Vendetta

by Christine Zolendz

  At midnight Tony closes the bar to the public and brings the girls in the back. We’re ten security guys deep and everyone is ready to party at Tony Fretolli’s very own Carpet Joint. Where every game starts with a $10,000 ante.

  The girls come in willingly, it’s something they look forward to each month—a monthly card game where they could make an easy twenty grand and up. They work hard, though. Tony makes sure there’s a blowjob for every guy. He always says, it makes the game more challenging, keeping your poker face on with your junk in someone's mouth. Even if the biggest spenders lose, they’re guaranteed to go home happy and sated.

  There are ten made guys in Tony's crew, including me. Tony was Capo, short for capodecina, and just like in the movies, he’s the boss. Next would usually be an underboss, but Tony doesn't have one. In Tony's outfit, he's it and there’s no one else.

  Card games like Tony's bring in the high rollers. And they're all here tonight. Assemblymen, the union representation of sanitation, a few district attorneys; each of them have a girl on their lap and their nose in some blow. Tony's at the head of one of the tables, a glass of brandy in one hand and his other down the front of one of the girl’s costumes, his fingers moving in quick circles beneath the fabric.

  Two girls are next to him giggling, waiting for their turn.

  Ten minutes into the first game, Candy, one of the oldest girls here, bounces in dragging Felony by the hand behind her. I've never seen her at one of the games before and my fists clench thinking about watching her suck some other guy off. I’m not sure I’ll be able to handle it without snapping like a possessive asshole.

  And of course all eyes are on her as she’s standing there, she's the one they all want to have, she's the one that hasn't done any of them. Yet.

  The fucked up thing is, she looks shell-shocked.

  Her face blanches to a frightening white and you can tell she isn’t seeing what she wants to see. She’s staring wide-eyed at some distant horror that she’s imagining in her very-near future. Jesus Christ, it’s killing me she’s back here.

  Then as suddenly as it came, the look of shock and terror leave her and she makes her way through the sea of the most dangerous men that ever called themselves wise guys and starts speaking right to Tony. "Pardon me, Mr. Fretolli, I think this was a mistake. I'm not supposed to be back here."

  Tony bursts out laughing from where he sits sucking on his cigar. "You're staying now, amore mio.” My love.

  There's no fear in her eyes as she nods her head once, just complete disgust.

  Then Franco, the fucknut, jumps in front of her and grabs a handful of her ass. Her jaw clenches too tight and I almost think she’s holding back from punching him.

  "Hey, Franco, she came back here for me. We made plans before the game." I walk over and press my hand on her lower back. It’s the first time I’ve ever touched her and the heat of her body makes me fist my hand around the back of her shirt. Her bright blue eyes are wide with questions as I nudge her gently toward one of the smaller back rooms. I can’t watch her go through this. I might end up killing one of these fuckers if I have to sit through that shit.

  Opening the door quickly, I gently shove her inside and close the door behind us, flipping the lock.

  "I'm not going to have sex with you. I'm engaged," she says, holding up her hand and wiggling her fingers. A small diamond twinkles at me from some pathetic silver band.

  "I don't want you to, calm the fuck down." I grab her hand, slide the ring off, and throw it over my shoulder. "And you aren't engaged. Stop lying."

  She steps closer to me, tilting her head in a challenge. "Yeah?"

  "Yeah, sweetheart. No man would let you dance out there the way you do if he wanted to marry you."

  "You don't know me," she snaps.

  "I know diamonds, and that one is fake. And baby, it ain't going to keep Tony or his men from touching you. They're going to take whatever they want from you, whether you’re willing to give it up or not." I step closer to her, pushing her against the door. I use my hips to pin her there. "Now moan. Loud."

  "What? No. No fucking way."

  "I'm sorry, did you want Franco's hairy old balls on you?" I ask.

  "No! That’s so gross. Now I have the image of it in my head."

  "Then moan, baby. Moan loud. Make them think you're giving me the ride of my life, or one of them is going to try to take you for a spin." I lower my face closer to her as I speak, the skin of my cheeks touching hers, breathing her in. When she doesn't do as I say, I tilt my head and dip in closer, brushing my lips along her jaw. I slow my breathing to fan out long even wisps of warmth across her flesh. Her body shivers instantly. She presses herself back against the door like a scared little kitten but her eyes, her eyes are locked on mine, no fear in sight.

  Those eyes hold secrets and I want to know every one of them.

  Then she tucks her chin down, cutting my view of them, but her cheeks are blushing beautifully.

  “I never took you for being shy,” I say, trailing my finger across the bottom of her chin to lift her attention back up to me.

  As her head tilts back, she wets her lips and takes a long deep breath.

  She cries out a moan so damn loud and sexual, I feel it in my veins.

  "Good girl," I whisper into her ear. "Now do it calling my name. It's Corrado." My face is in the crook of her neck. I want to kiss her there in that bare expanse from the curve of her neck to the sleeve of her shoulder. It’s right there, so close to my lips that my mouth waters, making me swallow hard. It's a beautiful agony. My own personal torture; resisting her flesh.

  "I know your stupid name," she rasps, hoarsely.

  "Yeah? You practice moaning my name when you're all alone and you slip your fingers down into those little black panties?"

  "Screw you, Corrado," she hisses.

  I bring my lips to the shell of her ear and whisper low, "I thought that's what you were trying to avoid in here. Because by all means, baby, if you want it, I can guarantee you'll be screaming my damn name within five minutes. Desires like those are way too dangerous in this place.”

  Her breathing becomes heavier. “Oh God,” she gasps.

  Then she moans out my name. She moans my name over and over on her lips like I’ve imagined her doing for months. Pressing her hands against my chest, she clamps down on my shirt and twists the material in her hands like she’s afraid I'll float away. Intense blue eyes, that seems to ache when she calls out my name, stare wide-eyed at me as she pants and gasps for me. We’re barely touching, just pretending, and it is one of the most intimate things I've ever felt. I squeeze my damn eyes shut so she won’t realize how my name on her lips has the ability to take over my world.

  “Yeah, baby. That’s my girl. Ride me real deep and slow,” I moan.

  My heart is thudding hard against my chest, and I feel hers pounding just as fast beside it.

  “Oh fuck, Corrado.” Her voice cracks over my name. “You’re going to make me come.” She thumps her head back against the door, and her eyes lock on mine. “So hard,” she breathes.

  Slow and deliberate, I lift my hands past each side of her face, pressing my palms against the door, caging her in. I have to ball them into fists not to touch her. "Fuck yeah, baby," I groan out. "That's it, baby, come for me."

  Together we make it sound so good, so real.

  When her moans turn to whimpers, I push her hair over one shoulder and brush my lips along her neck, just a small taste of her skin. Before it’s too much, I unclench my fists and lean away from her. "That sounded intriguing."

  She smirks. "We could go into business as porn star voice-overs," she whispers.

  Smiling, I’m still caught in her eyes. She’s so damn beautiful. "You have any emotional attachment to this shirt?" I ask her, pinching the black cotton of her top.

  "No, why?"

  Sliding my hand in the back pocket of her denim skirt, I lift the serrated-edged knife I know she keeps there, flick it open and
tear open her shirt from neck to belly. Her breasts, full and beautiful, bounce free and quiver with the quick rise and fall of her chest. Her lips breathe my name once more and fire surges through my veins. Her eyes widen. So close. So damn blue. Questioning me.

  "Look around you, gorgeous. We're thugs. Criminals. You don't belong here. You dance like you're a damn ballerina. Get out of here before you can't get out. Any other one of those guys in there would have done whatever they wanted to you. They wouldn't ask for permission. And they wouldn't care if you didn't give it."

  A flash of something passes behind her eyes. It’s not fear. It’s a hardness, like she’s seeing something in front of her, beyond me that I’m somehow blind to.

  I reach into her bag and she catches my fingers for a moment—quickly pulling her hand back like she just touched fire. "Give me a pair of your panties from in here," I whisper. “I’m just trying to make this all look real.” Her gaze slowly drifts to my eyes as she nods in understanding. I expect her to flinch, get upset, fight with me, but she doesn’t. The corner of her lips tug up and her eyes flash a dark look. She pulls her bag slowly out of my hands and tosses it on the floor near her feet.

  With her eyes still locked on mine she reaches down and slides her hands below her skirt and guides a pair of black-laced panties down her long legs and dangles them in front of my face. Her look levels me, slams me flat against the floor with images of that filthy look riding her thighs against mine. It’s like looking at the sun. Damn, I could definitely get into that.

  But I don't.

  Just call me Saint fucking Corrado. The patron saint of blue balls.

  I growl and walk out, leaving her standing in the middle of that room alone, shredded shirt and pantyless. The card game is still going strong, it’s pretty quiet too, but every wise guy sitting there is wearing a smile, thinking they know what just went down in the back room.

  "Steer clear, boys, this one's mine until I get my fill of her. I ain't sharing with any of you old wrinkly has-beens." I hold up her panties to my lips and smile behind them.

  They all raise their drinks and cheer me. Through the clinking of glasses, and spilling of liquids, her face is all I can focus on. Her head cocks to the side, leaning against the doorway, arms folded across her chest trying to keep everyone from seeing her breasts. Smiling cautiously back at me.

  I make sure she gets to her car untouched by any of those fuckers and bounce out of there before anyone can ask questions.

  I race home trying to get my head clear, never getting below ninety and blowing every light. My heart won't quit racing, thinking about the black lace between my fingers and the steering wheel, and what it looked like when they slowly skimmed against her flesh. How her hips moved, how her breasts trembled.

  Storming into my apartment, I go straight to the refrigerator and pull out a beer. Twisting off the cap, I throw it clinking and clanking onto the counter, and gulp back the icy drink. It makes the blood in my veins feel warmer, yet does nothing to calm my urges. I pull out my gun. Yank out the magazine, clear the chamber, and pull it apart. From under the sink I grab the cleaning fluid and Q-tips and methodically clean the already-clean gun. Nothing erases her image. I walk out onto balcony as dawn seeps into the sky. The autumn leaves burn like fire against the sunrise. I toss my gun and my beer onto the table next to me, and collapse into a patio chair. The television from inside is on low and I can still hear the low voice of a news reporter talking about some storm lurking just east of us, over the waters of the Atlantic.

  Reaching down, I pull out a hidden pack of Marlboros I keep in the bottom of the patio table and put one of the stale cigarettes to my lips. I've only had a few over the last few months, only when I needed to plan—think things through. Flipping open my zippo I light it, breathing in the old bitterness, and pick up my gun. I twirl it around like a cowboy then hold it still, looking into the round darkness of the barrel. How many people have ever felt the cool metal of a gun against their cheek on the inside of their mouth? The heaviness of a loaded gun lying on their tongue, the bitter tang of its metal tainted with just a little bit of pressure from the trigger?

  I hang my head in my hands, elbows heavy on my knees and take one last drag of my smoke. This is not an easy life. I pinch my cigarette out with my fingers and gulp down the last of my beer, heading back inside. The sun is out now, blazing and burning, and it’s time for me to sleep.

  The vision of her dancing still lies behind my eyelids when I close them. The sounds of her moaning when she was pretending I was inside her still ring in my ears. I wonder if she had thought about what it would feel like, me deep inside her making her moan like that. Her lips parting, head tilting back and the slow slide of her over me.

  I flop around in my bed, twisting the sheets around me, but for the life of me I can't stop the images of her from racing through my head. I don't even want to.

  When I close my eyes all I see is the head of my cock dipping slowly between her lips. Her tongue slowly swirling around, sucking hard and fast, then soft and slow.

  Tossing and turning, balls aching for release, I get back up and run the shower. I let the bathtub steam and step in. The soap feels harsh and stings at my skin. The nicks and cuts I got from wrestling with Patterson have me squeezing my eyes shut trying to push away the discomfort.

  Even the bites of sharp pain don’t stop the image of her dancing from invading my mind. I brace myself against the cool tiles and let the hot water pour down over me.

  I wrap my hand around my cock and start pumping up and down. I wonder what she tastes like. How warm she'd feel around me. I can’t help myself. I want to be inside her.

  I get myself off, thinking of her.

  Chapter 3

  Felony

  I clench my thighs together, trying to suppress the throbbing ache between my legs. A small part of me wants to run into the restroom and touch myself. I talk myself out of it, a few times, and I try to focus on what Tony is telling us.

  If I just stare at Tony, I’ll lose my lady boner.

  I stare at him hard.

  The gross asshole smiles at me a little too wide. Ew.

  He’s talking about the schedule and when each of us goes on tonight.

  I’m not listening at all. I keep taking quick peeks at Corrado.

  If I keep this up I’m going to slip right off the pole tonight.

  Tony smacks each girl on the ass and walks into the back room where he hides most of the night. I bet he’s got a camera out here and he’s constantly jerking his dick off at us all night. The thought sends chills across my shoulders and sends a bit of vomit up the back of my throat.

  “You okay?” Corrado asks from behind the bar where he was standing listening to Tony talk. His question jolts me back to reality.

  And my reality is still a sharp, hot ache between my thighs.

  I lick my lips and try to concentrate on his eyes. “Yeah, great. Just fucking peachy.” I’d be a hell of a lot better if I could rub one out and get back to work.

  “Did you sleep okay last night?” he asks, pouring me a glass of whiskey and sliding it across the bar top toward me. He leans down on his elbows waiting for my answer.

  “I tossed and turned a little.”

  “Me too.”

  “A lot actually,” I say, climbing up onto a bar stool and rubbing my legs together tightly. God, if he smirks at me any more I’m going to start humping the seat I’m balancing my ass on.

  “Yeah,” he breathes, “me too.”

  His eyes fix on mine and I feel so much in the look that my heart aches. I can’t have my body responding like this to someone like him. I shouldn’t even be speaking to him at all. I have a job to do and I have to get it done, that’s it.

  “I’m not even sure I should watch your set tonight,” he chuckles, in a low voice.

  I don’t know how to answer him. I want him to watch me. I want him to ache as much as I do. I swallow back my whiskey and place the glass in front of him. �
��That’s too bad,” I say, sliding off the stool. “Because I’ll be thinking about you when I dance.”

  “Damn,” I hear him gasp out as I walk away toward the dressing rooms.

  I flat-out run as soon as I get in the hallway and out of his line of sight.

  The dressing room is packed full of dancers. They’re weaving wigs onto their heads and slathering glitter all over the their breasts. Each one giving me a friendly smile, but no more. They’re as nice as they can be without slitting my throat. The competition is fierce here and there seems to be a hierarchy of dancers that I know nothing about.

  I take a deep breath and walk through the war zone. If anything’s going to quell my aching body parts, it’s a bunch of strippers wanting to rip them right off me.

  I set up my make-up station and quickly line my eyes with black kohl and add a fresh coat of mascara to thicken my lashes. I don’t bother doing my hair, it’s long and thick and wild, perfect for dancing.

  I slip a black leather rip-away vest over a black lace bra and match it with a leather thong. I want to wear something stunning, something that will make Corrado stay and watch because he just can’t look away.

  The last thing I do is slip my feet into a pair of high highs and inspect myself in the mirror.

  “Wow, girl. Look at you tonight,” Candy whistles. “You got your fiancé out in the crowd tonight?” Shit, my fiancé. My made-up fiancé who gave me a fake diamond ring that’s probably still on the floor in the back room where Corrado threw it.

  “Nah, I just need a few more tips tonight. I got some bills to pay.”

  “Felony, we all got bills to pay,” one of the other girls says drily behind us. “Instead of just dancing, you should get on your knees if you want to make more money. Or you think you’re better than us?”

  I don’t think I’m better than them. But I have a specific debt I have to repay and it’s much harder to deal with that than giving a bunch of the good old boys head. These girls don’t know anything about me. They think I judge them for doing whatever they can to put food on their tables or clothes on their backs. I don’t. But I know damn well they would judge me if they knew my story.