Bad Girl: Les Pétales

by Kailee Samuels

  I needed a shower and to wake up from the nightmare. I feared the future and unknown outcome. I cautiously stood afraid my legs would fail. “What should I do now?”

  “You should dress and leave. We will be in contact soon. Try not to worry.”

  “May I have a hug?”

  He embraced me and whispered, “Anna, you didn’t cause this. It was a fleeting incident.”

  We slowly walked to the door, but his sentiment did little to calm me. Daizou was dead. And the game I was playing was getting increasingly difficult, but hesitating assured one thing—death.

  There was no job security with the criminal underworld.

  Ryu grabbed the knob as I set my hand on his arm. “Who is the new leader of Ito?”

  With his dark hair drifting across his forehead, he rubbed my lips and brought his to mine. The kiss brought stability in my belief and balanced my torn soul.

  Death was never easy; loving was always hard.

  “The outfit of Lotus is now being led by a man named Keishi Nakamura.”

  Several weeks after Daizou’s murder, Jake called my apartment one night. I picked it up and heard his irritation. “Where are you?”

  “I took several weeks of vacation,” I curtly replied. I didn’t like the way Jake spoke to me. “Sally Jane brought groceries by the house. I’ll be back to work by the weekend.”

  “I’ll be over in twenty.”

  Hanging up the phone, I sighed. I mulled over the idea of getting dressed, but I decided to stay in my pink pajamas with my hair up in rollers. If Jake didn’t like me, I didn’t care. I didn’t much care for him, either.

  It was late, close to midnight when he finally arrived. His light, distinguishing brushing-tap sound signaled his presence. I peeped out the hole and saw the thorn in my side in his standard attire—jeans, t-shirt, and black leather jacket. The unlit cigarette dangled from his lips, and his heavy brow curled down towards his nose and up at the sides. Though I couldn’t see the rugged, worn combat boots, I had no doubt they were on his feet.

  Before he had a chance to knock again, I swung open the door. “I do not appreciate you barging over uninvited, Mr. Ballister.”

  Walking into my house, he shot a dangerous—but sexy—stare in my direction as he propped the smoke on his ear. He was infuriating, and I sensed it was only going to get worse.

  Meandering to the kitchen and pilfering through my fridge, he snatched a can of Pabst beer and propped against my sink. “Thought you were calling me, Jake?”

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Making myself at home,” he declared with a crooked grin. “What are you up to?”

  With my hands on my hips, I loudly sighed. “I should be sleeping is what I should be doing, Jake.”

  “Come on, baby doll. Girls like you don’t go to sleep at midnight.”

  I blinked, pacing up to him. Poking his hard chest, I snapped, “Girls like me? What the fuck do you think I am?” I hated this man. He was too gorgeous for his own good and too arrogant to be worth a damn. Hatred filled my veins as I wanted him to go away and never return—or—kiss me and profess his love. One or the other. “And where the fuck do you get off calling me—baby doll?”

  He shrugged. The proud snarl lifted his cheeks and permanently glued to his face. I wanted to slap it off. I stepped even closer, bumping my breasts into his chest as I refused to look away. Over six feet, he seemed so much taller, bigger, broader than me. My last memories with a man were Daizou, and he was barely my height. Jake’s height and overabundant confidence intimidated me, but I relentlessly held his gaze.

  Polishing off the beer, he slammed the can onto the counter. I had to stop myself from asking if he wanted another. I liked providing for men, but not this one. This one, I loathed.

  “What do you know about Keishi?”

  “Nothing,” I hissed, standing my ground. “Do you know who killed Daizou?”

  He tipped his head and snorted. “Some punk kid out of Louisiana.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, baby doll. Why don’t you let me think about it while you suck my dick?”

  My eyes about exploded, and my bottom lip hit the floor as I lifted my hand to smack him. He caught my wrist in his fist. “How dare you! Let go of me!”

  He soared his lips over mine in a sloppy, wispy kiss that said more about the future than I could ever imagine. With a light press of his finger to my shoulder, I buckled and knelt before him. “No,” he declared, holding onto me. “I’m not letting go of you. Not now. Not ever. You are mine, Anna.”

  His free hand hastily unfastened his jeans, and he tugged my roller covered head to his shaft. I refused to open my mouth, so I turned away. “Do you realize how terrible I look?”

  “The room is dark,” he callously said. “Look you can suck it and swallow, or I can toss your ass up on the counter and fuck you, but one way or another, I’m getting off in you.”

  “You’re a bastard, Jake Ballister.”

  “I’m aware.” I considered biting his dick, but he did something which made me reconsider every evil thought I had of him. He released my wrist and laced his fingers through mine, holding my hand. The simplest of actions elicited such a response in my body that I couldn’t deny him if I tried.

  Turning toward his crotch, I laid my head against his thigh. “Promise me you won’t let them get me.”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care.”

  In the darkness, I couldn’t see his shaft as my fingers wrapped around him. I gradually stroked him slowly and opening my mouth; I ran my tongue down the length. He was salty and smelled of sex.

  With the delicious invitation between us, I did the only thing I could. I gulped down the whole length of his dick as he held my hand with one hand and guided my head with the other.

  “God, Anna…” he mumbled, bucking into my mouth. “Don’t stop.”

  After the tension of his entry, I considered doing just that, but I didn’t want to hear his belligerence. Besides, if I were entirely truthful, I was turned on. I couldn’t see him, but by the feel of his cock, I knew he was generously endowed. Though that meant very little in the grand scheme of things as I already understood that length and girth couldn’t make up for poor hip action.

  “This is the last time I’m ever asking you this question,” he mumbled, flicking the lighter. The faint smell of tobacco filled the air, but I never feared that he would harm me. I feared the stunts he would pull to get my attention, but I never once in Jake’s presence felt in danger. “Do you trust me? If you don’t, spit me out now. If not, I’m going to shoot my load into your throat in about a minute.”

  I should have seen this as a warning sign of how deep his love for me was becoming, but at the time, I thought he was just an asshole with a great pistol tucked inside the denim. I didn’t want to stop the dreaminess of our tragedy. We were lofty, floating high caught in the tidal of a hellish storm.

  We were unstoppable.

  I was the showgirl; he was the bad boy with the bullets.

  We weren’t that different in our past than from your present. Jake was cool. Just like you, Salvatore. And I thought I knew what I was doing. I was winging it on the fly, making up the rules as I went, and Jake was my safety net.

  He was always my stealthy guardian, my vigilant protector, and the safe keeper of my heart. On his shoulders, I flew higher than I ever would have gone without him. And it didn’t matter if we were a train wreck in the making, we connected.

  Our love affair started in 1955, when I swallowed every drop of his come and longed to beg for more—more of the angst, more of the ache, more of the dampness, more caring—and all of it – the good and the bad – was pure bliss. I never realized how much I needed it all until he went silent. The day I lowered him into the earth, a part of me died, and I would’ve given anything for one more spat. One more lover’s quarrel. One more handprint…

  Fighting brought pleasure; losing brought pain.

&n
bsp; Regardless of anything else in this world, Jake was mine, and I was his.

  When the Wings Unfurl

  CHAPTER 3

  I never imagined mobsters would allow their henchmen—dare I assume, hitman—to be seen in the light of day, but wherever Giuseppe went, so did Jake.

  On occasion, I would run into them, not at the casino. Those moments were awkward as Jake knew of my relations, but Giuseppe knew nothing about Jake and I. We exchanged furtive glances and went about our way.

  He was a different type, rugged and unrefined. With his wavy chestnut hair and sky blue eyes, he had a way of showing up at the strangest of times like outside the door of my dressing room or in the parking lot of my apartment complex. If the Gennaro clan was in town, I could rest assured knowing Jake would be hanging out in the shadows watching over me.

  He was a persistent bastard if nothing else.

  I had a beautiful place and a lovely car thanks to Giuseppe. A bank account full of more money than I ever dreamed from Lotus. A promise of a Hawaiian vacation with Ryu Ho. And a love affair with the baddest boy in town.

  In between all of my engagements, I somehow found time to entertain the one beguiling prick. Entertain might have been a stretch. We fought—sparring with words—a lot. I considered us to be acquaintances and sometimes, though rarely, he came to my apartment for a late night blowjob.

  He never touched me. We never made out. We never screwed.

  Over a beer, I’d mentioned to Jake that I wanted to start keeping a diary. Mostly because I never had the time. One morning a package arrived in the mail from Jake. He sent a journal and a salacious erotic book for my eighteenth birthday along with a note.

  “Go out on a date with me?”

  I giggled then much like I am now. We both knew dating was out of the question. The thought brought a smile to my face, but I couldn’t date Jake Ballister, no matter how many times he asked.

  My name is Anna Rebecca Ford, and I was born March 8, 1940.

  Today is my eighteenth birthday.

  My father is very successful in the oil and ranch business. My mother died from heart failure three years ago. My two older brothers, Frank, Jr., and Jessie helped to run the family business. Frank is a mama’s boy, and since her passing, he has taken to the bottle. Jessie is set to become the next Franklin Ford.

  This may not mean much. They may seem trite, but I feel the need to confess my affairs—both professional and personal. I’m a showgirl on the Vegas strip. I’m neither the best nor worst dancer, but I’m told I have a charming mystery with the gentlemen.

  At least, I’m no longer subjected to the whims of the casual players at the casino. I cater to the wealthy, elite, and criminal. I use my body the way others play cards—with a poker face. My obvious one true love is in my freedom, but if all I did was gush over it—what a boring story this would be!

  I have served many men, for various reasons. Each of them has a special something. Each of them has a purpose. But I’ve never been in love.

  My father longs for me to return home to Texas and settle down with a man named Gilbert. I keep refusing. I don’t want to marry—not now, not ever.

  For fifteen years, I endured the pain of my father’s selfishness that he inflicted upon my mother. He provided her a comfortable life, but at the cost of being alone. When I do find love, I have vowed never to allow it to turn rancid and stale because of a piece of paper.

  I didn’t have the opportunity to tell my mother goodbye. And as I stood in the rain at her funeral, I studied the sour look upon my father’s face as he conducted business while burying his beloved. The storm was more troublesome to him than losing his wife.

  I hated him.

  I do not hate all men.

  Only some—egotistical, self-centered ones—but I can’t deny I liked using them. If I ever have sons, I long to raise them with a sense of compassion and empathy.

  That is the goal.

  Giuseppe is in town tonight for my birthday, and I’m in a hotel suite counting down the minutes. I must dress. We are going to the theater and dinner. I’m his date. His wife is away in Paris. No doubt she is shopping with her artist lover and his girlfriend. They form a nice little triangle for which Giuseppe tells me all about.

  I think he longs to have me with another woman.

  But I… I’m not quite ready to share him or do something like that.

  It is getting late, and I must change.

  I will try to write often. Bye!

  Anna

  March 8, 1958

  Las Vegas

  The journal entries were sparse, but I tried. I wasn’t exactly lost, but I was far from found. Somehow in the midst of the chaos, I kept hold of the dreams I had. The freedom I sought grew closer with every passing day, but it wasn't visible. Little things led to giant leaps, and those giant leaps boosted my acceleration to achieving my goals. I was traveling to the pinnacle of what I deemed my success at the time, but those goals changed like seasons.

  Having the mind and money to do with what I chose at twenty didn't apply to who I had become at thirty, forty, or fifty. People around me—customers and the other dancers—were too caught up in their linear thinking.

  The big picture is where it’s at; the journey fit for the taking.

  I struggled to understand the if/then concepts of the girls I worked with; their goals were too minuscule in my eyes. If I have this much money, then I can afford a car. If I entertain this one fellow, then I can make a nice tip. While both of those things proved accurate time and again, the real joy came in skewing the diagram.

  If I welcomed two mafia organizations, then I could branch out and become my own enterprise and leave this life for a new one. I welcomed change like my very breath. Perhaps I even had a fear of breathing in the same air twice—I needed to elevate and escalate continuously.

  Now, of course, at this point, I had no idea what that entrepreneurial adventure would be. But I knew as a woman; I deserved the same power and control men had. While I refuse to turn this discussion into my political agendas, I believed early on that everyone had a voice. I harbored no discrimination against anyone, which in truth was part of the reason Lotus loved me. Some of the girls refused to work with them. And I heard every joke and crude comment in the book.

  I marched forward as their little Vegas love slut.

  And I reaped unimaginable rewards because of it.

  What I never realized at the time was how much I was falling in love with Jake and the relationship we built. Our bittersweet friendship was evolving—just like my freedom, invisibly inching closer and closer to a mirage-like place known as romance. He started bringing more books—dark, erotic pieces of literature—to me. It was clear by the frayed edges and broken spines that he had thumbed through them many times.

  Though our existence might have been hedonistic, there were times of great duress. Our long distance separations were struggles as we never knew his schedule until it was upon us. He’d show up out of the blue some nights only to go missing for weeks on end.

  I tried to not think about how much I truly needed his presence in my life.

  I understood he was a contractor and his loyalty was bound by whoever handed over the cash. And to that end, I worried that we might end up at opposite ends of the spectrum, such as Lotus versus Reckless Rebellion.

  Which would Jake choose?

  What would I do?

  The team we played on mattered less as time passed on. The total of our relationship wasn’t built on who paid our bills. His primary goal stayed on keeping me safe and out of harm’s way which allowed my wings to expand wide. When his needs shifted, I’d have to reassess, but until then I was using his knowledge and letting him use my mouth.

  The soft tap at the door signaled Gennaro’s arrival as I frantically hurried through the hotel room and attempted to finish dressing. I stumbled about on one high heeled shoe with jewelry tucked into my palm. My hair tumbled out of the crystal barrette. Passing by the mirror
, I checked my barely finished makeup. I tapped my cheeks, rubbed my lips together, and took a deep breath.

  “Showtime!” I silently mouthed, slipping the other shoe on before opening the door. I spotted Giuseppe, his men, and a young stranger I did not know. “Good evening!”

  The two gun-toting sidekicks stood outside as Giuseppe and the new fellow hunkered through the doorway. Giuseppe kissed my cheek and spoke in soft, slow sentences as I stared at the handsome stranger.

  “Anna, this is Angelo, my son,” Giuseppe introduced, taking my hand and placing it into his son’s fingers. With a sly smile and seductive eyes, he tipped his head and kissed the top of my hand. “Angelo, this is Anna.”

  “It is my pleasure, Anna.”

  All of the auburn curls tumbled to my bare shoulders. I was embarrassed and mortified. “I…”

  “You are beautiful, my birthday girl,” Giuseppe informed, pressing his fat finger to my lips. “And you will entertain my son for the evening.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. I’d not been with a man close to my age—ever. He smirked as the heat flushed my cheeks. I also understood saying no to a Gennaro could end up with me dead in an alley. I didn’t necessarily feel cornered, but I couldn’t exactly say no.

  “Absolutely.”

  In a flash, Giuseppe kissed my cheek, grabbed the doorknob, and made a hasty exit. I was left alone—to be the sitter, chaperone, or ten-course meal—of a mafia prince. If Angelo wasn’t happy, Daddy wouldn’t be either, so I decided to make the best of it.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked, nervously clenching so tight to the jewelry in my hand, I knew it would leave an imprint. “Would you care to order dinner?”

  Without a word, Angelo pushed my thin frame into the wall and kissed me without warning. His tongue seized mine, plunging fast, as I felt him harden against me.

  His Daddy never kissed like this.

  His Daddy never acted like this.