UNPROTECTED: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance (Hanley Family Mafia)

by Zoey Parker

  I turn away, and the man shakes his head, gestures to the woman with his gun, “No English.”

  He grins gums. I stare at him and he grins back obliviously.

  He has no idea. No concept of how wrong this is.

  I open my mouth, “This…”

  My voice dies away, dies in the face of his complete and utter ignorance. The man probably hardly knows English himself.

  I take another look at the clump of women in the center.

  The few who noticed me already lost all interest, all their focus on the bottles of beer or wine they have cradled in their arms. They scratch absently at the tears of dirt on their faces and the indents of handcuffs on their wrists.

  I don’t blame them for hardly taking notice of me.

  After all, to them I’m just another one of their merciless captors. For them, this is just another pit stop in their journey of hell.

  The man shoots me a disgusting smile, a grin of camaraderie.

  I step forward, to tell him just how wrong he is, to yell at him - this man, this monster, this horrible sick monster - to save these women.

  My hands tremble with impotent rage. They want to strike this man, beat him how I can see he beat them, so he can never hurt anyone else again. They want to cut these women’s chains and take them with me, to the hospital, to anywhere. To help them.

  Behind me, footsteps sound. The men with the guns are coming in, eyeing me curiously.

  I inhale, then exhale. Wipe away the tears brimming in my eyes.

  Even if I could get these monsters to agree to let the women go, Carlos and the other lieutenants would have another shipment of women here in a week. The only thing that would change would be that I’m no longer in charge. No, to help these women, to really help any of them, I have to stop all of it.

  No, I have to let this horror remain, continue – for now.

  As soon as the decision is made, I stride out of there. I can’t take another second of it.

  Out in the fresh air, in freedom, the tears fall.

  I can still hardly believe it. What I just saw seems surreal, like an overdone movie. And yet, the image of that woman hunched over the book is as imprinted in my mind as if it had happened to me.

  I take a long look back at the dilapidated hellhole of the Factory, letting the tears fall. I don’t wipe them away.

  Now, I know. My life has been built on a wrong. And, now that I know, in order to live with myself, I’m going to have to make it right. I’m going to have to stop all this.

  Chapter 11

  Gabriel

  As soon as I hang up, the restlessness returns.

  Relief is on its way soon. But “soon” isn’t soon enough.

  I need to do something. Now.

  I call Jaws. I need to talk to someone.

  “Hey man, you haven’t heard anything about Hannah, have you?”

  “Naw, you told me she was on vacay, yeah?”

  “Yeah but... Jaws man, it’s weird. The text I told you about – it wasn’t Hannah. Then I went to her apartment and it was crazy clean and I heard something about some boyfriend named Carlos.”

  A sharp intake of breath, then Jaws says, “No… you don’t think…”

  I break in before he can finish the sentence with what I don’t want to think about, “I think something’s up. Would you ask around the other Rebel Saints chapters, put out some feelers, see if anyone’s seen anything?”

  “Yeah, yeah man. Shit.”

  “I know.”

  “Oh, and Boss?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You coming around? The new shipment’s in and it’s a good one. There’s a few you’ll definitely like.”

  Oh yeah, the shipment. Shit, I’d almost forgot. Good thing the motel thing’s tonight, not now.

  “Yeah,” I say, “good on you for reminding me. I’ll be right over.”

  As I hang up, I’m not sure what I feel anymore. At least I’ll have something to take my mind off things.

  I hop on my bike and roar her to life. Then I drive toward the foggy polluted haze of the horizon. The buildings look topless, the sky a cloud.

  I should’ve asked if it was the usual place.

  At a red light, I paw at my phone before letting it be.

  No matter. It's always at the usual place.

  Besides, I’m here already.

  The usual place is just as stunning as it ever is: smooth marble walls, overhead spangled with lights, the “Royal York Hotel” sign gleaming.

  As I walk through the already parted doors, I think of the first time we came here.

  I had my gun in my jacket pocket, I was so sure that it wasn’t going to work.

  And yet we pulled it off, six or so of us heaving the Smart car-sized crates through the opulent palace of a lobby, beneath the exquisite chandeliers and furniture that looked like it belonged more in a Rococo museum than a hotel, we did it. We lugged our two crates of fifteen or so girls through Toronto’s finest historic hotel, our footsteps just loud enough on the floor to blare out the shuffling inside the crates.

  “Statues,” we’d tell anyone who asked.

  As I head for the twined golden staircase, a nice specimen of a concierge gives me her best $35 an hour smile, says, “Welcome sir.”

  I nod, smile back.

  They know me here by now.

  Management, staff, they know to respect the “Do Not Disturb” sign on our door and leave it at that.

  But oh, if they only saw what was in those crates.

  Stacked on top of each other like life-size Barbie dolls, the drugged-out girls would make quite a sight indeed.

  It takes a few hours, along with a few bottles of the hotel’s best wine to get the girls back to life but it’s worth it. The palatial surroundings both impress and intimidate them; we usually don’t have to even show them our guns at all.

  I step onto the golden stairs and ascend, letting my hand slide along the sheath railing.

  Truth is, this place is the main thing that makes this all bearable. It almost makes it seem posh, what we’re doing in these marble walls.

  By the time I press my palm into our door and walk in, the girls are already roused and ready: sitting on the plush carpet in the center of the room, looking around, bored.

  From a lush velvet throne of a couch, Jaws nods to me. Then, gesturing to the tubby nightgowned woman on his knee, he says, “Brought the honey.”

  Tinsley titters, and turns to flutter a sausage-fingered wave at me.

  Behind her back, Jaws mouths at me, “I got her the ice cream shorts.”

  I grin and give him a thumbs-up.

  Seeing those two almost makes me believe in love again.

  On a bench that looks like a golden elaborately-carved platter with legs, Pip gestures to me. I flop down beside him and the show begins.

  Jaws clicks the remote, music engulfs the room and the girls begin moving.

  “Dance!” Jaws calls, sweeping his hand out in several figure eights, as if after what he said there was still any question of what they’re supposed to do.

  As the women get up and start moving, I let my gaze slide around them.

  Jaws was right. This is a good batch.

  They look like women off the street: well-fed, a bit bored – but not malnourished or miserable. Hell, even their lingerie is higher-quality, one of them’s got some satin boyshorts that are driving Pip wild.

  I tear my gaze away from her gyrating ass. Outfits can be changed, what matters is the girls themselves. Many aren’t cut out for dancing, and I don’t want a ticking time bomb who could blow up any second.

  I keep my gaze on their faces, switch it from one to the next and the next.

  Now, who looks like they might actually be a good addition to the Rebel Saints strip club?

  The first has droopy Eeyore eyes, looks like she might pass out at any minute. The second’s gaze is locked on a golden flower of a lamp on the wall, looks like she just received a text from a boring
ex-boyfriend or something. The third has a telltale tear of mascara down her cheek. The fourth is bobbing her head off-beat. The fifth’s eyes look like they’re ready to beam out of her head entirely. And the sixth –

  I stand with a jolt.

  No, no way.

  I shake my head, then sit down, my heart still pounding in my chest.

  “You good Boss?” Pip asks, and I nod.

  “Thought I recognized someone.”

  That sixth girl, her long-lashed doe eyes, for one horrible second I thought she might be… Hannah.

  “Yeah, I’m waiting for the day,” Jaws says with a laugh, “When I see an ex-girlfriend or some bitch from primary school here.”

  He laughs again, and I feel sick.

  “I’m partial to the mascara smear, but you know how I am about blondes,” Jaws chats away gaily.

  I switch my gaze to the end of the shipment, but again a jolt has me standing. That girl at the end, her long raven hair and crimson lips. Just like… the woman from the other night. My no-name tonight.

  In my pocket, I crumple up her number.

  Why do I care? So, she was wild, fun, passionate, actually read “War and Peace”– who cares? I’m seeing her tonight; shouldn’t that be enough?

  “I like the boyshort one,” Pip says softly, giving me a sidelong glance, trying to help.

  I nod again.

  “Yeah, this is a toughie, yeah? So many good ones it’s hard to choose,” Jaws gabs on.

  I stand up, walk past them to the door.

  I have to get out of here.

  “Uh Boss?” Pip says as I get to the door.

  “Yeah?”

  “You gonna leave us hanging man? Which one?” Jaws asks.

  “The one with the crazy eyes,” I say and leave.

  Outside, I freeze, nod to a passing concierge who averts his eyes. I watch him push his food cart along the hallway, not taking my eyes off him until he disappears in another room.

  There’s no way they could know, could they? What the hell’s going on with me?

  I stride out to my bike and hop on.

  I drive in the general direction of the motel, though nowhere really in particular. I drive to think, speed to slow my thoughts down.

  What just happened in that room there? That was business as usual and yet, it was nothing like usual. Those girls – the merchandise, that’s what they were merchandise. I had never thought of them as people, with brothers, lovers, lives. These girls had lives before this, and now? Now they’re slaves, cut off from everything.

  I pull over at a Dairy Queen, check my phone again, my heart falling as soon as I see: Nothing.

  Hannah can’t get back soon enough. I’m losing it without her.

  ###

  I get a nice big Oreo McFlurry and dig in, sitting alone in the corner of the over-lit fluorescent box of yumminess.

  At least Hannah would approve of this, stuffing my face with junk food instead of cigs or beer. Or drugs.

  I take a generous spoonful, and then another and another, my hunger growing with each bite.

  I can’t fall apart when Hannah’s missing like this. I need to stay clear-headed so I can find her. I will find her.

  I shovel more and more ice cream in my mouth, until I’m in there with it, sliding along the edge of a chunk of Oreo, sweeping along a tunnel of peanut butter. I’m lost in sensation, and I’m almost alright. Almost.

  When I’m done, I gaze out of the bright box into the dark empty night. There’s not a single car in the parking lot.

  Behind the counter, even the teenaged ponytail has disappeared, is off somewhere, probably texting her boyfriend or her best friend or her best friend’s boyfriend.

  I’d feel lonely if I didn’t have tonight.

  I glance at my phone. It’s early, but I’ll go anyway. I have nowhere else to.

  Chapter 12

  Toni

  I’m early but I had to get out of the house.

  Carlos was stalking around the first floor like a hyena, jumping whenever I opened a cupboard, glaring at me whenever I was in the same room.

  He probably called that witch Laurenz as soon as I stepped foot out of the house.

  Papa’s tucked away on the third floor, probably has no idea. Or maybe she’s working her magic on him too.

  I check the clock for the fifth time. Still 30 minutes to go.

  The albino doesn’t seem like the type to be late; I’ll start a bath.

  Even the sound of the bubbling out warmth makes me relax.

  Yes, this is just what I need. A nice bath and then a nice fuck.

  Escape from this headache-inducing hell I’ve been trapped in.

  I slip a toe in and exhale in pleasure.

  Just the right temperature. I lower myself in and, under the water, close my eyes.

  Submerged there, I’m free: worry laps at the edge of my mind, all remote and powerless.

  Ridiculous considerations float through my head, everything almost plausible in these soothing heat:

  Why not just hand over control to Carlos? He’s brutal but effective. He’s been dying to lead since he was old enough to talk. Then he’d leave me alone too. I could spend more time with Jane, do whatever I wanted to, whenever I wanted to – even leave.

  I stretch myself out further, savoring the warmth embracing every inch of my body.

  God, it would be so easy.

  I sit up, breaking out of the water for a breath.

  In the coolness, it all comes swirling back: the women filthy and sprawled on the floor like animals, that one in the corner reduced to reading chunks of a book.

  No, I can’t leave them and more like them to their fate. Carlos would never agree to change things. I have to do it myself.

  At the sound of the front door opening, I stand up.

  I left the bathroom door open; I didn’t expect anyone to come in. Not yet.

  In the front door, framed in the light, his white suit and white hair like a beacon, the realization hits me like a cold slug in the face.

  I know who that is.

  That’s Gabriel Pierson, leader of the Rebel Saints. That’s my greatest enemy. That’s the man I’m sleeping with.

  He lets the door slam behind him, strides to the door of the bathroom, stops to take me in.

  “You’re all ready for me,” he says, the pleasure in his voice flitting to his lips.

  I nod, speechless.

  Does he know?

  I search his face, but all I find is a want that I can already feel blooming between my legs.

  “Here, I’ll join you,” he says, his hands already unbuttoning his shirt.

  I get out of the tub.

  “Wait there,” he commands, and I freeze.

  He acts as if I’m not there, as he undoes the buttons, unhurried, casual. Like he’s in his own house, without a wet, naked woman before him.

  He undoes his pants and slips them off with the same nonchalance.

  It’s only when he’s completely naked, that he lets his gaze meet mine.

  An electric current goes through my body. His cock looks hard already.

  He strides forward, picks me up and tosses me in the tub, the water shooting out in all directions.

  He jumps in on top of me, every inch of him pressing against every inch of me. His hand sweeps up and down me in head-to-toe strokes, while mine clutch at his hard chest. I kiss the falcon on his left pec, while, mid-stroke, his hand goes between my legs.

  “Smart,” he says with a grin, “But useless. Trying to make yourself clean before being dirty again.”

  “I want you to fuck me inside-out,” I hiss, my hands going for the hard pole of his dick.

  While his one finger starts jerking in me, the other slips to my ass.

  At a squirting sound, my eyes flutter open to see his other hand topped with a white tuft of my vanilla body cream that I never got around to using.

  “So prepared,” he says, his one finger still pulsing away, sending my body i
n tremors, while the palm of his other runs down my back.