Page 4 of Kneeling to Candy

“High-end” meant higher pay in my mind, and I accepted his deal without asking what my position would entail. Had I known I was contracting myself into sexual slavery, I would’ve stuck to the streets instead.

My situation went from bad to worse when that businessman became my pimp—one arrogant, dickish Italian mafia don by the name of Lorenzo Bianchi.

Lorenzo was the notorious Don of Denver, and I became his dirty little business secret. When the mob boss wanted to sweeten a business deal with a potential partner, he’d send me in to provide them with whatever “services” were needed to sell the deal.

During my years of forced sex service, Lorenzo transformed me into the ultimate sex bomb. Waxed, styled, and manicured to perfection. Forced breasts augmentation, changing my size-A to double-Ds. Rationed meals to keep my waistline snatched. Anything to make me desirable in the eyes of atrocious men. I may have gone from gutter-trash to upscale sex work, but the Johns were all the same—abusive and contemptible, and all eager to force you into submission to appease their selfish needs.

For five years, I was stuck being Lorenzo’s whore, tossed around like a rag doll to advance his illegal business empire. Years of daily abuse and forced sexual slavery with no time off and no pay threatened to crush my will. And since I was the favorite among Bianchi’s clients, I was used more heavily than most.

Lorenzo did all he could to break me, to bend me to his will and all those he subjected me to. Too bad for him. I’m unbreakable. Lorenzo could let his goons rape me. He could force me to my knees and put a collar around my neck to parade me around like a dog on a leash. But I never submitted willingly.

I submit to no one.

Escape was almost futile, and sometimes fatal. Any Bianchi-owned woman caught running was returned to the brothel to be punished or executed in front of the remaining workers. I can still hear their cries for mercy and the echoes of the gunshots ringing in my ears. They haunt me in the recesses of my mind. Though death waited for me on the outside of Bianchi’s walls, I still craved the freedom, even if it would be short-lived.

One night while the guard stationed at the back entrance of the brothel was enjoying himself, balls deep in one of the other sex workers, I stared at the exit he should’ve been guarding. My palms sweat as adrenaline rose in my system, sending my heart into overdrive. There was no time to think—only act. I grabbed what little I had and slipped out of the exit.

I had no clue where I was going, no plan at all. All I knew was, I needed to distance myself from Denver as fast as possible. It wasn’t hard to hitch a ride with a trucker when I was dressed to service. That ride brought me right to Fort Collins, Colorado, at a roadside bar called Mickey’s Pub. It was there I first met the Mercy Ravens MC.

One night, after hiding from Bianchi for a week, the crew had ridden to the bar to celebrate a successful mercenary mission. I cautiously watched them from my corner booth, nursing a glass of water—the only thing free on the menu. A hulk of a man dressed in all black denim and leather with President Atlas written on his leather biker cut caught my attention. Not because he was ridiculously handsome, but because he radiated confidence, strength, and security—all things I wanted.

The MC president must have felt me staring at him. He turned his black eyes on me, a frown pinching his dark brows together as he took in the state of my tattered and scantily–clad body. Normally, when a man scrutinized my appearance, it was to judge my sex appeal. But this dangerous looking man didn’t observe me with anything other than concern.

He ordered two beers and swaggered over to my booth, offering me the drink. I declined the alcohol, explaining I wouldn’t drink on an empty stomach. He took one glance at my lonely water glass and ordered enough appetizers to fill the table of the booth. I wanted to cry, but I fought those tears hard. It had been ages since anyone showed me any kindness, and I was starving.

Still, I kept my guard up, unwilling to accept anything free without being asked for something in return. We made small talk as I ate, Atlas observing my every move like a bird of prey analyzing its surroundings. He introduced himself, explaining he was the president of the biker club—not a gang—and they worked as hired mercenaries, providing security services to customers and specializing in retrieving missing persons.

When he mentioned breaking up human trafficking rings was one of their bigger jobs, I instantly relaxed. I was in the company of safe men—a rarity for me.

Atlas asked where I was from, and where I was going. I didn’t want to divulge who my pimp was, too afraid to admit I had ties to the mob.

Instead, I explained I was an ex-sex worker, wanting to leave my old life behind. When he asked what my next step was, I shrugged. My only goal was to find a safe place to sleep that night and worry about the next step tomorrow.

My lack of a plan didn’t sit right with Atlas. He insisted I stay with his crew. When I asked if I was supposed to “service” his crew as a trade for room and board, he sneered, openly offended.

“I’m not interested in being your pimp…” He motioned for me to fill in the blank.

“Leslie. My name is Leslie Williams,” I answered honestly. It had been a long time since anyone asked for my name. Most men weren’t interested in anything other than what was between my legs. Names were rarely exchanged.

“Leslie,” he continued. “This is not a tit-for-tat kinda deal. I mean, fuck whoever you want to fuck—I’m not stopping you from having fun. Don’t come looking for any from me. I don’t shit where I eat. If you’re staying with us, I’m not interested. Period.

“This is more a solution to give you a safe place to stay until you figure out what you want to do. In the meantime, the crew always needs help with something around headquarters. There are groceries to be bought, food to be made, and laundry to wash. You’d have your hands full, but we’d give you an income to save for whatever future you’re aiming for.”

Hesitant to accept, I mulled his proposition carefully. The last time I took a job that was too good to be true, it was. It had cost me half a decade of my life on my back.

“Leslie,” Atlas whispered in a deep, gentle voice. “I can see you doubt my intentions. Trust isn’t something to come by easily, and you’re smart to be skeptical of strangers. Now, I may be a big, scary stranger with a rough crew, but I’m an honorable man, as are my brothers. We’re well-known around these parts. Ask anyone you want about us, to help you come to your own conclusion. Just let me get you set up at a hotel, get you off the streets for the night. Okay? My conscience will rest a little easier with you being tucked away safely.”

No amount of willpower could stop the floodgates from opening. I burst into tears, burying my face in my hands. Atlas didn’t touch me to comfort me, like he knew I needed the space. He sat across from me, talking soothing words to help me settle down. I accepted his offer to stay the night in a hotel, sleeping peacefully for the first time in my life.

The next day, I set about asking Mickey—the bar owner—and other regulars of the pub their thoughts on the motorcycle club. Everyone came back with how they were heroes, stellar members of the community, and all-around fun guys.

After concluding the Mercy Ravens were safe, I asked Mickey to ring Atlas. I didn’t hesitate accepting again when he made the offer to stay with the crew, especially when the chance of a better offer falling into my lap was unlikely.

Within a month, I was running the domestic end of the Mercy Raven’s MC life. I was coming out of my shell after years of abuse, becoming more of the woman I wanted to be.

Falling into bed with the members of the crew was a choice, and I was eager to show my gratitude. The sex was good but never left me sated—there was always something missing. It may have been different if I felt a connection beyond appreciation for the guys. Though I wasn’t interested in any of them beyond their security.

A lost wager with Punk—the MC’s security specialist and fourth-in-command—on how fast he could piss off Gauge (which apparently doesn’t take much when it’s Punk taunting the VP) had me dyeing my hair from dirty-blond to bubble-gum pink, earning me the club name “Candy.”

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