Boston Underworld: The Collection

by A. Zavarelli

  But either way, he’s damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t.

  Once I’ve disposed of all his valuables, I retrieve the duffle I stash in my rented room before I meet with a client. It’s good to be prepared. And I’m the best goddamn girl scout they’ll wish they never crossed paths with.

  His wrists and ankles are already bound with zip ties. The clothes come off next.

  A pair of craft scissors does the job in a jiffy, saving me from blunting my favorite knife. Stripped of his clothes, trust fund Teddy looks ridiculous slumped against the bed frame, his flaccid cock squished between his thighs.

  It only gets more outlandish when I add some fishnets and heels to my pliable little doll.

  It’s all so easy breezy. That might suck the wind from my sails if I stop to think about it. So I don’t stop to think about it.

  Because now comes the fun part.

  From my bag, I choose a big blue dildo and shove it into his slackened mouth. Next comes the nipple clamps.

  I fetch my camera and toy with the settings, really hamming up the role of fotog. Now that I know where Teddy likes to play, his upper echelon haunts will be plastered in flyers come Monday.

  That’s right, housewives.

  Guard your children. Lock your doors. There’s a creep just next door.

  If only they knew they were all creeps.

  What their husbands get up to when they are at book club on Thursdays. What their own sons are doing to the pretty cheerleader in the bathroom at school.

  They don’t know. Because they don’t want to know.

  They can keep their delusions until I shove it in their face.

  Teddy stirs a little as I’m snapping photos.

  “Smile for the camera,” I tell him sweetly. “You’re a natural, Tedster.”

  He murmurs something that sounds an awful lot like ‘cunt’.

  So I slap him in the face before I step back to admire my handiwork. It isn’t the act itself that I derive pleasure from. It’s the aftermath.

  The knowledge that when he wakes up, he will feel just as violated and humiliated as he makes his paid whores feel.

  Having a momentary loss of power can be a life altering experience.

  But one full night of shame?

  That’s the spaghetti on the wall. It burns into your brain and haunts you in all your waking moments.

  Teddy here will come to understand that.

  They all come to understand that.

  There’s only one way to wipe his transgressions free in my book.

  A sin for a sin.

  I drag the chair closer so he has a nice view for the show that’s about to start. His ticket was punched from the moment he walked into the bar tonight, and it’s VIP all the way.

  When he stirs, I’m kind enough to give him a few moments to find some sense of lucidity before I lay into him.

  “Why are you doing this?” he slurs.

  I cock my head to the side and give him a bored expression. It’s always the same questions from these tools.

  At least once, it’d be nice if they surprised me.

  But alas, men are men, and they seldom do.

  I fish around for my scrapbook and open the well-worn pages, dangling it in front of his face.

  There are five photographs on those first two pages. Along with small placards that display height, weight, and physical characteristics.

  But no names.

  Those are for my lips only.

  And perhaps Teddy’s too, if he decides to be honest.

  “Think carefully before you answer,” I tell him. “If you play your cards right, then you- nor your family or friends- will ever have to see these pictures again.”

  I toss the Polaroids I took tonight onto his lap, and he gives them a cursory glance. There’s a flush creeping up his neck now and a tightness in his jaw that wasn’t there before. He wants to inflict damage. On little old me.

  “Aw, look at that,” I say. “Just dills your little pickle, doesn’t it?”

  He grunts and tries to squeeze his legs together.

  “Be a good boy,” I urge. “I know you wouldn’t want to be cut out of mummy’s will. You know how that saying goes. Old money is much more respectable than new.”

  “Fuck you, cunt,” he slurs again, his binds chafing against his wrists as he struggles to get free. It’s no use. They ought to know that.

  “You don’t owe them anything,” I assure him. “I know how you boys like to play. So, tell me what goes down in the metaphorical locker room. Something they wouldn’t want the world to know.”

  His eyes flutter shut, and he almost drifts off into oblivion again, so I give him a hard slap to wake the fuck up.

  “You’re going to be sorry,” he grunts.

  “That’s what they tell me,” I reply. “But I never am. Clock’s ticking, my friend. And I’m only going to warn you once, I’m rather short on patience.”

  Teddy is quiet, but the gears turning in his pea sized brain are loud. He’s trying to conjure up a lie. Again, it’s downright formulaic the way they react to this scenario.

  I sigh and lean back in my chair, crossing my legs. He looks at them and doesn’t hide it. He’s wondering what it’d be like to choke me and then fuck me. Show me who’s boss. If his eyes didn’t tell me so, his dick is talking plenty on its own.

  I decide to raise.

  “Fine, we’ll take it slow. That’s what you tell the girls, isn’t it? Before you tie them up and rail on them? I bet mummy wouldn’t be so fond of that little detail either.”

  “Who the fuck are you?” he snarls.

  “The only thing you need to be concerned with right now is your old Yale chums and their dirty laundry. You’ve got exactly five minutes to tell me what I want to know. And then you can skip along on your merry way, photos in hand.”

  A lie, of course. What fun would that be for me?

  “Come to think of it…” he says, and my heart beats a little faster. I want it so bad I can taste it, but I’ve got a good poker face, and Teddy here doesn’t know that yet.

  “A few of them do look familiar,” the piece of shit says.

  I grit my teeth together and stuff down the vile disappointment in my throat.

  “They should, since they’re like a bad case of Syphilis on all of your social media accounts.”

  His cheeks turn a little rosy at the trap he’s found himself in.

  Lord, what fools these mortals be.

  “A name, if you would be so kind.”

  My voice is all sugar, and it honestly scares me how good I’ve become at the game. Sensei Scarlett is about to school the little grasshopper if he doesn’t catch a clue soon.

  “I don’t know,” the moron continues on with his charade. His acting skills certainly leave something to be desired. “We met at a party in college. I was drunk. But I’m almost certain one of them works at The Hancock.”

  “Don’t you mean Clarendon?” I correct.

  “Yeah, that’s the one,” he agrees.

  He’s cool as a cucumber as he says it, but beneath that staged expression, his hands are itching with the urge to pummel my face bloody. He would too if he could get loose.

  “Gee, that’s super helpful,” I tell him with all the false excitement I can muster. “There are only like a bajillion stories in that building, right?”

  His pleasantness slips back into the void in which it came from.

  “Look, bitch, I don’t know what the fuck you want from me. I don’t know them.”

  A resigned sigh ushers up from the cavity of my chest as I hang my head in my hands and cry crocodile tears.

  “You’re right,” I whine. “I just feel so bad that I have to fuck you up anyway.”

  “What?” he snarls.

  I pull my hands away from my face and smile again.

  “Don’t worry.” I toss the pictures back into my bag and exchange them for a set of brass knuckles instead. “We’ve moved past them. Long gone, they
are.”

  “Then what the fuck are you doing?” he asks, eyeing the metal glint against my hand.

  “I’ve got a different name for you,” I tell him. “One that you should without a doubt remember. Let’s try Coco.”

  He blinks and tries to maintain his cool, but his dick is twitching and growing at even the memory of it. Sick fucking bastard.

  “Doesn’t ring any bells?” I frown.

  “Nope, sorry,” he says. “Don’t know any fucking Coco.”

  “Ah, well allow me to refresh your memory. You left the bar with her last week. Petite, black hair, big tits. She’s a beauty. Or at least she was until you broke her nose.”

  He opens his mouth to protest, and I put a finger in front of my lips and shake my head.

  “You like it rough.” I shrug. “You get off on it. Sometimes, things just get out of hand. Believe me, I get it. You can’t help yourself.”

  His black eyes are boring right through me.

  “The bad news for you,” I say finally. “Is neither can I.”

  Trust fund Teddy bears the brunt of all his peers evil misdeeds.

  The wild beating of my heart is its own war cry. The soundtrack to my savagery. The drum beat of rage as I fuck up his face and dole out my hatred. I don’t need words for this. Communication is best served primitive, in cases like this.

  “Stop,” he begs. “Stop and I’ll fucking tell you.”

  He broke faster than I’d hoped, but I give it a rest and take a breath.

  “Get on with it then,” I tell him calmly.

  Words spew from his lips like a cloud of CO2. I’ve uncorked him, and there’s no stopping it now.

  “Duke has a mistress he keeps in the apartment next door. His wife has no fucking clue. And Quinn’s got a gambling problem. He’s up to his eyeballs in debt and his clients have no idea that their money is fucking gone. They meet up once a month and have ragers on the cape. Fuck as many prostitutes as they can and get fucked up on high end pills and booze.”

  This is not news to me. It’s predictable at best, stale at worst.

  “What else?” I demand.

  Teddy is quiet until I take another step towards him.

  “Ethan,” he mumbles through his bloody lips. “He got jacked up on coke one night and started talking about some missing girl.”

  The room is still and silent and now Teddy is finally getting somewhere. Now, he’s got my full attention.

  “What about her?”

  “He kept saying she was dead.” Teddy shakes his head like he doesn’t believe it. And I almost feel sorry that he was born so ignorant. “Something about the woods. How Alexander fucked her up.”

  Bingo.

  Teddy doesn’t see me smile when he mentions Alexander, and I’m glad.

  “Tell me everything he said,” I insist.

  He’s going to. I can see it in his eyes. His mouth is open, and the words are poised to roll off his tongue.

  But then the door bursts open.

  And my hard work disappears into a void of quicksand.

  “What the ever-loving fuck?”

  The words are accented. Unmistakably Irish. Before I even shift my gaze to collide with the bastard in the door frame, I know who has come to collect.

  The Irish mafia.

  I was supposed to leave town for a while. That’s what I told Mack I would do.

  Like attracts like, and it’s no exception for my only friend. She’s as batshit crazy as I am. And since she went poking around in the mafia’s business, she’s landed both of us in some hot water.

  It’s nothing I can’t handle. Or her for that matter. And I really did have the best intentions of following through on my promise to her. After I took care of this business first.

  But now, here I sit, beatus interruptus.

  I haven’t met this asshole before. But he’s eyeing me like I’m a little fucking insane. Between the brass knuckles and my blood-spattered dress, he’d be right to assume that. No doubt.

  So I hope he’s thinking carefully before he comes at me. Because I won’t go down without a fight. And I want to rip his fucking balls off for interrupting Teddy’s confessional.

  “What in the bleeding hell are ye doing to that poor lad?” he asks me.

  “Nothing less than what he deserves,” I answer.

  The guy blinks and gives me an almost sympathetic expression, which only pisses me off more.

  “We haven’t met,” he tells me. “I’m Rory.”

  “And?”

  His mouth twitches, and he seems to be amused by my behavior for whatever reason.

  “And it’s a pleasure to meet me, aye? That’s what the ladies usually say. Now, sweetheart, I need ye to come with me. Just for a wee bit.”

  And I need you to fuck off. Just for a wee bit.

  “This is about Mack, isn’t it?”

  Suspicion takes over his eyes as I move towards him innocently.

  “Do you think because I’m a hooker, I just do whatever men tell me?”

  His eyes dart to the man groaning behind me before he answers.

  “I’m guessing probably no,” he says.

  His eyes are still laughing, but there’s nothing humorous about this. I don’t like being cornered, and no amount of pleasantries are going to get me out of this room with him.

  I ply the brass knuckles from my hand and hesitate for a moment before handing them off to him. Concern fills my eyes and my voice, but it’s all false.

  “Is Mack okay?”

  He nods, thinking he understands me. Thinking I’ll do whatever he says now to protect Mack. The thing is though… Mack takes care of herself.

  And so do I.

  When Rory pockets the brass, I yank the knife on my thigh from its sheath. I have the element of surprise on my side, so I don’t expect much from him. But he surprises me too.

  Because he’s quick. Quicker than most. When I lunge at him, Rory goes on the defensive and raises his arm, which is precisely where my knife ends up. Lodged into his bicep.

  “Jesus fecking Christ, woman.”

  When I try to dart around him, he grabs me by the hair and slams me chest first against the wall, closing me in with his body.

  My lungs are collapsing in on themselves. Heartbeat thrashing in my ears. The rewind function is alive and well in my head, and I’ve seen this movie before. I’m struggling against him. Fighting with everything I’ve got. I stomp on his foot with my stiletto and rear my head back to hit his nose.

  But he’s big and I’m small so it just bounces off his chest. He uses his full weight to sandwich me against the wall until I can’t move and the inevitable happens.

  My well of adrenaline has run dry.

  There’s no use, but my mind can’t accept it yet.

  “Shhhh, sweetheart.”

  He pulls my hair back to whisper in my ear, and his voice is gentle and soothing. Misleading.

  “I’m not going to hurt ye,” he tells me. “But you need to calm down. And breathe.”

  My body goes slack against the wall and all I’m left with are my words.

  “I just need five more minutes with this guy. And then I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “Don’t believe her,” Teddy yells. “The bitch is fucking crazy. You gotta let me go, man.”

  Rory ignores him, and his eyes are all over my face, studying me, trying to read me, and I haven’t been this close to a man since… I don’t know. And things are awkward and tense and now I want to leave.

  He’s too tall and too strong. His face isn’t threatening, but he is a threat. He’s serious. And too clean cut, with his ashy blonde hair and shaven face.

  “Ye’re coming with me,” he says again.

  “I think that’s called kidnapping,” I tell him.

  He shrugs. “Why trifle with labels?”

  He’s closer now because he knows I’m going to bolt again. Or stab him again, even though my knife is gone, but he doesn’t know if I have another. All I can
feel is his body closing in on me. Suffocating me.

  I can’t breathe.

  “There is nothing good or bad,” I whisper to myself. “Only thinking makes it so.”

  I keep repeating the words, over and over.

  Ten times.

  Rory has moved away now, turning me slowly. Giving me space, but still caging me in with his arms. And even though one of them has a knife lodged in it, he isn’t angry with me.

  His eyes are green. And deceptively soft. Like his voice when he speaks next.

  “Scarlett, ye have my word that no harm will come to ye when ye’re with me.”

  “Rory?”

  “Aye?”

  “Your words don’t mean jack, Jack.”

  1

  RORY

  A BOOT NUDGES me in the side for the third time and there’s a groan. I believe it’s coming from me, but it’s anyone’s guess.

  “Feck off.”

  “You told me to wake you up.”

  Conor’s voice is like a bag of bleeding cats to my ears right now.

  “I said no such thing. Now piss off and let me sleep.”

  There’s a sigh. Footsteps moving away from me. For a minute, I think the lad is actually going to listen. Until the ice water hits my face and I come up swinging.

  I don’t manage to hit him since Conor is shielding himself with my sofa. And the woman I brought home with me last night since she’s passed out on top of it.

  “Real gentleman, ye are,” I tell the lad. “Hiding behind a lady.”

  He makes a face as his eyes wander to the slumped form of the blonde with raccoon eyes and her mouth hanging open while she snores. Her name is Ivy, so she says.

  “Yeah, a real lady,” Conor scoffs.

  The lad’s voice is hard and bitter. Conor is never hard and bitter, in fact, he’s dopey as fuck most of the time. This is how I know for certain my suspicions were bang on about this girl.

  “I brought her home for you, ye fucking muppet,” I tell him. “I saw the way ye were making eyes at her all night long. But then ye disappeared and couldn’t be bothered to come back here to sort her out.”

  He looks away, and just like that, he’s back to himself. The awkward, fumbling lad I first met when he decided to go Wild West on the Lenox Hill Crew. Thought he’d go down in a blaze of glory, but instead, he ended up working for our crew instead. He should know me well enough by now to know this ride isn’t my sort of fancy at all.