by Holly Hart
He pulls me into him, until my tits are pressed right up against his body. I struggle and try to escape, but it's useless. He's too strong. “What are you down for?” He grunts, sniffing my hair.
“What do you mean?” I whimper. I can feel his erection pressing against my leg, and a wave of nausea rises in my stomach. “Please, please just let me work.”
“I mean,” Lenny says, gripping my arm even harder, “how much do you owe? Ten? Twenty? More?”
“Fifteen grand,” I say, blinking back tears. I'm not sure whether they are tears of pain, or at allowing my stupidity to land me in this predicament, “at ten percent.”
Lenny lets go of me and whistles. It almost feels worse than when he was hurting me. I don't want pity – and certainly not from a mobster like him. “Jesus, bitch. You're gonna be here for a long time if you don’t sell that ass of yours. Turn round.”
He barks the last bit roughly, and the command doesn't really register. I'm still stunned at the casual way he's talking about selling my body.
He slaps my ass and the vibrations rippled through my body. I jump and look at him with shock.
“I said spin, bitch,” he snarls. “Listen, this place is my church, and in here, I'm God. When your God tells you to fuckin’ turn around, you better fuckin’ turn around.”
I close my eyes and slowly spin on the spot. The hot lava of humiliation rolls and drips down my cheeks; or maybe it’s just hot tears. I can't tell. If I could see myself, I'd bet my cheeks are bright red with embarrassment.
“Oh yeah,” he groans, readjusting his crotch without a hint of embarrassment. “With a pretty little ass like that, you'll go for a hundred a pop; maybe two hundred the first few times. Hell, you could work off that debt of yours inside a coupl’a weeks if you worked hard enough. Shit, with the interest you're paying, you’ll do it, sooner or later…”
Another tear sears down my face.
“Tell you what. I'll do you a deal: three hundred to be your first.”
I do the math inside my head. I can't help myself. It's not like I've got any plans of actually following through with Lenny's proposal, but it's like a sick fantasy. I've got to know. Fifteen grand at a hundred bucks the time. That's a hundred and fifty times I'd have to let some man inside my body: to rut inside me; to take me however he pleased.
I think I’m going to throw up.
“So, bitch. Whady’ya say?”
4
Casey
Everyone's drunk. I mean everyone. The punters, Lenny, the bartender, even all the imposing mobsters striding around with guns strapped to their waist.
Oh – and everyone includes me. I’m really playing it safe, right?
Okay, maybe I’m not drunk – but at least a little buzzed. The first time someone shoved a drink in my hand, I refused. I wanted to keep a clear head. That didn’t last. The guy whined and moaned, and the whole time I watched as he salivated over the sight of my tits, but I held firm. In this place I feel like I'm a rare steak with legs, walking through the Big Cats section of the zoo.
First, it's Lenny. Every time I head back to him he adds one more to the pile of crushed beer cans around his feet. Every time I ask him who I'm supposed to take money from next, he asks that same damn question. He started with three hundred bucks as his offer to take my dignity, my pride, and my soul – all in one. Now, he's adding to it in fives and tens like I'm on the auction block.
“Come on baby,” he whines, “How 'bout three thirty?”
It's my first night here, and I already know what is gonna happen. Someone is gonna fuck me, and I won't get a say. It won't be sex, or making love, or any of that shit people write sappy romance books about. It'll be assault – plain and simple. Whether it's Lenny whose pockmarked face will haunt my dreams till the day I die, or Vince, or just some punter attacking me as I make my way out of here, it'll happen.
I feel like a dead girl walking.
“Not tonight, Lenny,” I say. But I drop my voice until it's husky, and as I walk away I swing my hips: just a bit; just enough to give him hope; just enough to keep him sweet. It's what the other girls are doing. In a place like this, I guess you have to fit in to survive – and you have to adapt quickly.
The next stop on my tour through the meat market is whatever drunk I'm supposed to be relieving of his gambling losses. After I worked my second guy, I got the picture. They were all red-nosed and pot-bellied from too few green vegetables and too much beer.
“Hey baby,” he says, “how much?”
I tell him I'm not for sale, but he thinks I'm just negotiating. I'm not. I'd never sell myself. He shoves a drink in my hand, and this time I take a sip, and the alcohol burns its way down my throat and warms my belly. The liquor is straight, and I cough a bit.
He rubs my back and I shudder inside, but I take his money with a smile, just the way Lenny says to do it. Then I walk away with a sway in my hips and a crushing blackness in my heart. Lenny didn't say anything about that last part. I figured that out on my own.
My next stop is the back room: Vince and his boys. I've got the gambling money tucked inside a bra that barely covers my chest. I was clothed when I got here –scantily by my standards – but Vince's first order of business was to fix my outfit.
“Jesus bitch,” he swore, “don't you know shit about marketing? You've got a stripper's ass, curves like a freakin’ da Vinci sculpture and tits that are begging me to bury my face in your chest until I drown in ‘em, and yet you're dressed like a fucking nun. You're supposed to be making me money, not scaring away my business!”
So now I'm wearing a black lace bra, and every guy I walk by can see the outline of my nipples. They don't care if I catch them staring. Their wives are at home with the kids, and they're here drinking with the boys, watching a fight and gambling away that paycheck. That's why I'm part of the attraction, just like all the other girls: just meat.
I try to hand the money to Vince. He fixes me with a disdainful stare and jerks his head at the table. He slaps my ass as I give the money to the guy operating the cash counting machine. It's just like the kind you see in banks, or the movies. I concentrate on it so I can avoid thinking about what Vince just did.
Tony stares at me, and I see a bulge rise in his jeans. “How much for a ride, doll?” he asks.
Vince cackles. It's a hard, piercing laugh that doesn't carry an ounce of humor.
“She's mine, Tony and don't you forget it. That's right, Casey – you're mine, aren't you baby?”
I'm a rabbit in the headlights. I stammer something, but it doesn't make sense and I don't finish the thought anyway. Vince laughs, drinking in my terror. It's that same hard, unpleasant screech, and he shoves a beer into my hand and this time I drink it deep, to escape the moment – and because right now alcohol's blackness seems like the sensible choice.
Then he pushes me back out into the crowd, slaps my ass and tells me to make him some money. He knows it's just a matter of time until he breaks me, and I think he's enjoying the hunt.
I'm standing just outside the little girl's room in a panic. In the background, the crowd is at a fever pitch. This fight's gone on longer than any of the rest, and they are baying for blood. But at least I get a second's respite.
The drink is warmly coiling its way around my body and dulling its pain, but I know it's a false friend. I see all the other girls, eyes glassy with drink and drugs. I know they never thought they would end up here either.
“What's your name, Puss?”
I spin round. There's a man resting his shoulder on a concrete pillar. He's huge – but in an athlete's manner, tall and muscular. I have to look up, because my eyes aren't doing anything more than drilling into his chest. “Who –?”
He grins, and a bright white smile beams through the darkness, shockingly intense compared to the dark stubble on his face.
“No fair,” he chuckles in a lilting Irish accent, “I asked first.”
The women's toilets are in a far-off corner of the
warehouse, and the precariousness of my situation isn't lost on me. I don't know what this guy's intentions are, but I know he's big enough to pin me against the wall and force himself on me. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be the first to go that way in a place like this.
Would that be so bad?
I don't know where that thought just came from. The guy's dressed in a huge, baggy gray hoodie with a skullcap on his head. He's hardly my type. Well – he's tall and in good shape, and he's got a smile that's sweeping me off my feet, but I don't usually go for dark alley dudes…
I've got a well-developed sense of self preservation. Sue me. As for the whole ‘sweeping me off my feet’ thing? I must be drunk.
“I'm Vince's,” I say through gritted teeth. It's the kind of thing I never thought I’d say, but right now I'm looking for a way out. I'll take whatever I can get. “You know who he is? You don't want to mess with him.”
This guy, in the hoodie, smiles. It wasn't what I was expecting. Even masked by baggy clothes, a hood, a beanie and the makings of a beard, I can tell how handsome he is. I don't get why he's hiding away. Any girl in here would be happy to throw themselves on him.
Anyone, that is, except me.
I think.
“You know me that well, do you now?” He asks, uncrossing his arms and putting his hands in his pockets. It has the effect of opening up his chest and shoulders, and I see how big they really are.
An image of him picking me up and throwing me around flashes through my head, except in there he's naked, and so am I.
“No,” I choke out, then more clearly state “and I think I’m fine with that.” I try and push past him, back towards the throbbing hum of the crowd. In the back of my mind, I know if I stay here too long, Lenny will come looking for me. That's the last thing I want. But gray sweatshirt pushes away from the pillar, and now he's blocking the hallway. There's no way past him.
I'm standing in front of gray sweatshirt, and suddenly there's a fire burning in my blood. My breath's coming out ragged, like I'm trying to hold it back but it's flooding out anyway. I bite my lip, and the taste of copper seasons my tongue.
“Let me through!”
His shit-eating grin stretches even wider across his face. I can tell he's having the time of his life, and it pisses me off. Just because he's having fun, doesn't mean I am!
He's not the one in danger of getting killed or beaten for being a few minutes late. At least he's not acting like it. He’s calm and assured – even when his eyes flicker down towards my barely concealed nipples – and I don't know whether to cover myself or slap him.
“Tell me your name, Puss, and I'll think about it. No promises.”
My legs open of their own accord, and my fists clench. I'm standing in front of him in a boxer's stance, bristling with anger. My brain is screaming at me not to provoke him, not to risk myself – but my body doesn't care – even though it's my body that's at risk. I'm flooded with adrenaline and alcohol, and a whole cocktail of other hormones that I couldn't name if you asked me, and it's all pushing me to do something stupid.
My hand starts rising, flashing through the air. Gray sweatshirt watches it, amused and lazy. He doesn't think I'll do it. I don't blame him. Until it happens, I don't think I'm capable of it either. Hell, until all this started I probably wasn't; but people change.
The slap rings out in the narrow hallway. My palm stings, my shoulder aches from the impact, but gray sweatshirt barely flinches.
“Why do you keep calling me that?” I scream, through gritted teeth. I'm not hurt, I'm angry – because even that didn't wipe that cocky grin off my tormentor's face. And he still doesn't answer my damn question.
“You're sexy when you're angry, you know that Puss?”
I don't know what the hell's happening. I'm not getting the sense that he wants to hurt me – it feels more like a dog playing with a windup toy. When his eyes roam across my mostly-naked body, my feelings differ so much than when Vince does it. The truth is, I kind of like it. There is not a girl in the whole of Boston who wouldn't appreciate a bit of attention from a guy like this.
But – One: I'm not a goddamn toy.
Two: I'm on the clock.
Three: this guy doesn't scare me nearly as much as the mobsters I owe fifteen grand.
I try to run past him. I make myself small and fast, and go as low as possible, hoping it's the last thing he'll expect. It's not. He's faster than any man his size has a right to be. He grabs me with one arm, looping around my body and pinning me to him. The fight streams right out of me.
“Please,” I beg, “I don't know what you want, but I need to go. Lenny will kill me if I'm late.”
Gray sweatshirt's rough hands caress my torso. A prickling heat begins to smolder on every inch of skin he touches. My throat goes dry, and my whole world shrinks to the heat of his body, his sharp, spicy, masculine scent, and the gentle, burning line of his fingers stroking their way down my back.
“Oh, Puss, I think you know exactly what I want,” he says, his voice low and husky. “So you're the one who’s wasting time…”
5
Casey
He spins around and sets me on my feet, dainty as a feather. I’m breathless – literally. It’s like he’s stolen the air from my lungs and spirited it away. He’s pulled me into his body like we’re lovers embracing, and his fingers are running an endless, electric dance across my skin, and I don’t even know his name.
“You’re too good for this place, Puss,” he whispers, “so tell me what you’re doing here.”
He stares into my eyes, searching my soul, and I look back into his and –
I blink.
He smirks. “You like them?” He asks, brushing a piece of imaginary fluff from his stubbled chin. I hate how goddamn cocky he is about it, but I can’t help staring. I’ve never seen anything like it before.
“It’s a family trait,” he continues, and I realize I’m lost in my own head. I can’t remember the last time I took a breath, and I can feel the heat of the man crackling in the air between us, and charring my skin.
I still don’t know his name. All I know is that his eyes shine different colors, one a glittering hazel orb, the other as green as mine but flecked with gold, and he smells like sex, and all I want to do is plant my mouth on his and let his hands roam across my ass, and grind my hips against his until he gives me the release I only just realized I so desperately crave.
“Tell me, Puss –”
“Casey,” I correct him in a breathless whisper. I strain to keep my eyes open, because every time I blink another filthy image grows in my fertile imagination. “I’m not Puss, I’m Casey. I’m not a toy or your goddamn tabby cat; I’m a grown woman and I’ve got places to –”
He leans forward and silences me by planting his lips on mine. An electric shock grazes my lip, and I’m struck dumb.
His stubble grazes my chin, while his hand snakes around the back of my head and buries itself in my hair. A memory of Vince doing exactly the same just an hour before crosses my mind, but this feels different. He’s soft, yet insistent; urgent yet gentle.
The mysterious man’s tongue grazes my lips, tickling them, teasing them, and testing them until they part to the pressure. I let out a gentle moan, and without fully realizing it, I press my body against his. Even through his thick sweatshirt I can feel his strength. I picture him throwing me up against the nearest concrete wall and I know he’d bear my weight without complaint: perhaps without noticing.
I want it, I want him so desperately, but –
I pull back. My breath is ragged, and I let out a frustrated moan. “Please,” I pant, “I don’t have time for this; and if I get caught –”
Now his stubble grazes my cheek, and he nips my right earlobe, taking it into his mouth and whispering into my ear. His hands never stop circulating around my body, leaving contrails of fire streaming out everywhere he touches.
I’m burning up, on fire for him.
“No one’s catch
ing me,” he says, with such complete confidence I can’t help but believe it’s true. “I can be quick,” he says, and I swear he’s got a goddamn smirk in his voice, “if I have to…”
He starts walking, and I’m dragged along with him. My feet don’t even touch the floor. He doesn’t stop talking, whispering, or caressing my body as he moves. I barely hear his footsteps over the pounding of my heart.
“Or I can be slow,” he whispers into my ear, pulling my hips onto his and my legs around his body. I squeeze them, holding on for dear life, and loop my arms around his shoulders. I don’t want to break the spell, the moment, the only good thing that’s happened to me since Luke died.
“As slow as you want me to be, Casey.”
Casey this time, I note. My thoughts are muted, quiet. Usually they rush like a swollen river, testing the banks of my sanity, but now all that counts is my burning desire.
His voice is hoarse, or maybe that’s just the heat of his breath on my skin playing tricks on me. “I could have you on your knees looking up at me, and it would be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Please…
“Or I could hoist you up on my shoulders and bury my head between your legs.”
I feel my cheeks burning up, and know I’ve gone crimson with shame. It’s been a long time since – since, you know…
– since I got laid.
I haven’t shaved, or waxed down there in I don’t know how long. I didn’t need to. No one’s seen me naked in longer than I can remember.
“Tell me, Puss: is that strip between your legs the same color as the hair on your head? I hope it is. I want to feel it tickling my nose as my tongue strokes your lips. I want to caress it with my fingers…”
My back presses against the wall, and I bite down on my lip, knowing what’s about to happen. I’m ready for him, but what I was expecting to happen doesn’t – the wall gives way instead, and I realize it’s a door.
Right now, up is down, and my head’s spinning with lust.