by Lulu Pratt
“Does this mean you have leads on any of the guys down there? Are they, uh, suspects?” I questioned with uncertainty. Police jargon wasn’t my bag.
A shadow crossed his face, one I couldn’t quite decipher. “Maybe. We’ll see.”
I nodded. Unsure of what else to say, I replied, “All right. So, are we doing this or what?”
He smirked at my false show of bravery, and the expression was hot enough to inject me with some real courage. Under his protection, I could totally manage this. Right?
“Okay, officer,” he said jokingly. “Follow me.”
He turned and walked to the entrance of the Black Dog. I followed his lead, and just as I was wondering how we would get in after hours when the shop appeared closed, Dylan knocked three times, and muttered something inaudible.
“What was that?” I asked in a hushed tone, moving nearer to him.
“The password.”
“You know the password?” I questioned incredulously.
He didn’t have time to answer, but what happened next resolved my question anyways.
The door creaked open, and in low light, I could decipher a man towering over even Dylan’s hulking form. Only half of his face was visible, but it was enough for me to see that he was covered, from temple downwards, in a litany of facial tattoos. I spotted a few numbers, a couple of pentagrams, and most worryingly, some inked teardrops near the corner of his eye.
I gulped and had a Dorothy ‘I’m not in Kansas anymore’ moment.
“Who is it?” the tattooed figure snarled.
“Dylan.” Pause. “And company.”
“Who’s the company?”
“My girl,” Dylan replied, wrapping an arm around my shoulder and pulling me close. “Name’s Alabama.” His hand slipped over my shoulder and came to rest on the upper curve of my breast, which was tantalizingly visible due to the low-cut corset top.
Was I using a fake name now? I would’ve been tickled by the detective noir of it all if I wasn’t so scared for my life.
I caught up with the charade and stuck my hand out. In a voice sweet as honey, I said to the stranger, “Hey there, Alabama at your service. Though friends call me Bama, so you might as well cozy up with that nickname.” I winked heavily.
“Not bad,” the man said, scouring me. I suddenly had the urge to cover my body with anything, even a piece of cardboard. His gaze was disgusting. “I’m Bull. Come on in.”
He opened the door wide and gestured for us to follow him into the mouth of hell.
CHAPTER 24
Zoe
The upstairs of the tattoo parlor was, y’know, a tattoo parlor.
I shot Dylan a confused look — what were we doing in a tattoo shop? The operation seemed to be on the up and up. There were a handful of long, leather chairs that flattened into benches, and the walls were adorned with sketches of tattoos, intermingled with pictures of inked babes with banging bods. The place smelled faintly like seared flesh.
All in all, though, it was average. Not really the kind of place I’d visit for a fun weekend activity, but I didn’t begrudge anybody their body mods.
My thoughts were interrupted by Bull — which, incidentally, was a worse fake name than mine — by him briskly shoving aside a couple of stacked cardboard boxes, lifting a dingy bath mat that lay beneath them, and revealing a small metal handle that was built into the floor.
I looked at Dylan while he stared straight ahead, implacable. So I reluctantly turned my head back to Bull. I sensed that Dylan was focusing on the situation at hand, and if I were to distract him, the whole mission might go belly up.
With that in mind, I too watched Bull closely as he grabbed the handle with one enormous, meaty fist, with L-O-V-E across the four knuckles and tugged vigorously.
I know this sounds rather idiotic, given the obvious hint of the handle, but I was shocked to discover that Bull had opened a trap door.
“Oh shit,” I murmured, apparently loud enough to send Dylan’s eyes shooting in my direction.
This was more than I’d signed up for.
“Follow me,” Bull ordered before I could have time to assess how smart it would be to run out the front door screaming. The man — or perhaps guard dog was a more accurate descriptor — clambered down the opening, boots banging loudly against something metal.
I moved to go next, but Dylan put a wary arm in front of me, saying quietly, “Let me go first.”
I hesitated and gave an assenting nod. It would be unwise to play like I understood whatever this game was. Dylan went down the small hole and I brought up the rear. I peered over the edge of the space, and realized that there was a metallic ladder, some twenty feet long, that went into utter darkness.
With an agitated sigh, I yanked off my heels. There would be no getting down that ladder in five-inch stilettos. I decided to leave the heels there for the time being. God knows what was down that hole.
I took a deep breath and began to make my way down the ladder. What I lacked in ladder-climbing ability, I made up for in arm strength. I sent a mental thank you to all the dough I’d had to knead in my life. In a minute or so, I had joined the boys at the bottom.
Dylan passed me back my heels, and I used his arm to steady myself as I slipped them back on. Bull gave a little snort and led us through what appeared to be a short, steel-lined tunnel, at the end of which was a petite door. I wondered how he would possibly squeeze his girth through it.
“Welcome,” Bull said, “to the real Black Dog.”
He turned a crank and opened the door.
“Fucking hell,” I gasped. Bull nodded appreciatively at my amazement.
From this angle, I could see an intimate den saturated in red. Red Chinese lanterns hung from the ceiling, red wallpaper decked the walls, red-covered poker tables occupied the greater portion of the room. My eyes swam with red.
“Let’s go,” Bull instructed.
Mute with shock, I walked after him and Dylan, who looked perplexingly at ease. Didn’t he, an officer of the law, care that this was at the very least an illegal gambling den? His sudden, lax attitude made me nervous, in part because it reminded me how little I technically knew about him.
But now wasn’t the time for a relationship-related conversation of where do you see us in a year or even in half an hour. Bull guided us into the swanky den, where I passed at least a dozen odd patrons entranced by rapidly flipping cards. I didn’t recognize any of them, but then again, they were all hazy beneath the glowing red lights.
I was able to decipher games of Texas hold ‘em and blackjack, but some seemed like imports. The room reeked of scented candles. From somewhere in the room, a low whistle shot in my direction. I knew because I felt Dylan’s hand protectively grip mine.
Bull didn’t stop amidst the sea of gamblers, instead choosing to lead us past the tables, and into a room that was partitioned by a folding screen. Behind the screen was what appeared to be an underground yard sale, piles upon piles of junk, with no discernible reasoning in their divisions.
“What is all this?” I inquired.
“You didn’t tell her?” This, to Dylan.
Dylan tousled his hair, and casually replied, “I did. Not sure it registered.”
Was that a jab? I was about to call him on the crap, then reconsidered. Perhaps this was part of the cover and besides, in this place I was no sure I wanted to overplay my hand. Starting trouble around here seemed like a grade A bad idea.
“Well, Miss Alabama,” Bull said to me. “This here’s the Black Market.”
The title of the tattoo parlor clicked in my head as being a rather thinly veiled reference.
“I thought that was all online these days,” I stated to no one in particular.
“Maybe in the big cities. In Fallow Springs, we like to conduct our business on paper, man to man.”
“Like,” I continued, wondering aloud, “he said there was a black market, but I didn’t get that it was so, so… literal.”
Bull ch
uckled at my innocence, but I ignored him, instead rotating to face Dylan. He gestured for me to examine the piles, presumably to search for my stolen goods. This entire affair felt distinctly unlike something an officer of the law should be endorsing, but I stayed silent on the matter.
“Where do I look for stolen baking supplies?” I asked Bull.
The man grinned and revealed a number of metal teeth, sending his face tattoos into motion as though pictures were shifting, alive on his skin.
He came back with, “Just start digging. Take anything that doesn’t belong to you and I cut off one of your fingers.” And as soon as the words left his mouth, he stormed off into the gambling den, presumably to indulge in what I assumed were a variety of colorful vices.
“I’ll try to be of some assistance,” Dylan offered, “but I’m not sure I could tell one cooking thing from another.”
“Baking,” I replied mindlessly.
“Yeah, baking. Let’s start searching, and you tell me if anything looks familiar. Sound good?”
Good. None of this sounded good. But it did sound like the first lead we’d had thus far, so I was willing to try.
CHAPTER 25
Dylan
We spent the next half hour digging through the mountains of crap. And they were, largely, crap. That’s why we, meaning law enforcement, mostly let Black Dog slide. The bulk of the stuff they peddled was harmless shit and as they were a known quality, we let it slide. Better to deal with the devil you know than the devil down the road. The gambling… that, on the other hand, was pretty new. Tom and I were going to have words about that when I got out of here.
I watched Zoe sift through piles with at first trepidation, and eventually with an angry zeal. She was one determined gal. Didn’t hurt that, as she bent over the junk, her mini skirt rode up, revealing a tiny black thong — one I wouldn’t mind taking off a little later.
My musings about her tempting underwear were interrupted when she picked up an object and held it out to me with horror.
It was a gun. A gleaming black gun.
“I never knew these were so heavy.”
“What the fuck,” I muttered angrily.
I walked over to her and took the weapon from her outstretched hand.
Had Black Dog got into the arms dealing business? That, compounded with the gambling, meant shit was gonna get real, and fast. And a thought occurred to me. The gun looked oddly familiar. I mean, all handguns look relatively similar, but this jogged my memory.
I moved from behind the folding screen into the back of the den area. Best not to be examining potentially faulty guns in Zoe’s presence. Something told me a girl from NYC wouldn’t be big on firearms, especially ones with questionable composition.
The gun was heavy in my hand, and I weighed it, trying to reach further into my mind to pull out the relevant details.
I remembered. Slowly, I turned the gun over in my hand to examine the trigger. I knew what I would find, but I needed to make certain I was correct. Sure enough, if I tilted the gun to the light just right, I could make out the tell-tale sign — a ruby-inlaid trigger.
I didn’t waste time. “Bull!” I shouted. “Get over here!”
The gang lackey raised his head from one of the poker tables, sneered and pushed away from the table, making his way over to me. He looked pissed at being called like a dog, but I didn’t care. Eventually, his gigantic form stood only inches from my own.
“What is it, Dylan?” he growled. “You interrupted my game.”
I held up the gun, until it was positioned between our two sets of eyes. “Notice anything familiar?”
“No,” he lied. It had taken me only one or two trips to the Black Dog to figure out that Bull was the worst liar out of them all. That’s why he’d never rise in the gang, always stuck playing page boy.
“Oh yeah?” I pressed. “You don’t recognize the specialty custom gun from the Damascus case? The one that would’ve put Colin away for the rest of his sorry life?”
“Huh,” he replied moronically. “Guess it does look a little familiar.”
“You’re about to get anally fucked.”
“Am I now? Interesting.” He turned his head and let out a piercing whistle. A handful of men appeared as if out of nowhere, all dressed in black with buzzed heads.
“Gentlemen,” Bull said to the men. “Grab the girl.”
My world tilted on its axis as I watched the guys race behind the folding screen. I quickly stuck the gun into the back of my jeans. I tried to follow them, but Bull grabbed me by the neck, saying, “I don’t think so.” He landed a jab on my orbital socket, and I reflected that that was gonna be sore in the morning.
A scream pierced the room, and I knew, as if by instinct, that it was Zoe.
“You stupid sonofabitch,” I shouted in Bull’s face, my spit speckling his cheeks. “You hurt her and I’ll kill you.”
He laughed, and I watched helplessly as the group of men in black dragged Zoe out by her armpits, kicking and screaming.
“Dylan,” she cried.
The plea was cut off by a man covering her mouth and pulling her to his body. I’d seen enough.
I broke out of Bull’s chokehold, ducked a blow, and coming briefly out of my crouch, delivered a solid punch to his jaw. Bones cracked beneath my knuckles, and Bull roared. In the confusion, the lackeys let go of Zoe. She sprinted to me and grabbed my hand.
“Let’s go!” I told her. I didn’t wait to see her response, time was of the essence.
Together we ran through the poker tables, upsetting several drinks and raising angry hollers from a number of patrons. Needless to say, we didn’t stop to apologize. We went through the steel door, and I let go of her hand just long enough to usher her up the ladder.
“You go first,” she panted.
“No.” End of argument.
There wasn’t time for a fight, so she tacitly agreed and began to climb. I could hear Bull’s men gaining behind us, judging from the sound of smacking shoes and gambling chips being scattered on the floor.
We scrambled up the ladder, and once we got to the top, I slammed the trap door shut and moved the cardboard boxes over it as Zoe grabbed her stilettos.
“That should give us some time,” I said, grabbing Zoe’s hand again. “But we gotta move quickly.”
We raced out of the Black Dog Tattoo Parlor and down the block in the frigid winter air. I doubted we’d make it into our respective cars and start them up before the men found us, so I pulled Zoe into a nearby alley. I pressed her close to the wall, using my body as a shield.
“Don’t move a muscle,” I whispered in her ear.
Soon, we could hear the men spilling out of the shop and searching the streets for us. We had the advantage of smarts on our side, these boys were dumb as bricks.
“Hey, Bobo, I can’t find them anywhere!” called one.
“Same here,” another replied.
“Maybe they ran real fast,” returned yet another.
I rolled my eyes. No wonder the Black Dog’s ‘secret operations’ weren’t all that secret. These kids hadn’t had the thought to check the damn alley. But it wasn’t wise to underestimate a group of possible drug addicts, armed with handguns. So, Zoe and I waited them out.
Minutes passed, until at last their apparent leader shouted, “They’re gone. No use tryna find ‘em now.”
“Okay, boss, whatever you say,” said one.
With that, they moseyed back inside the shop. The tell-tale bell jangled as the door shut behind them.
For the first time since we’d entered the Black Dog, I took a deep breath, looked at Zoe, realizing our bodies had been practically flush against one another during the excitement. And now, other parts of me were, well, excited.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“You were so brave back there,” she replied shyly.
“Just doing my job.”
I felt her shiver, and realized she was still wearing little to no clothing.
/> “We’ve gotta get you warmed up,” I said.
“Oh yeah? How do you plan on doing that?”
“Let’s go back to your place.”
CHAPTER 26
Zoe
In my car I followed Dylan to my place as a light snow began to fall. He parked on the road outside my house and I scampered inside, chilled to the bone from the evening’s events and coming down from the adrenaline rush. I watched him walk up the path and I thought to myself about what an interesting turn my life had taken in the last couple of days.
Dylan came inside and wordlessly lead me upstairs to my bedroom. He took me into his arms once he closed the door. I look up at him and he gently ran his finger along my jawline. He tilted my face up and kissed me. His tongue parted my lips and darted into my mouth. My tongue responded and glided over his.
His hands roved over my body, from my neck to my collarbones, along my sides to my waist. He cupped my ass firmly and growled into my mouth. I pushed into him, rubbing my breasts against his chest.
Dylan broke our kiss and pulled away for a moment. He lazily moved his hands to my corset top and unbuttoned it. My body hummed and I was desperate for him to hurry. I start unbuttoning the corset from the other end.
“Please, let me take my time over you.” Dylan took my hands and slide them around my back.
I gave up fighting and drank in the pleasure he was giving me.
He finished unbuttoning the corset and pulled it aside, exposing my collarbone. He kissed my flesh as he flitted his fingers under my waistband.
I breathed in, savoring his touch, and found myself reaching for his body. I gulped as I ran my hands up and down his firm muscles.
Dylan’s mouth closed over mine as his fingers worked at my skirt’s zipper. He pulled my body to his and his hardness pressed into me. Unzipping my skirt, he slid his hands down over my thong.
My breathing became jagged.