My faux Andi.
Close enough…for now. Yeah, the bedpost thing is a cliché. But it works.
After weeks of work, she’s a dead-ringer for my fantasy girl. My stylist came in today and spent a few hours on retouching. She got the new haircut just right. Dark, choppy hair, the ends touching her shoulders. Waves bending towards her face. A bit of makeup, but not too much. Tonight she’s wearing lingerie similar to what Andi wore our second time together. A thong and sheer brassiere. Both creamy white, with black lace accents.
Makeup on her body almost hides the bruises I left on her last night, when I taught her a few things. Her new name. The proper way to address me. How she was supposed to damn well enjoy it when I touched her.
Let’s say this bitch wasn’t exactly a quick learner.
“Hello, Andi,” I say, shivering in anticipation of her reply.
I wait.
She’s supposed to whisper, ‘Hello, Concierge,’ in as close to Andi’s breathy bedroom voice as this semi-literate, once homeless person we scooped off the streets of San Francisco can muster. Despite the drugs we’ve administered, her luminous dark green eyes, fringed with dark lashes, are wide with panic and fear.
“You’re crazy!” she screams, her arms and legs straining against the silk ties that bind her. “Let me go, you sick fuck.”
“Not the correct reply.” I struggle to keep my voice calm. “Have you forgotten your lessons, Andi?”
In answer, she screams again. Loud. Shrill. Deliciously ugly in all its terrifying glory. But not the right mood for this night. Her yells wind down to three words that she repeated over and over again last night. “I’m. Not. Andi.”
I clench my jaw in frustration. I wanted three more nights of play. Then I planned to get to the serious stuff—the things that warrant this kind of terror. Let’s just say this bitch is screaming for all the wrong reasons.
Trying to soothe myself, to keep the beast within tamped down, I calmly light one more taper, then walk to the bed. When my knees touch the mattress, she turns her head to me and spits. Her slime flies through the air and lands on my thigh. It leaves a cold trail as it drips down my leg.
I backhand the bitch.
From the corner of the room, my partner, who is supposed to be silent and still until I damn well order him to do something, ignores the rule I’ve set. “I told you she’d need Rohypnol tonight.”
My blood boils at the sound of his voice. I don’t even bother to glance into the shadowed corner where he’s standing. “I don’t like when they’re comatose. It’s boring. And you don’t want me to be bored, do you?”
“No, Concierge.”
Good answer, dickhead.
The mention of my name, which I drilled into faux-Andi’s thoughts last night, brings a fresh batch of screams from her. She strains against the silk ties, which are doing nothing but getting tighter. “You people are crazy.”
“You don’t know the half of it, bitch.”
I walk over to the chest of drawers, open one, and pull out a carton of Camel cigarettes. There’s a sparse warning label, right below the camel, that says ‘smoking kills.’
Yes. It does. And so do I.
From his corner, my partner says, “Concierge, we paid too much on this one’s enhancements for you—”
“On your knees before you address me.”
“But—”
“On. Your. Knees.” I open the carton of cigarettes. “Or out the door.” I would order him to strip, but he’s already naked. Through the shadows, as he drops to his knees, I can see that his cock is full and erect. His brain might be trying to interject reasoning into this night, but his cock is giving me a solid salute of approval.
I have this man by the balls. He loves to watch me have sex. Whether I’m doing it with men or women, and no matter how I do it. He also loves to watch me torture my sex partners. And the coup de grace for him is fucking women he’s watched me kill. Which is yet another reason why I own him. From the size of his erection, I know that he knows he’s in for a goddamn treat. Because the end is coming for the bitch who is laying on the bed, and my partner is practically salivating at the thought of shoving his dick into faux Andi’s dead body, marked by whatever way I decide to enjoy my time with her. I reach for a pack of cigarettes, tap it against my hand, then slip my thumb through the cellophane wrapping.
“Concierge, may I speak?” he asks, his head bowed, his voice subservient as I light my cigarette from the flame of a nearby candle.
“Yes.” I take my first drag of a cigarette, inhaling the acrid smoke deep into my lungs. “Lift your head and look into my eyes.”
“We paid too much for this one’s makeover for you to destroy her tonight. Because tomorrow, you’re going to want another one. We don’t have another one close to being ready for you. Your obsession for Andi Hutchenson has become insatiable. I don’t want you to be bored.”
I walk over to him and lean down to run a finger over the head of his penis, touching a drop of moisture that’s beading there. I lift my finger to his lips, running the bead of liquid along his lower lip before slipping my finger into his mouth. “I agree. She needs to last at least one more night for me. That’s why I’m not burning her tonight.”
His relief is palpable as he sucks the taste of himself off of my index finger.
“You are.”
His eyes widen. I pull my finger out of his mouth, and kneel on the floor in front of him. I take a deep drag of the cigarette and blow the smoke in his face. For a second, the only sound in the room is the whimpering, mewling cries of the woman who has now disappointed me. “But first, I have to make a phone call, and I want you to listen carefully. Because if you don’t agree with everything I say, I’m leaving you.”
“Please don’t say that.”
I look closely into his eyes. I see misery. But I want fear. “And I mean it this time. I will create a new life. One that doesn’t include you.”
“I will die without you.”
“Yes. You will. Our business will be over, and the best days of your life will be a memory. You’ll be so miserable, you’ll kill yourself. And I will not show up for your funeral. I’m that goddamn bored. And what I don’t want—” I draw back a hand and slap his face as hard as I can. “—is for you to goddamn tell me I can’t have what I want. Do you understand me?”
His eyes are full of tears. Not from the slap, but because he believes my words, which are delivering his worst nightmare. And yes, this man gets aroused by being dominated by me. His cock is so goddamn big and hard and straining that even I’m getting turned on by it. But I don’t let on. “If you don’t say ‘yes, Concierge,’ I will get dressed and leave right now.”
Ah. There’s the fear I want to see. In his wide eyes. In the beads of perspiration that ball on his forehead. “Yes, Concierge.”
I walk over to the dresser. My cell phone is next to the carton of Camels. Because New Orleans is fertile hunting grounds, my best reapers are here now, working the Mardi Gras season with the ones who are always here. My reapers here know the depth of my obsession with Andi Hutchenson. They’re the best of the best, which makes them pretty goddamn evil and extraordinarily valuable to me. They’re worth more than their weight in gold, and when they deliver Andi to me, they’re going to have the payday of their lives.
I call my most trusted reaper. He’ll direct the others as needed. He answers on the second ring. “Find a way to bring her to me. And then you’ll get to retire wherever it is you might want to be.”
His confident chuckle sounds beautiful. “Was wondering when we’d get to this. Given how restless you’ve been lately, I figured the time was coming soon. I have a plan.”
“Involving her friend with the brass knuckles?”
“Yep. And I also want bonus money for him.”
“Don’t get greedy.”
“Yeah, but this kid’s beautiful. Tall. Blue-eyed. And once we have him, we’ll be one step closer to Hutchenson.”
&nbs
p; “Don’t wreck his face. Or damage his body too badly.”
“Giving him to you will be revenge enough. We’ve been looking for him. Rumor on the street is that he’s staying at her guesthouse. One of our local contacts has been friendly with the kid. He’ll create a misdirection for her security team. Distract them. Draw her out. Then we’ll get her. Here’s my idea...”
Chapter Thirty One
Gabe
Thursday, February 18, 11:00 p.m.
Gabe walked to the corner of Royal and Barracks, where Marvin waited for him in an SUV, as they’d planned. The dark-headed man knew his way around the streets and the foot traffic. With Marvin driving, it took about an hour to hit most of the bars that Pic had flagged along Esplanade Avenue and Treme.
At a couple of places, friendly manager/bouncer types seemed happy to earn extra cash by being on the lookout for Richie. A twenty thanked them for their time, with the promise of a hundred bucks if they called with Richie’s location.
He and Marvin polished off bowls of seafood gumbo at Clothilde’s. As a brass band played “Mardi Gras Mombo,” Gabe’s phone vibrated with a call from one of the managers. They jumped in the SUV and headed to Fat Cat Alley. There, the manager took them to a small backstage room. He pointed to a tall, lanky guy with stringy hair, high cheekbones, and a red bandana tied flat around his forehead. Exactly as Andi had sketched. And as Pic had predicted, Richie wasn’t holding a banjo.
Hell-bent on collecting his hundred bucks, the manager blocked the doorway behind Gabe and Marvin. The guys who were getting ready to go on stage with Richie eyed Gabe and Marvin. Grabbing their instruments, they eased around the manager, who pointed at Richie. As Gabe slipped the bill into his hand, the manager said, “You. Stay. Answer this guy’s questions.”
Distrust apparent in his steady, focused blue eyes, Richie squared his shoulders and gave Gabe a head to toe look over. “What the fuck do you want?”
Gabe lifted his cell phone and pressed play on the video of Pic. As it ended, Gabe lowered his hand and answered, “Just a conversation.”
Richie’s shoulders slightly relaxed. “I told the kid that eye was going to become blacker than black. I was worried about him, till Tank and Honey told me where he was.” There was no slurring of his words. He stood perfectly straight. About six feet tall. Thin. Without a hint of bloodshot in his eyes. “You a cop?”
“No.”
“You sure?” Richie arched an eyebrow. “Not even a Fed? ‘Cause you look like you could be DEA. And if you are, I’m not saying a goddamn word to you.”
“Not a cop. Not NOPD. Not DEA. Not any official agency, anywhere.”
While one hand adjusted the bandana on his forehead, Richie pushed straggly blond hair back behind his ear with the other. “Is Pic in trouble?”
“Not from me. Come on. You saw the video. He just wants to find Monica, and I want to talk to you about his friend, Jake. Pic says you were looking for Andi to talk to her about Jake. Andi hasn’t seen Jake, and now she’s worried. As is Pic. I’m here for both of them, hoping you have something that will lead me to Monica and Jake.”
“You one of the security guys that’s always around Andi?”
“Yes.”
“Why haven’t I seen you before?”
“Arrived in town a few days ago.”
“I get why Andi’s not with you, but why isn’t Pic here?”
“He’s sick. Like he said. Want me to replay his message for you?”
“Nah.” Richie shook his head. “You talk like you’re from somewhere else.”
“Miami. Does that matter?”
Richie rolled his eyes and folded his arms. “Dude, if you ain’t from here, then you don’t get it. It doesn’t matter where you’re from. You won’t understand these crazy-ass streets, and how easy it is to mistake something weird for normal.”
As Richie spoke, Gabe saw Pic’s mannerisms. Of similar height and straggly build, they had the same street-tough wariness. Chest out. Shoulders squared. Head cocked to the side. Gabe had heard ‘dude’ enough from Pic to understand that a certain segment of the population still used the word. Gabe guessed he was staring at a person from whom Pic had picked up some of his tough-guy persona.
“Well, the good news is I’m from here.” Marvin’s voice, thick with New Orleans-style drawl, boomed through the small room. “And neither one of us is a cop.”
Richie glanced at Marvin, his shoulders relaxing with relief. “Problem is, I was really stoned the day I saw what happened with Jake. Wouldn’t blame anyone for not believing me.”
Marvin shrugged. “We don’t care about how stoned you might’ve been.”
“Okay. I’ll give you a few minutes. Gotta go onstage in a bit, though.” Richie’s blue eyes reflected the gravity in his serious frown. “You talked to anybody else about the street scene?”
“Not yet,” Gabe said. “But I will. So shoot straight with me.”
Richie frowned as his eyes crawled over Gabe, from head to toe. He let out a big sigh, as though internally, he’d made a decision. “There’s weird shit happening.”
Richie’s comment set Gabe on high alert. Richie had the weather worn look of a guy who’d seen it all, and Gabe bet his barometer for ‘weird shit’ was a helluva lot less sensitive than the norm.
Marvin asked, “Tell us about it.”
Richie shrugged. “A handful of people are missing right now. Rumor has it six, maybe seven that I’ve heard about. Though you never know with homeless people.”
“You’re not homeless?” Marvin asked.
“Nah,” Richie chuckled. “I just act like I am. I hang out and eat at the shelters, because the price is right. Sometimes I’ll sleep at a shelter, too, if I’m hiding out from a lady friend.”
“What makes you think Jake’s missing,” Gabe asked, “as opposed to up and gone? As in, he decided to leave New Orleans. Moved on, elsewhere. Like Pic did. He went to Texas for six months. I’m sure some people here missed him, and might’ve wondered where he went.”
“Dude, I know what you’re saying—” Richie gave a firm headshake. “—but that isn’t what happened to Jake.”
“Why not?” Gabe asked. “Why do you think he’d tell you he was leaving New Orleans? Does the kid have to report to you?”
Richie shook his head again, slowly this time. “One, we’re friends, and Jake would’ve told me if he was planning on leaving. And two—” He drew a deep breath. “—‘cause I’m pretty much sure I saw him get taken last Wednesday.”
“Pretty much sure?”
“Yeah. I think I saw Jake trying to fight off two guys who stuffed him in the back of their van. Which strongly, sure-as-shit implies to me that Jake didn’t decide to take a leisurely stroll down I-10 and hitch a ride to see where the grass might be greener.”
“You think?”
“Look. I’m not gonna lie. I’ve been trying to persuade myself otherwise, ‘cause I was pretty wasted. But I wasn’t the only one to see it. At least one other person was there. And he’s talking about it. Saying he’s going to go to the cops if Jake doesn’t show up soon.”
“What had you taken?” Gabe asked.
Richie’s brow furrowed in a frown as he glanced at Gabe. He folded his arms over his chest. “What the shit does that matter?”
“Some drugs have more hallucinogenic properties than others.”
“Look. I’m thirty. Since I was fourteen years old, I’ve been high on something. I know what’s a hallucination and what isn’t.”
“You high now?” Gabe asked.
“No. Stone cold sober.”
“Why?” Marvin asked.
“Because,” Richie’s eyes leveled on Gabe, then Marvin. “Because I’m beating myself up, ya know? If I saw what I think I saw, I just sat there, like a dumbass, when I should’ve done something to help. I help these kids, man. They come here, and they’re lost. Sometimes they need someone to talk to, even if it’s just a loser like me. Look, I’m not much, but I’m a hell of
a lot better than most of the adults who are the reason these young people are on the street. By my guess, the average age of the kids I’ve befriended is seventeen, though they all say they’re older. And most of them are scared shitless of the cops, ‘cause they don’t want to be sent home.”
“Did you go to the cops after you saw the incident with Jake?”
His frown deepened. “Nah. And not just because I think they’re mean-spirited assholes who are all on the take. Which most of them are. Truth is, they’d assume I was out of my mind, just like you’re doing.” He shook his head, then sighed, dropping his arms to his side, and giving up his defensive posture. “Look. I was two days into a spice high, that I chased for a while with some rotgut vodka I bought at the same gas station that sold me the spice. You ever did spice?”
“Nah. Synthetic marijuana isn’t my thing,” Gabe said.
“Mine, either,” Marvin said.
“Well, I wouldn’t recommend starting. Stick with the natural herb. Hell—go organic if you can. Best shit’s coming from California these days.”
Marvin chuckled.
“Good to know,” Gabe said.
“The spice I bought was laced with something that had me so high, I needed help coming down,” Richie continued, “so I took a few Quaalude’s, about an hour before it happened. At first, I didn’t even react. But the guy who was standing next to me saw it, too.”
“Saw what?”
“Two guys, wearing masks, jumped out of a white van, and hit Jake with a stun gun before shoving him into their van.”
Holy hell.
“Say that again,” Gabe prodded, as the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Richie repeated what he saw, then gave them a few more facts that were the stuff of urban legends. It would all have been easily dismissed, but for a few key similarities Gabe couldn’t ignore.
“The guy who sold me the lude was right next to me.”
“What’s his name?” Marvin asked.
Richie shook his head. “Don’t be mistaking me for stupid, bro. You’re not getting his name out of me. And there’s no way I’ll go to the cops, either. He won’t, either. But he’s sure as shit telling everyone he knows. Trust me—it’s better not to be on the radar of the cops around here. They’re some frustrated motherfuckers. Can’t do anything about the real thugs, so they come after people like me. But you can tell Pic that Monica isn’t one of the missing ones. At least not like Jake is.”
Concierge (Black Raven Book 3) Page 33