by Paula Cox
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.
FILTHY copyright @ 2017 by Paula Cox. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
FILTHY
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
INKED
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
SNEAK PEEK OF DIRTY!
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
FILTHY
Chapter One
Roma
The hitman game is a strange one. One moment, you’re hunting down the American ambassador to Russia. The next, you’re on a yacht off the coast of France searching for that same man’s daughter. Pain in the ass, really, the daughter being missing . . . the security on Greg Fellows’ house is beefed up now like a cow on steroids. As luck would have it (or unluck, depending on how you look at it) Felicity Fellows was recently kidnapped by Russian gangsters, sex-traders, all-around general scumbags. I don’t think about what it says about me that I blend in with these scumbags so well.
I stand in the massive ballroom, the ceiling so high it’s difficult to believe that we’re really below deck. I imagine the bottom of the yacht brushing the floor of the ocean, scraping up the starfish and whatever-the-hell-else. I lean back against the wall, watching with killer’s eyes.
Part of my business is watching people, and these people provide ample opportunity for reading. There’s the fat man—fat men, really. There are about twenty of them and though they’re all different in age and occupation and histories, in this environment they’re all the same. They gawp at the lingerie-clad women who circulate the ballroom serving drinks. Their fat fingers rub together and their sweaty jowls tremble at the sight of them. And then there are the lean men, the self-respecting men, who stand straight-backed and stern-lipped as though they’re above it all, when in fact they’re just as captivated as their fat friends. And then there are the in-betweens, the men who don’t know whether to be disgusted or exhilarated. There are no women except for the servers which move like cattle between groups of men.
I’m looking for Felicity Fellows, bright blonde hair and sparkling green eyes, tall and thin with high cheekbones. She has a penchant for wearing her hair in a high ponytail, I’m told, but I doubt she’ll have much choice about it now. I scan the crowd, flickering my gaze over the faces of the women. If I had a heart, I reckon it would break a little at the sight of these dead-eyed women. They don’t seem dead-eyed. No, they’ve been trained well. They smile at their captors and giggle and make all the right noises. But when you’ve killed people, you get to know something about what dead eyes are. And these women are dead in the eyes. There’s nothing behind them but the faint glimmer that maybe, one day, they’ll be free. Well, I won’t be able to make that happen, except for one lucky lady, if she ever shows herself.
I’m pondering these not-very-philosophical thoughts when one of the fat men approaches me. He is seedy and he approaches me seedily because the character I am currently playing is a corrupt diplomat. My assumed name is not Roma, but Alexander Smith, an American politician more corrupt than a dying flower.
The man who approaches me is short with a rotund belly that bulges out of his suit jacket. His forehead glistens under the light of the chandeliers and he licks perspiration from his upper lip. His name is Barinov Yegorovrich, which is about as hard to pronounce as it sounds. He’s drunk as sin and wobbles on his fat feet. I hate the man for no other reason than he looks at me exactly like I am the man I’m pretending to be. Not because of the corruption. I don’t give a damn if people think I’m corrupt. No, but a politician. A lazy, weak, weeping politician.
“Greetings, Alexander,” he says.
“Hello,” I grunt. But not as rudely as I would like to. I have to keep up my performance.
“Look at all these bitches,” he says, his eyes roving over the crowd. “Don’t you like what you see, eh?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “This is a real treat.”
But where is the woman I’m looking for? Where is Felicity Fellows? How am I supposed to take out her dad if she’s missing and his security has gone from a poodle to a German shepherd?
“A real treat,” the man nods. “Yes, that is the way I would say it, too.”
I look over Barinov’s shoulder and spot Zherkov, the leader of this merry band. He’s the anomaly of the beloved folk on this boat. He’s neither fat nor thin, neither stern-lipped nor drooping. He’s muscular and holds himself like I hold myself when I’m on a job, which is to say like a man ready to deal massive damage at the first sight of trouble. His arms are at his sides and his hands are clenched into tight fists, which form into hammers ready to smack, pound, crush. His eyebrows are low and his eyes, beads set deep in his head, searching. Mr. Black has told me a bit about Zherkov, enough for me to know he’s been involved in things that’d make war criminals blanch. He navigates through the crowd, stopping here and there to casually slap a woman across the ass, and then stands at the opposite end of the room, smoking a cigar.
“The auction will start soon.” Bari
nov grins. “Have you got your eyes on anybody?”
“Just browsing,” I say. “What about you?”
He wipes a hand across his forehead; the hand comes away slick and shiny. “Too many to count. I am scared I will be bankrupt by the end of the night. Yes, I will be bankrupt, but my prick will be wet and my balls empty, so there’s that.”
Worms crawl over my skin at the image his words force into my mind. But I’m not a sentimental man and I don’t show any sign of my reaction on my face.
“Good for you,” I say, as amiably as I can.
Then, weaving through the crowd with eyes which are markedly less dead than her colleagues, I see Felicity Fellows. She’s wearing green lingerie to match her eyes. Her breasts are squashed tight in her bra and her underwear leaves very little to the imagination. Her hair is not in a ponytail, but flows around her shoulders. Mr. Black was right about her cheekbones. They are high, giving her a dignified appearance. I am here to save you, my damsel, I think. It’s quite romantic, if you ignore the fact the only reason I’m saving her is to draw her father out of hiding.
I need to bid on her, but there’s a problem. I only have sixty thousand dollars with which to do so. I know that some of these men will bid more, much more, but Mr. Black wouldn’t give me any more and there’s no way I was dipping into my own funds for this. So I only have sixty thousand and if I’m outbid, I’m screwed.
I know what I have to do. I have to be seen with her. I have to make the other men notice me with her and let her be.
Barinov is prattling on but I barely hear him. When he is done, I hold my hand up as politely as a killer-cum-politician can. “Excuse me,” I say. “I need to have a word with Zherkov.”
“You are a braver man than I, that is for certain, eh?” Barinov squirms away and joins another group.
I walk across the ballroom, keeping Felicity in the corner of my eye. To anyone else—anyone who hadn’t spent most of their twenty-eight years scanning crowds and people—Felicity would look just the same as the other women. But I see a fight in her eyes and I know they have yet to break her yet. I don’t know if that will work for or against me.
Zherkov looks up as I approach. “Ah,” the owner of the yacht grins, “the politician.”
I incline my head. “The lord of the castle.”
Zherkov watches me for a long moment and two men from a neighboring huddle look up with terrified expressions. Nobody, it is accepted, talks to Zherkov with anything but the utmost respect, fear, and deference. But I know men like Zherkov and I know that the only way to win their respect and talk to them man to man is to be unafraid.
I see his hand twitch. He’s thinking about swinging at me. That’d be bad. I’d have to kill him—easily done, but inconvenient—and then fight off his cronies and save Felicity in the midst of the mayhem. That part would be decidedly less easy.
Then a smile spreads across his face.
“You are a brave man, my American friend!” Zherkov cackles, clapping his hands together. He takes a long drag on his cigar. Smoke rolls out of his mouth and nose and shrouds his face. “Yes, a very brave man. What is it the Spanish say? I believe they have a word for it. Ah, yes, cojones. You have very big cojones, Mr. American.”
“Sometimes I can’t walk for them.” I smile.
Zherkov throws his head back and laughs. “Yes, they are so big!” He wipes a tear from his eye. His bloodshot eye, I note. Almost everybody aboard this ship is under the influence of some drug or other. Weed, pills, coke, and good old alcohol. “Did you come here to make jokes or do you have something to say?”
“A little of both,” I say. “But I have a request of you.”
Zherkov tilts his head at me. As far as he knows—thanks to Mr. Black’s deft identity-making skills—I am a politician of incredible importance. He’s not being nice to me out of the goodness of his drug-addled heart, I know that. No, he’s making an investment. A bit of niceness here and later on, months or years down the line, some gruff Russian thug will show up on my doorstep asking for a favor. Little does he know that the address I have given him is actually a crack house. I’d like to be there when he finds out.
“A request? You know the auction starts in fifteen minutes, do you not?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, wondering how casual I can take it. I’ve been around men like Zherkov my whole life and I know how quick they can snap. One second they’re laughing, the next . . . well, they’re still laughing but now they’re flecked with blood.
“Ask away, brave man,” Zherkov says.
I stand shoulder to shoulder with him so we’re both looking over the crowd. I spot Felicity, the quiet dignity in her expression unbreakable despite her surroundings. She’s wearing the sluttiest lingerie these imaginative men can think of, forced to hold a platter and serve drinks, but she doesn’t let the fear show. Then I notice it, and I can’t help but smile. There’s a small blade taped to her hip, right next to the bone. Anybody looking at her would just assume the jutting is part of her hipbone. It takes a brave woman indeed to hide a blade in plain sight like that.
“I’ve taken an interest in one woman in particular,” I tell him.
“Oh, really?” he asks. “And who might that be?”
“Her.” I nod to Felicity.
Zherkov leans in, smoke and whisky washing over me. “Good choice, my friend. Good choice. But before this conversation goes any further, I must ask you something. Is it true you are well respected on the drugs commission?”
“Yes,” I say without thinking. “I am one of the most respected men in America when it comes to drug legislation.”
I lie freely and Zherkov eats it up. Plans form behind his eyes, plans which involve me fixing various laws so he can sell more drugs. I can almost see the piles of money reflected in his irises.
“Very good,” he grins. “That dear girl’s name is Fiona, and she’s a right beauty. We acquired her in France.”
Acquired her, that’s one way to put it. In reality Felicity (Fiona to these folks) was on a solo backpacking adventure across the French countryside when Zherkov’s men got news of this prize, dancing unescorted over the hills, and then proceeded to do the only thing they know how: capture, terrorize.
“How about she serves me drinks before the auction?” I say. “So I can get to know her better.” And so all your friends can not only see me talking to you, but also see her talking to me, and let them make the connection that if they outbid me, they’ve somehow hurt you.
“Oh, yes, sure . . . So you’re very respected on the matter of drugs?”
“I’ve been involved in closing down many heroin-recovery clinics,” I lie.
Zherkov’s face lights up at this. To anybody who didn’t understand how the drug trade works, they’d think closing down clinics was a bad thing. But no . . . if the proper government-sanctioned clinics are closed down, that leaves more room for Zherkov to reclaim the addicts and get them hooked to his product again.
“Then you can spend as much time with that pretty lady as you like, my friend,” Zherkov says. “Maybe you will bid on her?”
“Definitely.” I look meaningfully into Zherkov’s eyes. A silent conversation passes between us: If I do not win this woman, I will be upset, and if I’m upset, my incredible (if made-up) influence might be lost to you.
Zherkov turns to a group of men behind us, whispers to one, and then waves an arm toward a seating area a few yards away. A long couch covered with plush leopard-print cushions and a bear-skin run at its foot.
“There you go, my friend. A seating area all for you. Your lady will be along soon.”
I make a small bow, just enough to be respectful, but not too far as to be groveling. “Thank you,” I say.
I go to the couch and throw myself down, just as a careless corrupt politician would do.
I watch as Zherkov’s man walks through the crowd, touches Felicity on the shoulder, and then points to where I’m sitting.
Felicity weaves through
the crowd and joins me at the couch, looking down at me with the fake smile which is plastered on the faces of every woman here. I smile back, just as fake, and for a second we stare at each other’s masks. Then Felicity does a curtsey.
“Would you care for some wine?” she asks.
“Sure,” I say, though I won’t drink it. I need a clear head.
She places the platter on a small table near the couch, uncorks the wine, and pours me a tall glass. “I’m told you have taken in an interest in me,” she says.
“You could say that.” I take the wine from her. Our hands touch, our fingers brushing. The tips of her fingers are ice-cold. I wonder if she’s more scared than she looks.
Chapter Two
Felicity
Hope, never give it up. Hold onto it like you’re a dog with your teeth clamped down on a bone. Hold onto it like you’re a woman adrift in a tortuous ocean gripping a piece of debris. Hold onto it like you’re a mother clutching your child. Hope is everything. The human spirit is strong, that’s what I believe, and hope is the bedrock of that strength. Hope, really, truly hope, and you can conquer anything. Even being captive on a Russian mafia yacht getting ready to be sold to the highest bidder? That’s the snide part of my mind. I ignore it. The snide part of my mind is always trying to beat me down.