Vice Enforcer

by S. A. Stovall

  After only a few pumps, Miles loses what little control he had and digs his nails into my flesh as he thrusts hard. His harsh moans become louder the closer he gets, and I enjoy the animalistic way he forces me back onto him with each motion. The pain and pleasure both build in my gut, threatening to become agony, but not before Miles swells and reaches his breaking point.

  He tenses and leans forward as he fills me with his seed. I can hear the strangled groan of gratification escape his clenched jaw when relief comes in waves.

  For a moment, Miles doesn’t move. Before I say anything, he leans down and reaches a hand around to play with my throbbing cock. I need release more than I realized—the moment he skates his fingers over me, I shudder.

  “Admit you wanted this,” he commands, his tone gruff and low.

  His statement alone gets me a little closer to the edge. He takes his hand away, though, and I cave under my lust. “I wanted this,” I breathe.

  Miles rewards my compliance with a couple forceful strokes of his hand. It’s all I need. I seize up and grit my teeth as I empty myself onto the sheets of our bed. My hot breath comes out in huffs as waves of sweet pleasure wash over my body. Miles—still in me—makes a few odd noises as I convulse around him.

  I collapse onto the bed and exhale, drained. Miles withdraws and rolls over, hitting the mattress on his back.

  Without the numbing effect of passion, my body reminds me that I’m still recovering. Sore in more places than one, I lie motionless. Miles curls up next to me.

  “Are you okay?” he whispers.

  “Yeah,” I grunt. “Happy birthday.”

  He laughs into my shoulder. And then he gets quiet. “You’re not… angry with me?”

  “No.”

  “Would you want to do this again?”

  I remain silent as I mull over his question. Finally I say, “Uncuff me.”

  It’s dark, except for the blue glow of our digital clock, and Miles struggles to undo the zip-tie cuffs for longer than he should. Once they’re off, I relax and roll over. I should probably shower, but I can’t muster the energy to do so.

  “We can do this again,” I state.

  “And you want to? I’m not making you do something you’d hate?”

  “Of course not.” I grab a pillow and place it under my head. “But I don’t want it to be the standard.” I don’t know if I—or our house—could take it.

  “That’s fine. More than fine, really. I like it when you’re the one on top.”

  Miles curls up next to me again. I allow the coolness of the night to take away the last of my heat before pulling up the blankets. With my other arm, I hold Miles close. The tranquil serenity is a welcome change of pace.

  “What did Shelby want?” Miles asks.

  “Fuck ’im,” I reply. “I’m not part of his investigation any longer.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Shelby’s known all along that the cops are the ones picking up vagabonds and throwing them in jail—only to have some other organization pack them up for sale. And, to make matters worse, the Vice family mob are the guys responsible for the shipping. It’s too much to handle as a little PI firm. Plus, I don’t want to lead the Vice family back here. I want to avoid them at all costs.”

  Miles gets up on his elbows. “The cops are throwing low-level criminals to the traffickers for sale?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about Roslyn?”

  I turn and give Miles a sideways glance. “Who the fuck is Roslyn?”

  He chuckles. “The girl that Kimmy asked us to look for. The one who went to jail, remember?”

  Oh, yeah. Kimmy’s hooker friend. I had almost forgotten we said we’d speak to her in the jail. But what does it matter now? “It’s no longer my concern.”

  Miles kisses my shoulder. “Is that what you really think?”

  I give him another odd glance. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I mean, what’s the harm of going to the jail and asking to speak to her? Maybe we can save her from being packed up like the rest.”

  His statement is true, and I let out a long exhale. “The more we dig around this, the more likely we’ll see someone coming to look for me.”

  “Is that the only thing you’re worried about?”

  “I’m worried about you. There’s no reason for you to get mixed into all this. I’ll go to the jail myself, if need be.”

  Miles shakes his head. “No. We should go together.”

  “Remember how you kept saying we could get thrown out of our respective careers for getting caught in questionable activities? Take your own damn advice.”

  “I said that to dissuade you from acting rash,” Miles states, his tone heated, “not because I didn’t agree with our objective. I think we should help that girl. I think we should continue investigating.”

  Miles is a better person than I am. He gives a lot for other people, and maybe I should take his example, but I’m always afraid of the worst. Especially now that I have something I’d hate to lose.

  “We’ll go to the jailhouse,” I drawl. “But we aren’t going to any more of Shelby’s drop sites. We’re not going to risk that much.”

  “All right. That’s a fair compromise.”

  Miles pulls me closer and presses his mouth against mine. Normally it’s a quick thing, but tonight he takes his time, running his tongue against my lip and deeper along my own. He tastes of excitement and salt. It’s a good feeling, and I close my eyes to enjoy it.

  When he breaks away, I almost pull him back.

  “Thank you,” he whispers.

  “Don’t.”

  “It’s not just for the birthday thing. I feel like… you always have my interests at heart, Pierce.”

  “I’ve got your back.”

  He half laughs as he grazes my jawline with his fingers. “And I yours.”

  THE KNOCKING on the front door jars me awake.

  I sit up, glance around the room, and stare at the wall for thirty seconds like a useless lump of jelly. Another round of knocking gets me to my feet. What time is it? The digital clock says 10:00 a.m., but it’s a lying sack of shit. There’s no way it’s ten in the goddamn morning.

  Miles is sound asleep on the bed, his head covered in a pile of blankets. How can he sleep like that?

  Another round of knocking.

  I huff and rub at my face, well aware I’m not decent. My wifebeater is crusty with dried bodily fluid, and I remind myself I should shower. Since I don’t have time, I rip it off, toss it to the floor, and then pull on a pair of sweatpants. My body is sore, but I push through the stiffness of my muscles. Groggy and barely functioning, I shamble out to the living room and answer the front door.

  Ms. Timo, Jayden, Shannon, and Lacy stand before me, their shocked and wide-eyed faces greeting me rather than words.

  “What happened?” Shannon asks, breaking the daze over the group.

  I give myself the once-over and chuckle. Without a shirt it’s plain as day to see the many scars, bruises, and scrapes I carry all over my body. Especially after my recent fights. And last night.

  “I was in a car accident,” I drone. “That’s why we have a new car.”

  “Oh, right,” Shannon mutters, her eyes fixated on some of my oldest scars. Those aren’t from a car accident, that’s for sure.

  Lacy also stares, but her eyes are set more on my tattoo. I’d cover it, but I’m not worried about the other three knowing what it means. Instead of drawing attention to the thing, I ignore Lacy’s interest.

  “I need to go to the grocery store,” Ms. Timo says, a chipper tone to her voice. “I was hoping you could take back the children. Will that be okay? I don’t mean to impose.”

  Unlike the others, who regard me with a shocked curiosity, like they’ve never truly seen me before, Ms. Timo stares and grows a slight shade of pink. The lecherous old woman gets me smiling. At least she knows what she likes.

  “Get in,” I tell the kids as I step asid
e. They all comply with my command. I nod to Ms. Timo. “Thanks for watching them.”

  “Any time.”

  I shut the door and turn around to find all three of the kids more surprised than when I answered the door. Jayden gives me an incredulous stare, like I’ve done him some personal wrong.

  “What happened here?” he asks.

  Both Shannon and Lacy wait for an answer.

  I pan my gaze over the kitchen and living room, taking in the flipped-over couch, broken table, and open kitchen cabinets. The place looks like a hurricane rocked the inside.

  “A robber broke in,” I say, part of me not even realizing the contents of my speech as I fabricate a quick lie. I doubt Miles wants me telling the kids about our sexual escapades.

  “Really?” Lacy asks with a gasp. “What happened?”

  I shrug and answer in a disinterested tone, “I kicked his ass. End of story.”

  Shannon plays with her long braid. “Was he a big guy?”

  “Sure. Yeah. A few inches taller than me. A real bruiser.”

  “Did he show up to kill you?” Jayden asks.

  I almost want to throttle the guy. He can’t piece this together? He’s seventeen, for fuck’s sake. I’m lying to spare the girls an early conversation about lust and overzealous aggression, not him.

  With a roll of my eyes I reply, “No, he was a robber. He came to rob things. I stopped him. It’s all good. Go back to doing whatever you were doing.”

  “So you can fight guys?” Shannon asks, her enthusiasm growing with each moment. “You look like you fought a lot of guys! Have you arrested a ton of people too?”

  Lacy swishes her hair and turns away. “I think you should put on a shirt. It’s too late in the day to be dressed like you are.”

  Well, then, the prissy princess has spoken. I hold back all sarcastic commentary as I step past them and head to the bathroom. I hear the shower running and know Miles is up and awake.

  While I search my closet for suitable clothing that won’t offend Lacy, I spot Jayden hovering around the door to my room. I stop what I’m doing and glower at the kid, irritated he would darken my mood with his presence.

  “Hey,” he mutters. “Someone really didn’t come to kill you, right? We’re still safe here?”

  Eh. Why am I always dealing with this simpleton? “No one broke in last night,” I reply, curt. “Your brother and I got out of hand celebrating.”

  It takes the rusty cogs of his mind a minute to comprehend what I’ve told him. “Are you serious?” Jayden finally says. “All this was from you guys…?”

  “Yeah. Now get out of my face.”

  Miles exits the bathroom, a towel around his waist, and gives his brother an odd look. “Jayden? Is everything okay?”

  Even I can see the marks from last night, and I have a bum eye. Miles has a few bruises, his neck still sports the rawness of my bite, and he moves as though he’s sore. Jayden takes it all in like he’s watching a horror movie—he recoils and frowns.

  “Why do you let him do this?” Jayden asks, almost at his normal volume. “Are you sick in the head or something?”

  Miles sighs. “It’s none of your business. We’re perfectly fine.”

  “You kept telling me I had to get my life together, but you’re doing all this? It’s a little hypocritical.”

  “Don’t talk to me about being hypocritical, Jayden,” Miles snaps. “I said everything is fine, and I mean it.”

  The definitive, almost harsh tone gets Jayden to shut up. He offers Miles a single nod before walking down the hallway, leaving me alone with his brother. There’s a piece of me that doesn’t like the fact Jayden thinks our relationship is violent and abusive, but another piece of me doesn’t want to explain it all either. Why won’t he believe his brother?

  “When are we going to the jailhouse?” Miles asks.

  “As soon as Ms. Timo gets back from the grocery store.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE NOIMORE City Adult Detention Facility is the municipality’s primary jailhouse. The tan cement building—two stories in height—has the air of government bureaucracy. It looks like a place where taxpayer money comes to die. Big. Bloated. Overly fancy landscaping. I’m not a fan.

  Then again, as a former career criminal, I may be biased.

  Miles saunters up next to me after exiting our car. He glances around the deluxe parking lot, takes note of the many police cars, and then cocks an eyebrow. “You really think people are kidnapped from here and sold in human markets?”

  “Seems like the perfect place to do it,” I drawl.

  “There are so many officers.”

  “Yeah, but they’re not a fan of criminals. Have you seen how overcrowded these places are? I’m sure the jailors love the fact people are disappearing. And the people are already conveniently rounded up into one location.”

  Miles and I walk up to the front doors of the building and enter the cold lobby. Plastic chairs attached to the floor fill the waiting area, and two slobs mill around the vending machine, no doubt ready to ask people for money. I walk up to the front desk and nod to the lady sitting behind the counter.

  “I’m Percy Adams, with the Michael Shelby Private Investigator Agency,” I state as I flash my trainee badge. “I’m here to see….” I turn to Miles.

  He holds up his phone and reads, “Roslyn Applegate.”

  The correction officer types into her computer. I lean over and catch a glimpse of the screen. It’s a list of inmates a mile long, all sorted in alphabetical order. The lady scans the “A” section and then does so a second time.

  “Roslyn Applegate was discharged a month ago,” the officer replies. “She’s no longer here.”

  “Do you know who visited her last?” I ask. “Or who came to pick her up when she was discharged?”

  “That kind of information is confidential.”

  “All right, give us a second. We might need to speak to someone else.”

  The lady regards me with a disinterested nod, and I walk back toward the front door with Miles in tow. I stop and turn to him, mindful to keep my voice low.

  “I need to look at her computer,” I say.

  Miles crosses his arms over his chest. “Why?”

  “All the information about the inmates is there. I need to look at the visitor list.”

  “Don’t you remember what I said about illegally gathered information?”

  “We aren’t looking to take this to court, are we? We’re here to save a girl from the cops. Now isn’t the time to be worried about criminal procedure.”

  Miles gets pink in the face and looks away. “R-right. You’re right. We’re not here as investigators.” He rubs at his chin and stares at the front door of the building, his gaze unfocused but his eyes alight with deep thought. Finally he continues with “I’ll cause a distraction. You mess with the computer.”

  “All right.”

  I don’t ask him his plan—I’m sure he’s smart enough to concoct something without my help—but I do worry about him. I’d hate to have to bail him out of jail for disorderly conduct or some shit.

  Miles walks over to the vending machine and engages the two loitering schmoes in conversation. People wait at the jailhouse all the time. Boyfriends. Girlfriends. Gang buddies. Family members. All sorts of people have nothing better to do than wait for someone to be discharged. I suppose it’s for the best—I bet the people with loved ones waiting aren’t the target of our human traffickers.

  I bide my time, glancing through my phone. I know these things play games, but all I can find is solitaire.

  One angry grunt later and my attention is back on Miles. The two men by the vending machine are in some sort of scuffle. They grab at each other’s shirts in an attempt to fight, though it’s clear they’re both incompetent. I’ve seen schoolyard children with better grace and moxie than these two fools.

  The woman behind the counter stands and shouts, “Hey! Stop that!”

  The two men ignore h
er. One punches the other—a weak strike to the chest—and then they grapple close and attempt to go to the ground. I chuckle at the sight.

  Things get real when they hit the floor, however. One man gets on top of the other and starts punching down, adding gravity to his blows and aiming for the face. The corrections officer gets out of her chair, pulls her Taser, and then rushes over to the vending machines.

  Ah. I see my chance and take it. While she’s distracted, I move over to the counter and click through her computer, searching the list at a fast pace. Instead of taking my time to read the information, I open the camera on my phone and take a picture. Once I have Applegate’s file, I glance over my shoulder.

  They’re still busy.

  I go to the next inmate, and then the next, taking pictures of their visitation history and status. I’m sure taking a picture of a computer screen doesn’t make for a fantastic photo, but I don’t need to win any awards—all I need is to read the damn information.

  I stop when I hit the “M” section of the list, my gaze honing in on one name in particular.

  McMillian.

  Shannon’s father.

  I back away from the computer and stare at my phone as the corrections officer finally puts an end to the fighting by physically breaking it up. Miles jumps to my side, not involved in the conflict, and smiles to me.

  “What was that all about?” I whisper.

  “I paid them to fight,” Miles replies with a nervous laugh. “Not the cleverest plan, but it worked.”

  I chortle to myself and shrug. “Better than nothing, I guess.”

  “Yeah, but at the rate we’re spending money, we’re definitely going to need jobs after this.”

  A small piece of me laughs. We still have plenty of money. My money, really. I can take a bit of solace knowing that I provide for Miles in some way. And by “provide,” I apparently mean so he can pay two men to fight each other as a form of distraction.

  The two men are thrown from the jailhouse, and I watch them go with a smile. They don’t look disgruntled or irritated, and I’m sure that confuses the corrections officer, but that doesn’t matter now. I return to the counter.