The Misters Series (Mister #1-7)

by J. A. Huss

  “I… I think he was only going to offer me a ride home.”

  “That’s what they all say, kid. Trust me.”

  “But—”

  “No, seriously. It’s just an opening. A way to get you alone. Make you vulnerable. And then after that they want…” He smiles at me, almost embarrassed. “You know.”

  “Sex,” I offer, taking advantage of his reluctance to say the word. “I know him. He’s my best friend’s father.”

  “Jesus Christ,” the guy says, swiping a hand across his brow.

  “My dad’s on a business trip until Sunday night and I’m home alone.” What am I doing? “I don’t like to stay home alone. So I was hoping he’d invite me over for dinner. Or let me stay the night. But my friend, she’s out of town for the weekend with her mom. A fashion show down in Denver. So I knew there was no chance of that. I’m… Katya, by the way.”

  And I just gave him my real name.

  “Oliver,” he says, crossing the distance between us to offer his hand.

  I shake it. Hold on to it a little longer than necessary. He’s warm and his grip tightens on my hand just a little more than it should.

  “Do you have a phone I can use?” I ask, eyeing the building across the street he said was his house. “Maybe I can call another friend. Find somewhere else to stay this weekend.”

  “Uh,” Oliver says, looking over his shoulder at his place. “Sure. Follow me.”

  I watch his ass, and the muscles in his back that I can see, even through his thermal shirt. And listen to the way his boots thud on the street as we walk towards the building. “What kind of house is this?”

  “Oh,” he says, opening a glass-front door and holding it for me. “It’s an old mechanic’s garage. I bought it a couple months ago. Still doing the residential conversion.”

  Inside it’s all industrial. Concrete and metal and one of those pits in the floor that mechanics have for oil changes.

  “What are you going to do with that?” I ask, pointing to the pit.

  He looks at where I’m pointing. Silent for a few seconds. “I’m gonna plant a buckeye tree.”

  I’m not sure if I should laugh or ask for details.

  “Yeah, fill it with dirt, plant a little buckeye. See how long it takes to reach the ceiling. Then tear the whole place down when it gets too big.”

  I look up at the ceiling. It’s high. Maybe twenty feet? Then look back at Oliver, his blue-gray eyes dancing along with his mischievous smile. “Why would you do that?”

  He shrugs. “Family tradition.” And then he points to a large potted tree in the corner, up against the folding glass doors that are big enough to drive a car through. “That came from our farm out in Bellevue. It’s doing OK in the pot for now, but I gotta get it transplanted pretty soon.”

  “Huh.” I take a second to appreciate how much better my day just got. No weird fantasy with an older man. No creeping around pretending to be his daughter’s friend. No groping or kissing.

  At least not with him.

  But this guy? Mr. Buckeye? Now this is a man I might be interested in.

  “I know that guy was picking you up.”

  I look over at Oliver and wait to see what he says next.

  “I went to Catholic school. Just down the street at St. Joseph’s, in fact. And I dated my share of Parson girls when I was a kid. Your uniform is not even close to standard. That blue blazer only goes with the solid blue skirt. The Parson girls don’t even have tartan. You’re wearing a St. Joseph’s skirt with a Parson blazer.”

  Shit.

  “I know my way around a schoolgirl costume. And fuck that guy anyway. I’ve had my eye on you since you sat down on the bench. If you were waiting there for fifteen minutes, he was probably late.”

  I have nothing to say to that.

  “Am I wrong?” Oliver asks, taking two steps closer to me. He flashes me the most charming grin. “Just say so and I’ll apologize.”

  I weigh my options. I can pretend to be offended and stalk off, keeping my ruse intact. My secrets safe. But then I’ll probably never see him again. And maybe this is just some rush of teenage hormones, but I might regret it for the rest of my life if this guy was interested in me and I blew him off.

  “No,” I say, blowing out a breath. “You’re not wrong. He’s a client. He has a daughter’s best friend fantasy.”

  “And you’re her?”

  I shrug. “For this afternoon I am. Was. Going to be.”

  Oliver walks off towards what might be the kitchen of this place, opens the door of a grease-stained fridge looking like it’s been in this garage for fifty years, and grabs two beers. “Want one?” he asks, popping the top off the bottle using the counter. “It’s local.”

  “I’m not old enough to drink.”

  “For real?” he says. “You’re a kid? Or you just look young and so you use that to play your little game with the perverts?”

  “He’s not a pervert, by the way. I checked him out pretty thoroughly. And I’m not a kid. I’m seventeen. Barely underage.”

  “Uh-huh,” Oliver says. “Do you want the beer or not?”

  I take it, muttering, “Thank you.” Sip it while he pops the top off his too. “So you’re not against contributing to my delinquency?”

  He takes a gulp of his beer, then leans back against the counter. Fucking smile. “Who did you hire to run the background check on that perv?”

  I roll my eyes at his name-calling. “I did it myself. A website I found.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And I got his credit-card number. And his place of employment. I even called there to make sure it was for real. And I got his wife’s name. Just in case.”

  “That it, Sherlock? That all you got?”

  “No,” I say, lifting my blazer up to show him my gun. “I came packing heat too.”

  His guffaw echoes loudly in the high ceiling. “Ho-lee shit. Katya. You’re my dream girl.”

  I smile at his pleasure and take another sip of beer, backing up to lean on the counter opposite him. “Maybe I am.”

  He takes a step forward.

  If I could back up I would. But I can’t. The counter presses firmly into my back.

  He takes another step. “You’re one of those girls, huh?”

  I bite my lip and nod. Unable to take my eyes off him. Unsure of which kind of girl he’s referring to, but still very sure I’m definitely that kind.

  One more step and he’s so close to me I have to tip my head up to keep his gaze. “Is your father really out of town?”

  “He’s far enough away that he won’t be missing me tonight.”

  The back of his hand brushes against my cheek, then drops down to my neck. My head follows the motion because his touch… his touch…

  He leans into my ear and whispers, “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

  Chapter Eleven - OLIVER

  Dinner is good. Better than good, it’s great. I have to admit, fucking Victoria can cook. There is absolutely no Mister talk at the table. In fact, everyone is in a pretty great mood. The girls are drinking martinis and us guys are still finishing off that bottle of Stoli, so by the time we’re done eating, we are all good and buzzed and business is behind us.

  That is until Pax kicks me under the table and nods towards Ariel’s office while no one is looking.

  Right.

  “Hey, Ariel,” I say, interrupting the conversation. “I need a landline. Mind if I use your office phone?”

  “Sure,” she says, barely looking at me. “Just make sure it’s legal.”

  I wince, looking around at my friends to see if they heard that slip-up. They did. Because they are all looking back at me with little squinty eyes. And then Ariel catches her mistake and laughs it off. “Kidding, little brother. Whatever.”

  She’s drunk. And she made a mistake.

  I put both palms on the table and push my chair back, wondering what the fuck is wrong with Ariel. She never makes mistakes. That just doesn�
��t happen.

  I walk away, still bothered by it, and then shut the door behind me once I’m in the office.

  She needs to stop drinking. That’s what she needs. She’s got no boyfriend here to keep her in check.

  My phone buzzes in my pants, so I take it out and look at the screen.

  Ariel: Whoops. Time to get sober.

  Me: You bet your ass. I do not need these guys asking me about the “illegal” business I may or may not be doing in here. WTF, Ariel?

  Ariel: Sorry.

  I put the phone away and slump down in the office chair to wait for the guys to make their way in here. And just out of instinct, I open up Ariel’s laptop sitting there.

  I expect it to be shut down, or at the very least, locked. But it’s on, and it’s open to Five’s Finder app. Who has Ariel been checking up on? We don’t use Five’s app unless it’s important. It makes him very nervous to have our business tied to him.

  I stay absolutely still, listening for sounds of people approaching on the other side of the door. And then I type in Katya’s name.

  There she is. Katya Kalashova. 305 North College Avenue, #602. And it lists two numbers. Landline and cell.

  It’s almost like… she wants to be found.

  Just like the day we first met.

  I seduced her that night. I seduced her with the tree, and the food, and the beer, and the music. My tattoos that transfixed her. The muscles she couldn’t stop touching. She was a girl. It was very plain by the way she let me fuck her that night.

  Inexperienced.

  Eager to please.

  Tiny moans that made her embarrassed. Unwilling to do it standing up, or against the wall, or on the kitchen counter. Protest after protest for every kinky fucking idea I came up with.

  Not there. Not like that. Not with the lights on. Not in front of the window. Not in the shower.

  It makes me laugh now. Because in the end we fucked in all those places, in all those ways, and she came back for more.

  I made my move before I even started cooking. Fingertips on her bare thigh brushing up against her skin. Just the slightest touch as I slipped my hand underneath that little tartan skirt and found the wet spot soaking through her panties. I fingered her through the thin cotton. She wanted to take them off but I was not in the mood to give in that night. I was in the mood to have everything my way. Just the way I wanted. For once.

  She came with my fingers inside her. Her body folding against mine, her nails digging into the thick muscles of my shoulders. And then she sank to her knees. Her bare skin on that hard concrete floor.

  She looked up at me and smiled.

  I got my cock sucked good that night. She let me guide her any way I wanted. Opened wider on command. She let me face-fuck her. She licked my balls, fingered my asshole. Put her hands behind her back and looked me in the eyes.

  I figured why not? Why not get one good night out of her?

  She wants to be a whore? Make money dishing out the fantasy? I can be her customer.

  I took her to my bedroom—which was nothing more than a mattress on the second-floor loft where tires were still being stored, and reachable only by a moving set of stairs on wheels.

  I undressed her in the fading light. Just enough light to make her fair skin glow and look beautifully surreal. Her gun came off first. Put safely aside on an overturned crate acting as a bedside table. Then the blue blazer. The shirt was untucked next and I started unfastening the little clear buttons denying me a view of her breasts spilling out of that innocent white bra. I kissed her shoulder as I slipped the shirt down her arm and let it drop to the floor.

  I left the skirt on and started eating her pussy while she was standing up. Her legs spread open just enough to give me access, my fingers pulling aside her already wet panties.

  I didn’t let her come that time. Just played with her until her knees got weak and her thighs began to tremble. Then I took her hand and led her to the bed. Pushed her back against the pillows, opened her legs, and positioned myself between them.

  “Take off my skirt. My underwear.”

  “No,” I remember saying as I entered her. “I like the school-girl look.”

  Her back bucked, arched. She grabbed her breasts, pushing them together still inside her bra.

  We fucked slowly that time. It stands out in my mind that way. Slowly. Everything was slow that night. Time disappeared along with all my expectations.

  I don’t know why, exactly. I don’t know what made me do it that way. I’m not one of those careful lovers. But there was something about her. Something damaged or maybe even broken.

  And I remember wanting to kiss her neck after we came—moaning and breathing hard. I slumped off to the side, pulled her in to my chest, and my lips were already there, searching for that soft skin under the ear, when I realized she still had her scarf on.

  When I started taking it off I felt her breath hitch. It almost made me stop. Almost. But then she relaxed and I untied the knot holding the silk to her neck. Pulled it free and tossed it aside.

  My mouth was there on her skin. My tongue dancing along her earlobe, then down to that little hidden cleft on the side of her throat.

  I pulled back, intending on kissing her lips next—and that’s when I saw the scar.

  A raised silver-white line that started just below her ear and traveled down across her throat. When I placed my thumb on her chin to make her turn towards me so I could see where it ended, I understood what I was looking at.

  I traced it with my fingers over and over again, searching for the right words to say. I leaned over her to pick up the gun off the bedside crate and looked her in the eyes as my hands automatically popped out the magazine, checked the gun for ammo. “Who did this to you?” I asked, clicking it back in place and pulling on the mechanism that loaded a bullet into the chamber. “Because I need to have a little talk with him.”

  Chapter Twelve - KATYA

  There was murder in Oliver’s eyes that night. Every word that came after he removed my scarf was deliberate and calculated.

  I never told him who did it or how it really happened. The last thing I wanted was attention from that family. No. They took enough from me. They took everything from me and I started over. Made a brand-new life. And no, it was not a perfect life back then. Hell, it’s still very far from perfect right now. I’m not a perfect person. But it’s my life. It’s what I have and it could be worse.

  I glance at my laptop, still waiting for some kind of acknowledgment or reply about the last video I uploaded, when my phone buzzes on the desk next to me. I read the text.

  Unknown Number: Come back to me.

  I stare at the message until my phone screen goes dark and it disappears. The invitation lingering in my thoughts.

  Unknown Number: You wanted me to find you. And I have. Don’t play games, Kat. Just meet me. One hour. You know where.

  Again I stare at his message until the phone goes dark.

  I know where.

  After that first night we were inseparable. Not true, we were separated a lot. I didn’t want a boyfriend and he didn’t want a girlfriend. So we never used those terms. And even though we spent the first two nights together, after that it was back to business for me and back to the shell of a life he was leading for him.

  I needed that client he chased away. I didn’t get him, but I got another one. This guy was weird. He made me nervous. But he didn’t want to meet me in person. And he didn’t want to fuck me. He just wanted to watch me on cam. That’s how the whole thing started. Voyeurism was my saving grace back then. A way to be part of that moneymaking world and not have to actually interact with the men.

  I bought better camera equipment and every morning, after Lily left for school, I turned it on and went about my day. The Hook-Me-Up site offered lots of opportunities if you knew how to log in to the right part of the website.

  I knew how. My parents left me a care package before they died. New identities for both Lily and
me. Complete with school records, birth certificates, and social security numbers. Just enough cash to get out of town and pay tuition at a new school. Disposable phones. A pre-paid credit card. And directions on how to find help on Hook-Me-Up.

  But it all came with a warning.

  Do not be obvious. Two teenagers on their own can’t live an easy life and stay under the radar. You must work for it. You must know struggle. You must fight your way back to the top.

  So that’s what I did. I fought for it. I opened a live-stream website, I got paying clients, and I worked on my photography. Self-portraits. Who’d have thought my life’s work would begin and end with me?

  I never showed my face. Even in the live stream I covered my face with a veil or a scarf or a mask. I covered the thin silver-white scar on my neck with makeup. And later, the larger scars with the tattoos Oliver carved into my body with ink.

  I have taken hundreds and hundreds of headless self-portraits. And not all of them are nude. Some are whimsical and artsy. I even had one in a gallery in Brooklyn. A picture of me sitting on a guard rail in front of an abandoned gas station somewhere in New Jersey. I was wearing a Fifties vintage dress and I had a lampshade on my head. I Photoshopped in some butterflies later, but all the rest was real.

  And it sold! It was my first sale. It took a while for the next sale to come in because not many galleries were interested in what I was doing. I wasn’t sure it was a thing at first. I worried about that. But then I found another artist online doing something similar. She used fashion and accessories to replace her face and describe herself. And she had a website with a store.

  It was the luck I needed to get over that struggle and win for once.

  I used sex to make my photos stand out. Nudity. Eroticism. Mystery.

  The live stream was the money-maker, for sure. No one was paying any attention to my photographs back when I first met Oliver. And once the cash started coming in I got an apartment for Lily and me.