The Dollhouse Society Ultimate Boxset: 21 Books & 5 Shorts in the Dollhouse Society Series

by Eden Myles

  “Take her,” Dorian said to his brother, his voice hard as steel.

  Damian pulled me atop him, his cock hard against my belly. I groaned at the wet, hard feel of it rubbing against my opening. He undulated his hips, making me cry out with frustration, then lifted me slightly and let me plunge down upon him. He fit perfectly inside me and I immediately started moving upon him, but Dorian had other plans. He grabbed my hips and I felt the hardness of his cock exploring my slick hole. He brushed against it over and over until I thought I would scream before heaving upward and filling me there as well.

  I cried out as I was impaled twice over. Then both brothers began to move, but not in the same direction, and the unique feel of rocking back and forth upon their cocks teased me ever higher into a state of delirious bliss.

  Damian ripped my blindfold away and I looked down into his dear face. He’d torn away his evening shirt and now I spread my hands over his beautifully tattooed chest. Both my lovers worked my body, thrusting and grunting, Damian upward, into me, and Dorian in and out, the hard muscles of his bare lower belly pressed to my spine, his quick, labored breath in my hair. I leaned back to see him, and he slid his hands possessively over my breasts, caught my lips in a biting kiss. I jerked like a puppet on strings for them…for them both…all for them.

  Damian reached up and grabbed the chains, pulling gently upon them, while Dorian reached around me and unhooded my clit, encircling it with his thumb as he continued to thrust ever deeper inside me. The two brothers played with me until I threw back my head and screamed my release, and my climax brought them both, almost at the same moment, in tandem, so I was flooded with their seed and they filled every part of me…my body and my heart.

  “We love you…” Damian began.

  “…our brave little beauty,” Dorian finished.

  ***

  CHARLOTTE

  by Eden Myles

  I held up my badge and said, “Detective Charlie Hu, NYPD.”

  The big, blocky cop guarding the crime scene looked me and my partner over, then nodded in a silent, Lurch-like way, and raised the yellow crime-scene tape so Rodriguez and I could slip underneath it.

  “What did they get him from, the goon squad?” I said, jamming my thumb back at Lurch as we headed down the rain-slick alley toward the group of people collected around the victim.

  “Be nice, Charlie,” Roddy warned me.

  Vince Rodriguez once said I was five feet and a hundred pounds of pure sarcasm. I was never sure if I should take that as a compliment or an insult. Roddy was tough as nails and twice as mean as a cornered junkyard dog in the right situation. I loved him to bits. He’d been my partner for going on six years, and I knew that, whatever he thought of my personality, he always had my back.

  We came upon the first of New York’s Finest, and he moved aside so I could see the coroner bent over the vic. The coroner—Bigby, by name—was a tall, thin, angular man wearing a yellow rain slicker flecked with rain. Everyone I had ever known called him Biggs.

  I shook the rain out of my ponytail and off the back of my black leather jacket, wishing I had thought to take a slicker from the back seat of our unmarked car instead of being in such a hurry. “What do you have for us, Biggs?” I said.

  Biggs creaked back to his six-plus height. “Hispanic female, approximately sixteen years old. No I.D. Pretty safe to assume she died from an impact injury, but there’s also evidence of assault.” He looked over her fingernails, where even I could see the blood. She’d fought like a wildcat as the perp tossed her off the top of a building. “I’ll confirm the DNA when I get her back to the lab.”

  I nodded. She was a pretty girl, and much too young to be on these streets at night.

  “Hooker?” Roddy said, craning his neck back to take in both buildings. Both were old brownstones owned by slumlord millionaires, and I could tell he was already trying to calculate their heights in relation to the crime scene. This was a bad neighborhood in need of dire urban renewal. The only types of people who lived here were folks who sold illegal product and folks who bought them.

  I crouched down and looked the vic over. “Looks like it.” She looked less like a teenaged kid and more like a broken bag of bones. I glanced right and left, spotted a giant blue dumpster with a massive dent in it and started calculating trajectories, trying to guesstimate how far a body had to fall to hit the Dumpster, bounce, and land there.

  “She’s really creepy when she does that,” Biggs said.

  “That’s why I love her,” Roddy answered.

  I pointed at the top of the brownstone to our left. “She was pushed from there.”

  “Is that a knife wound?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Probably couldn’t pay her pimp.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “Let’s canvas the area.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “You two always talk like cop buddies in a movie,” Biggs laughed.

  “All the world’s a stage and we are but the actors,” I said, getting to my feet and dusting myself down.

  “No Chinese proverbs?” Biggs kidded.

  “That’s racial profiling,” Roddy explained in a droll tone. Then he turned to me. “No Chinese proverbs, Confucius?”

  I flipped him the bird.

  “See, that’s what I like to see: bickering like an old married couple.” Biggs and his team started zipping up the vic in a body bag.

  “We should,” said Roddy, “but then Mrs. Rodriguez might find out about our torrid love affair.”

  Biggs laughed.

  An ongoing joke at the precinct was that Roddy and I were in each other’s pants. Roddy cleaned up real nice, and I’d never made noises either way. Nothing makes you look guiltier than denying accusations every chance you get. But it still bothered me.

  As we went around to the front of the building, I said, “Do you have to put fuel on the fire, Roddy?”

  He waved it away. “Don’t let Biggs get to you.”

  “He doesn’t,” I answered in a tone of voice that suggested otherwise.

  He snorted as we reached the doors to the old project. “It really bothers you…what they say?”

  “It could get in the way of a promotion, so yeah.” I knew that, generally speaking, female cops didn’t command the respect that their male counterparts did. So far, our chief of police had been pretty fair and evenhanded with me. He neither pandered nor disparaged me. But the same couldn’t be said of other cops, and in my line of work, a rumor—even a false once—could kill your chances of promotion.

  “You worry about the job, of course,” he drawled.

  “Sure,” I answered, holding the door open for him. “Don’t you?”

  Roddy went in ahead of me. I’d never been one for chivalry. “I love you, Charlie,” he said over one shoulder, “but you do need to get some interests outside the job.”

  ***

  I tried not to let Roddy’s words bother me too much, but of course they did. Was I obsessive about my job? Probably. Did I have reason to be? Certainly.

  My dad had immigrated from Hong Kong in the mid-Sixties to escape the poverty generated by Soviet rule. He’d married my mom, an American, and had been a great dad and a decorated cop for over forty years in a city that didn’t always treat Chinese cops with a lot of respect. The job had been everything to him—especially after my mom died when I was four years old. Me and the job…that’s all he’d ever had. His were huge shoes to fill, but I wanted to be at least as good as my dad had been.

  I tried to put it out of my mind. The job was all. I had to do the job. It was my way of honoring my dad.

  Roddy came up empty, but I just knew I was going to score a witness when I knocked on the door of this one old black women’s rent-controlled apartment in direct view of the building where our vic had been pushed. There’s nothing like old women to make perfect witnesses. They see everything. Roddy and I both had great track records when it came to witnesses; a lo
t of the time a minority will tell another minority things she won’t tell a white.

  She was a dear old thing, and she mentioned she’d seen a kid in gang colors climbing down the rusted fire escape around the time that our girl had taken her flight off the top of the opposing building.

  She was nice enough to offer me a cup of tea. I sipped it, said, “Did you see him clearly? Was he black, Asian or Hispanic?”

  “No, child. He was white,” the old woman said. She nodded and indicated the glasses on a thin chain around her neck. “I’m far-sided, so I know what I saw. He was tall, ‘bout twenty, wearing gang colors. Blue tartan bandana. Ain’t that strange?”

  The tea turned sour in my stomach.

  “You really a cop, child?”

  I smiled to cover my discomfort. “I’m really a cop.”

  “You too pretty to be a cop.”

  I smiled, thanked her, and rejoined Roddy down in the lobby. “It was a white guy who killed our vic.” I gave her the old woman’s description, along with—reluctantly—the gang colors she’d seen on him. Roddy immediately phoned in forensics to sweep the roof for evidence.

  “There haven’t been any white pimps in this party of the city in decades,” he observed as we crossed the bottlenecked New York street on our way back to our unmarked car. He was right; this was a low-income housing neighborhood. Mostly it had black, Hispanic and Pakistani residents. “Unless Lachlan Swann’s guys are migrating.”

  “Possible,” I mumbled, not wanting to entertain the thought.

  “Holy shit, can you imagine if Swann’s involved in this?” Roddy happily filled me in on Swann on the drive back to the precinct. He had a thing for gangsters, read bios, watched movies. He found them interesting. Some stuff about Swann he got right, some not so much, though I didn’t bother to correct him where he was wrong. In a way, I had a thing for gangsters too.

  Lachlan Swann was the real thing. He was a real hard nose, born and bred on the streets. The oldest of eight children, his drunk of a father had beat the hell out of him and his siblings and had thrown his mother down the stairs, where she died of a broken neck. I knew all the sordid details of his life because we’d grown up in the same project together, gone to the same high school. His father had migrated from Scotland, worked as a cement mixer, but had been known as a real mean drunk and a lousy gambler. A shark made him break the legs of his competitors in order to work off his gambling debt, but eventually his dirty business caught up with him. He died in a prison brawl a few years later. Suffice to say, Lachlan and his seven siblings had grown up fast and hard.

  Lachlan tried to look after them, but at sixteen, he dropped out of high school and started running with gangs. He was in and out of juvie halls, and when he was seventeen, served five years in State Penn for assault and battery. By then, I’d lost touch with him, but kept my ear to the ground. Lachlan attracted trouble like a flame attracts a legion of bad moths.

  At some point during his prison term, he met up with Italian mobster Vinnie Castellano, who was a very bad moth indeed. When Lachlan got out, the two started running guns for the Irish Republican Army, acting as middlemen and “baggers”—Lachlan, as Vinnie’s enforcer, got the guns past security, usually disguised as sacks of imported good, but also ran protection, working his way up the ranks fast. These days, Swann and Castellano had several private gun-assembly factories running in the tri-state area, and Castellano owned some pretty lucrative porn studios on the side. But they were clever bastards, everything legally on the up and up. Swann even sold arms to the U.S. Military, and had managed to miss getting fingered like so many of his associates by the FBI or ATF. Just about every gang member on the East Coast owned a firearm with the Swann insignia on it, but no one could prove Lachlan was dealing.

  They called Lachlan the Cashmere Don, partly for the streamlined, gangland-style Brooks Brothers suits he wore, partly because you couldn’t wrinkle him, no matter what you did. Nothing sticks to cashmere. It wipes clean at the end of the day.

  Like Castellano, Lachlan was a gangster, a bad guy. I knew that, intellectually. I told myself that. But he was also the tall, scrawny kid who’d punched Billy Stanley in the nose when he’d started taunting me in junior high—“Hey, China girl, you got a sideways pussy like everyone says?” Then: Whack! Billy went down like a stack of bricks with a broken nose. Lachlan was the guy who’d looked after me in the projects while my dad was out fighting the bad guys. He was the first boy I’d kissed, and the first boy I’d given myself to.

  “You seem quiet,” Roddy said when we got back to our desks.

  “Just doing my job.” I started pulling up a database of scumbags linked to Swann. If Forensics got prints off the rooftop, it would likely be linked to these guys.

  Roddy grinned. He looked very much like Benicio Del Toro when he smiled. It was the kind of tough guy half smirk that could make a lonely girl’s heart flutter. But whatever else Roddy was, he was also married, and I didn’t do married. “I can’t wait to nail Swann’s ass to a wall. Can you imagine it, Charlie? A couple of New York flatfoots pulling off what the ATF couldn’t for the past ten-plus years?”

  Before I could answer, Biggs called with the blood samples. The DNA matched Michael Castellano, Vinnie’s nephew, and a known associate of the Castellano Crime Family.

  Roddy rubbed his hands together like a cartoon villain. “Looks like we may have a collar. Let’s bring Castellano in and make him sweat out some evidence.”

  I nodded.

  “If he turns state’s evidence, we may be able to pull down Swann’s whole boardwalk empire.”

  I reached for my suit coat draped over the back of my chair. “Sounds good to me,” I said, trying to infuse some enthusiasm into the statement.

  ***

  “Michael Castellano, get down on your knees with your hands behind your head!” I kept my gun trained on the back of Castellano’s head as he slowly folded to his knees in the middle of his uncle’s porn studio in Brooklyn Heights. Roddy moved forward to cuff him.

  We didn’t have to search him; he was wearing only a thong as we’d interrupted one of his uncle’s shoots. The actress he’d been going down on with a rabbit vibrator sat at the foot of a bed, completely naked except for the leopard throw she was trying to cover her private parts up with. She stared at me in a way that suggested she was probably cranked up. Most of the girls here looked that way—the ones who weren’t hysterically running around the set, that is. I knew from the coroner’s report that the girl who had been stabbed and thrown off the top of the building had had crystal meth in her system.

  Uncle Castellano putting his own nephew in his pictures was a little creepy, but the fact that his girls were high on meth didn’t surprise me at all. Talk about a douche bag.

  Roddy slapped the cuffs on and dragged Michael Castellano to his feet. One of the cameramen stepped forward to throw a robe over Michael’s shoulders. Nice of him. “C’mom, stud, we’re going downtown,” Roddy told the guy—kid, really. The little old lady I’d talked to had vastly overestimated Michael’s age; I was willing to bet he was eighteen, maybe a hard seventeen, which meant we could get the Castellano family on charges of underage pornography. The bad part? If convicted as a minor, Michael wasn’t likely to see the inside of a prison cell. There were both good and bad things to the job.

  Michael kept his head down as Roddy herded him toward the waiting squad cars out front, but I could see how young he was, how frightened. Suddenly, the thought of nailing Lachlan Swann’s ass to a wall didn’t seem like such a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all.

  ***

  Two days later, Michael Castellano was arraigned on charges of murder and aggravated assault. The judge set his bail so high that unless Vinnie Castellano won the state lottery in the next twenty-four hours, his nephew would be cooling his heels in a minimum security prison for a few weeks—or however long it took the DA to put a case together. The DA was going whole hog on this, trying to get Michael tried as an adult. If they s
ucceeded, he’d likely end up on death row. Unless he cut a deal, Vinnie’s nephew was pretty well and truly fucked.

  On Friday night, after doing some light grocery shopping, I was walking toward my brownstone in the Soundview Development—not a pretty building, but it had a good neighborhood watch—when I spotted a black Lincoln Town Car parked out front. It stuck out in this neighborhood like a sore thumb. I immediately recognized the plates from various police records. With a heavy sigh, I walked toward it.

  The rear window rolled down and Lachlan Swann said, “I had nothing to do with Michael or that girl’s murder.”

  I caught a whiff of Lachlan’s imported Egyptian cologne. I looked in at a man I might have loved—had we not wound up on opposite sides of the law. I felt my heart thud hard against my breastbone at the sight of those oh-so-familiar, broody green eyes. “I don’t think Michael sees it that way, Lachlan. For your information, he’s spilling his guts all over the interrogation floor.”

  He nodded. “With the death penalty hanging over the kid’s head, he’ll give his Uncle Vinnie up in a heartbeat, for sure, not that I can blame him.” His statement surprised me. As far as I was aware, Lachlan and Vinnie were thick as thieves. “In fact, I’m willing to help you put Castellano away forever …for the right price.”

  I thought maybe I hadn’t heard right. I turned to glance at my brownstone, wondering if this was some kind of trap. But I didn’t see any suspicious men ready to ambush me into Lachlan Swann’s limo. I looked back at the big, lean, debonair man sitting so casually on the seat of the car in his dark, pinstripe, cashmere suit. “You’re going to rat out Vinnie?”

  “For a price,” he reminded me.

  “Would Vinnie like that, being his chief enforcer and all? Gangsters get real cranky when the dog they feed bites them.”

  Swann sat there a long moment. “I’m not afraid of Vinnie, Charlotte. I can handle him.”

  I nodded. “If you meet me in the DA’s office tomorrow…”