by JL Mac
Yeah. Great.
This morning I’m keenly aware of the exact reasons I keep female presence in my world exclusively in a bed and in short, infrequent doses. I am, after all, uninterested in being the most generous lover. I get mine and use what I need, take what I want and move along until the next time I need relief that only female company can provide me.
There’s a knock at the door to the suite I reserved. It’s the nicest in the whole place. The little minx prowled around the suite last night, listless and pretending to be bored with the luxurious accommodations I’ve provided her with. I swing the door open and wave the hotel employee in. He sets the rolling cart holding our breakfast near the dining table and chances a glance up at me.
“I—sir—excuse me for asking but are you The Beast Of Boston? Carrick Ferguson?” he asks with the glint of admiration sparkling in his dark eyes. The young man is obviously a fighter. Even in a uniform I can see he carries himself with the gate of a fighter. Measured steps, light on his feet despite his large frame. Calloused, scarred fists. Heavy weight for sure, once he’s done growing and filling out. I nod and his eyes widen as he thrusts his hand out at me. I take it in my own and roll his hand so I can see his knuckles. Already trashed at a young age. Looks like my own did. By sixteen I had heavily scarred knuckles. Orin came along after Pops… died, and my knuckles got even more trashed thanks to a few years throwing punches outside the ring for High Knoll. No one tells you brass knuckles don’t just fuck up the person catching them right in the face.
“You need a better trainer,” I note the scar tissue marring the deep chocolate skin of his knuckles. “Good fighting begins with good trainers and any trainer worth his weight knows how to fucking tape.”
“Oh, no, sir, that’s from being in trouble. Before I started training,” he says, waving his hand as though brushing something silly off. He walks backward so he can face me as he heads toward the door. I grip the handle and nod good naturedly as though I actually care about the kid’s troubled past. “I want to fight like you one day—be like you. Just like you,” he smiles broadly.
“Nah. You don’t,” I say as I slip a crisp one hundred dollar bill into his hand and shut the door.
I feel her eyes on my back before I even turn around to face her. “Does that happen a lot?” she asks, genuine curiosity etched in the tone of her voice.
“Used to. Everyone back home knows me. Knew me for boxing before I was even throwing a decent jab. Then they knew me as a champ. Now? Now they just know me as… me. I’m High Knoll,” I shrug. No point in beating around the bush. She knows who the fuck she’s with. She knows who I am and ain’t no way she’s had her head in the sand for the last decade. She looks down then back up at me and simply nods.
“Do you miss it?” she asks as she begins removing polished domes from the cart of breakfast I ordered, perusing the food housed under them.
“Nah,” I lie, shrugging.
She freezes in place looking down at the breakfast she just unveiled. Goddamn her if she’s picky on top of being bitchy I’ll toss her ass over balcony ledge. I ordered everything on the fucking menu.
“Problem?” I snap, feeling too edgy already this morning. I need caffeine. And a good lay. Preferably with her.
Jesus Christ.
“I—” she begins then clears her throat. That got my attention. I come closer to see what she’s looking at, briefly wondering if someone knew I’d be here and sent an unpleasant gift. A finger. A toe. An ear. A tongue. I’ve gotten it all. Nasty, old school style shit the Italians love to pull. “I—uh—it’s nothing.” She shrugs, forcing a bright smile that makes me feel more on guard than anything else I’ve seen from her. I’ve seen her pissed, bored, nervous, blatantly lying, turned on but never fake ass bright smiling.
“Mhmm,” I hum with an edge of skepticism out there for her to notice. She chooses then to glance up at me through her lashes and her eyes seem misty. She seems as though she wants to say something, to give something away, to get something out there but I know she won’t surrender it freely. I’ll give her an out. I’ll give her good incentive. “Tell me. Now,” I growl, rounding the table. I grip her throat, lightly but still firm. She shakes her head, subtly, her eyes only slightly surprised at my tack. “Tell me, Tally,” I growl again through gritted teeth and tighten my grip on her throat.
“Eggs benedict,” she offers weakly. “They just reminded me of someone I lost. That’s all. Stupid female hormones.”
I tilt my head to the side, eyeing her intently. If I could crawl under her skin the way she’s steadily inching beneath mine I wonder what secrets I’d find there.
“I don’t just want your body Ms. Tally. I need all your secrets too,” I whisper against her ear before trailing the tip of my tongue along its edge. Her hand slips down my back and her fingertips flex against the muscles there.
“Goddamn you,” I growl, hauling her closer to me, her body slamming forcefully against mine. I feel the air leave her and in a real fucking twisted way I liked depriving her of that little bit of oxygen. My lips find her mouth and I crash down on her like the worst of storms, all at once and unstoppable. Her soft lips give just as well as they get. I slip my tongue into her mouth and tangle mine with hers, mimicking the thrust of my hips against hers. I haven’t dry fucked since I was a fucking teenaged boy and here I am.
She moans, a throaty, desperate sound that is driving me wild. I walk her back, toward the king sized bed she refused to share with me last night and shove her hard. A small oof escapes her mouth as she lands unceremoniously on her fine, round ass. I kneel on the bed at her feet and run my hand up her shin and come to a stop where her knees are touching beneath the soft fabric of her dress. Slipping my hand beneath the cotton fabric, I drag my fingers lazily up her skin then flick my hand against one kneecap as though it pisses me off she hasn’t just spread open for me like I know she wants to. Her legs fall open and the long summery dress covering her meets its end. I grip the hem and the distinct sound of threads ripping fills the air. Her eyelids grow heavy with lust and her head tips back. The entire front of her skirt is now ripped, revealing to me the prize beneath. I squeeze her thigh roughly, losing control with the passing of each second in her gravity. Her creamy skin reddens under my touch and I have the overwhelming urge to mark her, hurt her, bind and rule her fucking universe. I grip her roughly behind her knees and jerk her to me. The delicate white lace of her panties is doing little to shield her from me. I hook my fingers into the elastic at her hip and tug. She lifts her ass obediently and I toss them away, my eyes glued to the delectable sight before me. Glistening, smooth, ripe as they come, I clench my jaw and do exactly what I had in mind. I mark her. As I disappear between her legs she doesn’t expect me to bite the tender flesh on the inside of her thigh so viciously. She gives a yelp and jumps in shock. I kiss and suck at the soft skin there, soothing her. I drift the stubble of my short beard across her pussy and inhale deeply, savoring the scent of her. She shudders and trembles in response.
“So perfect,” I admire openly, distracting her from where I’m headed. My teeth sink into the flesh on her other thigh and she emits a moan wrapped in a growl. There’s need there. Nasty, dirty, fuck-you-senseless, need. I draw back from her enough to admire my handy work. “Fuckin’ beautiful,” I whisper admiring my bite marks there so close to what I’ve been craving. I place gentle kisses against the inside of both knees and drag my finger tips down the outside of her legs, driving her as insane as I feel.
“Please,” she whimpers. I smile triumphantly and bury my face in her wet heat. I’ve never tasted anything so perfect. So sweet. I flick my tongue over her flesh leisurely lick her from top to bottom. She’s trembling and shaking in my hands, her breathing ragged. I kiss and lick my way up her stomach, catching both her hands and pinning them above her head. Dropping hot kisses along her jaw I make my demand again, sure she’s going to surrender to me. How could she not? This need, this tension between us is enough to break an
yone.
“Name, gimme your name. Your real name,” I command, pausing to look her in the eye.
Please.
A long moment passes with us here like this, facing off. I can tell before she opens her mouth this woman is not going to surrender despite how badly she wants to. I know this because I am just the same. I could fuck her senseless whether she’s Abigail Tally or some other name but I won’t. I drew a line, made a deal, a challenge. She squeezes her eyes shut, shaking her head. I peel myself off her and whirl, raking my arm across the food on the table sending it flying. Eggs fuckin’ Benedict and all. Rolling my shoulders, I get to unbuttoning my now ruined shirt. I catch site of Abigail sitting on the edge of the bed, holding her tattered dress together, her eyes directed at the wall that breakfast is now on. I follow her gaze to goddamn eggs benedict sliding down to the carpeted floor. Her face is blank, and impossible mystery to unravel. “Get your shit. We’re leaving,” I snap. She gets to her feet, snagging her discarded panties from the floor near my feet. She doesn’t spare me a second glance as she plucks another dress from her bag and goes directly to the bathroom.
The buzz of my cellphone draws my attention back to business, which is a welcome distraction. There’s an email waiting for me and I open it making sure to angle myself away from the pain in my ass riding beside me in the car. She’s been impossible to read since we left the hotel. Neither outwardly angry or sad, upset or happy. Just… blank.
Murphy didn’t include any message with his email only an attachment. I open the file and clench my jaw as Russian text fills my screen. I scroll down and images of women come into view. There is no text accompanying each image, only a number. I clench my jaw and roll my shoulders suddenly feeling very cramped in my suit.
My thumb continues scrolling through the catalog and I find there are nineteen women—no—girls. The images are sickening. Each girl has been photographed from the front, side and back providing potential buyers with a three hundred sixty degree view of the available girls. Though they’ve staged the photos, dressing them in lingerie some merely in a thong, to appeal to customers it’s clear to anyone with a brain these are girls. Of course, it isn’t lost on me some sick fucks like them young. Girls. Not women. There bodies are not that of a fully developed woman with experience and the undeniable evidence of age and physical maturity. I work in the business of half naked women and these girls… they don’t have the rounded shapely ass, the generous flare of hips, the teardrop breasts that have aged to perfection. These females have narrow hips, perky breasts, small ass, and thin thighs. All the hallmarks of teenaged girls. Acid stirs in my gut and I shove my cell phone into the inner breast pocket of my jacket, sickened at the shit show the Russians are parading up and down Main Street of the organized crime world. This is exactly the kind of shit that brings unwanted heat from Feds. They don’t care much beyond the money though.
Sloppy, sick fucks.
I inhale sharply through my nose and growl, garnering the attention of my little liar. I look over at her to find she’s staring a hole right through me as though studying me.
Just like I study her.
Unabashedly, my eyes slip over her face, down her body, touching her curves with my gaze and I’m struck by a sudden sense of primal possessiveness. Sampling her has not quelled my want for her. Stupid move on my part. It has also stirred a sense of territorialism in me. Not just for my gorgeous little liar but for the girls in Southie. The girls in Greater Boston. Hell, even the Italian slob’s granddaughter. In a way they’re all mine. They’re the girls from my territory, my hood, my motherfucking shit show to watch over and somehow, right under my nose, some Russian Bratva pukes have disrespected my house by taking what doesn’t belong to them. I can feel anger bubbling in me, growing inexorably bigger by the second. I tilt my neck from one side to the other, cracking and popping the tension away.
Unbidden images of one of those sloppy fucks with their paws on Abigail flash through my mind and my teeth clench so hard they ache. What I’d do to them. How I’d rip them limb from limb. How I’d enjoy the crunch of their skull against my battle hardened knuckles. They could have picked her up too, plucking her from the ground where she stood just as they plucked the nineteen women in the catalog. She’s definitely no young woman, and no way she’s a virgin but she’s undeniably stunning. Abigail is pure woman and may not fetch as much as a sixteen year old virgin but even stupid sloppy Bratva crew know something valuable when they see it.
I’d drain my accounts to own her.
I shove that little voice aside and fire a text message to Murph assuring him that I’ve gotten what he sent my way. I also remind him to let me know the minute he hears anything from Teeny. It’s been several days and no fuckin’ way it should take him that long to get the results from the lab back to me. That fucker probably has the information sitting in a folder in the front seat of his fuckin’ Crowne Vic. If he weren’t so useful and easy to manipulate I’d have dumped his ass into the harbor a long time ago. Guys like him are highly disposable but I’d be lying if I said ruining Teeny’s day as often as I can didn’t have its appeal.
“Where exactly are we going?” she finally asks when the city has given way to tall trees, two-lane roads and the undeniable sense of being somewhere rural.
“A friend’s place,” I respond watching the road ahead of us as we make our approach.
“What does your friend do for a living out in the middle of nowhere?” Abigail mutters, holding her cell phone up as though she’s seeking a signal. She won’t get one. She looks out the back window like a little kid and despite my dark mood, I find myself amused.
“He’s a retired salesman,” I say shortly. “I like your style, pretendin’ my tongue wasn’t sampling an all you can eat buffet in your pussy an hour and a half ago. Those bite marks will probably bruise soon if they aren’t already purple,” I say, absently picking lint from the front of my pants. I turn her direction and grin, noting how pink her cheeks have turned and how her eyes bounce from the window to the driver then back to the window.
“Am I getting paid for all of this?”
“Oh, you’re definitely going to get what you’ve earned Abigail Tally. You can be certain of that much,” I say, turning my gaze to the view outside. In the reflection of my window I see her inhale deeply and settle her back against the leather seat. “Turn left just ahead. There’s a mailbox set in river stone. Slow approach.”
The driver nods, wordlessly. The car slows and we turn onto a narrow, long drive. The heavily wooded area makes missing Arman’s place easy. You could miss him but he can’t miss you from his vantage point on the property. We emerge from a tree-covered drive into a clearing where his home is situated at the rear of the property. Though it’s code to never target a Salesman, he’s been in the game long enough to know that as a rule, criminals don’t usually give two fucks about laws, rules and otherwise protocol. They pull their pricks out and piss on the rulebook when they’re feeling particularly suicidal.
I’ve only ever heard of trouble with Arman once in my more than fifteen years in this life. A disgruntled Bratva soldier who’d just been relieved of one eye for looking at a gift that was decidedly not his broke the rules. This single-celled organism tracked Arman and attempted to take his ire out on him for being the man to have arranged the transaction that brought this gift—a pair of virgin Japanese twins into his boss’s life. Rules being rules, Bratva bosses had to square the offense to restore good standing with Arman and other associates. The one-eyed Russian was then made a one-eyed, dead Russian.
Silver hair, curly with wild strands poking out every direction, catches the sunlight as the older woman owning that hair peeks around the back corner of Arman’s cottage. Like a mouse, she scurries so fast you nearly have to believe that your eyes are deceiving you. A silver flash, then nothing.
The driver halts in front of the cottage that could easily fit into a fairytale book somewhere with it’s koi pond shaped like a moat, a s
mall bridge stretching from one side to the other. Rose bushes tower in tall clusters along the wooden fence that the house butts up to. Blooms in every color the size of my fist jut upward. Flowers of every variety, shape and color have been artfully grown in a way that you’d almost believe they’re completely wild. The weed-less, mulched beds they’re in are the only indication that they’re well cared for and meticulously planted. The river stone exterior of Arman’s cottage is only partly visible. Over a third of the home has been swallowed up by ivy, trained to grow across the polished stone.
“This place… ” Abigail whispers. “My mom would freak,” she whispers to herself and it occurs to me a different man—a better man would ask about her mother. I’m not a better man, and what her mother would freak over means nothing to me. It occurs to me that for her being someone who doesn’t speak to her family she sure seems to have the face of a woman moved to emotion over some goddamn pretty flowers.
“You’re mom gardens, huh?” I say more than ask, not truly interested.
“Used to,” she clarifies.
Abigail an orphan?
“Should we get out?”
“No,” I say without explanation, twining my fingers over my stomach, waiting for Arman. His security emerges from the back of the home, walking with purpose toward our car. I roll the window down and squint my eyes against the light and the loud chirping of birds. This shit makes me yearn for dreary, depressing Boston I know. Suits me much better.
“Can I help you?” he asks in English heavily doused in an accent I can’t put my finger on. I recognize him of course. The scar slashed across his cheek makes him easy to recall. His beady brown eyes lean down enough for him to peer into my car.
