by Leah Cutter
Gave me the willies just walking around.
Csaba was nowhere to be seen. He might fuck in public, but I doubted he’d share a girl like the two (three?) in the living room. That meant he was either upstairs, fucking in one of the bedrooms, or downstairs, playing bondage games.
I didn’t like either option. Still, I opted for upstairs first.
I’d just reached the first landing when this scared-looking, skinny white guy came barreling down the stairs. He was dressed in combat fatigues—either scrounged or he was a vet. I didn’t know if he was high or what. I pressed myself against the cold glass of the window on the landing to get out of his way.
I needn’t have bothered. He flew past me, taking the stairs three at a time, weirdly graceful. He bolted right out of the house, as if his ass were on fire.
Didn’t make me any happier to be going upstairs.
At the top of the stairs, I finally recognized someone I knew—Dusty, Csaba’s second in command. He had that whole James-Dean-bad-boy slouch going on, leaning against the wall to my left. All five doors in the hallway were closed.
I didn’t have to guess what he was standing guard for. The rhythmic slapping sound coming from the door he stood next to told me everything I needed to know.
Dusty’s curly hair was probably as blond as Kyle’s had been, only I didn’t think it came out of a bottle. He had bad acne across his nose and cheeks, making his face red and scarred. It stood out in the half-light coming from the dim bulb hanging from the ceiling, like some kind of weird mask, while his chin and mouth disappeared into the dark.
“Whatcha want?” he asked, hitching up the pants that were belted across his butt, drawing my attention to his navy blue silk boxers.
I didn’t know if it was a good thing or a bad thing that he seemed to know me.
“Who was that racing down the stairs? What happened to him?” I asked instead.
“Hunter.” Dusty chuckled and shook his head. “No idea what happened to him, what he saw. Guy lives with ghosts.”
That made him either a junkie, or a failed pre-cog, or both.
“Csaba around?” I asked, hopeful, since Dusty had been nice enough to tell me about the other guy.
“Downstairs,” Dusty said, his voice going neutral. “You looking to score?”
“Naw, special home delivery,” I lied.
I worked in a sex & toy shop. Claiming to have goodies with me had gotten me into more than one “exclusive” party.
“Freak,” Dusty said, shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest.
I knew when I wasn’t wanted. I still blew him a kiss before I turned and walked back down the stairs. What can I say? I really don’t know when to stop sometimes.
So it was down into the dungeon for me.
***
I did have some kind of luck, though I was never sure what kind. Since I worked in a sex & toy shop, there wasn’t much I hadn’t seen kink-wise from reviewing the porn videos, or looking through the catalogues, trying to figure out which titles I should order for the store.
So as I crept down the steep, twisted wooden staircase leading to the basement, I wasn’t shocked, horrified, or even turned on by what I saw.
It wasn’t the fanciest dungeon setup I’d ever seen. The walls were painted an incongruous sunflower yellow. Sconces held electrified candles, all set to dim, every three feet or so—atmospheric, I suppose. The floor was concrete and I bet there was a drain somewhere so it could be hosed down.
On one side of the big basement room stood a simple wooden cross with a voluptuous girl tied to it, her playmate/torturer wearing electrodes strapped to his fingers so arching sparks of blue lightning kept prickling her skin and making her writhe in pain. On the other side was a vaulting horse with a skinny boy strapped down to it, a woman in a knee-length, tight red leather dress whipping him slowly with a matching red leather flogger.
Men stood in packs, watching the two shows, their dicks out, stroking themselves or each other. When I reached the bottom of the stairs I saw, in another corner, a pair of blindfolded girls making out with each other, sharing a pocket rocket vibrator, passing it back and forth.
The smell of smoke and the musk of sex lay thick in the air. It was as bad as the booths for the peep show that I regularly cleaned out with bleach.
I took two steps, then stopped. Ew. The floor was sticky. I wasn’t about to look too closely to figure out what had made it sticky. I might have to wash the soles of my boots. I sure as hell wasn’t about to touch anything.
Just past the bottom of the staircase, Csaba sat on his slick, black leather couch. I figured it was easier to get the stains out of that than some kind of fabric, no matter how well it had been Scotchgarded. He nodded his fat head in time with the deep bass playing in the background, some rap song where the words had been scrambled and just the beat remained.
Csaba looked like a pudgy Greek, with greasy black hair and olive skin. He licked his lips constantly with his flabby tongue, as if he was tasting the air or something. His nose was practically melted into his skin, as if his fat cheeks had muscled in on the center of his face.
Yeah, there were reasons why he was sometimes referred to as Jabba the Hutt, though never to his face.
When I walked over to the couch, Csaba looked up with a scowl. “Looking to score?”
“No, I—”
“Then I ain’t interested. Get out of here,” Csaba said, waving me away with one of his ringed hands, his attention firmly focused on the boy being spanked harder now.
“Kyle Magnusson was killed tonight,” I told him.
That at least got Csaba to look at me. “Cops know what happened?”
I shrugged. “It was something weird. Maybe a new drug.”
“So you think they’ll be coming for Csaba? You thought you’d warn me? For what? What do you want?” Csaba asked.
I hadn’t, actually, come to warn him. However, it was as good an excuse as any. “Was Helen of Troy killed recently?” I asked.
“Yeah. Cops were thinking that was some kind of drug, too,” Csaba said, casually. Then he sat up straight. “Shit. They really are coming after me, aren’t they?”
Csaba stood up and clapped his hands. The music instantly stopped. The moaning of the woman followed by another static shot sounded clear through the basement.
“What about a hooker named Lizzie? Over in St. Paul?” I asked.
“We gotta move, people,” Csaba announced, ignoring me.
“There was another hooker, named Lizzie—” I said again, trying to get Csaba’s attention.
“I heard you the first time,” Csaba said bluntly. “Leave the soundbox. And the toys,” he instructed. Then he turned to me. “Hadn’t heard of her. Erikson might have, though. You’ll find him at Red Moon, in northern St. Paul, after midnight most nights.”
Then Csaba firmly turned away from me. “Davis, grab the truck. Pauline, roust the group upstairs.”
I slipped away before Csaba could decide to give me some type of order, make me help him move him and his party.
Were the police really on their way? Would they blame someone like him?
Of course they would. He was probably next on their list. Had he dealt to Kyle? It wouldn’t surprise me. The warehouse district in downtown Minneapolis was Csaba’s neighborhood.
I raced up the stairs as quickly as I could, stepping aside as Dusty and others came trooping down.
Upstairs, the orgy had already been interrupted. Boys were shoving their legs into baggy jeans. I didn’t go look for the girl in the room with the food—the party was on the move, and someone would wake her enough to bring her along.
The cold bit into me as soon as I stepped outside. Fuck. I paused in the porch and slid on my gloves, zipping up my jacket and pulling it tighter around my neck.
It wasn’t going to help much. Cold like that just burned.
The sky was still inky black, with stars peeping through the light cast by the streetlights. There wasn’t any noise
, now. The snow muffled my footsteps and the main streets were too far away to hear the traffic. It was like the cold had killed everything. Some might have found it peaceful—I found it creepy as fuck.
I walked as quickly as I could back toward Kyle’s car, my hands shoved deep in my jacket pockets. I needed a cigarette. I needed a good long nap. Hell, I’d settle for a quick fuck and a rest at that point.
I was so focused on my own steps, and not falling on the ice and breaking my ass, that I was almost all the way to the car before I realized I wasn’t alone.
A round-shaped man stood on the sidewalk in front of me. My stomach fell. This wasn’t good.
“Figured you knew more than you’d say,” came a nasal voice.
Shit. Ferguson. The cop. Had he followed me? Had they tracked Kyle’s car?
It didn’t matter. I was well and truly fucked. There was no way I could make bail if they arrested me.
Hell. They might just decide I’d killed Kyle for his car, since I’d stolen it right after his death.
“Look, I can explain,” I started. I didn’t see Ferguson roll his eyes, but I’m sure that’s what he wanted to do. Every criminal probably told him that kind of line.
A strange wailing sound started up from behind me.
“What the—” was all that Ferguson managed to say before someone grabbed me from behind, an ironlike arm slipping around my waist. I was picked up and thrown over a shoulder. Then I was bouncing, my stomach hitting rock-hard shoulder, as we moved with speed along the frozen sidewalk.
“Let’s go,” came the insistent command in my ear.
Not like I really had any choice about the matter. The thing—person—man?—who had me by the waist wasn’t letting my feet touch the ground.
I didn’t know humans could move this fast.
Ferguson yelled something behind us. Despite my luck, he didn’t start shooting.
“Who are you?” I asked. “Where are you taking me?” It had all happened so quickly. I didn’t know if I should start struggling or screaming or what. The guy was freakishly strong, too. I wasn’t tiny, and he was acting as if I didn’t weigh anything at all.
“Someplace safe,” the guy growled. “Safer, at any rate.”
I froze solid at that. Was Ferguson dirty? What exactly was this strange man trying to save me from?
We dove between houses, leaping off a pile of car parts and sprinting up, over the snow, between two houses, into a garage and out the back side of it.
Half a block away, a car waited, idling by the curb. It was black and a beater, like Kyle’s.
Somehow, that made me feel better.
“Go,” the man ordered after he’d opened the door to the backseat and shoved me in, settling himself next to me.
The car was warm. My face instantly felt like it was on fire, particularly after the cold and the wind of the night. The car smelled like week-old french fries, moldy seat cushions, and spilled soft drinks.
“Who are you?” I demanded, turning to the guy sitting next to me. “And why did you kidnap me?” I figured I should at least get my story straight. Ferguson might argue that I’d run, but really, I hadn’t had much choice in the matter. Sure, I could have struggled, but going along with the crazy person had seemed like a better idea at the time.
“I didn’t kidnap you. I rescued you,” the guy said.
He was skinny and pale and dressed in Army fatigues. I couldn’t really see his face in the dark of the car, but I bet his eyes were blue and wide and scared. “Hunter?” I queried.
He gave me a quick flash of white teeth. “Yes. And you are my companion. My true blood brother.”
I caught the eye of the pudgy guy driving in the rear view mirror. “Only the lucky few get chosen this way,” he told me solemnly.
Shit. I think I would have rather faced the police than two crazed junkies.
Chapter Five
They didn’t take me to some abandoned warehouse, which I suppose was some sort of luck. Instead, they took me to the pudgy one’s—Josh’s—apartment.
The neighborhood we drove through still hadn’t woken up, though it must have been edging on five a.m. at this point. Buses were running, but everyone else seemed to have hunkered down for the winter. Most of the windows in the apartment buildings we drove by were dark, as were the small restaurants and coffee shops.
Then I realized we were close to the University of Minnesota—all the smart kids had left campus, and the ones who’d stayed weren’t about to brave the cold if they didn’t have to. Probably a lot of store owners felt the same, and wouldn’t open up again until classes restarted.
We parked in a large, open-air lot that held only a few cars, most of them beaters. Either Josh had a fake student ID, or he was making good enough bucks to pay to park there.
When I slid out of the back seat, Hunter was right behind me. He grabbed my arm as soon as he stood up.
Was he afraid I was going to run or something? How in the hell did he think I’d get away from him? He was super strong, and superfast.
By the time we reached the sidewalk, I realized that Hunter wasn’t afraid that I’d run. He constantly looked over his shoulder, up the block, down the block, tracking cars and the single insane jogger who passed us.
The reason he kept his arm on me was because he was also afraid that something or someone would appear and attack us. By keeping me close, he could better protect me.
It was pretty fucked up, but it made me feel better.
Josh’s apartment building must have been classy once. It was done in that fake Tudor style, with broad wooden beams that needed painting and stucco that now crumbled and came away from the walls in patches. Large signs were posted outside the glass doors, directing people to stand at least fifteen feet away from the door if they wanted to smoke. Inside were more warnings about no smoking inside.
“Dude, are you kidding me?” I asked Josh as we entered. “You can’t even smoke in your own damned apartment?”
Josh shrugged. “Don’t smoke.”
Jesus. Healthy junkies. God save me.
“Look, I haven’t had a smoke in ages,” I told Hunter. I was dying for a hit. Particularly since the adrenaline had started wearing off, it was still five in the goddamn morning, and I was going to fall asleep on these two pretty soon. Didn’t know how the hell I was going to make it through the next day at work, either.
“Soon,” Hunter promised easily.
I knew he was lying. I also couldn’t get away, and screaming didn’t seem the ideal thing to do. Not yet. Not until I had a better idea who and what I was dealing with. Hunter would just find me again, carry me off to someplace more remote.
He had that whole unstoppable-intense thing going on in his eyes.
The hallway was at least warm, though it smelled like cat pee. Dark red carpet hid the worst of the stains. The plaster wall bulged and sagged in one place—probably a busted water pipe that had never really been fixed, or that broke every year with the first freeze.
Stairs went up to the next level, with a modern balustrade that was probably the most up-to-date thing in the entire building. Of course, that’s not where we went. Instead, we went downstairs.
“Really?” I asked, though no one seemed to want to reply. At least three of the stairs creaked badly, though the carpet seemed newer. I bet the wood was rotting underneath, though. This shitty staircase was an accident waiting to happen.
“Y’all want an inspection for Christmas, don’t you?” I asked. Neither Josh or Hunter reacted. “Never mind.”
Much to my surprise, Josh’s apartment wasn’t garden level. The building must have been built on a hill. While the front of the building was at street level, so was the back, lower level. Just off Josh’s living room was a set of glass doors leading directly out to the alley.
Just inside the door was a built-in hutch, like for showing off china or something, even though the building wasn’t that old. “That original?” I asked Josh, pointing at the hutch. I
t was painted the same plain beige as the walls, but I bet it was all wood underneath.
Josh shrugged, obviously having no idea what I was asking about.
“My dad. He was into architecture,” I said with a shrug. Driving through neighborhoods and talking about the buildings was something we’d done a lot of just before he’d been killed.
“A buildings expert,” Hunter said, nodding. “Good.”
I opened my mouth to correct him, then figured, why bother?
I was surprised that Josh insisted we take off our boots in the front hallway and not track snow through the rest of his place. I was even more surprised that Hunter acquiesced. He didn’t seem like the type to ever let down his guard, let alone take off his boots in a stranger’s place.
Then again, maybe he’d already checked it out and had figured out his ten exits and cubbyholes.
The living room was decorated in typical working-poor chic. The long couch to the left was probably used and was covered in an ugly floral bedspread. Blue plastic milk carts, precariously balanced one on top of the other, made up the end tables. Pizza boxes and a few empty cans of PBR beer completed the decorations.
Hunter took hold of my arm again. I tensed, but he merely led me to the couch and let me go.
I settled down uneasily on the lumpy furniture, while Josh sat in a chair and Hunter stayed standing, pacing.
“So,” I said, when no one started talking. “Someone want to illuminate me why we’re all meeting here today?”
Hunter stopped pacing. It was weird how he did that, went from all raw, restless energy that seemed as though it would never stop, to sudden, total stillness.
“I did not kidnap you,” Hunter reassured me. “You were in grave danger. The police in this town are too easily corrupted by the government. I had to get you away. Get you to safety.”
I could tell he totally meant to be reassuring. He had the body language and the kind eyes down pat.
But there was a disconnect between his words and how he said them. It was like he didn’t really believe them himself.
“Sure,” I said, nodding. “So when the nice police officer comes to my apartment and breaks down my door and accuses me of resisting arrest and running away, what should I tell him?”
