by AJ Adams
Cartel people definitely have the up on the rest of us. I always have a stock of aspirin and witch-hazel but he had everything from a suture kit to codeine. I took a painkiller, and then helped myself to the basket that contained spare razors, toothpaste and other odds and ends.
Fitted out with codeine and clean teeth, I ran the taps and had a bath. With rosemary and mint Epsom salts and the jets blasting away, I was soon feeling no pain. I washed my hair too and used his pumice stone.
By the time I finished, I could see the sky lighten through the floor to ceiling window. I contemplated chucking something through it but there didn't seem to be any point; even if by a miracle the thick glass broke, it wasn't as though I could yell down twenty odd floors to anyone below.
Instead, I dried the bath, loaded it with towels, and went to sleep. I napped until noon, had another painkiller and sacked out again.
But there's only so much you can snooze. By late afternoon, I was wide awake. I tried breaking the tap again and chucked a bottle at the window. As both attempts were failures, I sat on the floor, totally stuck. If someone had told me the major trauma of being kidnapped is the boredom, I'd not have believed them, but it's true.
About a century after sundown, with me sitting in the dark, a door slammed and his voice drifted through. "Yeah, three people down and twelve injured, but we hit them back - and hard." There was some moving about and his voice faded, leaving me hearing the odd word. From the sound of it, there had been a battle.
Maybe I'm stupid but I was glad he was back. I was fed up and so hungry that I was entertaining eating the Epsom salts.
"I'm sending you a full report in an hour," he sounded upbeat. "But I'm confident you'll approve, cousin."
From what Kowalczyk had said, Jorge was a young relative of a cartel bigwig. I wondered if he'd mention me but he moved away again and I couldn't hear.
After an age of incoming and outgoing calls, the flat was silent once more. I thought he'd gone out, when he appeared in the doorway. He looked like shit, a graze running down one side of his face, his knuckles raw and bleeding, and his shirt ripped on one side.
"Rough day at the office?" Yes, my mouth will be the death of me.
"Not as rough as your day will be."
I held up my head but frankly, I was sweating with fear, visions of that knife rushing in to haunt me.
He sparkled with malice. "Hungry, fresa?"
"Not really." Who was I kidding? I was ravenous. And he had a plastic bag in his hand, one that exuded delicious scents of onions and spices. From the red characters on the side, he'd bought Chinese.
"I have a wish list. " He put the bag down, well out of my reach. "I wonder what you'll have to do to earn this?" Then he stepped back and buggered off again.
So, that was the game. Starve me and then force me into some sick game. As I would have done anything to get that dinner and any perversion would have no effect on me, it wasn't a fate worse than death. But seeing the bag lying there, tempting me, it occurred to me that the door might be out of reach of my hands but within the reach of my toes.
It was.
I lay down, hooked a foot through the plastic handle and pulled it towards me. Stifling a crow of victory, I piled in. The Canton Kitchen had done a sterling job. I munched my way through the mixed veg cooked with cashew nuts and practically inhaled an entire order of tofu. Finally, I ate half the plain rice.
"Well, fresa? You hungry?" He was back in the doorway, drink in hand. Then his eye fell on me and he stiffened.
"Not anymore, thanks." I held the bag out to him. "Your spring rolls and chicken chow mein." Ignoring the death glare, I added sweetly. "You needn't worry. I didn't spit in it."
He snatched it out of my hands and looked down at me, curiously blank.
I was still licking my fingers as I taunted him, "If you're determined to grind me down, you should change tack. I'm a model and I'm used to being hungry. It will take you another five days to starve me. Perhaps even a week."
He blinked and from the sudden menace flowing from him, I knew I'd gone too far. "There are other ways," he hissed.
He stomped off, leaving me cursing myself. "Way to go, Persia. Piss off the man who can break you in two with one hand, why don't you? You're a goddamn fool."
I lay on floor, thinking it over. Part of me wanted to give him the finger but most of me remembered that devastating single blow. Enraging him would be stupid. Much more sensible to play his game. And whatever he demanded, he'd still better than Kowalczyk, that treacherous inner voice whispered.
Rattling the chain made my choices clear. When he returned, I'd apologise and offer to do what he wanted. Anything to spare myself a long, slow revenge.
I was cheering up fast. If I did my slutty best, he'd be happy. It wouldn't be hard, either. I remembered soaring the night before. At the very least, sacrificing myself would be bearable but possibly, it might even be good. Then, afterwards, he'd listen, check out my story and let me walk. I was convinced of it.
So convinced, that I was calling out, "Hey, Jorge! Jorge Santos!"
He appeared, much like a devil from hell, and practically snarling with temper. "Cállate!"
"Uhm, that's shut up, right?" I gave him my best smile. "Look, let's not fight."
It might have worked, but I'd forgotten the way the man blasted into action. He bent down, totally ignoring me, and clapped something around my neck.
"What the?" I struggled instinctively. It did me no good. The iron hands were irresistible. "Stop that!"
There was a click, and he stood back. "That'll fix you."
I stood up and got a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. He'd put a collar around my neck. One of those studded things you see on Pitbulls and Rottweilers. "What's this?" I laughed.
"No more biting, swearing and kicking," he sounded distant, absent almost.
"Woof!" I mocked.
He opened the cuffs. "Get up."
I scrambled to my feet. "Stop playing silly buggers. Let's talk."
He put a hand on my shoulder, shoving me into the bedroom. "Shut up."
My temper was rising again. "Now wait. Don't be such an arse."
"On your knees."
My sensible self that had decided on being nice vanished. "Fuck you."
He didn't say a word. He just looked at me and suddenly I was on fire. Flame ran through my veins, blanking out all thought and feeling. I dropped where I stood and didn't even know it.
The pain vanished as quickly as it had come. One second I was in hell and the next, I was shaking my head and wondering what had hit me.
"No more trouble." He was a total blank, as if he weren't in the room.
"What the fuck? You put a shock collar on me?" I was tugging at it. "Are you out of your flipping mind?"
Fire and flame.
"Manners."
"Screw you."
More fire.
"Well?"
"Poxy fucker."
And again, fire.
"Dick lick."
And that's how it was. Swear. Pain. Swear. Pain. It went on and on. I vanished, only the anger remaining.
Then, suddenly, a gentle hand stroking my cheek. "Come now," he sounded gentle. "You can't win this."
I wanted to give in. "Get bent." Yeah, well, so I'm stubborn.
This time there was no flame. "Brave girl." He was lifting me, muscles rippling.
"Shock collars are illegal," I tried to sound tough but my voice was a whisper. "I report you to the RSPCA."
"Hmmm." He put me on the bed and examined my neck. "A little redness, that's all."
"Like you care." I closed my eyes. I was dead tired, too exhausted to fight.
"You'll do what I want."
I didn't even bother to answer. I just lay there, listening to my breath, relieved at the absence of fire. I was barely even conscious of him moving away, or of the running water. He came back, damp and smelling of soap.
"Okay, fresa. Be nice now."
He was all over me, taking possession. I held on to him, too beat to switch off or even feel. I was aware of his body heating as he drove into me, of his brushing my hair off my face and lifting me, as if he were drinking me in as he used me.
Closing my eyes, I clung to him, my body moving along with his as I vanished. The warmth of skin on skin registered, but for the rest, I was absent.
When I came back, my arms were wound around his back and my face was buried in his neck. He was leaning on me, his weight crushing, but he was careful as he pulled out of me. "That was better."
I found myself again. "Take off the collar."
"No."
"Bastard."
He just chuckled. He'd won, and we both knew it. I couldn't fight that flame.
"I'll kill you when you sleep."
A clink announced cuffs. This time, he turned me over, looped the chain around my wrists and secured my hands behind my back. A second later, my ankles were bound too. There would be no killing him, or breaking apart the bed or even kicking him.
"Goodnight, fresa."
I didn't protest. I was too trashed. I was out before his head hit the pillow.
Chapter Seven
Jorge
She was out for the count. I had another shower, a boiling hot one to take the heat out of the bruises popping up all over, took a painkiller and headed back to bed.
Although exhausted, I stood there, gazing at the fresa. Lush hips, an indent of waist and long, lean limbs. Her ass was black and blue from the punishment but she looked like a wet dream. The helplessness of the bonds were just icing on the cake.
I flipped the covers over her, picked up my phone and checked the video. It wasn't anywhere near professionally lit and the fixed frame wasn't great but it was good enough. I hesitated. As a message to Kowalczyk, it lacked punch.
I kicked myself again for not thinking to tape my giving her twenty whacks. I'd been too fucking angry with her to think it through. I should have given her another set of whacks, or at the very least cut off her hair.
With the red-brown curls spread over my pillow and those little bones, you'd never guess the girl was steel. As the opportunity for starving her hadn't worked out, I'd used the shock collar, a gift from a man who wanted me to fund an SM dungeon, because it was the most efficient way to take the fight out of her.
As the palm of my hand was still numb from where I'd tested it, I'd expected her to cave instantly. I had looked forward to seeing her crawl but her stubborn determination impressed me. She was a nasty tongued zorra, a definite bruja, but she was brave. She would have fought me to the death if I hadn't stopped.
It decided me. The standard treatment was out. No matter what happened, I wouldn't break her bones, ruin that spectacular peachy skin with scars, or even humiliate her by cutting off her hair. She fought as if she were a Zeta and I would respect her for it.
I had the video and would work with it. After all, good editing can fix all kinds of issues and we Zetas make some of the best porn in the world. There was no need to mess up the fresa, not when a computer could do the job just as well. As the team back home were up to eyes in work, I set it to run through a neat little editing programme that would clip it automatically and add a series of special effects.
I did feel a pang of concern at holding back. Kindness is not in my nature but I reminded myself that even though she was a player, she was still a woman. While she'd probably burn me for saying it, it disadvantaged her. Anyway, her struggles hadn't helped her, I decided. I'd put her in her place. After this, she'd give up fighting me.
God, if only I'd known! But perhaps it was just as well I didn't. I don't think my pride could've taken the pounding at the knowledge of what was in store for me.
Crawling into bed, I once again found myself unable to sleep because the events of the day were flooding back. That early emergency call had come from the recording studio; Kowalczyk's people had pitched a Molotov cocktail through a window. Within an hour, they hit two of our massage parlours and one of our affiliate pubs. And finally, they took aim at Bubbles.
Fifteen minutes after being blasted by that call, I was in my club, assessing the situation, when James rang. "I just heard. How bad is it?"
"It's typical Kowalczyk," I paused for effect. "All show and no go. The damage is minimal. Broken windows and some soft furnishings in flames. The sprinkler system took care of it."
"Fucking amateurs," James said cheerfully.
"Tell me you found his weed farm."
"We did, boss. He's got a gastro pub here, too. He deals from it and uses it to launder cash."
"Torch it all. Make sure the pub looks like an inside job." It would screw up any insurance pay-outs.
"On it, boss."
The respect was there but so was the distance. I felt it but didn't let it show. "Stay in touch."
By mid-morning it was business as usual on our side but all the will in the world couldn't bring Kowalczyk's marijuana plants back. We were ahead on points and I had plans that would leverage our advantage.
Information is the key to success, and so I set some of my best people to watch Kowalczyk. The hacker team back in the US were too busy with the war in Texas to work with me but they arranged for a phone tap and access to the CCTV on his gate.
Listening in to his calls and visitors paid off right away as Kowalczyk called the fresa's brother. "Where the hell is she?"
"I told you: we had a massive family fight. I'm sure she's with a girlfriend. She'll be back as soon as she's cooled down. Promise."
"She's not answering her kurwo phone. I've sent a dozen texts."
The brother crawled and apologised but Kowalczyk slammed down the phone. From the swearing, he was most unhappy. Within a minute, the texts swept into her phone:
Bitch! How dare you fucking walk out on me!
Where the hell are you?
He hadn't even considered that I might have taken her. The jodido Pole really didn't rate me at all. It infuriated me.
But he wanted the woman badly. It wasn't long before the fury switched to crawling.
Look, come back. I'm willing to talk.
Please, call me or at least call your brother.
Lying in bed, going over the events again, I decided I'd made the right moves. I had my enemy confused and my strikes were hitting them harder than their counterstrikes were hitting me. It should have been reassuring but I still couldn't sleep.
I considered the soft form lying next to me. She was a devil, but I knew why Kowalczyk wanted her. She fought me tooth and nail but I had also seen her with her defences down. The hidden Persia York combined strength with passion. It was irresistible.
Remembering the melting sweetness, I put my arms around her. Now I'd tamed her, she'd surrender to me and I'd drown in that honied embrace again. I fell asleep with my face buried in her hair.
Four hours later, again before dawn, the phone blasted me out of bed. James sounded calm, "They hit us again, boss, and this time, they fucked the sprinklers first."
"How bad?"
"Three of our kebab shops and Paradise, our gentlemen's club in Curzon Street, all damaged but repairable."
"I'm on my way."
I was pulling on my shirt when she stirred. "Fuck and run, huh?"
"What?" My mind was on the trouble ahead.
She was tied up and helpless, yet giving me lip. "You made all those promises, and now you're running away."
Hard as nails, the fresa. And so damn sexy that I was dying to dive into her.
"Oh well, it's not a huge disappointment." She eyed my dick maliciously. "I can see why you carry a big gun."
I wanted to slap her but mostly I wanted to fuck her. "You'll pay for that later," I informed her.
Instead of flinching in fear, she bit into my pillow, holding on to it with grim determination as I carried her into the bathroom. I should've taken it away but when I loosened the cuff chain, she couldn't stifle a gasp of pain. It's a bitch being trussed up, even if it's n
ot fiendishly tight, because your muscles stiffen and then knot.
In short, I let her keep the pillow. I felt funny about it, I should have punished her for dissing me, but I told myself her mouthing off would make humbling her later much more fun.
"Hell. Hell. Hell." She was arching as her muscles knotted. "You bloody wanker."
She really had no respect. I tugged the collar, "When I come back, I'll remind you of your manners" and then I cast her taunt back at her, "Woof."
I wasn't planning on torturing her, I just wanted to remind her not to push me too far. She didn't apologise, it would take a year of waterboarding to break her, but despite the flash of anger in her eyes, she kept quiet.
Convinced she was tamed, I rushed to check on our properties. Unfortunately, Smith was there, bristling with suspicion. "You and Kowalczyk, you're both at it."
"Exactly, my good friend. You always know everything." I played the idiot, smiling at him. "But I think I have the advantage."
"Is that so?" He dripped sarcasm. Smith had learned to distrust me.
"Sure! We've got a bet going: the one who packs in most customers this month, wins. As Bubbles is a better club than Empire, beers will be on him."
Smith didn't blink. "Right. You and Kowalczyk have a wager on. With beers as a stake. So why is this restaurant burned to the ground?"
"When you're working with kebabs, there's grease and oil. An accident, my friend. A simple accident."
"Is that what happened to your brothel on Curzon Street too?"
"What brothel?" I was shocked. "Surely you don't mean our gentlemen's club?"
Smith knew he was beat on that one. Thanks to the country's liberal laws, Paradise was legal. He let it go and focussed on the facts, "You and Kowalczyk are fighting a turf war. He killed your chemist, Jamal Blake. Then he stirred the pot by boasting he would take over your club."
It was nice to know he was on the wrong trail. "A dead chemist? What are you talking about?" Perhaps I could frame Kowalczyk for murder one.
"Or maybe you did it," Smith continued. "Maybe that fucker was your Walt Whitman. Maybe he stole from you or crossed you, and you took him out."
