by JL Mac
“Her place is clean. Too clean.”
I nod in agreement and go on. “She's not who she claims to be but she's not a cop.”
“Something about her screams cop, Beast.”
“Sure it's not just your paranoia getting the best of you?”
“Sure it's not your dick getting the best of you?” he fires back without missing a beat.
“You know me better than that, Murph.”
“I do, but I also know there's something about this chick.” He shakes his head
“Oh trust me. I'm fully fucking aware there's something about this chick. I'm handling it.” Handling her. I wish I were handling her. Her perfect tits and full, round ass, her wild fucking hair, and a mouth I'd kill to taste again.
“I don't like it. This whole situation looks like trouble,” Murphy warns pointing a finger my direction.
“She's not a cop,” I insist mostly to calm his anxiety but also to save face. As active leader of High Knoll it’s my duty to call the shots and make the tough decisions that directly affect our people. The buck stops with me. On everything. Murph looks at me dubiously from the couch the very subject of this discussion has been sitting on a lot lately.
Abigail Tally.
“She's not who she claims to be, but she's not a cop,” I clarify.
“I’m just worried about unnecessary risk to the crew because of some tail.”
“I risk no one for a piece of tail. Besides, I’m not fucking her. I’m fucking with her. Big difference.”
“Sure she’s not fucking with you?” Murph fires back. I glare at him but make no rebuttal.
“Speaking of, find Teeny. That fucker is avoiding me or being a lazy piece of shit with the info I requested.”
“I’ll find him,” Murph declares then takes off to do what Murphy The Animal does best, hunt his prey.
I lean back in my chair, taking a deep breath. I clasp my hands behind my neck and look skyward wondering what the odds are that I will have to end Abigail Tally. She would be the first enemy I would have to end that I didn’t want to destroy at all. Being alone now with only my own thoughts, my head spins. If Abigail were a cop that would mean her goal had to be infiltration to gain evidence against High Knoll. There's no doubt about it Ms. Tally, while she has not successfully infiltrated anything business related with the crew, she has definitely fucking infiltrated my head. Maybe that’s what she’s doing. Maybe someone has sent her to distract me, to toy with me. The notion pisses me off. The fact that it has worked infuriates me. She’s in my head, under my skin. It makes me feel on edge, at risk, weak, and vulnerable. I don't know if I want to snap that delicate column connecting her fine torso to that enchanting face or plant my lips against her skin and bury my cock between her thighs. It's more than that though. I know it is though I hate admitting it to myself. I don't just want to devour her body like a starving man at a buffet. I want to consume her mind, haunt her thoughts, and dominate her thinking the exact way she's done to me. I want nothing less than full on possession of her. In her head, under her skin, between her legs. I am desperate to own all of her and it’s driving me crazy.
The urge to punish her hits me and I force thoughts of her naked, bound and blindfolded to the back of my mind. I have a lot on my plate, plenty more to focus on; plenty more that takes precedence over my little liar. I have to wait and find out if The Salesman can get me on the list to the next Flower March. I have no doubt that he can get me in. It’s just a matter of finding out if I will be able to get there in time to thwart an all-out war with the Italians and the Russians too. Once I have the Italian Princessa, that Italian fuck, their Capo is repaying the debt. I’d like a fucking apology too.
“Fat prick,” I mumble to myself. I’ll go retrieve their little Princessa and point them in the right direction of the Bratva who took her and they’ll owe the fuck outta me. They’re all about honor and rules so I’ll make my demands known. I want a minimum of twenty five percent of their territory, repayment of the auction expenses and a guarantee to cease animosities between our crews. No more shaking down High Knoll associates. No more encroaching on our territory. No more bullshit grudges from the past coming up.
It’s the right move to remove Abigail Tally from the forefront of my mind, at least for now. I’ll still root out her true identity of course but this situation with the Flower March needs my undivided and immediate attention. I’ll keep Abigail at arms length and busy too.
I spend the next two hours lining up a fuck-ton of work for Abigail to see to. It’s put me in a real shitty mood. I fire off a text message to Mercedes advising her that she is to handle a new wardrobe for Abigail. No more bumming Mercedes shit. I fire off another message, this time to Murph letting him know that Abigail needs to keep away from me for now and he is to keep her busy doing menial tasks.
On my way to the bar for a bit of my reserve whiskey, Murph comes blazing through the back door at the end of the back corridor. I immediately reach for my gun at my waist but freeze when I see the blood on his arm. Will and Mikey are hot on his tail and a half dozen more of the crew pile in after that.
“Fuckin’ Bratva scabs,” Murph grits out, barely wincing as he pokes his index finger into the bullet hole in his left forearm, causing a stream of sticky crimson blood to ooze out.
“Call Doc, yet?”
“Nah. I’m good,” he says after a moment of inspection.
And just like that, all hopes of beating this thing before war is declared are dashed.
“Get our guys together. I’ll meet up with you all in an hour. Murph, call Doc and get that wound taken care of. Now,” I order. Heads bob in unison and Murphy grunts his frustration at me. I roll my shoulder and get back to grabbing a drink. If history is any indication, I’m gonna fuckin’ need it.
“Goddamn Bratva.”
Chapter Eighteen
Ena
Since we returned from Seattle Beast has completely ghosted on me. It’s been almost a week since he deposited me at my rental like a piece of luggage. The only good news in the last week has been my paycheck. It was a hell of a payday—more than I’d make in a year waiting tables by double. Mercedes was tasked with “fixing up” my wardrobe. I assumed I’d be paying for at least some of the half metric ton of clothes, shoes, bags, and heels but Mercedes happily reminded me Beast pays for what’s “his” and that, “K.O. is all his.”
I think a lot of Mercedes. I do. I admire the sacrifices she makes for the good of her family. I can relate to that and I certainly respect it but all the chat about Beast like he’s the high school quarter back and I’m the cheerleading captain—is insane. He’s no boy next door. He’s a criminal, a murderer, an irredeemable violent monster, the sort of man who buys women like they’re inanimate objects.
And despite yourself, you crave him, a tiny voice inside taunts me at every turn. Every time I’m reminded of who and what he is, that little voice is all too happy to remind me I am just as bad if not worse than him because I am aware of it all and it’s still Beast causing me to squeeze my thighs, seeking friction. It’s still Beast that I have had not one, not two, but three wet dreams about. It’s Beast that I pictured above me when I got myself off in the shower this morning. And it’s goddamned Beast, the irredeemable violent monster whose bite marks are fading—a sight that has left me feeling empty.
My three words today:
I.
Am.
Sick.
I see him coming and going at Eden here and there. I see him speaking to other people. I see him working, but he hasn’t spoken ten words to me. Instead, Murphy has been my new boss, apparently. I don’t know if it’s because his arm is hurt or not. He said it was nothing. A sprained wrist he’d said, but last I checked, sprained wrists don’t require a bandage change everyday but bullet holes do require big ass gauze packed bandages that require changing. Murphy is the lone wolf type, so I know it perturbs him to be saddled with me as much as it bugs me.
“Beast said you ne
ed to go over this inventory list for redundancies then he wants you to run this shit to the cleaners,” Murphy says tossing an armful of Beast’s clothing in my lap. I growl and cut my eyes at him. “This is a list of stuff he needs from the store. Mrs. Gallagher’s address is on the back of this envelope,” he explains holding it up. “You are to take this to her and see that if she needs anything else, you let her know Beast is happy to handle it.”
“And when am I supposed to have all of this done?”
“Now would be good,” he mutters, slipping out of the room.
“Wait! I'm not a fucking PA!” I yell, shoving Beast’s shit off me and chasing down Murphy.
“Should I tell him that?”
“Nope. I will!” I clip, shoving my way past him to go directly to Beast’s office. I barge in without preamble. Beast is holding an icepack to his cheek. I stop in my tracks, shocked at the sight. He’s a Beast but he’s human after all. “You know, if you hired me to just sit in your office like a piece of furniture you could at least say so. Stop bullshitting me.”
“Do I bore you, Ms. Tally?”
“This job bores me!” I grit out.
“Hmm. I’ll be sure to lose sleep over it,” he says absently as he adjusts the icepack against his cheek.
“All right. What gives? Be honest,” I demand.
“That’s rich comin’ outta your mouth,” Beast tosses the icepack into the trashcan beside his desk revealing a decent black eye forming.
“I'm not a PA, or a maid, or a personal shopper, or a gopher,” I say calmly, eyeing his abused brow. “What happened to your eye?”
“Sucker punch,” he flicks his hand like it’s nothing. “Problem with your duties?”
“Yes! I wanted to dance then you hired me to be an escort but you won't give me any work which is fine, trust me, but then you monopolize my time as my only client then make me run around doing stupid shit you could hire an army of people to do for you. I don't get it!”
“Then quit, Ms. Tally,” he challenges with one smooth arched brow raised up.
“I can't.” I swallow hard and rub at my temples, internally pleading for the headache there to get lost.
“Because you—what was it you said? Need the money, need this job.”
“More than you know,” I say shaking my head and leaving his office to get to my laundry list of errands.
It takes me all day and well into the evening to get my tasks knocked out but I managed it. Somehow. It wasn’t completely fruitless. I discovered that Beast is somewhat the Golden Boy in his part of Southie. Mrs. Gallagher cried and I gaped when she opened the brown envelope and saw the mountain of cash Beast sent to her to pay for her recently deceased husband’s funeral arrangements. “Such a good boy,” she’d whimpered, clutching the cash to her wrinkled chest. Well, fuck. I hugged her and relayed my condolences and Beast’s too.
It was on the way out the door, down the sidewalk glancing around to make sure no one I may know caught sight of me, that another woman watering her gladiolas stopped me. “Did Carrick help Barbara?” she whispered conspiratorially. How she knew what I was there for was beyond me. I nod looking at her with a frown. “Such a good boy, our Carrick. Tell him Mrs. James said thank you for buying that awful expensive medicine and let Mikey know his mechanic was able to fix the air conditioner in my Buick, just like he said he would. He didn’t charge me and I know that’s ‘cause of Mikey so you tell those boys that I appreciate them. The medicine alone was over four-hundred dollars,” she bugs her dull eyes at me. I nod and shrug my shoulders, unsure of what else to say or do. “Thank god for the boys,” she says making the sign of the cross—the sign of the freaking cross—while referring to Beast and his crew.
“I’ll tell him,” I promised and took off, realizing it’s no wonder things always come up roses for Beast. He’s protected and adored by all of Boston. Revered and worshipped by half of them and feared by the rest. He could slit someone’s throat smack in the middle of any of their streets, in front of all of them and they’d all swear to law enforcement that they saw nothing then a story would evolve, some sort of flattering urban legend how beast had slayed some bad guy that had done something awful to his friends in Southie and therefore deserved what he got. Thinking about it has my eyes rolling.
I have been doing my best to figure out a plan to get Lan out of Toronto—or wherever she is being kept but I’ve come up with nothing aside from simply buying her. Google doesn’t exactly render solid results when searching, “sex trafficking, how to buy a girl”.
I hang my head in my hands at my rental and try calling Kevin, hoping he has something worth hearing. I haven’t heard a peep from him and a small but ever-growing voice in the back of my head clicks her tongue at my refusal to come to terms with—with what? Her disappearance? The likelihood of her making an escape from the world of human trafficking? Reluctantly, I allow those things to bounce around in my skull, unchecked while I dial Kevin.
“Hey, Ena.”
“Hey, Kevin. Anything new on the Toronto lead?”
“No,” he says gruffly. “This shit is going to kill me, I swear,” he groans sounding stressed, tired and a bit grumpy. I can’t blame him. I sigh and dig for into my bag in search of eye drops. These contacts are the worst part of my day.
“How’s California, and all the travelling,” he says, exaggerating the world California and travelling. I stop what I’m doing and wrinkle my brows, scowling at the carpet under my feet.
“Kevin, are you drunk?”
“Maybe,” he huffs into the receiver. “I know you’re lying. I saw you.” His voice turns into a whisper laced with accusation. It drips disappointment. I feel like a deer in the headlights. I stay silent, unsure of how to twist this one. “Don’t worry. I haven’t told your Mom. Yet. Why are you lying and where are you?”
“Where is it you believe you saw me?” I counter as confidently as I can manage to sound.
“You’re Mom, she shouldn’t be alone, Ena,” he chides me like I’m a child. It sets my teeth on edge. Does he think every single thing I’ve ever done hasn’t been with my family at the very forefront of my mind?
“You have a lot of nerve implying that I’ve just carelessly ditched her,” I caution him in a hushed voice. “Maybe if you’d do your fuckin’ job and your buddies would do theirs too, Lan wouldn’t be missing and we’d all be home. You have ownership in this shit, Kevin so don’t play altar boy with me,” I snap.
“Where are you?” He sounds more alert now.
“None of your business and keep my name out of your mouth and your nose out of my business, Kevin. I’ll go home when I’m good and ready.”
“Not if I find you first,” he threatens, slurring the words slightly before hanging up.
I scream into a pillow and pace the floor, seething, and feeling like things are slipping out of my control.
What the hell was that about? I get he’s under pressure to find Lan like I am but what the hell is his problem?
Maybe I was never in control at all but what this has turned into feels like a car without brakes, racing downhill toward a brick building.
“You’re still in the driver’s seat. This is your show, your search. Calm down. Think,” I say to myself. Taking repeated deep breaths I work at regrouping. I go to the closet and grab the massive collection of designer shit. Quickly running through the numbers I decide that I could probably collect over fifteen grand if I return everything. “Plus the twenty grand I was paid,” I say, gathering the cash Mercedes had declared was my paycheck.
Maybe…
“Okay, okay,” I scramble, pacing the floor again for some semblance of a solid plan forward. I could gather the cash sitting right here, the money from the clothes too. I could pool it all and buy Lan back. I run the numbers in my head and my gut twists. “It’s not enough,” I mumble knowing there’s no fucking way a virgin American woman captured by sex traffickers sells for so cheap. Definitely not for less than forty grand.
&n
bsp; I could gather this money and more maybe? Steal some? Maybe Beast, Murphy, and Mercedes have some cash around. I could steal it. And… and…
The idea of stealing from Mercedes makes me feel less than human. I like her as a friend, and I know why she does what she does. She sells her body so her sick mother fares better in this screwed up world. I can’t bring myself to steal from her. Murphy and Beast? They may not even notice a few thousand dollars. They’d eventually find out about it though and they’d hunt me down and kill me, maybe even Lan as revenge.
“Fuck!” I kick the dresser and scrub my hands over my face. A few large flakes of wood laminate flutters to the floor from the face of the bottom drawer I just assaulted.
“What, knock off a bank now, Ena?” I say dubiously.
I should take the money I have and just go for it.
“And do what?” I ask no one because no one is around. No one is here. No one is in this mess with me. I’m alone. Just me, the orphan I truly am. I should have been the one to get snagged off the street. No one would miss me. Not as much as Lan has been missed. I would do better being targeted and sold, violated and only god knows what else…
“Should have taken me. Shoulda just sold me,” I whine. “Sell me instead,” I mumble, staring straight ahead at the wall of my rental, admitting what was already somewhere in the back of my mind. “I sell me and free Lan.”
I know what I have to do but it doesn’t mean I’m looking forward to it or even remotely sure that it will work but time is now up. This is it. This is my only path forward.
By the time I make it to Eden around eleven the following morning I’m still not certain what the fuck I’m doing. All thoughts about my current dilemma vanish when I look up.
“Murphy?” I ask tentatively, a bit disturbed at the sight of Murphy lightly banging his head against the wall in the hall just outside Beast's office. He looks despondent and at this moment I really wish he were his normal deadly, impassive self. I’m not sure how to handle this side of him.