by Marni Mann
Before this anger destroyed me, I had to get it out.
I pressed my code into the pad by the door and waited for it to unlock.
“I hope you’re here to kill me,” the inmate whispered.
I looked at the camera in the corner of the room and stuck up my middle finger.
Motherfucker.
Shank was probably laughing in his chair as he watched me grab the chain saw and pull the cord to start it. He’d gotten me worked up, knowing it would send me here to do this. But that wasn’t the reason he had brought it up; I was sure of that. Because, if Shank wanted #1497 dead, he would kill the inmate himself. He had brought it up because he wanted me to go visit his father.
The only thing I would say yes to was the question #1497 had asked me.
“I’m going to kill you.”
I barely had the words out before my entire face was covered in his blood.
Tyler
Five Years and Ten Months Ago
Dean and I were tucked all snugly in the back of the limo. From what I had been told by Wynter, riding in a limo was one of the many perks of my new job. We weren’t always transported this way. It was reserved for when we were working or when a bunch of the girls went out together for the night or when Mina wanted us to come over for a meeting.
I’d never ridden in one before.
Not even drugged up Dean could stop me from enjoying it.
He was such a perfect first mark. He’d been so willing since the moment I met him at the bar. And, when I’d told him how badly I wanted to go to his place and get a little more comfortable, he’d downed the second round of drinks, including my wine. By the time we’d stood up to leave, I could see that the powder was starting to kick in. So, I’d grabbed his hand and led him through the back door of the VIP room, down the set of stairs, and outside where the limo had been waiting.
I knew where the driver was taking us. I just didn’t know the building’s address or how long it would take us to get there. I wasn’t able to see our location; the windows were tinted from the inside, preventing us from seeing out. But I suspected we had been on the road for at least fifteen minutes. I wasn’t allowed to look at my phone to check. Phones were only for emergencies. That was one of the rules. And anxiety couldn’t exactly be considered an emergency, so I hoped we were almost at our destination.
Wynter had told me Dean would be extremely quiet during the ride. Confusion, slurring of words, tiredness—they were all side effects of the drug. She was right. Dean hadn’t said more than a sentence since we slid into the back seat. He mostly just stared at his hands, moving them in front of his face, back and forth, as though he had never seen them before.
He was high as hell.
And so was I, but a much different kind of high.
Securing the mark and getting Dean into the limo was a kind of rush I hadn’t ever felt before, yet it was something I definitely wanted to feel again. I needed to make sure I didn’t screw anything up, so I would get that chance.
As the limo came to a stop, Dean finally spoke, “We’re home?”
“You can call this place home if you like.”
“I want to go home.”
I didn’t mean to laugh, but his voice had become so childlike and a little slurred, and he was cowering in his seat, like every bit of his confidence was gone.
“Dean, you’ll be getting everything you want. Just hang tight, okay?”
He didn’t nod. He didn’t say another word either.
There was a bag near my feet on the floor; it had been there when we got in the limo. Due to Mina’s training, I knew two scarves were inside. Before we got out, Dean and I were required to each be wearing one. The scarves would cover the top portion of our faces, starting at our noses, wrapping over our eyes, going past our hair, and tying behind our heads. Slits were cut out for our eyes along with a small one under our noses, so we could breathe.
I put mine on first. Then, once I knotted Dean’s behind his head, I tapped on the window to let the driver know we were ready. I expected Dean to try to take off his scarf or at least ask why he was wearing it. He said nothing, his hands nowhere near his face.
The driver opened the door, and I climbed out, reaching into the back for Dean’s hand.
“Come on,” I said to him.
“We’re home now?”
Mina had said the mark would be agreeable. She hadn’t said he would repeat the same question and sound like a toddler while doing it.
“Yes, Dean, we’re home.”
He clung to my fingers and shuffled across the pavement, as though his feet were too heavy to lift. I supposed the drug could be making him feel that way. He was certainly walking differently than he had when we first got into the limo.
As we made our way toward the only door, my eyes scanned the building. It was a giant warehouse well over a block long, the exterior covered in a dark red brick. Besides its size, nothing stood out. It didn’t even have a sign. The neighborhood looked industrial, so it fit in well.
I knocked four times—two soft knocks, two hard. It only took a few seconds for the door to swing open, and the man who greeted us was almost as broad as the doorframe.
“I’m number twenty,” I said. “And this is my partner, Dean.”
“Home?” Dean asked.
The doorman ignored Dean, looking at a piece of paper that he held in his hand. The paper was small and worn; the strength of his palm had caused it to crumble. Something told me it would be burned to ashes by the end of the night.
He moved out of the doorway. “Come in.”
We followed his order and now stood in a room made entirely of concrete—the walls, the floor, even the ceiling. Whenever our heels landed, they would echo. And it was pitch-black, except for the sconces on the wall that were placed every six or so feet.
“Keep walking,” the man behind us said.
I continued to hold Dean’s hand, remembering the instructions Mina had given me.
“When you reach the nineteenth sconce, take an immediate right. There will be a short landing that’s only a few feet long and then a set of twenty-six stairs. There’s no railing. If you need support, make sure to hold the wall. At the bottom will be a metal door. Knock four times—two light knocks, two hard ones.”
I repeated her directions in my head, so I wouldn’t focus on all the unknowns that were waiting for me downstairs, and I counted each light on the wall.
Dean didn’t move very fast, and besides the occasional mumbling, he didn’t say much. I had thought he’d be filled with questions since he had to know by now that this wasn’t his home. But maybe the drug had taken those questions away. Or maybe they were in his head, but the drug made it difficult for him to speak.
That was something I needed to ask Mina.
When we reached the landing in front of the stairs, I pressed my free hand against the wall. “Hold on if you need help,” I said.
He squeezed my hand tighter.
“No, I mean, the wall, too,” I said.
Instead of counting the lights, I rattled off the number of stairs in my head and tried to focus on that versus the silence. The silence was unnerving. My heart beat faster with each echo of my heels, and my throat felt thicker as we neared the bottom. The hole that was cut out under my nose didn’t feel big enough for me to take in all the air I needed.
The pressure was building inside my body.
I had to get this right. I had to make Mina proud.
I had to make my whole family proud—the girls, all twenty of them, and the higher-ups. Once I got through the next door, that was when things would really matter. That was where I assumed Mina was waiting for me. That was where she’d analyze every one of my moves and report them back to her bosses, and then they would decide if I was right for their company.
Just because I had gotten into The Achurdy didn’t mean I would stay.
My acceptance all depended on what happened now.
It had been easy, getting
the vial of powder into Dean’s drink. It had been even easier to flirt, sticking out my chest and biting my lip.
The easiness had ended there.
I lifted my hand, closed my fist, and held it inches in front of the door. All my nerves, all my apprehension—I needed to leave them on the cement slab I stood on. I needed to find my confidence and use it.
“We’re almost there,” I whispered for Dean but mostly for me.
I pulled my hand up to the back of my head to check the knot. It was tightly secured. I felt Dean’s and his was fine, too. I was just stalling; I knew that.
I took several deep breaths and held my fist in front of the door.
“Home?”
As ridiculous as he sounded, I almost needed to hear that. Somehow, it eased some of my anxiety. It made me want to laugh even though there was nothing funny about what I was going to do.
This was where my life would really change.
This was where I would officially cross the line.
Once I stepped through this door, I couldn’t take anything back. I couldn’t ask for a redo.
I would have to accept my fate.
And I would.
I did.
I banged twice—two soft knocks and then two hard ones.
Beard
As I stepped out of the shower, I wiped myself off and dropped the towel onto the floor. Then, I walked into the bedroom, standing in front of my suitcase that held just enough clothes for three days. I could stay a little longer, but Shank and Diego really needed my help. The prison was at capacity. We’d flown in three sweepers, and still, we could probably use two more. There was a wait-list now, and it was at least twenty people deep. Once someone was killed, their cell would be filled in less than twelve hours. Our pilots were working almost full-time with all the trips they made back and forth to the States.
Business was good. Real fucking good.
And I was in Miami, not Venezuela.
That shit didn’t make any sense.
Neither did my attraction to Layla, the sole reason I was here. I knew our meeting was going to end with a massive set of blue balls and a stop at the strip club on the way home so that Lefty could suck my cum out.
But, hell, that didn’t stop me from putting on a pair of black jeans and a T-shirt, tying up my boots and slipping some leather bands around my wrists. Back in the bathroom, I covered my shaved head with some oil and sprayed on a little cologne. My wallet went into my pocket, the chain that hung from it slapping against my thigh as I walked to the elevator.
“Your key,” the valet guy said when I got outside, handing it to me. “We kept your car parked right in front, just like you’d asked, sir.”
I took the oval key and climbed into the driver’s seat, holding a fifty out the window. Once he took the money, I shifted into drive and took off.
The plane had landed in Miami at a little past eight. That had been the earliest I could get in because it was coming from Rhode Island with two inmates on board. With having to check in to the hotel and shower, I’d just told Layla I’d meet her at her place. I didn’t want her to have to stick around her office this late.
But, fuck, that wasn’t where I wanted to have our meeting because it meant that, every second I was there, I’d be thinking about the stripper eating Layla’s pussy on the balcony. And how good her wet cunt had looked. And the sound of those goddamn moans.
And screams.
Shit.
I pulled into the circular driveway in front of her building and parked in the visitor section. The same doorman was on as last time, taking my name and calling up to Layla to confirm my visit.
When he tried to stick his hand inside the elevator to hit the floor number, I said, “I got it,” and slammed my finger on the button.
Layla was the one to answer the door, not the stripper. She was dressed even more relaxed than before. Her long hair was wet, and it dripped over her bare arms. Jeans covered her legs, a tank top over her tits. There wasn’t anything on her feet.
Diego got fucking hard over feet—the way they smelled, how they felt on his skin. He liked to lick between the toes and paint them.
Not me.
But, hell, I couldn’t deny how pretty Layla’s were. They were so small and delicate, her toenails painted black—my favorite color.
She wasn’t a pink girl.
I loved that about her.
“Come in,” she said. “I have all the paperwork ready.”
She turned and gave me a full view of her ass. I stared at it while I shut the door and followed her into the living room. Papers and folders covered her kitchen table along with two glasses and a bottle of champagne on ice.
I sat in one of the chairs, and she placed a small stack of sheets in front of me.
“I’ll open the bottle while you read,” she said.
The spot I had picked to sit in was closest to the champagne, so she stood next to me as she unscrewed the wire around the top of the bottle. Every time she moved, I’d get more of her smell. And, Jesus, it was quite a scent. Coconut and mango. Maybe even some pineapple.
It was like an island.
My island.
I needed some fucking screams.
I shook my head, trying to stop my dick from responding to that thought, and I scanned the first and second sheets. Using one of the pens on the table, I circled a few of the items I wanted to negotiate with Panig during our meeting tomorrow.
“Three-quarters of a million?” I asked when I got to the fifth page.
This was the one that outlined the details of the condo I’d be purchasing from him. The corner unit he had chosen for me was on the twenty-eighth floor with beach and city views and three bedrooms and three bathrooms in almost two thousand square feet. There was a list of finishes that would be used and the price if I wanted to upgrade any of them.
She poured some champagne into each of the glasses and set one in front of me. “Too high?”
I’d done my research. I knew the cost per square footage on South Beach. The finishes he had included were considered upgrades in most buildings. I was getting a hell of a deal. But I should be, considering how much cash I was loaning him.
“We can do better,” I told her.
“Tell me what you want to pay, and I’ll try to make it happen.”
“Seven hundred. I want two parking spots, not one. And I want to design the master bathroom myself because this”—I held up the sheet that showed the blueprints—“isn’t going to work.”
She lifted her glass from the table, staying in the same spot right next to me. “I’ll do the best I can.”
She smiled, and I wanted to lick it from her lips, the same way I had sucked her cum off the stripper’s fingers.
“Make a list of all your other requests and highlight the changes you want in the contract, and we’ll discuss everything with Panig tomorrow.”
“Got it.”
I leaned back in my chair and looked out the sliding glass door to her balcony. It only took a little imagination to see the outline of her body pushing into the banister with the stripper’s face in her cunt.
So fucking sexy.
So fucking perfect.
Now, my dick was hard. Again. And this champagne was way too dry for my taste. The only thing I wanted to do with it was pour it over Layla’s body and use my tongue to rub it into her skin.
But she wouldn’t want that. She’d rather have a strap-on shoved up her pussy than have my cock anywhere near it.
“We’re going to be neighbors soon,” she said.
I looked back at the table, noticing she had taken a seat across from me.
“I hope you’ll come here when you need to borrow a cup of sugar,” she continued.
“Do I look like the kind of guy who needs sugar?”
I realized what I’d said and laughed. But, shit, it was the truth. I didn’t bake, and I wasn’t hard up for pussy.
I just couldn’t get my dick inside the hole I really wanted
.
Her smile returned. “I just mean, I hope I’ll still get to see you even if we aren’t working on a deal together.”
If we signed the contract tomorrow, my business with Layla would be done, and I’d be dealing with Panig from here on out. I could always give her more money to invest. But, if things ended after this transaction, professionally, would I call her to hang out? Probably not. I wasn’t looking for more friends, especially not the kind I wanted to fuck.
“I’m sure we’ll run into each other once I move in,” I said.
“I’d like that.”
“Have you pitched Panig’s building to all your clients?”
She shook her head, playing with the section of hair that rested over her left tit. “No. You’re the first one. You’re also the first to come to my condo and to move so close. And…” Her skin started to flush. “And to watch my girlfriend tongue-fuck me on our balcony. I’m…” Her eyes dropped toward the table.
She was embarrassed.
“Layla, you don’t have to be ashamed of what happened.”
“I do, Beard.” She finally looked at me again. “You’re my client. I shouldn’t have acted that way, and I shouldn’t have allowed it to go that far. I want you to be able to trust me—not just with your financial needs, but also with making the right decisions—and that was a serious lack of judgment on my part. I promise, it won’t happen again.” Her voice was stern but conflicted.
I knew she’d enjoyed me watching her. I had seen that on her face, and I’d heard it in her moans. She was giving me an apology because she thought I needed one to maintain our professional relationship.
She was so fucking wrong.
“Layla, it’s all good.”
As she relaxed, her arms fell to the table, and they pushed her chest up, so the tops of her tits poked out of the edge of the tank top. I wanted to grip my hands around them and eat my way across them.
“I liked what I saw,” I said. “It changes nothing between us.”
That was a lie. It’d changed something, and that was my need to have her.
“Really? Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Stop worrying.”