Prisoner Mine

by Megan Mitcham

  PRISONER MINE

  MEGAN MITCHAM

  MEGAN MITCHAM

  CONTENTS

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/).

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  Published by MM Publishing LLC

  Edited by Lacey Thacker

  Proofread by Tina Rucci & Lynn Mullan

  Cover Design by Deranged Doctor Designs

  * * *

  Prisoner Mine

  All Rights Are Reserved. Copyright 2016 by Megan Mitcham

  First electronic publication: January 2016

  First print publication: January 2016

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-941899-17-5

  Print ISBN: 978-1-941899-18-2

  ISBN: 978-1-941899-17-5

  To Kimberly Gale and Tina Marie. Pain may hold you prisoner, but you both refuse to be its captive. Thank you for the joy and beauty you’ve created in spite of your daily battles. I admire your courage and determination in the face of overwhelming odds. Hugs for the hard days. Cheers for the good ones.

  1

  “A bout time we’re getting on with it.” The man sitting to Zeke Slaughter’s right hiked a gaudy gold belt buckle over his paunch. His gruff Russian burr cut through the cold air. On his left, another man shoved his ring-stacked sausage fingers into the pocket of his shiny suit coat. Surreptitiously, or not, from Zeke’s point of view, the guy stroked the front of his pants.

  A heavy velvet curtain no more than ten feet in front of them spread open. Heavy tassels at the bottom swung back and forth with each yank of the cord. He couldn’t see the man working, but Zeke knew he stood in the shadows of the small stage hefting open the gateway to heaven…and hell. Light boxes ricocheted brilliant white light up, while above, three red lights rained down the color of seduction. The color of sin.

  From stage-left the clack of stilettos drew the men’s hot gazes, and Zeke’s eager one. Four girls, maybe nineteen to twenty-three years old, walked toward center stage. One sashayed, trying a little too hard to look sumptuous with bags under her eyes. The two in the middle shuffled, seeming past the point of caring.

  “Shag,” a male voice hawked from behind the thick fabric.

  Bringing up the rear, the youngest of the group hurried her discordant steps at the order.

  Zeke’s Russian was about as rusty as his dick. He guessed the unfamiliar word meant hurry the hell up. Thank goodness it had only taken a wad of green to get him inside. That, and the word of a high-ranking member of the old country’s mob.

  “Yes,” sausage-fingers breathed. He’d given up subtlety and pumped his hips into his palm.

  Scum of the earth.

  And here he was mashed between them. A shit sandwich.

  At stage-right a man in a classier-cut suit than the other men stepped into the light. He rushed to the front of the line and lifted his hand toward the commodities, for that’s what the women were. They’d been stripped of humanity long ago. Their ashen complexions and dull eyes showed it all too clearly, if a person cared to look.

  “Smile, ladies,” the dirty, male version of Vanna White ordered with a coo. As commanded they flashed teeth, some yellowed from drugs, some not. “Good. My name is Mr. Anosov, and I’ll be your auctioneer this evening.” He half-turned toward the girls. “Now, let’s show these gentlemen what you have to offer.”

  There wasn’t a gentleman in a five-block radius of this back-alley club just off 278 in Queens, including the traffic that buzzed past on the interstate. Zeke propped one ankle on his knee and relaxed back into the plush chair. The other men pushed forward, the one…a little too literally. Zeke's fist ached, wanting nothing more than to sink deep into the crude fuck’s gut and end the overt display. He curled his palms over the end of the chair.

  The two more world-worn girls yanked down corset tops. They revealed pretty, natural hanging breasts as though they were no longer private parts of their bodies, but tools of a trade they’d tired of. Too quickly they righted their shirts and turned away. While the saucy bird plumped fake breasts in her hands and tweaked her nipples, the other two bent at the waist, reached between their garters, and stretched back their thongs. Not to be outdone, the temptress squatted—boobs jostling from the sudden descent—parted her knees, and flashed a tiny landing strip and an engorged pair of slick lips.

  On the other end, the youngest of the bunch hadn’t budged. Her slender fingers trembled at her sides.

  Anosov’s gaze shot from the row of seats to the girl farthest from him, and then back. He smiled, flaunting crooked teeth and a fresh batch of irritation. His dress shoes tapped across the floor until he stood directly in front of her. He spat something in Russian too fast for Zeke to understand, but he got the gist.

  Long lashes shut tight over brown eyes. The girl inhaled. Her chest shook with the effort. She reached up and worked the top down over sweetly-rounded breasts. The host snaked out his hand, pinching one of her flaccid buds.

  Her cry echoed in the room. Dark eyes shot wide.

  “Nice,” Paunch said, patting his large belly with easy strikes. “Nice.”

  Everyone watched the girl’s brown nipple flush red, and then grow to a point. Not everyone saw the tiny tear that slipped down her cheek.

  Once again Anosov took it upon himself to move things along. He yanked the panties off her hips and left them around her thighs. When the girl covered her thick patch of pubic hair a crack erupted in the room. Five fingers, outlined in red, stained the girl’s cheek.

  Despite his best efforts to remain aloof, Zeke heaved a breath. Inside him every nerve ending crackled to life.

  The men must have taken the huff for impatience. Paunch raised his hand and whirled it. “Can we get on with the bidding?”

  “Of course. We’ll start here.” The classily-dressed man with zero class did a show of exhibiting the damn-near child who clutched her cheek, while simultaneously managing to cover her breasts. “Bidding starts at two thousand.”

  “How long do we get to keep them?” Jack-off asked, managing to hold his hips still long enough to get the question out.

  “Tonight only. They can be leased for longer, but it will cost quite a bit more.” Again he showed off the girl’s responsive breasts. “So, renting or leasing, gentlemen?”

  “Renting,” Jack-of
f replied.

  “I’ll let you know after tonight,” Paunch said.

  Zeke just glared.

  “Two thousand it is.” The host plucked her breast again. “Do I hear two thousand?”

  Jack-off lifted his free hand.

  “Three,” Paunch countered.

  “Do I hear thirty-five hundred for this fresh beauty? She needs one of you to break her in. She’s not a virgin, mind you, but she’s new to this scene. She could be yours. You could teach her, show her how we do things.” The host’s eyes scanned the bidders. “Three thousand, going once. Going twice.”

  Zeke reached into his jacket, retrieved a stack of cash, tossed it at the host’s feet, and relaxed back.

  The sack of crap picked it up and flipped through the hundreds. “Ten thousand?”

  Zeke nodded.

  “Ten thousand, going once. Going twice. Sold for one night to Mr. Basov.” Paunch smacked his belly hard. “Not to worry,” Anosov continued, “we have three sirens left.”

  Sirens? Not one came close to the term or what he was looking for tonight. But first things first.

  Bidding continued. When it was all said and done Paunch had the money for the eager beaver and one of the others, while Jack-off had the drive and only enough money for the leftovers. Zeke kept the rest of the cash in his pockets.

  “Gentlemen, please proceed to your rooms and the ladies will join you shortly,” Anosov said.

  It took the big guy three tries to stand from the low slung chair. Jack-off paused his pumping, stood, and practically ran out into the maze of hallways. The girls shuffled from the room much the way they’d come in.

  Zeke kept his seat.

  Anosov hesitated at the back of the stage. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  He’d yet to speak. Hiding his British accent was hard enough. Layering a Russian one on top of that, well, he’d snap this guy’s neck if he so much as blinked at his attempt. “I wanted two women.”

  “You didn’t bid on two.” The scrawny guy shrugged.

  “You didn’t offer any women. You offered girls, mostly used-up girls at that.” Anosov opened his mouth to speak. Zeke lifted his hand. Anosov’s lips closed. “I’ll take the girl I bid on, but I want another. I want her blonde and blue eyed.” He tossed another sheaf of hundreds onto the stage.

  “I’ll be right back.” The host scooped up the money and rushed off stage.

  On his way in Zeke had counted seven cameras. There were more, surely. He let his foot fall off his knee, but he didn’t indulge the need to find a more defensive position. Live the lie. Be the lie. Until you can’t be it any longer.

  Four minutes passed before the click of dress shoes and stilettos sounded on the stage. Anosov thrust a woman toward the front of the stage. Stringy blonde hair was matted to the side of her face. Dirt clung to the creases of her hands. Her murky green-blue eyes told Zeke all he needed to know.

  “She’s used up. I want a fresh woman. Blonde haired and blue eyed. Those aren’t blue.”

  The man nodded, but cursed under his breath as he dragged the woman off the stage with him. Ten minutes passed in relative silence. The hairs on Zeke’s arms stood on end.

  About time.

  It was the first bit of nerves to torment him since the first day he’d been taken captive in that shit-shack in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness. The wary jangle felt as familiar as an old T-shirt.

  Two minutes later and the thud of boots brought his gaze to the stage. Four beefy men hauled a woman between them. She wore a long, silky-white gown that thrashed about supple hips. Her round breasts shook with her effort to escape the men holding each of her limbs separately. Hair, wet from sweat or water, he couldn’t be sure, clung to her face.

  Anosov skidded onto the stage from the other side. He barked Russian at the men. Something about still an animal and teaching her a lesson. He whipped a syringe from his pocket and ordered the men to hold her still.

  “Wait,” Zeke barked. “I like my women conscious.”

  “You think you can handle her all on your own? She put one of my men in the hospital already. The drugs are the only thing that keep her pliable. It’s just been awhile since her last hit.”

  Zeke’s guts twisted. These weren’t just sedatives. They were narcotics. Addictive-as-fuck narcotics.

  “If she suits me, I’ll risk it. Let me see her face.” He stayed back in the chair and tried not to double his grip on its arms.

  The guy with his arm hooked around her right shoulder released the grip with his left hand, grabbed a handful of hair, and yanked the woman’s head back. Harsh light sliced over the high cheek bones and wild eyes.

  Greer Britton’s full pink lips curled into a sneer. Straight white teeth gritted and gnashed at the men. Her blue gaze slashed through the air in fear and rage. Pert nipples stabbed the silk of the gown.

  Zeke’s cock stirred. He hated himself for it. “I’ll take her.”

  “I’m afraid she’s not like the others.” The host shoved the syringe into his coat pocket and clasped his hands together in front of him.

  “Well?” he prodded.

  “You wanted a fresh woman. She’s as fresh as they come. Virginally so, and quite more expensive, I’m afraid.”

  “How much?”

  Greer bucked and kicked at his question. The men’s arms bunched under too-tight T-shirts. One whipped his gun out of the way just in time to keep her from snatching it from the holster.

  “Thirty.”

  He let a boisterous laugh shake his chest. “That’s for lease, right?”

  “The night, I’m afraid.”

  I’m afraid I’m going to kill every last one of you.

  Zeke brushed a hand over his beard, not because he was thinking, but because the damn thing itched him like a mother. Plus, he couldn’t give in too easily. “Twenty.”

  “The price is firm. Pure ones are nearly as rare as a Valkyrie these days.”

  “She is a virgin?” It was a good thing she didn’t recognize him with a beard and shaggy hair in her altered state. She’d shoot him for the question and honest curiosity that came with it.

  “Of course.”

  “How do you know?”

  “All our women are given physicals when they come in. It’s part of what separates our girls from the hookers on the street corner.”

  He nodded, retrieved three more heaps of cash from his emptying pockets, and tossed them over.

  “She’ll be in your room shortly.” Anosov gestured to the back door.

  Zeke hated to take his eyes off her. It had taken him nine long days to find those haunting blue eyes. There wasn’t anything scary about the usually-crystalline orbs, except their ability to see through his carefully fortified walls. Fact was, he’d be better off leaving her here, in the devil’s mouth. But, the conscience he’d often thought forfeit wouldn’t allow it. He turned away and headed for the door. These guys weren’t loyal, but they were business men and he had plenty more money, if that’s what was required to get to Greer. He had other things, if money didn’t work.

  The more time Zeke spent in this upscale whore house the more he hoped the money didn’t work.

  Dimmed fixtures hung on the wall, shadowing the desperation inherent in a place like this. At the T of the next hallway he paused, reached into his pants pocket, and extracted the key he’d been given when the valet took his rented Rolls. A stamped H indented the silver key ring. The label above the door directly across from him read Security. He’d seen it on the way in. Before he’d stepped foot inside the building he’d pegged it on the blueprints for the most probable location. He’d been led into the auction room from the door to the right at the end of the hallway, a banal reception area, save for the busty broad atop the counter. On the left next to security the dens of iniquity started with A.

  His feet propelled him farther into the club. With each room he passed an invisible assailant stalked him. The sensation of being closed-in cloaked his shoulders m
ore than it had in the hospital. There he’d had his sister’s irritating and comforting support. Here only the memories of being cramped in a shed too small to straighten his legs kept him company. Of all the violence and abuse he’d endured over those eleven days the inability to stretch had been the worst.

  Frayed edges of a scream from inside D redirected his attention. Not completely sound proof. Zeke arrived at H, slid his key in the lock, and turned the knob. Quiet sobs seeped through the small crack. Instantly he knew Greer wasn’t waiting for him.

  Surprisingly high ceilings accommodated a four-post bed. Gauzy red linen hung from the tops, a paradoxical halo. Along the right wall a wet bar stood stocked and ready, but the rows of alcohol couldn’t compare to the shelves of all manner of sexual paraphernalia across from it. Caught in the middle of the debauchery stood the girl he’d bought. Her arms wrapped protectively around herself.

  Zeke stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He set the key on a small end table and walked to the bar. He outwardly ignored her. In his periphery he watched every shaky intake and exhale, every glance at his back, at the key, and at the door. Only a key could open it. Glasses clinked together under his less than attentive hands. When he reached forward to grab the bottle of Russian Standard she stepped toward the only exit in the fifteen-by-fifteen room.

  She wanted out.

  Good.

  “Take your heels off and get on the bed,” Zeke barked without turning around.

  Her subsided cries renewed with more verve than before. Defiantly, she held her ground.

  Zeke grabbed the two shots off the bar and stalked toward the young woman, who’d already endured more humiliation than anyone should. Her fingers clutched her arms so hard her skin whitened under her touch.

  Maybe it wasn’t defiance, but a lack of understanding. Though she wanted out, she didn’t have the guts to even look him in the eyes, much less defy an order.

  “Do you speak English?” he asked.

  She didn’t budge.

  “English?” he asked again.

  Her head, small enough to crush between his palms, shook.