by Amarie Avant
We hear a less than enthusiastic grunt.
My attention returns to Mikayla. “You will stay next to me. Say yes, or nod your head, Mikayla. You’ve been disobedient recently.”
“Jagger,” she murmurs, “I apologize for being disobedient. I will stay right by your side. And you’ll bring me back?”
I shove a hand through my hair in confusion. There is no time to ask what she means, because the chauffeur has opened the door. I slide out first and reach out a hand for her.
“Mr. Windhoek, how long will you be?” The man asks, in an alert stance.
“We will be complete with our business at the top of the hour.”
The bobble-headed nod he offers warns that he plans to drive a few blocks to safety while he waits. I pull out my wallet and slip him a few hundred-dollar bills, my glare telling him to have a dose of courage.
Mikayla’s arm snakes through mine. Fear is contagious. With her cleaned dress, she looks as scared as she was when I stepped into the restroom at Gianni’s on her way out.
“The ballroom dress and the cocktail dress, Mr. Windhoek,” the chauffeur says, holding up two long boxes. He’s still reeks of fear, and I was just about to shove him toward the limousine. But he remembered that I needed her two dresses.
“Thanks.” I take them from him with my left arm, since Mikayla has taken my command literally.
Her face is plastered against my bicep as if she’s attempting to shield herself behind me. Her questions come out muffled, “I only need the dresses? Am I taking pictures?”
“Pictures? What?” My tone is testy as I escort her toward the business closer to the strip club, which has the same black tinted windows. Most people believe it’s an extension of the club, and during my few visits, a few drunken, horny men have tried to open the door.
Mikayla clings to me tighter as I place my palms and hands over the door handle. It doesn’t click. I readjust my handprint into the proper position for it to be read, and the door opens.
“Jagger…” Mikayla’s voice is smaller, and much more innocent than before.
“Yes, uthando lwami?” My response is sincere. I haven’t used the enduring term in the proper tone in a while. I want to caress her cheek, but she’s clutching my right arm and the boxes are in my left.
“Please, don’t let anything bad happen to me.”
I reach down to kiss her…
Mikayla
My minor is in sociology. And with that, came the study of sex trafficking. I was just groomed, given expensive clothing and trinkets like gems to blind my eyes. Now, we’re at this shady place where my photo will be taken, and I’ll be auctioned off. The pit of my stomach sinks. I should’ve done more to save myself.
At the threat of another person or persons lives?
A war rages within my soul. Could I save myself without causing more bloodshed?
I hate myself for this weakness, and for desiring his strength, while murmuring the words, “Please, don’t let anything bad happen to me.”
Jagger’s face softens in a manner that I’d never dreamed of. He really is as beautiful as the fallen angel. Who am I to make this killer, who sells women, lust after and fall for me? But there’s a connection, because his mouth begins to descend onto mine. And then his Magnum is in his hand and the box of clothing I swore that I’d piss in and fight in if he forced me to take glamour shots in order to bid on, falls to the floor.
There’s another gun pointed dead at us. This one has two holes, and an even lengthier nozzle, I’m pretty sure it’s a shotgun.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Juggernaut?” The Caucasian man before us has arms so furry that if I shed my eyes, he’d resemble a black bear. His voice is southern. The orbs he currently narrows at us are a murky green, and I can hardly see the rest of him. The double barrel shotgun is commanding all my attention. I thought Jagger’s revolver could stop a bobcat. This thing can put down Godzilla.
“Don’t call me Juggernaut, Jagger does just fine, Black.”
“What do we have here? Fresh meat? She isn’t one of us, is she?”
“What do you mean one of us?” My voice comes out of nowhere.
He holds the shotgun with one hand and places up his left palm. The scar in his hand is so rigid. “That’s right, she’s never seen it! She doesn’t have one!”
“Not all of us have one, Black. Put your gun down before you go down with it,” Jagger’s tone is smooth as silk, yet the hair on my forearms prickles, and I silently thank God he’s on my side … for now.
This can’t be a place where women are brought to the auction block. Where the hell are we?
The room is devoid of any mementos and doesn’t have anything to signify that it’s a business.
Another man appears, waving a white flag. He’s wearing a suit that molds to his lean frame and his demeanor cuts through the tension. He’s fit for Las Vegas. I imagine that he’s a magician, as there is a top hat perched on his head. He had a British accent as he says, “Black, Juggernaut, mates, put your guns down.”
Jagger grits out, “Don’t’ call me–”
“C’mon, everybody has a cool name,” the man says. Is he for real? Is this real or am I in a dream? Maybe I’m in a coma and Jagger crashed down on the asphalt around the corner from Gianni’s? He says, “I’m a nobody, mates, but even I have a name.”
“Yeah, you’re a regular old trick.” Black scoffs, keeping his shotgun trained on us.
“Trick. Don’t be an arsehole, Fatso. Besides, you’re in my establishment.” He drops the flag and pulls out a pen from his pocket. “Juggernaut, I’d say the only person here who has broken protocol is you.”
There’s a red beam at the end of his pen! It points straight at my chest. Jagger is standing before me in a flash. The Magnum is now dangling from Jagger’s index finger. He has both hands up. “I did not break the rules, Trick, she is on a mission with me. She has a blood oath; some of them aren’t as visible as everyone else’s are. If you wouldn’t mind putting that down, because you press the tip of that damn pen, and it’s the end of me and her. Don’t kill us before you have the chance to make a dime off of us, alright?”
Kill us? What does this guy… uh…? Have in his pen? A missile?
“What mission are you two on?” I believe Trick asked that question but I’m not positive. My guess is solely due to Black having a southern voice, because with Jagger’s shoulders being so wide, and him so tall, I cannot see past his powerful back.
“Black, have you got what you need?” Jagger barks.
The bear of a man grunts as he bends down to pick up a steel briefcase. “All the bells and fucking whistles. And a few grenades. You know I don’t dress for the occasion.”
Dress? My breathing is labored. Crap, I can feel myself slipping. My knees cave beneath me. Trick is still pointing the pen at me, which I assume must be some sort of weapon as my eyes flutter closed. But I’m in Jagger’s arms before the darkness can fully surrounds me.
***
“Are you crazy, Juggernaut?–”
“Stop calling me–”
“I am the best pal you have, mate. This doesn’t say much. I started the bloody rumors that it was your name, so that’s what I will refer to you as. You have to have a name in this business! But you, you are a lone wolf. You only work with Sinclair by force.”
“She doesn’t force me to do shit…”
“Ha! Sinclair is beauty personified. She has her ways. This woman you brought is just as gorgeous, but she doesn’t have it in her to be one of us– shit, she’s awake.”
My eyes flutter open. I’m lying on something rock hard and cold. The ceiling is black. The walls are too.
A visual of a mortuary slab flashes before my eyes. Then there’s a silver flask in my face.
“It’s strong, I promise,” the eccentric man named Trick says.
I shake my head. “No thanks.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Manners are dead to us, sweetheart, toughen’ up. And I’ll sit this r
ight here,” he says, as I sit up on the table. “This one will force you to the bottle if you haven’t been pushed to it already.”
I rub a hand over my face and can feel a warmth spread through me as Jagger places himself between my thighs. “Are you alright?”
He doesn’t offer me a chance to respond before he looks over his shoulder and barks, “Get her some water, she might be dehydrated, asshole.”
“Don’t have to be a wanker about it.” Trick says as he shrugs his shoulders and moves.
I instantly gasp.
“What’s wrong?” Jagger paws at my cheeks much too hard but there’s sincerity in his eyes.
“Th-that..,” I nudge my head. There are custom made wall cabinets, with recessed lighting, inside each of them, instead of China or crystal trinkets, are guns. Big guns. Little tiny guns and bombs!
“Sweetheart, this is the reason why they come to me,” Trick says, standing before me with a sparkling water bottle. “That and the suits.”
He backs away, grinning like a Cheshire Cat. He picks up a handgun, and then in his other hand is a very nice suit. “Would you like to do the honors?”
“No,” Jagger snaps.
“What an arsehole. Gorgeous, he doesn’t trust you enough to let you shoot a gun,” he shakes his head at me, “but he’s using you as eye candy for Freedman. What fun is that, Gorgeous?”
Freedman? I wrack my brain and recall that Jagger’s delusions might not just be delusions! He really wants to murder William Freedman, the real estate mogul.
Jagger grabs the gun from Trick and shoots at the suit. The eccentric man bows, shakes out the suit and says, “Gorgeous, do you see a bullet?”
“No,” I respond hesitantly. “Is the gun real?”
He chuckles. Jagger points the gun over his shoulder and shoots.
Then he turns around, appalled about something.
“Maybe you should stick to your Magnums…” Trick shrugs.
There’s a snapping sound. The ceiling fan is hanging on a tread. Oh, that’s what he was shooting at. Jagger shoots another bullet at the thread. It snaps. The fan crashes down onto the ground.
Trick hands over the suit to me.
“It’s made of the most expensive silk, Gorgeous, but look,” he says, pointing out the inlay. “Bulletproof.”
“Oh…” I breathe out, still in shock.
Jagger seems bored by Trick’s show and tell. He turns and says, “Mikayla, the inside of your two dresses will be modified, just as all of my clothing has been. I don’t plan on you being in any imminent danger, but the bullets still hurt.”
Jagger
I took Mikayla to an X Members’ place of business and spent an insane amount of money requesting rushed alterations to two of her clothing items, by one of the most sought-after weapons specialist in the world, and she still doesn’t believe that we are here to assassinate William Freedman.
I weighed the notion of showing her his contract, and even her own, but I’m still hesitant to tell Mikayla much more about her past in Nivean. Besides, she didn’t believe what I already told her, anyway. Contracts are never offered to more than one person unless there’s a kill-head, which is a ‘free for all’ contract on another member. The shit Ava was hoping not to sanction on me for declining to babysit the gorgeous woman before me. So, we shouldn’t have to worry about other members showing up. I’m just not sure how to get her to believe me, and fully grasp the situation.
Mikayla asked for a “last dinner” at the buffet located in The Palms, after I threatened her life due to her refusal to eat. It’s just after lunchtime for most Americans, so the place could be busier.
There are mountains of food on plates cluttered in her area. I’ve watched her demolish food from a buffet that boasts food from the entire world - Italian, Mexican, Indian, and a few more, but not African. I guess to the people of the States an entire continent doesn’t count.
On my side of the booth is my plate. It had turkey, veggies and mashed potatoes. I polished it off while watching her head for a third round of food.
“Last dinner?” I ask. Had I heard her correctly?
“Yes,” she says, plainly.
“That’s a bold statement.”
“You’re a bold man. At any given time, my attitude can cause you to snap. To snuff me out,” she answers, in stoic resignation.
I laugh for the first time since I can recall. “You sound like an old mob movie.”
The “last meal” and disbelief aside, I’m enjoying Mikayla’s company. The last time I enjoyed a woman’s company and had yet to fuck her, I wasn’t yet a man.
“Well excuse me,” she says, moving aside a meatloaf and rice plate for one that includes orange chicken, beef and broccoli and other Chinese food staples. “The last assassin movie I watched, actually the first and last assassin movie I watched, was Ninja Assassin. So my vernacular is a little off, though I do like Kung Fu movies.
“I’ll have to search for that movie the next time I get the chance,” I reply, honestly. Sounds like it my kind of film.
“Something tells me that television or movie watching isn’t one of your past times. Prior to college, I had my favorites: Scandal, The Game, How to Get Away with Murder. I don’t know what’s on TV anymore, let alone at the movie theater. Before you …” She makes a hand movement with her index finger gliding across her neck, “Eighty-six me, maybe my last meal can transition into dinner and a movie?”
My eyebrows arch. I disregard her statement about me killing her and continue the original conversation. Isn’t that what other people do when someone refuses to see the truth? “I’m a hands-on kind of guy. I could show you a few Kung Fu moves or Taekwondo. When I’m home, I’m working on my trucks and quads, stuff like that.”
“So you’re a tinkerer?” she asks with humor.
I almost choke on my drink. “Mikayla, I’ve been called many things, but not once a fucking tinkerer. You saw my truck in action last night. The torque was superb. You almost drove that motherfucker into the ground. Don’t insult me.”
She holds up two fried chicken bones in a cross shape. “And the motorcycle malfunction, was that you too?”
I laugh again, this time Mikayla laughs with me. “I’m an engineer, Mikayla, trial and error go with the process.”
Her smile fades. Fuck, what did I say? I might be antisocial these days, but I recall that conversations were like tennis. I was winning her over…
No, wait. Fuck, there’s no winning Mikayla Bryant. She was born claimed.
“Crab legs and butter, mmmmm, Jagger, you don’t even know what you’re missing.” She leans back in the booth seat, let her head fall, and her mouth is the perfect point for me to focus on.
“Have you had enough?”
“Nope. My cousins and I scrounge up all of our quarters during our spring break Vegas trip. We always eat here on the last night, for obvious reasons.” She glances down at her abdomen which has a cute little pooch to it. “Damn, Pooh bear is back.”
“We can come back tomorrow if you’d like,” I shrug.
Mikayla sits forward and almost tips her wine. She giggles and takes a sip. “We should have dessert, you know? Something super sweet.”
I can’t mess with my sugar levels. Instead of responding to Mikayla, I’m glued to watching her plump lips in action. She dunks another piece of crab meat into butter, tosses her head back and enjoys. Then Mikayla licks her lips and fingers, causing me to shift in my seat. My cock is my worst enemy.
“What’s your favorite dessert, Jagger?”
My shoulders rise. I prefer Mikayla talking about herself. Had I known she would be so nice after being given the food of her choice, I would have fed her like this long ago, and fucked her already… were she any other woman.
“C’mon, you’re a big guy. You must have a guilty pleasure? Vanilla ice cream?” she guesses.
“Why would you say that?”
“Oh, because you’re a bully. And a tinkerer. Sounds boring li
ke a one-flavored ice cream. I’m a fan of cookies and cream,” she says accentuating the word, and I’m stuck biting my tongue to keep from telling her that I want to eat every inch of her cream. “I also like pralines and cream…” she continues, unaware of my inner struggle.
Here we go again. My fists tighten beneath the table and I try to think blood and gore. Not sex with the Prince of Zihula’s woman. My cock is on the defense telling me there’s nothing wrong with having her… once.
Just one tiny fuck and get it over with.
“I also like cheesecake and chocolate cake.” She eye fucks me while asking, “So what’s your favorite, Jagger? I can keep a secret.”
Can you keep the secret of me fucking you? I tell her, “Malva…”
“Malva?” She bites the inside of her bottom lip.
I stand. “Let’s go,” I growl.
Mikayla doesn’t even jolt as usual when I shout. A few people glance over.
“Oh, so you’re going to toss your weight around.” She arises but instead of following, leans against the edge of the table. Mikayla shoves her hand into her hair, much like I do when frustrated. She isn’t in the least. No, she’s contemplating and chewing on her lip; transforming my cock into her willing slave.
“Malva is your favorite dessert?” Her gaze is innocent as she glances up at me. “You called me Malva last night.”
“I did.” I press my hands on each side of the table, blocking her path. The temptress seems aware of the can of worms she opened, when I press my groin against her. My mouth lingers near her neck, and I push back a ball of nerves and breathe in pure lust. She can’t breathe straight. If I fuck her, maybe we can blame it on delusions.
She speaks, “Again, I must confirm Malva isn’t some sort of disgusting, nutritious vegetable?”
My thumb presses over her mouth, as I shake my head. “Disgusting? Not in the least. Nutritious? Well, that depends on what you’ve consumed Mikayla.”
My statement causes her beautiful brown eyes to cloud with confusion. “Malva is a sweet, delectable caramel pudding,” I clasp her hip. “I know for a fact that your pussy tastes just as sweet.”