian war with any enemy that opposes them. I’m pretty sure they turn a blind eye to the drug trade, meaning they don’t have their hands in the coke wars. I respect that.

  I’m not foolish enough to think their refusal to sell drugs makes them any less deadly. Dealing drugs isn’t what makes cartel dangerous. The Ramirez brothers are smart and by staying out of the drug trade they’ve been able to form valuable connections elsewhere. They have peace treaties with Russian and Sinaloa cartel. The Russians are ruthless but they operate with their own code of honor. Sinaloa cartel is something else entirely. I do not let down my guard, ever, but especially when it comes to them. All in all, though, the Ramirez brothers have managed to do what most can’t…keep the peace with the major players. My own partnership with them is proving to be the best decision I’ve ever made.

  I’m beginning to settle in here and Louisville is quickly becoming home to me. It’s a part of the country with untapped moneymaking potential. We have very little trouble with local or federal law enforcement as long as we operate discreetly when it comes to our various business interests.

  My eyes wander to the center stage where a dancer is strutting her stuff. My women don’t like to be called strippers, even though eventually they own the stage in nothing but pasties and a ‘G’. This one, Foxy, is exceptional; long, honey blonde hair cascades over her fifteen-thousand-dollar tits. I should know; I paid for them. Those blue eyes with long lashes have seduced many customers out of their last dollar. With her peaches and cream complexion, she looks like a porcelain doll. Her body is the envy of every woman in my club. In modern day language, she’s a walking, talking Barbie doll. She’s perfect. So perfect, in fact…she isn’t my type. Gorgeous, yeah; but we’ve never connected in that way. Instead, she’s my best friend and most trusted confidante. My only confidante, really.

  In my younger days, I’d fuck anything with a pussy that walked through the door, but I don’t anymore. Maybe I’m getting older, I don’t know. I used to have a woman I was serious about – or as serious as I would ever care to get, anyway. Selena. She left me for a doctor—go figure. I can’t really say I blame her for wanting something better than what I could give her back then.

  Let’s face it, a lifestyle like mine has a shelf life. She was smart enough to get out while she could. After she left I got serious about the business aspect of things and decided pussy was just…pussy. Now? Fucking is a release, pure and simple. And I have my pick of pussy. With a quick nod and a tilt of my chin, any of the women in here would be sucking me off or doing anything else I want – and not out of fear, either. They simply appreciate how they’re treated here. There’d be no strings, no emotions. And no expectations, so no hurt feelings and no bullshit. I like to keep things simple now.

  But I know people talk; rumor has it I got my heart broken when she rode off into the sunset with the good doctor, but that’s bullshit; I could only get my heart broken if I had one.

  The premonition catches me off guard and weighs heavily on my mind as I sit at a corner table watching Foxy’s collec
t her tips from the edge of the stage. It’s a night like any other, nothing out of the ordinary going on. I’ve lived my life listening to my gut and it has never steered me wrong. Something is going on; I can feel it.

  Picking up on trouble before it rears its ugly head is how I’ve lasted as long as I have in the cartel. My women are probably up to something. Maybe that’s all it is. Of course, that would be nothing new. I learned early in the game that when you get a bunch of women together there’s bound to be trouble. Sexist, yes, but true.

  For a while now, I’ve been content taking care of my women at The Club, but I make sure they don’t mistake my kindness for weakness. I know how they think. I know what motivates them. I know what pisses them off. I know their individual styles when it comes to working a customer. I even know the perfume each of them prefers. I’m here for these girls when they need me and that goes a long way in my line of work.

  For many of the girls working here, it’s the first time they’ve ever had a man treat them well. Sad but true—and so we bond. I have a different connection with each of them and I cherish them all. Even the women who have a man at home share a bond with me that their man isn’t privy to.

  Most guys treat their women like shit. Me? I fucking love women and treat them like the precious jewels they are. Yeah… I wouldn’t trade my job with anyone else.

  At first glance, it probably looks like I have it made by having access to an endless supply and variety of bedmates. It’s no secret that I take full and frequent advantage of it. But lately, I’ve been bored. I want a challenge. I like to think that there are women who would interest me for reasons other than a nice pair of tits and an orifice or two. Or three. But I’m honest enough with myself to know that my chances of crossing paths with such a woman in my line of work are slim to none.

  …which brings me back to the premonition that is consuming my thoughts. My thoughts keep returning to the new girl coming from Sinaloa. She came to my attention by chance; I happened to be walking through the dressing room and saw a photo of her on the table. Turns out, one of my girls is a friend of hers from their old neighborhood. That picture drew me in like there was some kind of hex on it. Hell, once I held it in my hand, I refused to give it back. I complained about the table being too cluttered and took it, but I know my insistence on keeping it drew some curious looks.

  Maybe it was her big, blue eyes, her long black hair, or the way she looked into the camera lens like she was looking right at me. Like she knew I’d be seeing her one day. Like she was fucking waiting for me.

  Something drew me to her, like a siren drawing a sailor at sea to his doom. I had to have her so I worked through our usual contacts and made her an offer she couldn’t refuse—the promise of a better life and honest work. Tracking her down in Sinaloa and sealing the deal through third parties wasn’t easy, but I was relentless. She thinks my interest is purely business, and that’s okay. I’ll show my cards when the time is right.

  The only problem is that she was supposed to be here two days ago but she never showed. And that fucker Santiago is nowhere to be found. I’ve made all the usual inquiries and kept a close eye on our usual surveillance points, but nobody’s talking. The Ramirez brothers are being cautious at this point and not particularly helpful because of the peace treaty between the Colombian and Sinaloan cartel. It’s an uneasy peace under the best of circumstances. I say, fuck the peace treaty. I’ve got more important things to worry about.

  I pull her picture from my pocket to indulge in yet another look at that face. Finding a Latina with blue eyes is a rare thing. I’ve always been partial to blondes, but this woman…jet black hair, plump, perfect lips. This woman attracts me in a way I’ve never experienced before, all from a simple photograph.

  She’s born for cartel, it’s there on her face for all to see. She looks reserved, probably keeps herself disconnected from everything around her. The thought of storming her walls and forging a connection with her is a total turn on. I want inside her, and not just her pussy -- although I’m going to have that too. I want inside her head. I want to discover everything about her until she’s owned like she’s never been owned before.

  Eventually, I tuck the photo back in my pocket and stand, resting my hands on my hips, dipping my head with a deep breath and a scowl. Santiago better hope he didn’t fuck me over or he’s going to be in serious trouble. I’ve never encountered this kind of mysterious pull to any other woman; I need to touch her and breathe her in and find out what it is about this woman that has ensnared me.

  I’m hoping Santiago didn’t see her and feel the same way. Even though we fucking hate each other -- with the heat of a thousand suns, I think with a smirk – I had counted on our peace treaty as insurance that he would deliver her to me. If that son of a bitch is trying to use her to get to me, it’s working – just not in the way he probably expected. If he has fucked me over with this woman – my woman, as far as I’m concerned -- the only thing he’s done is give me a reason to take his sorry ass down. I’m going to find my woman and bring her home. Then I’ll deal with Santiago Sanchez.

  One of the dancers approaches my table, waving her arms and shrieking at me. She’s hard to understand, but the music pounding off the walls can’t cover up her fury. Her blue hair bounces up and down with each overly dramatic gesture she makes, as if her wig agrees with whatever her grievance is this time. She’s always bitching about something.

  “What’s the problem, Maria?” I ask with a resigned sigh.

  “I’m tired of Foxy wearing my costumes without asking, that’s what. The bitch acts like my locker is hers. I pay a lot for my costumes, this shit ain’t cheap! If these bitches up in here want to wear nice stage costumes, they need to stop snorting the money they make up their fuckin’ noses.”

  That gets my attention. “They better not be snorting that shit in my establishment,” I snarl. I’ve been down that road before and I want nothing to do with it. There’s a full-blown war going on out there over drugs and territory. I got out. I’m staying out.

  I grab her wrist and lock eyes with her. I’m not down with petty fighting among the women who work for me. I stand and fear flashes in her eyes; it brings a wicked smile to my face and I can tell she’s starting to think that maybe that costume isn’t really worth it. I pull her along with me, down the hall and into the empty dressing room.

  “How many times have I told you to put a lock on that locker? This whole thing is your fault.”

  “How is it my fault? She should respect my property.” Her voice has gone from yelling to childish, high pitched shrieking that’s getting on my last nerve. It’s beginning to take an effort to not let my expression show it. I speak slowly as if correcting a small child.

  “You could have avoided this situation by locking up your shit. You let your need to make a point get in the way of your better judgment. You want to make problems for yourself? I couldn’t care less. But not on my time. When it begins to cut into my time or my money, then you’ve crossed a line and I have to step in.”

  I walk toward her, deliberately invading her personal space. She steps back only to hit the wall behind her. I look down at her, studying every detail of her face. My voice is barely above a whisper when I finally tell her, “And you should respect my advice.”

  I turn and, with a nod of my head, I signal her to follow me. She accompanies me to my office where I retrieve a lock from my desk. This isn’t the first time this issue has come up between the girls. I learned a long time ago that alleviating minor issues before they become major problems saves me a lot of headaches. It’s getting that message across to others that’s a pain in the ass.

  Chapter Three

  The Coyote

  I run my finger, carefully, over the machete as I look down at the woman who was desperate enough to believe my promises of a better life. It’s almost too easy. They all believe American streets are lined with gold. From the beginning when I present the assurance of a fresh start, to when I ta
ke their money, to their sad puppy dog eyes telling me they can’t come up with more money, I become their knight in shining armor. I assure them I’ll take payments when they get a job upon their arrival. Sooner or later, I end up looking over their compliant, drugged bodies. Start to finish, I’m in control. I like control. It’s the only time some asshole cartel boss isn’t lording over me, barking out orders. I let my mind drift back to how I brought this one here…

  The sound of my tires crunching over fallen tree limbs and debris pleases me. It’s nature’s way of announcing I’ve arrived at my second home—the warehouse. The only place where I’m in charge. I turn the keys in the ignition and roll the window down to smoke a spiff. I let the calming effects roll through my system as I consider how I want to do this. When I’ve finished it, I get out and I walk to the rear of the car. I open the trunk and look down into terrified eyes. Let the games begin.

  She doesn’t try to fight me, which is no surprise as I’m sure the drugs I gave her have her feeling a bit disconnected right now. It isn’t the fight I feed off of, though; it’s the fear. It’s that moment when panic turns into terror. A familiar shudder of anticipation runs through me.

  I drag her through the woods by her feet like a sack of garbage and open one of the garage doors that lead into my warehouse. The thumping of her body on the concrete makes me laugh and she groans. If she thinks that hurt she’s in for a rude fucking awakening; she doesn’t know what real pain is yet. It ain’t really pain until fear is in the mix.

  I pull down the hook that’s attached to the end of a chain that I keep secured over a rafter. Her wrists are duct taped and serve nicely to anchor her to the hook. When I’m done, her body hangs there like a rag doll.