The Pimp (Colombian Cartel Book 2)

by Suzanne Steele

  The way her head bobs against her chest makes me angry. I want her awake. I slap her face as hard as I can and she awakens with a start. That’s better.

  “Where am I?” she rasps in a voice that’s barely audible.

  I pull my switchblade from my camo pants. “Why, where are my manners? Welcome. To. Hell.”

  Brook

  Santiago sits across from me, staring at me with his empty, black eyes. He doesn’t have the snarky attitude he had earlier, now he’s all business with a cold edginess that makes me fear for my safety. This side of him scares me more than the smart ass I encountered earlier. I know enough to understand that doing business with someone sporting a Jekyll/Hyde personality is never a good thing.

  He’s dressed in typical Sinaloa cowboy fashion: a black and white shirt with mother of pearl snap buttons, jeans with a leather belt and a huge silver belt buckle that features a golden, crystal-inlaid gun. Snakeskin boots complete the ensemble.

  His eyes are emotionless. Dead. I’m sure this man has seen his share of death in his lifetime and I doubt he loses any sleep over it.

  “The last man who was doing your job stole from me, so I killed him. I’ve been thinking that it might be better to use a woman. These men start thinking they want to be me. It never works out well for them. Now, women? Women just want to fuck me, which is fine by me,” he drawls as his eyes slowly skim over the length of my body. I fight the urge to tug on my skirt again.

  “I came here to work for Diego Dias, not to sell drugs for you.”

  He slams his fist down on the metal table. “Fuck Diego Dias! You belong to me now.”

  “I don’t belong to anyone. Now, just let me go and we’ll forget any of this ever happened.”

  “You seem to have already forgotten that you owe me a lot of money. Travel costs, you know.”

  “Really? How much are my luxury accommodations running you, huh? I owe you nothing! You brought me here on Diego’s dime,” I say with what little bravado I can muster. “I wonder how he’s going to feel about you not delivering me to him. The streets are full of rumors about him. He’s not going to just let you steal from him. Oh, I’m property, alright -- his property.”

  “You let me worry about the Colombian cartel. The Sinaloa cartel runs things around here,” he declares contemptuously.

  I keep my facial expression neutral as an idea occurs to me: if they hate each other this much then I can use it to my advantage. But my window of opportunity is practically nonexistent; I’ve got to act fast.

  “You know,” he purrs, “if you’d give me half a chance you might find you like working for me rather than working at The Club. I’m not such a bad guy.” He smiles as his eyes roam my figure once more. “You’re a very pretty girl. Yes, I would enjoy you very much. I can give you a good time, you know – and a decent life.”

  “Yeah, Santiago. Just the way I want to start off a relationship—with a pack of lies. No thanks,” I fume as I cross my arms over my chest.

  With that, his demeanor changes and becomes downright malevolent. He straightens in his chair, his face flushing as his nostrils flare and his lips curl into a sneer. “Fuck you, you ungrateful bitch! Any woman here would be honored by my offer. But not you – no, you think yourself too good for the likes of me. Fine. So be it. Now you will live out your days in a fucking cage in this warehouse. I will make sure that your cunt is used up and you become the filthiest whore here. Just think…you could have been coming back to my mansion with me.”

  He stands, pushing back from the table so hard that the chair topples over. I force myself to look up at him so he can see the disgust on my face. His ego is the only thing I can attack right now—unless I can somehow get my hands on a gun.

  He storms from the room. His goon grunts for me to follow him back out to the caged-in area where I’m supposed to, apparently, be spending a lot of time. Our footsteps echo jarringly on the cement floor as I follow him down the hall.

  “I’ve gotta pee. Can I use the bathroom?”

  Once again his only answer is a grunt. He nods toward the bathroom door on the left side of the hall, and I dart inside before he can change his mind.

  I take a quick look around and my stomach sinks because there’s no window. Time for Plan B. It’s a bold move, probably just one step away from a death wish. But at this point I have nothing to lose; if I stay here, I’m as good as dead anyway.

  When I step into the hall, the grunting guard has his back to me, talking on his cell…with his gun tucked in the back of his jeans. Before I have time to change my mind, I grab it. This time he roars in fury as he whirls around in a rage. My hands are shaking so much, I almost drop the gun.

  “You don’t want to do this, puta,” Santiago declares quietly from the doorway at the end of the hall. He scowls at the guard, then tilts his chin in a silent command for him to back away from me.

  Santiago shakes his head despairingly as he walks toward me, arms out to his sides as if showing me he’s unarmed. Yeah, right.

  “Stop! I mean it, I’ll shoot you.”

  “I don’t think so. You’re not just beautiful, you’re bright. So, I think you know better than that.”

  My trembling hands are barely keeping a grip on the gun, which only seems to make him more confident as he closes in on me. “Look at you,” he chides. “You’re so fucking scared you can barely aim the gun.”

  “Please, just stop where you are,” I plead as I step back with my arms locked straight in front of me, even as the barrel of the gun quivers uncontrollably. But Santiago just keeps coming.

  It’s either you or me, motherfucker.

  I aim for his kneecap, squeezing my eyes closed just before I pull the trigger. The loud bang reverberates off the walls and the recoil nearly knocks me off my feet. I recover my balance quickly, though, and fire off another shot in the general direction of the guard. I take off running with Santiago’s screams ringing in my ears.

  I’ve got to find the only man who can save me…Diego Dias.

  Chapter Four

  Brook

  I just shot a man. No, I just shot a Sinaloan cartel boss. Shit! What the hell was I thinking? I barely remember sprinting from the building. I stop long enough to drop the gun down a sewer grate before I take off running again. I head toward the street that will take me from the warehouse district into downtown Louisville.

  My lungs feel like they’re on fire and my legs ache as I find my stride. I look over my shoulder frequently to make sure I’m not being followed. I don’t have a whole lot of time to find the place Diego runs before Santiago and his men find me and kill me. Fear and adrenalin can be a lifesaving combination when you face seemingly insurmountable odds. I’ve got ‘em both going for me, so maybe I stand a chance.

  Ironically, that drug drop I was forced to make earlier tonight might have been a lifesaver of a different sort -- I paid attention during the drive to and from so I know how to get downtown. Diego runs a strip club; he’s gotta be downtown. I hope like hell I’m right. If I’m not, then I’m as good as dead.

  I cut through some back alleys and eventually end up in an area where a group of girls are working. I duck into an alley to catch my breath, bending over with my hands on my knees as I gasp for air. I haven’t run that far in years, and I can barely breathe, much less try to hold a conversation. Eventually, I step slowly out of the alley, giving a sigh of relief that I don’t seem to have been followed.

  I approach the working girls on the corner and am greeted with suspicion and more than a little curiosity. I settle my gaze on the one who seems to be in charge and get right to the point.

  “I’m looking for The Club, the place run by Diego Dias.”

  “Everybody knows where Diego’s place is. That’s one fine ass man.” The woman’s curves are poured into a tight, ass-skimming skirt with a sheer blouse that’s cut so low, her breasts are barely contained by the flimsy fabric. She looks me up and down skeptically, smacking on the wad of gum in her mouth. “W
hatchoo need Diego for anyway? He only hires high-end girls. No offense, but you ain’t his type. Of course, he’s known for making women over.”

  “He’s my cousin,” I lie.

  “Your cousin? And you don’t even know where his establishment is—whatever.” I can see she’s tiring of our conversation and is probably more interested in the cars slowing down as they pass us. She turns away from me long enough to lean down and attempt a little marketing with a passing motorist. “Hey, baby, you lookin’ for a date? I got what you need right here.”

  “What about your friend there? She any good?” the prospective john asks her, leering over her shoulder at me and licking his lips expectantly.

  I take a step back and look to my stilettoed tour guide for her reaction. She bristles and in that moment, I know this guy’s unwanted attention may have just saved my night -- maybe even my life. My presence on her corner is a distraction that could cost her money – all the more reason for her to give me the information I need so I can move along. The almighty dollar…it’s the great equalizer.

  She turns back to me, narrowing her eyes as she speaks. “Two blocks over that way,” she says as she points me away from her corner, “then turn right onto Jefferson. Now get the fuck out of here before you cost me money and I stop feeling so generous.”

  “Thanks.”

  She doesn’t reply, just rolls her eyes and goes back to the john who continues to check me out even as she valiantly flirts with him.

  I take off in a jog, heading toward the one man who can hopefully protect me from the dangerous situation I’ve managed to get myself into. I hope this man who promised me a job and a better life is still willing to take me under his wing when he finds out I have a hit on my life – because I surely do by now. More than that, I hope he isn’t another dirt bag liar like Santiago.

  I hurry down the alley to the back entrance of The Club. My heart sinks when I reach for the door and, of course, it’s locked. I wait in the shadows until two dancers leave, taking the opportunity to slip inside without being noticed. As the door closes behind me, I nearly collapse against the wall, closing my eyes as I convince myself that, yes, I’m finally safe.

  A hallway leads me straight into a dressing room that is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. A long dressing table is lit up by mirrors. Funky black chandeliers twinkle from the high ceiling. Black and white walls complement a black and white carpet. I’m so fascinated by the unusual carpet pattern that I stumble slightly as I cross the room.

  Voices stop me in my tracks – a man and a woman. The man’s deep baritone mixes with the breathy, childlike voice of a woman. As the voices get closer and footsteps approach the door, I dart into a closet and hide behind a treasure trove of long gowns.

  Diego

  I pull Maria toward the dancers dressing room, prepared to contend with more of her bitchy drama. As we approach the stage door, I step aside to allow one of my dancers, Kat, to pass by on her way to do her next stage number. She’s hustling down the hall, not an inhibition in sight as she scoops first one breast then the other higher up into the cups of her sequined push-up bra, then presses a hand underneath each bra cup to shimmy everything into place. Her face lights up in a smile as she walks toward me and I smile back in warm greeting at one of my favorite girls.

  Kat is one of my most dependable employees. She worked for my old escort service before I started The Club. In fact, it damn near got her killed one night when she was almost beaten to death by a john. Believe it or not, a serial killer had a beef against the guy and showed up while Kat was there. In the ultimate irony, the john ended up dead but Kat was allowed to live.

  She didn’t tell me about it at first; I had to hear about it from someone else. I fucking hate that. So we had to have a long talk about honesty and trust. The thing is, I have to be able to count on my girls to be straight with me; I need to know when shit like that happens or I can’t run a good business. Now she’s one of my most trusted employees. Not a close friend like Foxy, but she’s right up there.

  I never sent her out on her own again after that night. When I entered into my business arrangement with the Ramirez brothers and started The Club, Kat came along as one of my ‘full-service’ girls. She’s got a great body so stripping comes easily to her, and with plenty of security looking out for her, she has no qualms about taking clients to the back rooms to make a little extra money by sucking them off or providing any other services they agree on.

  “Hola, papi,” she says sweetly, touching my arm as she passes by. Her eyes sparkle as she nods to the DJ, then the opening notes of ‘Bailando’ mean it’s show time. She shoots me a smile as she starts that long-legged strut onto the stage.

  “Have a good show, baby,” I call after her with a grin, but I know my voice is drowned out by the catcalls and whistles that greet her.

  Kat’s a good girl and doesn’t give me any trouble. We’ve enjoyed each other’s company on occasion in the past, that’s just part of the lifestyle here. But she never makes it out to be more than it is and she doesn’t stir up trouble with the other girls – and she hasn’t complained that I haven’t been partaking lately. That makes her a star employee in my book -- unlike Maria here, who continues to fuss and fume until we enter the dressing room.

  I point her toward her locker and hand her the lock—still packaged and complete with a combination. “Here. Fucking use it. Write down the combination somewhere no one can find it. This is the last time I’m dealing with this shit.”

  “I still don’t understand why you seem to think this is my fault,” she whines. “Yes, I didn’t have my stuff locked up -- but I shouldn’t have to!”

  I’m a patient man but this is getting old. Keeping the peace between twenty-five women isn’t an easy feat. Too many times, things that should be simple become complicated. They become…issues. And issues quickly become problems that I have to solve. Amazingly enough, I dealt with less bullshit when I was in the coke game. Those people just blow shit up and come in with guns blazing. Simple.

  There’s always jealousy and drama when you have this many women working together and it gives me a fucking headache. It just goes with the territory. Yeah…but, as nerve wracking as it is, I wouldn’t change a thing. It’s still better than being on the opposite end of cartel firepower.

  She puts the lock on and I insist that she work the combination once to make sure she has it memorized correctly. With a roll of her eyes, she successfully works the lock and huffs out of the room, her ass swaying saucily from side to side with each petulant step.

  “A thank you would be nice,” I drawl before she reaches the door.

  “Thank you, Diego,” she tosses obediently over her shoulder, pouting prettily at me from the door.

  “Now go make some money.”

  I start to follow her out the door but stop short as the hairs on the back of my neck bristle. With a frown, I turn and glance around the room, taking in my surroundings. Nothing seems out of place, but something just feels off.

  I venture over to the dressing room table that stretches along one wall and observe the different items strewn out on it. It’s all here, all the potions and creams needed to transform the Girl Next Door into a goddess who can talk my customers out of their last dime. I rifle through drawers and makeup cases, looking for any signs of the blow Maria was talking about.

  It never fails…when she gets pissed, she runs her mouth—works for me. The only thing about her is that she lies on the other women. It’s no secret that she’s had a thing for me from the day I hired her, although she’d never admit it. She’s always trying to make the other women look bad in my eyes. She knows how much I hate drugs and, in particular, she knows how tight Foxy and I are. She’s jealous, it’s that simple, and it’s a natural outcome of my approach to my business: I work hard at encouraging my women to become attached to me. It breeds loyalty and cooperation but, unfortunately, it also breeds jealousy.

  I spared no expense when it came to t
his dressing room. It’s the equivalent of a thousand-square foot walk-in closet. Only the best for my girls. Above the long table are beveled mirrors with adjustable lighting at each station, to suit each woman’s taste. Black chandeliers with crystal inlay hang from the high ceilings. The walls are done in black and white with the black portion of the design accented in velvet. The flooring is a black and white optical illusion carpet—it looks like it’s moving. I was being a total asshole when I had it installed, knowing it would fuck with the girls’ balance if they were drunk, high, or both—I couldn’t resist. Frankly, it discourages overindulgence in both booze and drugs.

  Shelves house an impressive selection of clothing, shoes, and accessories that any woman would covet, all of it stored in neatly labeled, coordinating containers. I’ve gone so far as to hire a woman whose sole job is to monitor the inventory and distribute wardrobe items the new girls need when they start working here. Hell, these women have even got their own hairstylist and makeup artist. I love women and enjoy indulging them in anything that enhances their femininity.

  I have to admit, Antonio Wayne has had a strong influence on my over-the-top provisions for my girls. He does it right. He knows every detail about his women, right down to the brand of make-up and shampoo each girl prefers. I don’t go that far, but I make sure they have whatever they want. Of course, I’m certain his ability to remember even the most trivial details makes it easy for him to shower his women with that level of indulgence. He and his brother Ricardo are both borderline geniuses, in addition to each having been blessed with a photographic memory. In our line of business, that’s bound to come in handy, but I can’t help but wonder if it’s a blessing or a curse to have total recall of even the tiniest details in life. Some things I don’t care to remember.

  I do, however, have my own gift of sorts: intuition. Life has taught me to listen to my gut. My instincts have never let me down. Running the backstreets and alleyways of Colombia makes any boy grow up quickly and teaches you to do what you must in order to survive. But above and beyond that, I have a powerful sixth sense that is never wrong, even if I don’t always understand what it’s trying to tell me right away.