by LP Lovell
I choke on a sob as I lean my head against the stair. “Grant me peace. Forgive me for the thoughts I have.”
Sweet'art—his thick British accent rustles through my mind, sending chill bumps sweeping over my flesh. Use him, Evelyn. Seduce him. Bring him to his knees and he will bring you to the man who killed your sister. He is the heartbeat of all the sick men in this city. Use him.
Rising from the altar, I stare up at the stained glass window. I take in the beauty of the dark blues and purples surrounding the cross before I turn and walk toward the exit. As soon as I reach the sidewalk, the smell of exhaust wraps around me. When I turn the corner, I notice a tall, wide man staring at me, and I pick up my pace. The farther I walk, the stronger the unsettling feeling that someone is following me grows. I glance over my shoulder, and that large man is walking closely behind me, whistling the chorus to "Knocking on Heaven's Door". A chill sweeps down my spine. The faster I walk, the louder he whistles. When I'm not in control, men make me nervous, and I can just imagine this man plotting to drag me into an alley and have his filthy little way with me right before he slits my throat and tosses me in a dumpster. Please keep me safe. I'm almost jogging, my heart drumming into my throat when I come to my building. Just as I reach to unlock the entrance, the whistling stops.
I sprint up the stairs, unlock my door, slam it shut, and lock it.
As soon as I catch my breath, I go to my room, and I pull out my devotional, flipping to the last page. I run my finger along all the men's names that have been crossed out. They are dead and gone. Twirling the pen in my hand, I wonder what the name of the man who hurt Hannah is. I want nothing more than to write his name in this book, but for now, I draw a blank space. At least, that way I know I'm looking for him.
Write Ezra's name.
"No." I shake my head and close the book, tossing it to the foot of the bed as I lay down.
Evelyn... Evelyn.
"Go away!" I shout.
You know you have to kill him too.
I swallow, shaking my head as I bury my face in my pillow, covering my ears.
He is sin, and he'll make you his sinner if you don't. You must kill him.
"I don't want to. Because of what he did tonight, I've been forgiven."
Sin for sin. He may have released you from some sins, but he's bound you to others, Evelyn. Kill him or you'll never set foot in heaven.
And I know I'll have to, but only after I find the man who murdered my sister.
Fucking shit! I brace my hands on my desk, my chest heaving. The muscles in my shoulders ache from hitting her so hard, but I could have hit her harder. I wanted blood. She flipped a switch in me that I try very hard to keep under control. And why? Because she wouldn't scream, wouldn't cry and beg me to stop like every other girl has I've ever taken a belt too. I know how fucked up it is. I know I should feel sorry or something, but I don't, and honestly, guilt is such a pointless crock of shit. Only a pussy would lack the self-control to not do something they'll later feel guilty about. I hit Evie because I wanted to—because it made my dick hard. End of.
I groan as I think of how her skin turned that beautiful scarlet. She embraced it, her body gravitating toward the lashes as though she needed it. Her fear of me completely contradicts the lack of fear she has for the belt. To fear pain is natural and to lack that, to override basic survival instinct, well, that just makes me want her even more.
She's perfect. I've never wanted to sink my dick in a woman as bad as I do her. So much so that I broke my biggest rule: Do not fuck the whores. I just needed to taste her, and so I snapped. In fifteen years I've never snapped. Not once. And this woman had me on my fucking knees for her, tasting her pussy within fifteen minutes of her taking her clothes off.
She calls to my fucked up depravity, makes me want to possess her, to ruin her, because something about her tells me she can't be broken. Or perhaps she's already destroyed, damaged beyond reparation. After all, you can't break what's already broken.
I hope she comes on Friday, and that's sick and twisted because she won't pass. No matter how good my girls are, they will still cry out, sob, scream when beaten. Clients pay good money for those screams; it's what gets their dicks hard. Evie won't scream. And even though she's beautiful, she's scarred which means she's no good. I have a reputation for producing premium merchandise, and as beautiful as she is, she is flawed. My cock twitches, and I squeeze my eyes shut trying to push the image of the cross on Evie's back out of my mind.
I need to see Jen.
I met Jen in a club a couple of years ago. She's a good fuck, and I swear she could suck a golf ball through a garden hose. We fuck, that's it. It's an agreement that works. Sometimes I pick up girls for a night, but Jen fulfills my needs in ways that would have most girls running and screaming. Evie wouldn't run.
Jen just stormed out after I blew my load and told her to leave. I'm not in the mood for her bullshit tonight. Our agreement is clear, but well, she's a woman, and they like to push the fucking boundaries.
Grabbing a glass of whiskey, I turn on yesterday's game. Dave hops up on the sofa next to me. I bought him as a guard dog, but he thinks he's a fucking poodle half the time. I prop my feet on the coffee table and rest my hand on his back.
I'm halfway through the first quarter when my phone rings, dancing across the coffee table. I pick it up, glancing at the unknown number.
"Yeah," I answer.
"Ezra, how are you?"
I frown, pausing the game. "Who is this?"
"That's no way to greet your new business partner." Fucking Zee.
"My answer is still no." I spoke to Seamus, and he's looking for the rat. It's the only explanation. He suggested I shoot the little prick, and then lay low for a while just in case he's legit, but I'm not running, certainly not over this little turd. I want to know how Zee got his contact, how he managed to infiltrate the family, and who is holding that recording for him. Better yet, I need something on him. If someone grabs you by the balls, you grab back and squeeze harder. Jonty can hack anything, get almost any information imaginable, but he can't find shit on Zee.
Zee sighs. "I'm losing patience, Ezra."
"So, turn me in."
"I don't want to turn you in!" he screams, and I pull the phone away from my ear. "I told you, I need you," he snaps, an edge of hysteria in his voice.
"So you have fuck all leverage then," I smirk. "Not the sharpest tool in the shed are you?"
He growls, actually growls down the phone at me. "Okay, I tried to be nice." And then he hangs up.
What the fuck? That's it? The guy is insane. Insane and blackmailing me. I'm shit out of options here, so I call the only person who might be able to help me, someone with more power and money than God. Ronan, the Russian Mafia boss. Ronan is a crazy bastard with the biggest fucking balls of anyone I know. He single handily took down four mob bosses to get to where he is. He has a hand in everything from whores to illegal fights to weapons dealing. He is the guy to know, and the guy you do not want to piss off under any circumstances. Eight years ago I saved his life, took out one of his guys who was about to shoot him in the back. We've been friends ever since, and he's a handy friend to have.
The phone rings and Ronan picks up shouting in Russian, "No whores in the house. I'll cut your dick off and feed it to you with a silver spoon." He clears his throat. "Ezra!"
"Hey, Rone."
"It is good to hear your voice, my friend. What do you need? No dick in spoon I hope."
I laugh. "No. I need a favour. I have a little problem..."
The angry red welts from Ezra's belt have turned a dark purple, some of them framed in a blueish-black line. I smile as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I am forgiven. Ezra granted me penance, and the burden lifted from me.
I grab the black belt laid at the foot of my bed and thread it through my fingers. I bought it because it's just like the one Ezra used to beat me. The sight of it makes my stomach clench in a delicious way. Even though
it's almost been a week since Ezra beat me, it's all I can think about. The things he stirred within me. Even though I feel ashamed, I also feel a strong desire to have him near me.
I had waited two days before I followed him. And now I've been following him long enough that I know his routine. I know what kind of coffee he drinks—latte, extra shot of espresso, no cream. They say eyes are the windows to the soul, well, the windows of apartment 3C are the eyes to Ezra's life. I know that he loves Chinese food and that he smokes too much. He also drinks too much. Every day he wakes up at noon and takes a shower, and after he's toweled off, he sprays one squirt of Blue de Chanel over his bare chest.
I grab my newly purchased bottle of Blue de Chanel from my nightstand and spritz my wrists. The clean scent surrounds me. Closing my eyes, I drag up the memory of his chest pressed against my bare back. I just want a tiny piece of him. It's obvious to me that my preoccupation with Ezra has gone too far. I always follow the men I kill, learning every last detail of their life. But it is never like this. I am chasing him because I want him to want me. I shouldn't. I should be after him to find the man who killed Hannah, and I am, but I'm also after him because he is a god and the devil all at the same time. The internal conflict he's causing me is like a catastrophic tsunami threatening to swallow me whole at any moment. Those black eyes of his flash through my mind, sending chills down my spine. "You will cry for me, Evie." The elegance of his accent made that statement seem more like a beautiful promise than a threat.
He’s like a devil. A devil who can grant me forgiveness, and for some reason I feel forgiveness at the hands of a demon must be more sacred than any forgiveness found at the steps of an altar. It is a contradiction. Just like I am. Just like Ezra is.
I attempt to shake the thoughts of him from my head, but I fail. Miserably. He's become an obsession, and I have to stop that because my obsession right now should be finding the man who killed my sister. And once I've found him, I must kill Ezra to honor Hannah. It's what she would want. But the more I think about him, the more I need to see him.
"When did Zee take her?" I shout, storming down the pavement, Dave trotting beside me. Jonty and I are on our way to deal with a fucking client who hit one of my girls, and now I hear Zee is taking them. I can kill Vinnie, but Zee... I can't touch him. Shit!
"This morning. She was finishing up with a client and coming out of the motel. A couple of the girls saw Zee take her and recognized him."
"Fuck! That fucking little prick." I knew he was going to do something, but this... this is a fucking war. He thinks he can take my girls?
"Put the girls on lockdown. They work in the club and at the motel only. Put security outside our rooms in the motel, and tell the other girls to stay in their apartment building. They do not leave until I say so." I pay for the girls to live in a high-security building because with the clients they have; you never know when one might get a little obsessive. Case in point, Zee. "Fucking shit!"
Jonty taps out texts on his phone, firing off instructions to the relevant people. "You want me to handle Vinny?" he asks.
I clench my fist. "No."
Vinny is about to see exactly what I do to people who damage my fucking merchandise. I push the door open to the grimy little café. The smell of grease and shit coffee assaults me. There are only a handful of tables in here, and I spot the guy I'm looking for immediately. When his eyes land on me, he tries to hunch over, pretending he can hide from me.
There are two guys sat at another table. I vaguely recognize them as junkies who sometimes come into the bar. One has his back to me, but the other looks up, locking his gaze with me. I stare him down and jerk my head to the side, signaling him to the door. His eyes drop quickly, and he nudges his friend. My reputation around here is far reaching and never questioned. They stand and leave without a word.
I walk over to Vinny's table and drop into the seat opposite him. Jonty grunts as he sits beside me, hefting his weight into the small chair.
I slide Vinny's plate of chips in front of me, and I watch him swallow. "Vinny," I say calmly, then pop a chip into my mouth. He glares at me while I chew. He knows what's coming, but sometimes in a man's last minutes he becomes defiant.
"I told you before, Ez, you pay for a girl, you expect her to take a bit of rough. If I wanted to tiptoe around a woman's feelings, I'd fuck my wife."
I remain unmoving, impassive and clasp my hands together on the table in front of me. "I told you before that the next time you leave a bruise on one of my girls, I'll do a lot more than break your jaw." Now I'm aware that this may sound hypocritical coming from me, but SJ is not five-grand a night, and she is not trained to handle that shit. Plus, no one wants to fuck a girl with a smashed up face. I'm all about profit margins. To the average Joe Bloggs using one of my average whores, the rules are simple, never hit the girls, or you will have me to deal with. To break my rules is to directly disrespect me, and I really don't like being disrespected.
"Come on, Ez," he laughs nervously.
I pluck another chip from the plate and shove it into my mouth. "Do you think I'm soft, Vinny?"
"No,” he says warily. Wise.
"Do you think I'm a guy that just says things for shits and giggles?" He shakes his head but doesn't answer. "I'm a fair guy, Vinny. I give people a chance to rectify their mistakes." I glance at Jonty and shrug. "I don't know; maybe I'm too nice?"
Jonty laughs and shakes his head. "Sure. Nice. That is exactly the word I'd use to describe you."
Grinning, I reach across the table, grab Vinny by the hair, and slam him face first into the table. The crunch his nose makes and the blood that splatters across the table makes me grin. Vinny screams, grabbing the edge of the table and trying to push away from me.
"Do I strike you as nice Vinny?" I push his face into the table, smearing blood all over the place. He cries like a little girl and struggles against my hold.
"Please," he begs, his voice a faint mumble.
I stand up and lean across the table to whisper in his ear. "You disrespected me, Vinny. I warned you."
Jonty raises an eyebrow when I glance at him. He takes a butter knife and slides it across the table to me. It skitters across the surface before bumping against my hand. I straighten up, wrapping my fingers around the cool metal of the knife as my grip tightens in his hair. He whimpers as I yank his head up off the table.
"Please," he mumbles. Blood tracks down his face and throat. He's whimpering like a fucking dog, his fingers desperately clawing at my wrist in an attempt to break free of my hold. I smile, because, for all his front, it's these last seconds that count. When you watch someone's life drain from their eyes, you see the panic, the fear. It's then that a man shows his true colours, and you either die a sniveling pants-pissing-mess or with dignity.
I use my body weight to jab the knife straight into the side of his thick neck. His eyes pop wide. His mouth gapes open then closed like a fish out of the water. When I yank the blunt blade out, blood spurts across the room, spraying the wall a few feet away. Vinny panics and grabs at his neck in an attempt to stop the bleeding, but I've just ruptured his jugular, nothing will stop the blood continuing to pump through his fingers. I watch the red liquid trickle down his forearms, and I'm satisfied. When I release his hair, Jonty's hand shoots out, yanking the bowl of chips away before Vinny's mangled face hits the table.
I take a napkin and clean the blood from my hands as I watch him flail on the table. Jonty never moves, just sits there eating Vinny's chips.
Vinny's cheek is pressed against the table, his face white, eyes wide with fear. These are his last seconds. I crouch down next to him, and I smile. "See, I am nice Vinny. I almost killed you quickly." He gasps two short, staggered breaths, and then he falls still. I throw the crumpled napkin down beside him and turn for the door.
"Get this shit cleaned up, and then find Lydia!" I say.
I'm going to go on the fucking warpath.
I park outside of Ezra's apartment co
mplex, turn the ignition off, and wait. I wait for him to come home because I need to see him.
He steps out of his car and bypasses the stairs. A redheaded woman in a too-tight white dress saunters up to him. I watch as he grabs her by the waist and pins her against a parked car on the side of the road. He kisses her the way men kiss women in movies, and then grabs onto her arm and drags her up the stairs. My heart drums in my chest because I am jealous. I can just imagine she's giggling. She's wearing white. She's playing innocent, although the sway of her hips and the fact that I don't see an underwear line tells me she's not. I count in my head the one-hundred and twenty seconds it usually takes until Ezra's lights flip on. One-hundred twenty-one, one-hundred twenty-two, one-hundred twenty-three... I swallow because I imagine he has her pinned against the wall in that stairwell with his hand up that short, slutty dress of hers. Finally, the living room light turns on, followed by the light in the bedroom. I can't help but wonder how well he fucks. And I shouldn't.
Before I realize what I'm doing, I find myself scurrying along the sidewalk to the adjacent building. Here I stand, staring up at the window on the side of his apartment. Shadows bounce across the brick facing of the opposite complex, and I have to see what they are doing. I hurry to the fire escape. It's old and rickety, and most likely not up to code, but it's proven to hold up every other night this week. I grab onto the rusted railing, and up I go, my heels clanging and catching on the broken stairs several times before I reach the second landing. The shadows hide me from sight, and I press my back against the cold wall, keeping completely still so as not to be seen.
The girl is on her knees, his dick in her mouth, her hands gripping his hips. I watch his hands grab onto the back of her head, and now she's not sucking him because he is brutally fucking her mouth. For some reason, and I don't know why, but I wish that were me with his dick in my mouth, and that makes me feel dirty because I never want to do anything with a man. But he grants you absolution, Evelyn. He does, and that would make it okay for me to fuck him and enjoy it. He could beat my lustful sin out of me while he fucks me.