by Carys Weldon
Published by Mojocastle Press, LLC
Price, Utah
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
6: Bark
Pack Taboo
ISBN: 1-60180-052-5
Copyright @ 2007 Carys Weldon
Cover Art Copyright @ 2007 Scott Carpenter
All rights reserved.
Excluding legitimate review sites and review publications, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Copying, scanning, uploading, selling and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without permission from the publisher is illegal, punishable by law and will be prosecuted.
Available online at:
http://www.mojocastle.com/
Dedication:
Loving someone is never wrong.
This story is for all those who struggle with that concept. May you love with all your hearts, despite what the world thinks.
Remember, it’s not the race, it’s the winning of the heart.
6: Bark
Pack Taboo
Introduction
By Letha
There are all kinds of people, lots of races--a myriad of amazing facets, precious gems in far-out places, waiting to be discovered and appreciated. I’ve always loved exploring the possibilities and I’ve done my best to find them and enjoy them all, but some people are racists and isolationists...and control freaks and liars.
I never quite got any of that.
Don’t get me wrong. To each his own. But I learned early that we aren’t all the same, and flaunting the differences didn’t necessarily get anybody anywhere...unless there was a point to be made.
The point I wanted to make? Simple. Love isn’t based on what you have in common, or different, where you come from or where you’ve been, and it’s not something you can rationalize. It’s what’s in your heart. And where you want to go.
Let me say this...I never meant to start a war. I just wanted to be accepted for what I am.
Prologue
Lionel Felini stood in the mahogany paneled study of his manor house, pouring himself a drink from a heavy crystal decanter. He took a healthy swig, telling his boys, “Letha’s out.”
Leo and Tommy looked from their apoplectic father to each other, and squinted.
His face flushed with rising blood pressure, though his deadly calm tone belied it when he added, “I don’t care where she is. You find her and bring her home.”
Tom growled, “I knew it!” Knew it would happen the minute they turned their backs. Had been sure of it when they drove up and saw search teams all over the place. “You should have called us.”
He and Leo had just arrived home from a long day of golfing business mergers, buzzing from a late business dinner and gentlemanly pursuits--the absolute must for men living under the same roof as Letha. There wasn’t enough alcohol, pharmaceuticals and tension-relieving sex out there to counteract the frustration she brought them.
She had been locked up when they’d left the house. Under guard. Three guards, to be exact.
But that had been a mistake.
And she had been under those guards.
Not having been back long himself, Lion snorted, “I thought we’d find her.” A matter of realizing she was gone, getting to Security Central, scanning cameras. The gates remained locked and guarded at all times. “She hasn’t been gone long.”
A few seconds slipped by in silence while all three men considered the possibilities of where she’d run off to.
Passing a hand through his sun-burnished shoulder-length hair, Leo asked, “How long?”
Glancing at his Rolex, and then the grandfather just inside the door, Lionel grunted, “About an hour ago, near as I can figure. We’ve already searched the grounds. She’s not here.”
The grounds. The Felini compound. A two-hundred-acre estate with more security than Fort Knox.
Dressed in similar attire, wearing polo shirts, khakis, and loafers, the Felinis filled the room with undeniable leashed panther sex appeal. Not that they noticed. It was who they were: blue-eyed, yellow bagheeras in human form, cat-like grace personified in Euro-machismo.
Sharing common litheness and aquiline, well-tanned, extremely handsome features--they were outdoorsy businessmen, obviously tense in the tight confines of the overly large study, despite the fact that two walls were nothing but open windows and French doors.
Roving spotlights and flashlights were everywhere, fanning the grounds, still looking for her. Their curse. Their every waking thought and all-consuming life force.
Lion’s stepdaughter by a woman who’d disappeared the day after taking vows. A siren, she-cat bastet cougar that all three men had lain with. You do the math. Lionel’s not that old, and his sons aren’t that young.
No blood relation.
They never told Letha. And now they were truly suffering for it.
Raised in boarding school until she reached the age of consent, not even allowed home for the holidays. They’d exchanged pictures, sent her gifts. Let her believe they were family, call him Daddy, refer to them as brothers. Provided all her physical needs.
But the older she got and the more she resembled her mother, the less they thought of her as anything but a desirable piece of tail.
Being honorable men for the most part, it rankled with them. It felt wrong. But they didn’t know how to fight her charms. She systematically stole their lives from them until they had no defense, couldn’t remember when she wasn’t part of their lives, controlling their days.
Her letters had been humorous at first, drawing their smirks and grins, forcing them to take an interest. She had a knack for adventure, misdeeds and amorous pursuits, and a great desire to share her exploits with her ‘family’.
You can’t blame a girl for wanting attention.
Somewhere after puberty, she began calling ‘home.’ A place she’d never lived.
They put her on speakerphone. Never took her calls alone, but still, she led them down a murky path. Asking questions about growing up, letting them shoulder some of the responsibility of her choices, making them feel needed. And then she--Innocently? Openly?--asked questions about her body: puckering nipples, swelling breasts, monthly issues, feminine fur--should she shave? What was more preferable? What did each of them think about licking? Petting?
Persistently, she brought up issues that aroused. Her jazz-singer voice literally reeked sensuality over the crackling phone line, and they were drawn deeper in their fascination. Sucked into her emotional and physical wantonness.
Despite the incarcerated, controlled existence, Letha developed, fully, into her mother’s daughter, demonstrating all her better skills--including a great propensity for disappearing. It all drove them crazy.
A little desperately, they wanted out from under the spell. But obsession is a hard thing to let go of. What could they do?
She obviously needed a keeper. Every time she got out, she got in trouble. They had to go and retrieve her, and clean up the messes she left.
With keenly narrowed gaze, and velvety dangerous voice, both hands tucked around his back, in an arch-stretch, tipping forward on the balls of his feet, Leo peered into the dark night. “How’d she get out?”
Lion’s eyes blazed and he spit, “Guess,” before he downed the entire contents of his shot glass, poured another, and hit play on the remote. “Better yet, look for yourself. It’ll make you sick.”
Because it’s not us. Because it’s not me. He hated himself for thinkin
g it, but he wasn’t alone. Echoed heartache tore through the room.
“Count.” He waved toward the other side of the room, moaning, “For Gaia’s sake, she took her time leaving the premises.” More and more, every time. “We should’ve caught the little cat with her pants down.”
We need to give her what she’s begging for. What she’s looking for. Obviously she can’t find a man that’ll satisfy her.
Against his will, Lionel’s gaze strayed to the entertainment center where one of the security videos demonstrated Letha’s finer talents. He saw her mother, the only woman he’d ever truly loved.
On her knees, performing fellatio for--not one, but three--guards, simultaneously. Bouncing her head between them--downright sucking the men full throttle, one after the other, with a smirk and her flashing green eyes on the camera.
If looks could kill...they’d all be dead.
And so would she.
Long, long, history of this.
Several other videos, labeled from other cameras, other areas of the compound, stacked up beside the television. Seven, plus the one in the system.
The other two men swiveled their heads and like their father, hated the fact that the action riveted them. That her ethereal sexuality oozed from the screen, affected them stiffly.
Fascinated, Tom made a quick count and asked, “She’s on all the tapes?”
Hissing in response, Lion forced himself to turn his back, leaving no doubt. They’d destroyed more tapes than they could count. But truth be told, they all had a few favorite tortures under lock and key.
“Got any idea where to start looking? I mean, she’s got to know we’re coming after her.” Tom rubbed both eyes, held his fingers, hard-pressed for the space of nearly a minute.
Leo rubbed the back of his neck, punching the off button with his other hand. “Maybe the Cat’s Meow? She likes that club.”
“That’s where she went last time. I don’t think she’d return to the scene of her last crime, do you?” Their father shook his head. “She’s smarter than that.”
That would be too easy.
“My shoulder’s still not right from that.” Tom rolled his arm, kneading the joint roughly. They’d cleaned the place out. “What are you gonna do with her when we bring her back? She’ll just get loose again.”
Letha had committed more escapes than Houdini. As yet, they had not figured out how to hold her. Or how to let her go.
“Maybe we should let her run for once?” Leo tried to reassure himself, and his family. “She’ll come back--and stop this nonsense. She’s just gotta be on her own long enough to realize this is where she wants to be.”
That she wants to be with us.
They all hoped it was true, but weren’t so sure. She had a wanderlust. Every lust, except the most natural one for a cougar cat bastet. No desire for bloodletting.
They didn’t understand her.
Lionel prowled the room, looking everywhere but at the TV. In a chest-deep voice, he snarled. “You go get her before she does something we can’t clean up.”
* * * * * *
They found her in a barrio cellar called The Dive, dancing in nothing but her g-string and a flimsy bra, drunk off her butt, snorted up the nose, half out of her mind. She’d chopped her hair raggedly, dyed it electric orange, and had herself wrapped around a pole. The crowd was going wild at her outrageous behavior. She ate it up, singing with bluesy sex appeal, accentuating everything with erotica.
Leo wasted no time in climbing up on the stage, peeling the microphone from her fingers and her from the pole, then dragging her off the stage to the tune of booing and the crash of glasses hitting the wall behind him. Letha giggled ridiculously, blowing kisses to her fans as he tossed her over his shoulder and carried her out the door.
He smacked her ass more than once and growled, “Stop that,” but she didn’t. She kept squirming and wiggling like a greased cat. It was all he could do to hold onto her.
Her abrupt departure turned the place into a brawl. Tom tossed cash on the bar on his way out, watching his brother’s back. They dumped her in the backseat and headed home.
“He’s gonna pop a gasket if you tell him,” Tom said, glancing in the rear view mirror. Bouncers were tossing people out the door. He adjusted the mirror so he could keep an eye on Letha. Biting on her lower lip, she worked toward pleasuring herself. “Forget that. If he sees her--”
She moaned.
Leo turned around to look, growled again, “Knock that off, Letha. Fuck.” To Tom, he asked, “What the hell is she on?”
Tom shrugged. “Probably a combo,” readjusting his mirror.
Neither of them wanted to watch her do that. Or hear her.
Both Leo and Tommy cursed under their breath, and silently wished they’d told her their secret. Then, maybe, they could’ve relieved some of their aching. She pushed their restraints to the limit with some louder “ahs.”
“Don’t go home. Take her to your studio. We need time to sober her up.” Leo pulled out his cell phone.
Tom held up a hand, staying Leo from calling. “Before you do that, what are you thinking?”
“Relieve his mind. Let him know we’ve got her. Then get her straightened up, maybe dye her hair back to a normal color before he sees her.”
“Right. Good idea.”
Dreamy sounding, Letha huskily taunted them on a little laugh, “How high can you count?”
She always did that. Count how many men she’d managed in the time she was free.
Leo rolled over the seat, grabbed her by the hair and pulled her up so he could look her in the eye. “I don’t wanna know.”
She squeaked, stopped her laughing, and told him seriously, “Eight.”
He stared into her green eyes for a minute, judging the truth, then dropped her abruptly and turned to stare out the windshield. A little relieved that she’d only done the guards on video. Those would be easy to track down.
They were probably already running, though.
She murmured, “Only eight.” Sighing, “I promised myself nine, you know.”
The brothers looked at one another, then shook their heads and looked away.
Repeating Leo’s words, Tom groaned at her, “Le. We don’t wanna know.”
They didn’t have to ask. Letha ticked her lovers by name, counting on her fingers.
Leo committed them to memory. Saved him from having to watch the videos first. Men who would be dead by morning. And he said, “I hate you, Letha. I hate what you make me.”
She just giggled, close to his ear. “Liar.” Then she flopped back in the seat. “You are who you are. I have nothing to do with that.” She moaned, a sexually appealing sound, doing herself again. “How’s Daddy tonight?”
Tom grunted. “Having a heart attack.” He pulled into the parking lot of his studio.
They had to carry her in. Once they had her stretched out on the bed pallet, and covered up, Tom checked her vitals, looked at her pupils. “She is totally fucked.”
She was out.
Leo made the call. “We’ve got her. No. We’re at the studio. We’ll bring her home later.” He hung up before an argument was possible. “You got her?”
“Yeah.”
“I won’t be long.”
“Bring back some hair dye.”
Stepping closer, feeling her cheek with the back of his hand, Leo said, “Don’t leave her alone.”
Tom rolled his eyes. “She’s too fucked to move, Leo. Relax. She’s not going anywhere.”
“Right. Don’t take your eyes off of her.” He smoothed her hair back with great gentleness. “She’s gonna be the death of me.”
All of us. Waving an arm in the air, Tom said, “Just go. We’re good.” He sat down in a chair, propped himself forward, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands, staring straight at Letha. “I won’t move.”
That was just after midnight. Somewhere before five, he drifted off. When Leo showed back up at a quarter to six, she was gone.
/> They did not go home. They did not call the compound. They went looking for her.
* * * * * *
Leo noted the police cars out front as he went past, heading back toward the studio apartment. An alarm went off in his head. He checked the package in the seat beside him. He’d picked up the dye before he did his business; eight less men on the planet for Letha to screw.
He knew when he pulled up that she was gone. The door was ajar.
The night had a deadly stillness to it, no breeze whatsoever.
Slinking in, he saw Tom asleep in the chair, in the same position he’d left him in. Leo tapped him on the shoulder.
Tommy leaped, instantly ready to kill something, grabbing for the gun that he holstered over his shoulder. It, of course, was gone. “Fuck! I must’ve drifted off.”
They ran to the door. Leo said, “Cops at the pharmacy. I’ll bet she hit that.”
Letha had a history of armed robbery, although the police never nabbed her. Videos were always destroyed. Witnesses mysteriously disappeared. The Felinis took care of their own.
A minute later, her brothers were in the car, scanning the streets. More sirens could be heard--coming to investigate the traumatic scene at the pharmacy, where officers had gone down with shots fired. Leo’s gun.
The surveillance video on the seat between them, swiping blood as they drove away, “She can’t have gotten far.” He didn’t have to say he was sorry. It was written all over his face, and evident in the muttered curses and fist slamming he did. “I’m gonna kill her. She took my son-of-a-bitching gun.”
“Let’s just find her first. Hand me that.” Leo snatched the wet wipes and cleaned his face, peering out the window the whole time, just in case she was running down the street or hiding behind a tree.
“Why does she do this?”
Street after street, in an ever-widening circle, they debated what prompted her to the self-destructive, family-destructive behavior she committed regularly. In the end, they concluded that she simply had a screw loose.