Masked Indulgence: A Billionaire Holiday Romance (Nightclub Sins Book 2)

by Michelle Love

  He could feel the salt puckering the skin on his fingers. Seemed he was always around salt nowadays—salt, rust … blood.

  As he walked across the salt flats, a dog skittered out to meet him. The dog, handsome despite the blind eye and the missing leg, gave a strangled cough and rolled his one eye at him.

  He stared back.

  Garp! The dog coughed then turned and trotted back into the shack at the far end of the junkyard, stopping every few yards as if he was encouraging the man to follow him.

  The man walked slowly through the yard. Old refrigerators, stoves, junk of every kind. Then, as he reached the shack, he saw them. In a row were four motor vehicles, each one in pristine condition. Not one of them newer than the 1950s. Brokedown eyed them all … he recognized a Ford Fairlane, its pink and white paintwork almost pristine, its chrome bumpers glinting in the hot sun, and somewhere inside him, it conjured up the specter of a memory, a good memory that he couldn’t quite get to. Brokedown had never had much use for cars other than to get here, there, or away, but there was something about these four vehicles. They seemed in too good a condition to be in this junkyard.

  Brokedown shifted his balls to one side of his pants and squinted across the yard. Over by the crusher was a small shack, run down. Outside of it, someone had stuck three old gas pumps—Fire Chief, Pennzoil, Texaco—so it looked like a parody of a Hopper painting.

  Brokedown strolled over, his eyes darting left or right for signs of life and pushed open. It creaked with age and rust, and a cloud of dust fell down on top of him. He coughed his way inside.

  And stopped. The outside of the shack may have looked like shit, but inside … the floors were polished, the countertop gleaming and behind it, a girl … no, a woman, with breakneck curves, red lips, raven hair, and a Bettie Page on acid attitude. She was dressed in a red mini-dress with white fur trimmings at the neck, wrists, and skirt. The shack inside was decorated for Christmas—a huge tree with sparkling ornaments was at the far end of the shack.

  Brokedown was bemused by the space inside. From outside, the building looked as if it wouldn’t fit more than two people in but inside, the space stretched. He breathed in deeply. Cinnamon and other spices filled the air, making his mouth water. He was transported back to his childhood—Christmas was the one day when he and his family didn’t argue or fight or act generally unpleasant towards each other. Even the one time he’d actually had a mature, long-term relationship, when he hadn’t been Brokedown, had just been plain old Shane Johnson, the Christmas he’d spend with Leanne, had been a happy time. But then their baby had died, and that was it. The memory made the shutters come down in his mind.

  Brokedown didn’t feel emotions except when he was taking a life. Then adrenaline would rush through his veins, and he would exalt in his own godlike power. He shot another look at the woman behind the counter. Jeez, she was stunning—that dark roll of glossy black hair, those pouty red lips … his cock twitched and stiffened.

  She fixed Brokedown with a stare. Her eyes were a silver so bright, he felt he was looking into … what? What was it? They had an uncomfortable purity that made his skin itch.

  “Uh … yeah.” He said the words without thinking and the woman’s mouth hitched up in a half-smile.

  “Can I help you?”

  Whoa. Brokedown swallowed and shifted his weight. Her voice was … what the hell was going on? His entire body was telling him to hightail it out of there, but, damn, that voice … it was a low, sexy purr, sure, but underneath it, at a lower register, there was something else in it, something undefinable—bells, angels singing … screaming.

  “Yeah, um … just didn’t expect there to be …” He looked around, “a diner in the middle of the flats.”

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  That voice again. Brokedown cleared his throat, which was gritty and dry suddenly, his neck tight. “Yeah, sure.”

  Her face a serene blank canvas, Bettie—hell, that’s who she looked like, that’s what he’d call her—reached down and pulled a bottle of beer from a cooler, cracked the top, and handed it to him. It was cold, but he noticed her hand left no condensation mark on the glass, and the liquid itself, instead of being a warm golden color, was as silver as her eyes. Weird. He tipped the bottle back, letting the cold liquid hit the back of his throat, waiting for the relief. None came. Hell, the salt must have got to him.

  He gestured with his thumb outside. “Them cars. Look to be brand new.”

  “They do?”

  Ha. She didn’t know nuthin’ about them. Not that it made any difference; he hadn’t planned on paying for the goddamned car. She wouldn’t be able to stop him … not dead, anyways. His gaze drifted up her body, to her neck. Lily-white skin. He wondered how the fingertip-shaped bruises would look on her.

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  She turned that intense blue gaze on him again, and he shifted uncomfortably on the stool.

  “They have various faults.”

  “Huh. How ’bout giving me another one of those cold ones and givin’ me the tour?”

  She gave him a half-smile. “If you’d like.”

  He let her sashay out in front of him—that walk would look ridiculous on anybody else, her hips curving up into the tiniest waist he’d ever seen. If she hadn’t been quite so obviously genuine, he would have mistaken her for one of the strippers he liked to pay for sometimes, when he had enough money, and who would dress up exactly how he liked. The waitress look always, always, did it for him.

  Bettie walked over to the Ford Fairlane he’d spotted earlier. Now Brokedown made the connection. The waitress outfit, the pink and white colors of the car …

  Wendy-Jane, an eighteen-year-old candy striper who took care of Momma in the old folks’ home, back in Bakersfield. Momma was an old ex-hustler who never stopped yakking until the day she reached for her bottle of Wild Turkey and a stroke hit her like a freight train. Brokedown had never liked the old bitch, but when he set eyes on young Wendy-Jane Hurley, he silently thanked his Momma for ending up in this godforsaken place.

  They’d fucked in his car every day for a few weeks until Wendy complained. Then he took her to a cheap cockroach motel he knew of and banged her there. She was a sweet, slightly overweight girl with bad skin, but pretty with it, her dark hair pulled back in a thick plait. He loved dark girls.

  He drowned Wendy-Jane in the bathtub she’d just laid Momma in to soak. Momma never even blinked. Wendy had struggled, shocked by the sudden turn of events, but he’d held her under easily. He left Wendy-Jane there and just walked out. Scared of the publicity and people taking their parents out of their facility and losing the money, the home hushed it up as a terrible accident. That kind of pissed him off—he wanted the credit, the glory, but hey, it meant he could think about the next one and the next one …

  “Nice car.”

  Bettie fixed him with a silvery, unreadable stare. “Its engine got flooded, and it died.” Something in the way she said the words made his heart pound and he felt his face turn hot. Guilt? Was it actually guilt he was feeling? He thought about Wendy again and suddenly his mind went to her parents, their loss, their agony. Her twelve-year-old brother who had idolized his older sister and was never the same after her death. He saw all of Wendy’s dreams and ambitions, all of her potential that he had wiped out “just because he could.”

  Stop. He forced his mind back to the present. Bettie was walking back to the shack.

  “Hey,” he called out over his shoulder, “what about these other ones?”

  She stopped, looking back over her shoulder at him. “Later. I thought you might like to fuck me first.”

  Brokedown’s mouth dropped open, but he stumbled after her, a wide grin spreading across his face. Inside the shack, “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” was playing as Bettie turned and in one easy motion, dropped her dress. Underneath she had the killer curves he had imagined, large heavy breasts barely contained by her pretty pink bra, wide hips, flat
stomach. Brokedown’s cock was pulsing with desire and he quickly undressed, standing in front of her proudly. He may not have been a lot of things, but Brokedown knew his body was his ticket to a whole lot of lucky.

  Bettie reached for his cock and took it in her firm grip. She was rough with him—which he liked—and took complete control of the situation, which he didn’t like so much, but hey, he’d go with it this time.

  Bettie didn’t bother with foreplay. She shoved him to the floor and straddled him, her fleshy thighs gripping his hips as she lowered herself onto him.

  Brokedown stared up at her as she fucked him—for that was what was happening—she was fucking him. He experienced helplessness as her juicy, wet cunt gripped his cock, all of the muscles in his body softening except one, the breath being dragged from his body in rapturous gasps of pleasure. Her facial expression didn’t change; she stared down at him, her thrusts becoming harder until he could hardly bear it any longer and came, shooting great wads of thick, sticky cum into the body of this goddess. She milked him good, wordlessly encouraging him on as he shuddered and yelped his climax. When he was spent, she quickly disengaged herself and disappeared behind the counter.

  Brokedown lay breathless on the floor, utterly exhausted. That was the best fuck of my life, he thought, and yet why do I feel like something was taken from me?

  He lay on his back and closed his eyes, listening to the cheerful Christmas music. “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” seemed to be on a loop. He’s making a list, he’s checking it twice, he’s gonna find out who’s naughty and nice …

  Brokedown grinned to himself. “Fuck you, Santa, I just got the best present I ever had and I sure as hell haven’t been nice.” God, what a day, what a woman! He would enjoy killing her later but for now … he’d fuck her until he was spent, then end her.

  “Have another drink.” He opened his eyes to see Bettie, now back in her red uniform, handing him another glass of the strange silver beer. He took it with a grin and a wink.

  “Sure thing, toots.” He slid a hand up her inner thigh.

  She stepped away and gave him a wintry smile. “I’m ready to tell you about another one of the cars, now.”

  Brokedown grinned lasciviously and nodded down to his cock, already erect again. “Maybe instead you could take this for a ride again.”

  Her eyes were cold. “Later. Come with me. I have something to show you.”

  Brokedown reluctantly got to his feet, tucking his hard-on back into his pants and hissing with frustration. Who did this bitch think she was, ordering him around? Fucking woman, always getting ideas above their station. Why did they wonder why so many of ’em got killed when they were so disobedient?

  Bettie led him out to a dark red Chevrolet Bel Air, all curves and shiny chrome. The cream-colored roof was pristine, but as they got into the vehicle, Brokedown saw the cream leather seats were all ripped and torn, red stuffing spilling out of them.

  “Someone took a knife to her in the parking lot of a motel,” Bettie said, turning those silver eyes on him. “She still drives, but the damage cannot be repaired. Do you ever think about that, Brokedown Bodie Johnson?”

  He hadn’t recalled telling her his name, but he couldn’t think about that now because his mind had been dragged back to Rochelle, a gorgeous redhead he’d screwed up against an ice bin in the parking lot of a motel in Cleveland.

  She’d been a willing partner, had hitched up her dress for him and ridden him, giggling and kissing him right up until the point when after he’d come he’d pulled a flick knife from his pocket and driven it into her again and again, stabbing her to death without any mercy. He’d dumped the body inside the ice bin, watching her blood cover the ice as she breathed her last, a look of utter confusion and agony on her lovely face. It was the first time he’d used a knife on one of his victims and he’d never felt power like it. He’d read in the paper that she was just another lonely girl looking for adventure. Why should he care?

  Brokedown shifted uncomfortably and got out of the car. “Fuck this.”

  He could have sworn he saw Bettie smile. He turned and went back into the hack. Something was different … the music had slowed, still the same song, but now it sounded like it was being played at the wrong speed. He turned to see Bettie following him into the shack. “Who are you?” he demanded of her, “What is this place?”

  Bettie smiled enigmatically. “You’ll soon find out, Shane.”

  He froze. “Ain’t no one called me that for years; how the fuck do you know my name?”

  That irritatingly serene smile again. She came to him and pressed her hands flat against his chest. “I’m your Christmas surprise, Shane. Are you telling me you don’t want this?”

  He opened his mouth to tell her, no, he didn’t want this, but the words would not form in his throat as he breathed in her scent of spice and sin. He bent his head to kiss her and as his lips met hers, he felt a strange pull to his core, as if, again, something was being taken from him, but he couldn’t break away, so sweet was her taste. He turned her to the wall and hitched her dress up, revealing her perfectly rounded ass, and with a long grunt, he pushed into it, his cock ramrod-stiff. God, this was bliss, she was so tight, and yet he moved in and out easily.

  Bettie made no noise as he fucked her, just moved with him easily until he came violently, shooting deep inside her, her vaginal muscles milking him so thoroughly he gave a shuddering cry. Brokedown’s emotions flooded through him, and he barely maintained his composure. Disconnecting from her, he grabbed the nearest dish towel and cleaned himself up, then turned. Bettie merely straightened her dress.

  Gonna find out who’s naughty and nice …

  “Can’t you change that damn record?” Brokedown snapped as he tucked his cock back into his jeans. Bettie smiled gently.

  “Sorry, it’s the only one I’ve got. Don’t you like it? Making a list, I’m checking it twice, gonna find out who’s naughty, who’s nice ...”

  She had a sweet singing voice but once again, Brokedown heard something else buried deep inside—the sound of a million tortured souls, he suddenly thought, and then laughed to himself. Yeah, right, Brokedown, he told himself, just think crazy shit like that.

  “Would you like something to eat?”

  He nodded and from nowhere, she nodded to the table by the window. It was loaded with every type of Christmas food he could imagine.

  “What the fuck?”

  Bettie gazed at him. “You remember this? You were seven, Shane. Your daddy was in a good mood; your momma had a pretty new dress. Your little sister was only three years old, sweet little Winnie. You loved her, didn’t you?”

  Brokedown felt his eyes prick with tears and he nodded. “How do you know all of this?”

  Bettie put her hand on his arm. “Don’t worry about it, Shane. Just think back to that time. What happened to Winnie, Shane?”

  He felt his chest tighten. “She died when she was five.”

  “How?”

  He got up from the table, angry. “Fuck! Why do you need me to remember this? What are you trying to do?”

  She grinned. “Trying to figure out if you’re naughty or nice, of course.”

  He stared at her. “What, you’re fucking Santa Claus now?”

  Was it his imagination or did anger flare in her eyes? “Santa Claus doesn’t exist, Shane. How did Winnie die?”

  He looked away from her. “She drowned in the well out the back of our property.”

  “That’s right. Never got over it, did you?”

  “I don’t want to talk about this. Tell me about another one of those cars.”

  Bettie inclined her head graciously. “The Desoto Adventurer.”

  Brokedown looked out of the window at the car. “It’s a beauty.”

  The black trimmings and paintwork contrasted with the overall white color, and the car itself wasn’t as curvy as the Chevrolet or the Ford, giving it a sleeker, cleaner appearance.

  “Remind you of anything?�
��

  Bettie’s voice sounded different, far away as an image popped up in Brokedown’s mind.

  Sue-Lin … the one time he’d tried to go straight. A friend of his dad’s had set him up as a trainee at a city job in Manhattan. Would have been good at it too, if it hadn’t been for Sue-Linn distracting him with her scent of jasmine and her pale porcelain skin. Her jet-black hair had tormented him and when, eventually, he’d managed to persuade her to go out with him; she’d surprised him by saying yes. Surprised him even more when she told him to come to her apartment. He’d turned up, and she was naked.

  I don’t believe in waiting, she’d told him as she pulled his clothes off, that’s for kids. You want to fuck me, I know you do, so let’s fuck.

  Hell, just her saying those words was enough to get his blood pumping, his cock thickening and lengthening, and when he plunged into her, her shriek of pleasure almost made him come straight away. She was skinnier than the girls he usually went for, but her limbs clamped around him, and she rode him skillfully. Afterward, as she lay on her back beside him, he’d picked up a long thin blade which lay on her dresser. She had known what he was going to do; he had seen it in her eyes. He’d never had a victim who wanted to die before.

  She kissed him just before he slid the blade through her ribs into her heart. “Thank you,” she’d said then gave a little gasp as he killed her. There was hardly any blood. He found a bag of money with his name on—“I knew you would do as I asked when I saw you. Take this and run, my love, and thank you, thank you for giving me my freedom.”

  The bag had contained one hundred thousand dollars. Turned out Sue-Linn’s father had wanted to marry her off to the same man who’d been raping her since she was a kid. Even Brokedown didn’t sink that low. Ha—who was he kidding? He was so damn used to killing girls now he didn’t think twice; it was like an addiction for him. He would drive down boulevards and city streets, his eyes raking the streets for his next victim. He liked them innocent and sweet; girls that would be missed. Brokedown knew he was a sick fuck, didn’t think he should have to apologize to anyone for that. It was just the way this country had spat him out.