The Rainmaker: Jake: A Von Larsen Crime Family Novel

by Piper Page

  She wasn’t the only one I was denying relief to that day. I needed that frustration and pent up aggression. It fueled me—my own personal, sick, twisted drug to get through my mundane life. When you had life by the balls, vanilla sex, alcohol, and drugs like ecstasy no longer had any effect. Even as I relived the thirty minute paid session, my cock twitched with need and my adrenaline pumped through my veins.

  Yes.

  Thinking of her touching her own body, bringing it to that pinnacle of pleasure, was the ammunition I needed to prepare for my upcoming fight. She had been so damn close. I knew I was pushing the envelope with her, but unlike those before her, she kept control. This girl was special. Her looks were so suited to my tastes. When I saw her on the Love or Lust website, I was taken, but I was wary, as so many of those girls were run down whores and nothing like their profiles. I was expecting much the same, but when she walked into my playroom, I thought she had been fucking gift wrapped for me.

  Goddamn it, I want to fuck her. No Jake, focus. Use it.

  I moved to the speed bag and set up a fast rhythm. The tone of my fists hitting the leather reverberated throughout the gym. I supposed that was why I’d ordered her again. I needed to know if there was something special about her, if she was going to become my fix of choice for a while.

  “Jake.” Angelo was in the doorway.

  I looked at him without a break in my punching pace.

  “She is here.”

  Yes.

  My blood quivered and my muscles twitched like a junkie knowing his next round was ready to be injected. “I’m hittin’ the shower first.”

  “What do you want me to tell her?”

  My fists stopped abruptly. “Are you fucking kidding me, Angelo?”

  He stared at me, dumbfounded.

  “You don’t tell her a damn thing. She’s not a damn snowflake. She isn’t going to melt waiting for thirty fucking minutes.”

  Angelo nodded in agreement. He wouldn’t dare disagree with me.

  There you are, my little plaything. So sweet, so pretty, so fuckable.

  I watched from behind the mirror as she paced back and forth near the end of the bed, keeping her fingers trailing over the satin sheets. I felt the sharp intake of my own breath. She wasn’t a dream or a hallucination. My mind wasn’t playing tricks on me. She was here. I was salivating.

  Today, she’d dressed in a sweet, form fitting, short Asian number. Intricate embroidered silk rose up over her breasts and buttoned at her throat. The hem barely went down far enough to cover her ass cheeks. I wanted to feel my hand sting with the force of a slap on that ass. A slap that would turn her flesh red.

  Stop messing around. Get on with it. She’s an escort, a toy. Play with her. Get your fix, Jake.

  “Take off your clothes.”

  “Are we going to do this game again?” Her voice was smooth, like fine whiskey.

  I didn’t answer, but I could feel the growing tightness in my groin already.

  “Going to be the big man of silence again? Your dollar, baby. I see you bought a bed.” She laughed. “Correction, I feel you bought a bed. Blindfold still on.” She smiled and sat down hard on the foot of the bed, leaning back on her elbows and crossing her legs.

  “Take off your clothes, or Angelo will come in there and do it for you.”

  “Angelo, huh. Do you use Angelo’s dick to fuck too?”

  That’s it, baby, piss me off.

  I’d take my drug any way I could get it from her. She wanted to play the hard game. I was no stranger to those rules. I waited. She popped a single button at her throat.

  “Listen, I can get off on my own time at home. How about you come in here and let me see who paid for me and then if you want Angelo to fuck me, you can watch from right here.” Her long, thin fingers patted the mattress. I could picture those fingers wrapped around my shaft.

  Fuck yes.

  “Who the fuck do you think you are? You’re paid for, now fucking perform.”

  She sat up and gave me a sultry smile, though she wasn’t quite sure where to look. Her head was more turned toward the speaker than the mirror. “You know who I am. You handpicked me.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Alyson Gallagher, grad student, blonde, five six, twenty-seven. Moved to Houston two years ago. Worked as a waitress, sucked. Worked in data entry clerk, not worth the headache. Had a roommate who made a shit load of money being an escort.” She shrugged. “I figured what the hell, my body is my best asset, might as well make easy money with it. What about you? Who is the man behind the voice?”

  I was fairly certain she was lying. She really didn’t have any incentive to tell me the true story of who she was. What call girl ever did?

  Fuck her anyway. No.

  She cooperated by telling me her story, truth or not. I could reward her for that, and just like a heroin addict needed more heroin each time to reach his high, I needed more Alyson.

  “Get up on the bed and lay down.”

  Her breasts heaved with the weight of her defeated sigh, yet she complied.

  Good girl, Aly.

  Angelo stood outside the door of the playroom. I signaled for him to open the door and step aside. He did so without looking at me. When the door closed, I didn’t have to assume he retook his guard position. I already knew he would, without a doubt. That was how dedicated my men were to me and my family. If I ordered Angelo to drink a poison laced drink for me, he’d tip it back without hesitation.

  Alyson’s muscles tensed, and she turned her face toward the door and the sound of my footsteps. “Is that you, or Angelo?

  “No more questions.”

  I heard her breath catch in her throat as her brain registered that the voice was the same and the realization hit her that I was in the room with her and not Angelo. A sultry smile danced over her mouth and her body wiggled with delight on the satin sheets. She opened her mouth to speak and then clamped down on the red-stained fullness of her bottom lip with her slightly crowded teeth, obeying my command.

  “Lift your dress up.” I was standing at the head of the bed, gazing over the length of her sprawled body.

  Touch her.

  My fingers hovered near her hair. Her hands grasped the silk embroidered hem of her dress. Her knees angled upward and her red stilettos pressed into the firm mattress as she lifted her bottom up and the material moved up her body, stopping at her waist. Today, she wore innocent white lace panties underneath. My eyes drank in the smooth, silky skin that peeked out through the perforated design of the lace.

  Lick her. Goddamn it, no.

  “Turn over on your stomach.”

  She shifted to her side and rolled over so I could see the full swell of her cheeks, the dainty lace strung between them. Her face was turned to the mirror. I didn’t want to think of anyone else looking at her.

  “Turn your face to the other side.”

  She complied. Her long golden hair draped over her face.

  Pull it while you take her from behind.

  My fingers clenched into fists as my desired intention warred against my instincts. “Open your legs and bring up your knees.” I licked my lips. “Use your hand.” I was rock solid.

  Fuck her, fuck her, fuck her.

  She moaned and trembled.

  “Stop.” I retreated from the room, leaving her frustrated and wanting and myself angry and aggressive. “Take her home.”

  The last thing I heard was Angelo entering the room.

  3

  Alyson

  The sound of my keyboard clicking filled the quiet space around me. I came into the station early, unable to sleep, frustrated for a variety of reasons, the main one being Jake Von Larsen.

  Twice I had been with him and twice he never touched me or took me to the moment of truth, leaving my insides twitching for relief. A one on one video of an interview with him after one of his fights started on my screen and I plugged my earphones in and squished the ear buds into my ears to listen.
r />   His voice was deep, gravelly. It reverberated in my head. I closed my eyes and compared it to my mental memories of the voice in the room I had been in twice now. It matched.

  I needed to see more of this man. I wanted to know more than my team was giving me. Several images appeared on my screen: Jake in his silk boxing robe, running down the ramp to a ring, gloves on his hands and determination in his eyes. Jake in an artistic black and white photo, highlighting his tattooed skin, his back to the camera, sleek dark hair smoothed away from his clenched jaw line. Jake with his arm draped around some girl who looked all of seventeen years old. The last one must have been an old prom photo the girl treasured on her social media account. It screamed “oh look at who I knew way back when and never speak to ever now.”

  Amazing profile. Definite model potential. Look at that jaw.

  Looking at these images made me quiver inside and fueled my desire to not have that damned blindfold on next time. I had to verify it was Jake with me. I mean, yes, I matched his voice, but that wasn’t sufficient proof. I needed to visually place him in the room with me before I could continue my undercover plan.

  My fingers clicked on a video link and I heard the roar of a crowd before the images of Jake pummeling his opponent appeared. I listened as the commentator narrated the performance. The hidden orator was as intoxicated with the skill and aggression of Jake in the ring as much as I was watching it secondhand. His voice reflected his enthusiasm and awe as Jake’s fists landed blow after blow, leaving his adversary stumbling back against the ropes. Blood splattered to the canvas of the ring floor, and yet I couldn’t turn my eyes away.

  While the battered, lesser fighter sat in his corner letting a medic work on his cuts and swollen, bruised skin, Jake was literally bouncing on his feet in his corner, barely able to be contained by his team. He was an animal, and I found it beyond attractive. I needed to see his face in real time. If he wasn’t going to show it to me in the “room,” then damn it, I was going to go see it in another venue, and that meant getting tickets to his next fight.

  A hand landed on my shoulder. I jumped and pulled out my earphones. My lieutenant was standing behind my chair, watching my screen. “Why are you here?” he asked.

  My fingers clicked my keys and turned my computer screen back to my home screen. “Just trying to get a leg up, Lieu.”

  “Mmm.” I watched his eyes narrow and that deep wrinkle burrow its way further in between his eyebrows as he scowled at me. “Let’s just make sure it’s the research you’re getting the leg up on and not Jake’s feelings. I don’t want you sympathizing with this man. You know what Stockholm’s is, and you need to be aware of the signs, Alyson.”

  “I know, I got this. No issues, sir, all on the up and up.” I patted a stack of notes on my desk. “I’ll have a prelim report to you by the end of the week.”

  He grumbled something incoherent at me. If I truly wanted to, I could probably decipher it, but I really didn’t care to. I already crossed the red line drawn in the sand by my superior.

  Thirty minutes later, a donut and a large coffee landed on my desk. “You here all night?”

  I grabbed the donut and felt the rich, sugary, cream filling douse my taste buds in sweet flavor. “Nope, a few hours.”

  Peters, my partner, my safety and my pseudo escort muscle, sat on the edge of my desk. “Are you seeing him again?”

  I gave him a look.

  Of course I’m seeing him again, idiot.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t checked my app to see if he’s set up anything more.” My eyes glanced down toward my bag to make sure the printout of my receipt for the fight ticket I purchased fifteen minutes ago was tucked out of sight.

  “Maybe next time you gotta give him a handy or something, give him a little sweetness to ensure you get invited back again.” He smirked and winked.

  What a jackass.

  “Yeah, I’m sure that’s going to get me a solid in.” I could feel my eyes do a dramatic roll. “Unlike you, Peters, I don’t think Jake Von Larsen is impressed with the overactive hormones of immature teenagers giving hand jobs in the back seats of cars.”

  I’d never divulged to Peters that I’d been to Jake’s personal play space. I watched him visibly flinch from my unprovoked attack on his personal love life. His girlfriend was young, but hardly a teenager. I actually liked her and would not mind going for a drink or a coffee with her, if she asked. I wanted to apologize, but I couldn’t let him or anyone else see the cracks in my frosty exterior. I took another huge bite of donut. “Thanks for the snack.” I left him sitting wounded on my desk and walked away to check my phone.

  My fingers fumbled as I stood in the stall of the ladies’ room, trying to respond to the app that said I had a new “date” scheduled. I confirmed the time and pick up place and looked at the clock on my display screen. I could finish my day here, head home for hair, makeup, and a change of clothing, and be at the designated meeting place with time to spare.

  “This time, I’m getting him in that room right off the bat,” I vowed to my reflection in the mirror. Once he was in there, I’d slip the blindfold off by “accident” and make my confirmation, even though I already knew in my heart of hearts it was Jake.

  My fingers trembled with anticipation, and I shook them like I was trying to dry my nail polish. By the time I finished my shift and made my way home to my perfect, little bungalow, the tremors from my fingers managed to work up to my heart and then down to my stomach. I was hyped and ready for whatever Jake was bringing to the table this time around. I failed to report the Love or Lust “date” to either Peters or my lieutenant. I already knew I would lie if either asked me about it. I’d pull my shoulders back, shrug, and say he never showed. No one would be able to prove otherwise.

  From what I’d observed, Jake always paid his account in full every month, but he never left comments on any of his “dates’” profiles. As long as Love and Lust got their money, I didn’t believe they had a “check” to see if they ever took place, unless a “john” complained or a girl didn’t show, and that wouldn’t be me. I had every intention of being where I was instructed to be.

  I stood in the glass and metal cubicle of the designated bus stop, tapping the toe of my fake Prada sling backs. I could see my hazy, blurred reflection in the dust and dirt that was smeared on the outside of the glass. My body was something I normally kept hidden under bulky sweatshirts and unflattering pants. It was a defense mechanism, not a true fashion choice. I didn’t mind wearing modest or even form flattering dresses or blouse and skirt combinations. In fact, when I was home by myself, I often wore more flattering attire. What I did mind were the unwanted comments and leering eyes those items brought.

  Damn it.

  I turned my face away from the street as a Houston black and white drove by. I highly doubted any of my coworkers would recognize me dressed like this, but I couldn’t risk it. I looked at my cell phone—no messages—and it was nearly the agreed upon time. I tapped my foot again.

  Don’t jerk me around, Jake.

  I yanked down on the hem of my Nasty Girl red leather mini skirt. How did you keep these things from riding up and revealing all your goodies? Pair that with the cut out keyhole opening of my top, which showed the full length of my cleavage, and again there was not a whole lot left to the imagination. But Jake would like it, and that was my goal—to please Jake.

  The black limo sailed up to the curb and Angelo got out, opening the back door. “Take the items out of the bag and put them on.”

  “What, no ‘hello, Alyson?’ No ‘how ya doin?’ Angelo, I thought we were friends.” I let my lower lip pout and fluttered my fake lashes.

  Jesus, would it kill him to be polite. I am a female. Bet he never had a sister or a mom.

  Angelo stood holding the door until I finally relented and climbed into the cushy interior of the backseat of the limo. I lifted the velvet bag and held it up to him, questioning him with my eyes.

  “Put it on, p
lease.”

  “Angie, aren’t we past this game?”

  “We cannot leave until you do as you’re told.”

  Damn, he was as unyielding as a dog with a bone.

  Good boy, Angelo, good boy.

  The blindfold and the headphones went on, and I assumed Angelo closed the door, because I felt the car pull away and move forward. Each ride was different; the first, I was sure Jake was with me. Last time, I was alone in the back seat, and I was fairly certain I was alone this go round as well.

  Each designated pick up point was different, so it made my directional skills more convoluted with trying to pinpoint the place Angelo drove me to each time. But I knew it was the same place, because we took the sharp turn that had me holding on for fear of toppling over, rolled over the four speed bumps, and always entered the bat cave before Angelo led me to Jake’s room.

  One, two, three, four. Almost there.

  My full body vibrated with the knowledge that in less than ten minutes I’d be speaking to Jake.

  “Hey Angelo, what can you tell me about mystery man? Is he tall, dark, and handsome, or a little weasel type?” I was hoping he give me something.

  No answer.

  “Cat got your tongue?”

  Nothing.

  Damn it.

  I sensed the dark, underground garage. We were there. I felt my shoulders sag and I sighed with frustration. Angelo was a tough nut to crack. I was ready to turn my focus back to Jake. I barely needed Angelo’s assistance to follow the given path from the limo. I knew it now. I only wished I could see it. My feet stopped before Angelo’s did, and I felt his body jerk, realizing I’d halted in anticipation. He opened the door to the room and ushered me in. His hands slipped off the headphones and he reminded me to keep the blindfold on.

  Of course.

  “Good evening, Aly. Did your ride go well?” It was the speaker-sounding, bodiless Jake. He decided to stay separate again.

  “Oh yeah, that Angelo is a real Chatty Cathy.” I waited to see if that would entice any further conversation. Perhaps I planted a seed of doubt in his mind about his faithful staff. Weaken the rock wall one stone at a time.