The Beast of Boston

by JL Mac

  Hack swears under his breath and falls silent for a long moment. “I can check things out but I won’t. You don’t know who you’re screwing with, Ena. My buddy Slip, the guy I told you about, he works for them when they need something. He could never walk away from that world even if he wanted to. He knows too much. He will always be tied to them. You cross paths with these guys and you are sentencing yourself to life. Or death.”

  “Hack, please. I’ll pay whatever.”

  “It’s not about money. I’m sorry Ena,” he says shortly and hangs up on me. I toss my phone aside and turn my eyes skyward. If I were a good Catholic like I should be, I think I’d pray right now. Ardently. God isn’t going to help me. Hack isn’t going to help either. The police are sitting on their thumbs because Lan had a minor argument with Mom and happens to fit the bill for a common runaway. That leaves me. I’m on my own. If I want to access Beast’s contacts, I’ll have to get the information myself by whatever means necessary.

  The minute I get back to my little rental, I stop at the door to unlock it and I can feel someone watching me. It’s an eerie thing and who knows how human beings can “feel” eyes on them but everyone knows the sensation. Perhaps it’s an animal thing—a relic from our days of dwelling in caves and fighting beasts with spears and clubs. I’m not foolish enough to spin around and give the person a heads up that I’ve made them. Instead, I take a deep breath willing my heart to stop racing and I turn the lock and open the door. As I turn slightly to the side to enter my new home, I casually look up and spot a gunmetal gray car with sleek lines. The thing screams money. I pause in the door wondering who’s behind that dark tint but I already know who it is. High Knoll didn’t become what it is because they don’t watch their backs and do their research. Of course The Beast of Boston would request my information from Noreen and would have already combed through it.

  As if reading my mind, the window slips down like a silk curtain, revealing The Beast of Boston. He doesn’t say a word or give anything away. From behind his dark aviators he keeps looking at me. His expression unmoving.

  Fuck.

  Realizing that he’s only caught me coming home from shopping I seize the opportunity to look the part. I whip off my own sunglasses like I’m shocked and I fling my arm in the air making sure to wave the hand with the shopping bag hanging from it. I smile brightly hoping he doesn’t intend on getting out of his car.

  His expression remains indifferent and he makes no move to wave back. The window slips up and the car growls away in a hurry, disappearing around the corner. I close the door behind me and sag against the wall feeling like I’ve just dodged a bullet only to realize that I’m about to head straight for an active battleground in a few hours. This is by far the most important thing I’ve ever done but also the most reckless, insane thing I’ve ever done.

  So why are you anxious to see him again, a little voice inside fires away.

  I groan and decide that little voice is obviously blind. He’s a handsome man. A beautiful monster. The Father and Holy Grail of all bad boys. I’d be lying to myself if I said I don’t find him physically attractive. I’d also be a goddamned fool to not use everything I’ve got to get close to him. If there’s any chemistry between us, you can bet I’ll be using it to better serve my agenda, which is gathering all the information I can. That’s the extent of it. Nothing more.

  Memories of Viv giving a blowjob to Tim Davis in exchange for a dose of heroine spring up, making me feel sick to my stomach. The wet sucking sound along with Tim’s obnoxious nasally mewling isn’t something I’ll ever forget. The sound of the act coupled with the fact that he requested that I watch them is a memory I can’t scrub from my mind. I can still feel his creepy eyes crawling over my skin. No matter how many times she pimped me out to her visitors each time is a clear, distinct memory that refuses to dull. Feeling suddenly dirty and in need of a distraction, I strip my clothes off and turn on the shower while I scroll through music on my phone. I laugh humorlessly as I settle on Wicked Garden by Stone Temple Pilots. The lead singer goes on about how he wants to run through someone’s wicked garden and burn it down to the ground. It’s fitting for what I’ll be doing tonight. I’ll be walking through Eden and it’s definitely a wicked garden that I’d love to see burning to the ground. I only hope the Beast that dwells within the walls of Eden doesn’t sink his claws very deep. I’d like to escape at some point.

  The dress is tight and short and looks great with the deep green heels on my feet. It makes me feel only marginally better about charging it to my emergency credit card. I fix a pair of chandelier earrings to my ears and give my hair a tussle and another dusting of hairspray. It’s useless to try and comb it anyway. I think I was born with the wild look and I’m destined to die with it. No amount of brushing or hair product ever manages to tame the auburn mass that I was born with. Boston humidity doesn’t help either.

  Lan could probably fix this mess of hair.

  Tears prick at the backs of my eyes as I think back to the many times Lan insisted on straightening my hair for me. She always gave it her best effort and it would last a couple hours before my wayward strands broke loose and reverted back to their natural form, wild.

  I wave my hands in front of my face and force a deep breath in through my nose. I don’t have time to get emotional. My makeup looks good and I refuse to ruin it. I’m glad that I’ve been practicing the art of over the top cosmetics for the last few weeks. My efforts and money haven’t gone to waste. It’s not easy looking this cheap and it’s definitely not cheap looking this easy. Neither is fabricating a whole new alias. Between the fake papers, one month of rent in this place, stolen license plates for my Toyota, clothes, stripper classes, prepaid cellphone, encryption software for my laptop, gun, and knife, I’ll be running out of money in no time. I can’t think about money right now. I need to focus.

  I give myself an approving nod and head to my closet. Crouching down and moving my shoes to the side, I peel the carpet back and slip my knife down into the gap between two baseboards. The board lifts and I set it aside and look down into my little hiding spot. I cram cash in my fake wallet with my fake ID and drop my real wallet and real cell phone back into the little space in the floorboards. I pause thinking for a minute. They know where I’m living, and there is a chance someone could come in here. I don’t want to risk anything so I comb the room for anything else incriminating. Once I’m content that my things are as secure as they are going to get I replace the boards and smooth the carpet down making sure to put my shoes over it.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  I nearly jump out of my skin when I realize someone is rapping on the door. Loudly. My heart hammers against my breastbone and I swallow hard wondering if I should take my knife with me. Or the gun I scored last month.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  I tiptoe in my heels over to the door and lean forward to peer out the peephole. Daniel Murphy. I relax a little that it’s Murphy and alarm bells sound off when I digest that thought.

  Relieved to see a fucking familiar criminal. Super.

  I slide the bolt and open the door a crack and Murphy’s brown eyes lift to me. “You scared the shit outta me,” I accuse.

  “Carrick sent for you,” he says by way of explanation. I move aside, not by choice, as he barges right past me and goes about looking around my duplex.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Wanted me to check out your place.”

  “Why didn’t he just do it himself when he drove by earlier?” I ask with my hands on my hips.

  “Don’t know. Ask him.”

  “Do all of the dancers get this treatment?”

  “No,” he says simply but doesn’t elaborate.

  Murphy looks around for a minute then stops and faces me. I ignore the way his eyes rake me from tip to toe. He doesn’t say anything and it doesn’t feel dirty or anything. He’s about as clinical as it gets. “Let’s go,” he says as he breezes past me and makes his way to a black M
ercedes S-Class parked out front.

  Am I really doing this?

  He opens my door for me and I settle against the supple leather upholstery. Murphy rounds the car and I’m struck by how deceptive all of this is. He’s a handsome man in a suit, opening the door of a luxury car for me. He even smells great. And yet, he’s a murderer who probably wouldn’t bat an eye at dumping me into the harbor. I can’t say I’m much different right now though. I’m a woman in a nice dress with equally nice heels and nice makeup and yet if he had something to do with Lan going missing… I won’t bat an eye either when I kill him. No matter if, or when, or even who dies when all of this fleshes out. The only important thing is that I succeed in finding my sister.

  Chapter Nine

  The Beast of Boston

  My eyes have been glued to the camera feed, waiting for her to arrive for longer than I would like to admit. Murph dropped her off in front and split around to the back. Tiny, our head of security let her through with a nod. I make it a point to leave her waiting in my office for a good while. Sitting in Eve, a private room, alone with my tumbler of whiskey, I watch her on the surveillance app on my phone. She paces around a while then settles down into the leather couch across from my desk. As though God felt like punishing me for being a twisted fuck, she showed up in a little black number that fits like a second skin. Her heels are killer and compliment her perfectly. That wild hair of hers is all over the fucking place making my hands itch to grab a fist full and pull…

  She digs in a canvas bag she brought with her. She doesn’t seem to find what she’s looking for so she starts tossing shit out. Once she’s got the thing she was in search of, she stuffs the contents of her bag back into their home. She has a lot of shit in there. Perplexed by what’s in her hand, I bring my cellphone closer to my eyes.

  “Fuckin’ kiddin’ me,” I mutter. She’s got a book. A big one. Maybe five hundred pages. She crosses her legs and settles back, cracking the book open. I’d bet a wad of cash that I could dump all the other dancer’s shit out on the floor right now and there wouldn’t be another book to be seen unless it was a self-help book on getting paid. My girls don’t read. They work. They hustle. If it’s not something that earns them money or helps them to earn money, they don’t have time for it. I’m not saying they can’t read, I’m just saying it’s not something Eden girls do.

  She bounces her foot up and down and shuffles in her seat trying to get comfortable. When she looks like she’s had enough she slaps the book shut and shoves it back into her bag and gets to her feet. Her hips sway as she strolls through my office like she owns the joint. She’s making herself right at home and the idea of her being laid back on my desk with her thighs spread wide makes me grit my teeth with need.

  I’ve got plans for her but what fun is it to tell her about them? No. She’ll find out soon enough but for now, I’ll test her. I shoot Murph a text telling him to send Abigail—whoever she is, to the VIP room I’m in. Immediately he sends me a text back saying he’s on it. The minute the doors to the room open my attention snaps to her. She strolls in like she doesn’t have a care in the world.

  “Ms. Tally,” I greet her with a nod.

  “Beast,” she smiles and bats her long lashes. Hearing that name come out of her mouth does something weird to me. I like it and I hate it all at once.

  “You can set your things down anywhere. It’s just us,” I say as I get up and make my way to the double doors. I jab a code into the keypad on the wall. The electronic lock engages and the mechanical sound of the bolt sliding into place sends a little zip of heat through me. She’s trapped. I could have engaged the lock from the app on my phone but what fun would that be? I want a reaction from her. I want to see her squirm. I turn to face her and she doesn’t seem affected by the fact that I’ve locked her in Eve with me. If she’s pretending to be indifferent to her new cage, she’s a damn good actress.

  “I’ll only ask you once. Who are you?” I slip my hands into my pockets and stroll towards her.

  “Abigail Tally,” she says sounding confident though the thrumming vein in her neck tells me her pulse is elevated.

  “Abigail,” I repeat with a nod. “And what are you doing in this club tonight Abigail?”

  “You told me to be here. For a job. You sent for me.”

  “Yes but what are you doing here, Abigail?”

  “Working. I hope.”

  “Where’s your ID, Abigail?”

  She extracts her wallet from the madness in her bag and I quickly pluck it from her hand. Before she realizes she’s done it, I catch the tightness in her jaw. So the little liar has a temper. I examine her ID earnestly and eye her. It’s definitely Slip’s work.

  The beautiful little liar.

  “It’s a job you want?”

  “Yes. That’s why I’m here. I dance.”

  Not a fuckin’ chance.

  “You’ll do a three-song set. Any song preference? Genre?”

  She shrugs her shoulders and licks her red lips before opening her mouth again. “No preference. I like it all.”

  Do you, now? I’ll see about that.

  “There’s a private bathroom in that corner. Go and get ready. I’ll wait here. Make it quick.”

  “You got it,” she smiles, showcasing a gorgeous, straight, white set of teeth. Teeth so nice you’d have to assume she’s had regular dental care, and likely braces as a kid. Those are things parents pay for.

  Where are Mom and Dad, Ms. Tally?

  Her red lips are even more tempting when they are curved into a luscious smile. I don’t say a word. The little liar sashays toward the facilities, giving me a teasing view of her rounded ass as she walks away. In desperate need of a distraction, I reclaim my whiskey and help myself to a big gulp. I don’t have the slightest idea what the hell this woman is getting at but I’ll find out. I’ll extract all her secrets, one by one and I’ll enjoy every minute of it. I don’t even have to try to come up with three songs. They leap out at me and I can’t wait to see how she reacts… how she moves…

  I ready the playlist on my cell phone and connect to the room’s Bluetooth sound system. A few minutes pass and I stare a hole in the fucking door she just disappeared behind. She could be naked in there. The thought of her bare has my cock twitching to life. I’m a sadistic fuck for making her dance with no intention of putting her on the lineup but there isn’t exactly a rulebook for dealing with scandalous little liars who come into my garden. The door to the private bathroom opens and I bite my tongue forcefully as she strolls out wearing a raven-black silk robe. It’s hanging open at the front giving me a small glance at what’s beneath. Unable to speak without demanding her to straddle me, I motion my chin to the small, intimate stage nearest me. She returns my nod and abandon’s her bag on the floor at her feet. My thumb slides over the screen of my phone and a cover of Paint It Black streams from the speakers around us. She prowls toward the small round stage and steps up. She walks in her platform heels with ease and I have to wonder what clubs she’s worked in before. I’ll call around and see what I can dig up. Both the Russians and Italians have strip clubs and the thought of her dancing for any of those motherfuckers makes my blood boil, but not nearly as much as the thought that she could have been sent by one of them…

  She grips the brass pole in the center of the stage and lets her left arm fall to her side. The silky black material slips down her shoulder giving me the first look at the bare skin of her back. She’s fucking flawless. I tilt my head slightly to the side as she switches hands allowing the other arm to rest at her side. Her raven robe flutters to the ground at her feet and it’s very fucking clear to me that this woman knows what she’s doing. She grips the pole with both hands and sweeps one leg out wide in a teasing half-circle, gracefully sending her robe slipping off the stage.

  The woman singing the famous song sounds haunted and sexy, and my little liar seems to lose herself in the music. She twirls slowly around the pole, adding moves after each revolution
. Despite knowing she isn’t tall at all, her red and black platforms and the elevated stage make her toned legs look much longer. I like that she has done nothing with her hair. It’s all over the fucking place but she doesn’t struggle against the long locks. She works with it. The little red number she’s wearing is methodically shredded between her breasts, up her sides and down her back. Like peering through open window blinds, you see enough but you don’t see it all. The bottoms are shredded as well leaving only a small triangle of untouched fabric just over her pussy. The tiny little shorts conceal only half her ass and I wish she’d give me her back a little more so I can have a longer look at the slope of her ass. This woman is fucking stunning. If my heart rate and stiff cock are any indication, she’d be a total knockout, easily the next hottest thing in the club. If I let her. I won’t. Men would wait in line to watch her set and rain cash down on her.

  The song ramps up as the chorus begins and she rockets to the top of the pole and, strategically hooking her ankles she allows gravity to do its duty and she slips deliciously slow down the pole. She’s upside down, her long hair drifting like flames. Her blue eyes are locked on mine and I find it hard to look away. She meets the stage and melts onto it like warm honey, rolling to her back then to her stomach. She eases up to her knees with her back dipped so that her firm ass is thrust in the air. She looks like a prowling lioness. As the song comes to end, I remind myself that I am suppose to treat her just like the other girls. The next song begins thrumming through the speakers and I clear my throat to gain her attention.

  “That’s all you got? Trick moves please.” I try to sound clinical and objective, bored. She rounds her eyes in surprise then trains her expression into one that says she has accepted my challenge. She flips her hair over her shoulder, dismissing my presence and gets back to dancing. She spins around the pole faster now, getting into the song then climbs the pole showcasing her strength and agility. Thrusting her body away from the pole she hangs on and spins with only her forearms bracing her. Once she’s facing me, peeking around the pole in front of her face she rolls her hips upward and inverts herself with her legs spread wide, the brass at her center she slides down the pole. I’m impressed and even more skeptical of her as she gives it all she’s got, climbing the pole again and again, displaying a great amount of skill and seductiveness. My cock is so hard it’s beginning to hurt.