Menace

by J. M. Darhower

  “Uh, I don’t know,” Leo says. “Couple of days... weeks... maybe. How long did it take Ignazio to find who he was looking for?”

  “Damn near twenty years,” I say.

  “Well, there you go,” Leo says. “Two decades.”

  Two decades.

  In case you don’t know who Ignazio is, let me give you the Cliff Notes version of him: guy with a gun and a grudge looking for a girl to make him feel better. Took him way too long to catch up to her, and when he finally did, nothing went according to plan, which is reason number one-hundred and sixty-nine why I tend to work on the fly. I’m the kind of guy who will run into a burning building without thinking of the flames... especially since, you know, chances are I set the fire to begin with.

  Am I making sense here?

  I don’t know.

  I’m still kind of tired.

  Point being, I don’t have twenty years to wait. “I’ll give it twenty more minutes.”

  Leo gives me a peculiar look as I pull out my car keys. “You’re not driving today, are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Seriously? You? Driving?”

  “Yes.”

  “With everything being all white and icy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you feeling suicidal?”

  I laugh at that question. He doesn’t want me to answer it. I seem to forever exist in a gray area of life, caught in a web somewhere between homicidal and suicidal, and he knows it, no matter how much I try to shove rose-colored glasses over the boy’s eyes. He’s not blind to reality.

  “As titillating as this conversation has been, Pretty Boy, I’ve got to go,” I say, turning away. “Things won’t do themselves, you know.”

  There’s a sex joke in there somewhere, I know, but get your mind out of the gutter. There’s still work to do.

  “Good luck finding... whoever she is,” Leo calls out. “Don’t kill yourself! Or anybody else...”

  He doesn’t mean that in the intentional sense. Don’t get it twisted. He just doesn’t want me to skid off the road or plow into somebody.

  I’m already shivering by the time I make it to my car in the driveway. I start it up, cranking the heat full blast, before reaching into the glove box, where I stash a spare pair of glasses.

  The drive into northern Brooklyn should take fifteen minutes, but damn near half an hour passes before I pull up in front of the brick townhouse. Strolling to the front door, I bang on it. I bang… and bang… and bang…

  Why the hell isn’t anybody answering?

  It takes a few minutes before the door is pulled open. Seven stands there, half asleep, dark hair a mess, wearing only a pair of red boxer shorts with elves on them.

  Elves, Christmas ones, the pointy-eared little fuckers that work for Santa. He’s got elves on his shorts, holding little packages, the words ‘Merry Elfin Christmas’ written all around them. I tilt my head to the side, staring at them.

  Have I mentioned it’s nearing the end of January?

  Seven blinks rapidly. “Boss? What’s going on?”

  My gaze flickers to meet his as I shake it off. “Have you found her?”

  His brow furrows. “Who?”

  “The woman I told you to find.”

  “I, uh... what?”

  “Have you found the woman?” I ask again. “How much more clear do I need to make that?”

  “Uh, no, not yet.”

  “What’s taking so long?”

  He gapes at me like maybe he thinks I’m crazy, but I’m not the one wearing elf boxers a month after Christmas. “It’s only been a few hours.”

  “So?”

  “So... I haven’t even had the chance to look yet.”

  “You’ve had the chance to sleep, though,” I point out, gaze drifting back to his boxers. “At least I’m thinking you were sleeping, unless the missus has a little people fetish you haven’t mentioned.”

  He seems to just now realize what he’s wearing, because he makes a feeble attempt to cover up. “Sorry, boss. Yeah, we were sleeping. Actually, just dozed off a bit ago… figured I’d get right on it after catching a few hours of sleep, but if you need me now—”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive,” I say. “Take your little Keeblers there and go on back to bed.”

  He hesitantly goes back inside, too tired and cold to insist otherwise. I guess if I want this done before I grow old and die, I’m going to have to do it myself.

  Heading back to my car, I again crank up the heat before pulling out my phone, going right down the line, calling every damn number in it.

  You know a brunette with a red S tattooed on her wrist?

  No. Nope. Not ringing a bell, sorry.

  Same conversation, again and again and again.

  The day is long, so goddamn long, and I spend every waking second of it trying to track down the little thief. Nobody in my circles will acknowledge knowing her, at least. It’s dusk already, as I sit in my car not far from the bar, just feet from where she robbed me, when my phone rings.

  Seven.

  “Gambini,” I say as I answer it.

  “I’ve got nothing, boss,” he says. “I’ve tried every connection I’ve got and the description is just too vague. I even got up with Amello, since he runs his games out of that neighborhood, and he said she didn’t sound like any girl he’s ever come across.”

  “Figures,” I mutter. “Thanks.”

  “Anytime. I’ll keep digging, see what I can stir up.”

  “You do that.”

  Hanging up, I slip my phone into my pocket before strolling into Whistle Binkie, taking a seat right at the bar, encountering the same bartender from last night. Once again, he eyes me with alarm.

  “Rum,” I tell him. “Just give me the bottle.”

  He obliges, shoving a half-empty cheap bottle onto the bar in front of me. I’m not even going to pretend tonight, ripping the spout right out and tipping it back.

  There aren’t many other people here at this hour. I look around curiously, thinking maybe she might show up again, but I’m not that lucky. I gaze at the empty stool, where she sat less than twenty-four hours ago, staring at it for a moment before something strikes me.

  “Hey, you wouldn’t by chance remember a woman that was in here last night, would you?” I ask the bartender. “Young, brunette, red dress, sat right there...”

  The bartender’s attention shifts to the stool I point at before he looks at me again. “Morgan, you mean?”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Maybe, if the Morgan you’re talking about has a tattoo on her wrist.”

  “Cursive S,” the bartender says.

  Son of a bitch. “That’s the one.”

  “I’ve always wondered what it stood for,” he says. “She comes in sometimes, sits by herself, orders something cheap, flirts a bit then jets back out. I asked her once, you know, about the tattoo.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “She said it stood for ‘stay out of my fucking business’.”

  Okay, that makes me laugh. It probably shouldn’t. She’s got a mouth on her, that’s for sure. “So, Morgan, you say?”

  “Yep.”

  Morgan. I don’t like it.

  “Tell me something, Bar Boy. You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find this Morgan, would you?”

  He hesitates, like he doesn’t want to answer that. Ding, ding, ding... there it is. I pull out my wallet, figuring cash always loosens lips, and tense when I open it.

  Shit. Still empty.

  Almost forgot she robbed me.

  Once again, I laugh, even though I shouldn’t find it funny. I don’t even have anything on me to pay for the liquor I’m drinking. Unbelievable.

  The woman is starting to be a thorn in my side, but I have to admit, as frustrating as it’s been, I haven’t had a dull moment in the past twenty-four hours.

  I shove my wallet back away, standing up from the bar. “Tell m
e where to find her.”

  “I only know where she works,” he says. “Will that help?”

  Chapter Six

  “Morgan... oh God, Morgan, baby... you’re so tight.”

  His voice is nasally. So damn nasally. He sounds like a character off of South Park. Everything dries up at the mere sound of it, all desire withering away, dying an unfortunate death.

  Why does he always have to talk?

  Grimacing, I shove my face into the black leather couch cushion, unable to stop the cry that escapes my throat. Ugh, it hurts, like being fucked with a knife, pain stabbing at my insides. He probably doesn’t hear the sound I make, though.

  The music is too loud.

  “You love that, don’t you?” he asks, his hands grasping my hips as he thrusts, leaning over and shouting so I’ll hear him. “Love the way my cock feels?”

  “You know I do,” I grind out, nearly choking on the lie. I hope he makes this fast.

  He won’t, though. No, I’m not that lucky. He’ll savor every second of ignorant bliss, oblivious to the fact that I’m not into it. Stubby fingers explore, searching for a sweet spot he’ll never find. I could draw him a map and it would still evade him, like the Holy Grail exists somewhere between my thighs.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to detach, try to not think about the fact that a sleazy middle-aged jackass in a cheap suit is pounding into me from behind, sweating and panting and having the time of his life, while I’m just desperately waiting him out.

  Waiting... and waiting... and waiting...

  A red glow covers everything. The red room. It’s a cliché, I think, but it’s a favorite here at Mystic for some reason. It feels like an eternity passes, each slam of his hips driving my face further into the couch. His overpowering cologne clings to the air, smelling sickeningly like pine, swaddling my senses until I gag. Gross. It’s stifling. It’s suffocating. I just can’t seem to breathe. My chest aches for a deep breath I haven’t taken in a long time, my heart locked in a steady, dull rhythm.

  His grip on me tightens. I open my eyes when I feel it, knowing he’s close to finishing. Finally. A few more hard thrusts before he grunts, stilling, dropping his body weight over on top of me. An exhilarated laugh escapes him, his warm breath ghosting across my skin. I shiver from disgust when his lips find my neck, his tongue drawing a path toward my ear, before he whispers, “I wish I could fuck you all night long.”

  “Me, too,” I say, another lie, because hell no. I can hardly stomach a fifteen-minute rendezvous.

  “Maybe next time,” he whispers before moving away to stand up.

  Exhaling, I slide down flat against the couch, relieved to have him not touching me. For now.

  I watch as he gathers his clothes to get dressed. He’s classically handsome, I suppose, if you like that sort of thing—dark hair, bronzed skin, eyes the color of an afternoon sky, deep dimples and perfect teeth. He’s even got the most adorable freckles.

  His phone rings as he pulls himself together, discarding the condom in the small trashcan behind a small bar on the left side. Pulling his phone out, he frowns. “Sorry, hate to cut this short, but I have to take this call.”

  Sorry? I’m not sorry. Pfft, bye.

  He jets out into the hall, heading for the back exit. As soon as he’s out of sight, I breathe a sigh of relief and get up. My pussy throbs but not in the good way, not in that thoroughly fucked, fully satiated way. No, it screams angrily at me for allowing the intrusion (I know, I know… ugh, ick, gross…). I’m pretty sure the man doesn’t know the definition of foreplay, and quite frankly, the thought of his mouth on me, the thought of him caressing my body just makes me queasy, so painfully dry it will forever be.

  I make my way to the changing room, the last door at the end of the hall by the exit. It looks like a middle school locker room. Smells like one, too. Hell, even feels like one sometimes. Uncomfortable. It’s empty, all of the women working, but I’ve had my fill of this place for the night.

  I’m getting out of here.

  I go straight to my locker on the end, opening it and grabbing my black duffel bag to gather my things. I strip out of the skimpy black lingerie, changing into a pair of yoga pants and tank top, putting my coat on over it. Running my fingers through my hair, I pull it back into a ponytail as tingles creep along my spine, an unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  I glance around the vacant locker room.

  It’s strange, the sensation that flows through me. It’s one I’m all too familiar with. It’s the feeling of being watched, the feeling that I’m not alone, even when I know I am.

  Paranoia is a bitch.

  Grabbing my bag, I slide my feet back into a pair of cheap black heels before leaving. My footsteps stall outside, and I glower. I hoped I could skedaddle out of here without enduring an awkward goodbye, but no such luck.

  He’s hanging up from his call when I appear.

  “Sorry again,” he mumbles, shoving the phone away as he eyes me. “You off work now?”

  Technically, I had the entire night off, but this is the only place I’m willing to meet up with him. “Yep, heading out early.”

  “You, uh... want me to walk you home?”

  I force a smile. “Nice try.”

  “It’s just an offer,” he says, raising his hands defensively. “Just looking out for you. It’s late, and dark, and—”

  “And I can take care of myself, thanks,” I say, cutting him off.

  “You ever going to trust me, Morgan?” he asks. “I’m here to help you.”

  “I know,” I say. “But trust, well… it’s not easy for me. And it’s not that I don’t trust you. I just don’t trust anything. You know how it is.”

  “I do,” he admits, frowning. “Anyway, I should go. You okay? You need some money or, uh…?”

  He goes to reach for his wallet.

  I want to hit him in the nose for it.

  “I don’t want your money,” I say. “I’m not a prostitute.”

  “Of course,” he says. “I just figured…”

  “That I needed money,” I say, finishing his thought, “but I don’t need money from you. What I need is for you to actually do your job, detective.”

  He grimaces. He doesn’t seem to ever like that reminder.

  Detective Gabriel Jones with the 60th precinct.

  “Look, I’m going to talk to them again,” he says. “First thing tomorrow, I promise.”

  “Thank you.”

  Gabe leaves, getting in his unmarked black Ford with tinted windows. I wait until he’s gone before I start walking, keeping my head down, my steps hurried. My gaze flickers along the road, making sure he isn’t circling and following.

  He’s done it before.

  I’ve caught him every time.

  There’s no sign of the black Ford, but I still can’t shake that feeling, the one that tells me something is off. I run the last block to my building, darting inside and pausing by the entrance, staring out the square glass window, waiting for somebody.

  Nobody’s around.

  “I’m losing my mind,” I grumble, padding up the stairs to my top floor apartment.

  First order of business is a hot shower. I scrub every inch of my body, washing it all away. Every touch, every kiss, and every thrust—I purge it from my memory as if it never happened. Afterward, I dry my hair and grab a too-big, plain white t-shirt from my closet, not bothering with any other clothes.

  I head for the steep winding metal steps in the corner of the tiny living room. Scaling them quickly, I push the door open at the top and step out onto the rooftop.

  The frigid winter air slaps me, stinging my face and assaulting my bare legs, but I ignore it. Pulling myself up onto the concrete ledge along the side, I peer out into the city. Nine, maybe ten o’clock at night, a Sunday in the Lower East Side of Manhattan, not far from the East River. I can see for blocks, a bustle all around me as cars fill the streets and people walk along the sidewalks.

  I�
��m barely out here for a minute before that feeling rolls through me again, so intense my stomach clenches.

  I hate the sensation.

  It’s like being haunted, like there’s always a ghost around me, following me, taunting me, not ever letting me be in peace.

  I don’t move, don’t bother to look, as a chill ripples down my spine. Despite my best effort to stay composed, I tremble, goose bumps erupting along my skin as my hair stands on end, my reaction having little to do with the coldness outside.

  “What do you want from me?” I whisper, staring out at the city.

  “My money.”

  The voice rings out behind me, so close… too close. The gravelly deep tone hits me like a punch to the chest as it unexpectedly answers my question.

  Someone’s here. Oh god.

  A shaky breath escapes me as I turn to look behind me on the roof.

  The second I see the face, every muscle inside of me seizes, my heart even skipping a beat, hesitating, like it hasn’t in a long time. My eyes scan him in the darkness—sharp features, strong jawline, sturdy build and a long scar that cuts through the side of his face, the jagged groove glowing in the moonlight. His eyes are opposite shades of blue—one damn near midnight, while the other is more of an early morning skyline.

  Classically handsome, maybe not, but something about him is mesmerizing, like watching him is hypnotizing. It’s not enough to overshadow my fear, though, because he’s just as alarming as he is alluring, maybe even more so.

  Scratch that. Definitely more so.

  He stares at me, not a flicker of emotion showing on his face. There’s almost something inhuman about it.

  I’m not sure what to say or what to do, so I just stare back, but he doesn’t seem to like that. No, his cheek twitches, his eyes narrowing, so I avert my gaze, scanning the rooftop around us.

  Think. Think. Think.

  He’s blocking the way back inside, so I glance behind me, over the ledge, at the busy city street below.

  Ugh, that drop would hurt like a son of a bitch.

  “I don’t recommend jumping,” he says, “unless you want to go splat.”