Page 7 of Triple Threat

I stood, shaking with weakness and fatigue, chest heaving as panic took over and I didn’t know what to do.

I turned slowly, surveying the room, and went back to the bed and sank onto the edge, raising my leg he’d hooked with his cane and pressing my hands over the spot, rubbing it out. It hurt.

My vision blurred and I sniffed. I was tired, so very tired of bad things happening to me. I didn’t even know where to begin with it all. From foster care, to a myriad of dead-end jobs barely being able to make ends meet; through crappy apartment after crappy apartment, with even crappier boyfriends or roommates. To being in love with an addict with there being no hope, all the way to the fire burning me out of the last tenement I’d lived in over a year ago, which had been right after losing my job. That had all culminated in leaving me withnothing. I was out of ways to cope… all I wanted to do was go ‘home.’

‘Home’ for all intents and purposes, was in a row of abandoned warehouses that I’d been sheltering in with my meager bag of belongings that had somehow been spared from the fire. I’d been there for six months now, and that bag was all I had left.

I crumbled thinking about its contents. All that was left and precious to me in this world, dwindled down from that long-ago trash bag of belongings I’d been allowed to gather before being taken into foster care.

I looked up at the ceiling and around the room I’d been locked in and wondered,what next?

Chapter Four

Lachlan…

“That is going to cost you extra, Lachlan,” Svetlana said from where she was still sitting on the floor. Her hair was tousled, her expensive lingerie in need of laundering, and her makeup was a ruin, my last orgasm spent on her chiseled Russian face.

“You know I don’t care,” I said, with a careless smirk. “And you know I pay my bills.” I could see her scowling at me through the mirror of the hotel bathroom. Her lipstick was smeared, and I could see my cum as it dripped from the point of her chin onto her tits. When it came to being a hedonist – one of Roan’s words – Radamir had been nothing more than a crude amateur, cowering on an island, hiding behind a wall of bodies, fucking any guy who would turn and drop pants for him, all the while eyes popping out from coke and knockoff blue pills.

That was like picking a used car dealership to steal cars from when the exotic car dealership was across the street. Svetlana – not her real name, her real name was one of the train wrecks of Slavic syllables long enough to require an acronym – was a Ferrari, a Maserati of a woman. Tall, skinny, angular, and there was no doubt that her lingerie was top shelf, expensive. Her makeup was more of the same, probably sold by consultation only at some high-end boutique in DC, or maybe even New York City.

To the average man walking down the street, she was the sort of creature he couldn’t even imagine talking to. She was an alien who only lived in underwear commercials and the pages of lingerie catalogs. She wasn’t fucking real to them. With the money that Radamir had, he should have had a half dozen male models in his bungalow – sculpted and flawless examples of what a human body could be when its only purpose was perfection.

“Maybe warn me next time if you’re in that sort of mood,” she said, finally getting up off of the floor. She excused herself to the bathroom and shut the door. I heard her making small noises and then spit into the toilet.

I felt a wicked smile creep onto my face, replacing the smirk.

She might have been a flawless and unapproachable goddess to almost every man on this planet, but for me, she was three holes to fuck and a face to come on. I felt a twitch between my legs at the thought. It was only a twitch though. I didn’t snort coke or resort to erectile dysfunction pills like some sort of degenerate, and three rounds was more than satisfying.

The room was in her name, so I didn’t worry about leaving while she was still getting cleaned up. That was normal enough. I checked the funds app on my phone and saw that the transaction had been completed. Svet and her people had been paid. I took a bottle of mineral water from the mini-fridge as I was leaving. Considering how long it would take her to shower, and then reapply her face and clothing, I had plenty of time for a drink or two in the hotel bar. She might just end up staying in for the night. I probably got a little carried away when I took her from behind, but either she liked it, or was a good actress about it.

That was why I never minded the higher cost of Svetlana and girls from her service.

The hotel bar was a swanky high-end joint, wood paneling and a faux nautical theme, like a yacht club. I had a couple of gin and tonics, insisting on the best stuff they had. I considered charging them to the room, but that would have been unfair. If I charged a drink back to the room, I would never see that escort again. I only did it sparingly, and when I felt that I had been overcharged for what I was sent.

Roan would be livid if he knew about any of that. He bristled enough about my dalliances with escorts. Not that they were security risks, more that he disagreed with the concept of prostitution. I supposed he couldn’t comprehend the pleasures that a professional could provide, and was stuck thinking about the beaten, drug-addicted, down-on-their-luck women who were arrested for hooking on the side of the street.

The thought of the tacky clothing, bruises, and the way that those people smelled and talked finished off whatever interest that might have been rallying in my balls. Shame, the MILF at the other end of the bar could have been carrying a protest sign that she was a lonely horny woman looking to fuck because her husband was a career man who needed pills. I gave her a half-power smile as I walked past and saw her cheeks flush.

It was good to be me.

Roan had sent me a couple of messages –Sadie was fine, Doc said pneumonia, new car ordered, and finally, when should he expect me home?Sometimes I felt like a devilishly straight man who was married to a nattering old woman who by odd chance was a large ginger Brit. I replied simply –Good job, home later.

Chapter Five

Roan…

Cooking;propercooking, is a lost art these days. Everything is fast food, carry out, or in the instances when someone does cook at home, its heat and eat out of a box, bag, or can. That’s no way to live. The Bootlegger Head manse had a full kitchen, almost large enough to be a service kitchen.

The house was an older one, built in a different age. Back then, the Chesapeake had been full of skipjack boats and crab trawlers. Electricity and running water had to be built into it, decades after its last nails were driven into place.

There were a handful of old photos that showed the back lawn, the side facing toward the sweeping grass and sand of the beach, covered in pavilion tents and white wooden folding chairs. Dozens, maybe hundreds of people had routinely attended parties on the Head, but it wasn’t Bootlegger then. It had some name that was only left as a faded scrawl of letters in old ledgers and maps. Rich people lived here, watching boat races in the bay, feasting on crabs and wild waterfowl.

Then came Prohibition, and with it the bootleggers. They would come up the bay in pleasure boats with oversized engines, cruising from pier to pier, delivering illegal alcohol to the wealthy people who called the Chesapeake home. The almost squared-off expanse of grass and scattered trees became Bootlegger Head when a particularly infamous local mafia type made it his home, and the base of his operations. The house had kept a distillery running in the basement that a generation before had been used as a wine cellar and pantry for the house.

This speakeasy attitude had given the house a large number of hidden doorways, and more locking doors than most any house would normally have. These doors proved useful for handling our new guest.

The oven chimed, and the chicken inside looked glorious.

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