Page 31 of Nasty
Coolly, the Italians arched their sculpted brows at me. The slightly taller one said, “My sister was just asking if you were allowed a choice in what you wear tonight. Typically, the women we deal with…” She trailed off, her voice rising at the end.
“Shhh, Sofia. Maybe we’re not supposed to talk to her,” the other girl hissed.
I planted my hands on my hips, my mouth hanging open as I looked between the two women.
“Listen…Sofia, right?” I said to the tall one. “And you? What’s your name?”
The shorter woman pursed her lips in a tight, unfriendly line. “My name is Martina. But you don’t need to know who we—”
“Sofia. Martina. I’m not sure who you normally dress in this city, but I can assure you, I am not someone’s property. I donotbelong to that man out there. I’m not a mannikin to be decorated without my consent. There’s no fucking way you’re forcing me to wear something I don’t want to wear, and if you try, you’re seriously going to regret it. Do you understand me?”
The sisters reeled back, their feathers most certainly ruffled. I pitied the women they usually came to assist. They were either so meek and retiring that they never said a word as they were poked and prodded at. Or, conversely, perhaps their clients were too scared for their lives to object as they were stuffed inside dresses, their feet jammed into shoes, and they were painted up like pretty, docile dolls.
Sofia was the first to loosen, the rigidity in her back relaxing as she slowly smiled at me. “We apologize, miss. We deal with all kinds of situations. Sometimes, it’s difficult to know which rules apply.”
My stomach rolled. Were there times when Sofia and Martina turned up to a residence in the evening, and they tended to a woman who was being held there against her will? It was possible. It sounded like it was more often than not the case. Sofia and Martina were young. They were a part of a generation where women stood together, fought alongside one another, demanded equal rights and equal pay. They were part of a sisterhood, whether they liked it or not, and they were betraying that sisterhood.
If I showed up to carry out a job I’d been hired to do, it wouldn’t matter to me. Wouldn’t matter if it was a woman, or a man, young or old. If I was faced with someone who was being held against their will, I would not be party to it. I’d probably get myself into serious shit trying tofreethem.
I was tempted to ream Sofia and Martina out for being such vapid, spineless bitches. But if I did that, I would only be extending this weird, awkward situation longer than it needed to be. I just wanted this to be over, and for them to leave as quickly as possible.
“I’ll take that long black one.” I pointed at the dress on the end of the rack.
Sofia and Martina looked at me, looked at each other, and then looked at the dress in question. “That dress is not for you,” Sofia said flatly.
“Why not?” It was simple and far less flashy than the other options. The neckline was low enough to emphasize my boobs, but not low enough to suggest that my services were available by the hour. There was a small beaded detail just underneath the bust—black beads that glinted and shone but weren’t massively over the top like the brocading and sequins on some of the other pieces.
Martina took hold of the dress and flared it out, revealing the split in the skirt of the material. “Goes all the way up to here,” she said, stabbing herself with her finger, right on her hip bone. “You cannot wear panties with this dress. Andyou…” She wrinkled her nose again. “You complained about the gold one. This one shows way more skin.”
It certainly was one hell of a split. And to go out not wearing panties? I eyed the other dresses, assessing each of them one at a time. Some of them were almost acceptable, but then I’d notice something about them that wasn’t going to work. A see-thru panel; a garish fake flower; way too many blingy crystals and stones. I pointed to the black dress, gesturing with my hand.
“Just give it to me. I’ll try it on. See how bad it is.”
Sofia smiled tautly, collecting the dress and holding it up in front of me. “Well done, miss. Very brave. You’re going to make your friend very happy indeed.”
THIRTEEN
THROAT PUNCH
FIX
Rabbit wasn’t happy with me. That’s what Monica had said. Why the fuck wasn’t Rabbit happy with me? I sent the bastard work every damn day of the week. I paid him three times the amount anyone else did when they hired him. I didn’t owe him anything—it was a point of principle that I never owedanyoneanything—so what could Rabbit possibly be shitty about? The guy was unassuming. Five foot nine. Quiet. A nerd, there was no denying it, but he wasn’t your archetypal geek with glasses, braces, bad skin and greasy hair. He worked out. He wasn’t going to be winning any body building contests any time soon, but he kept himself in relative shape. He wore expensive button-down shirts, and even more expensive Amiri jeans, and he held these little mixer parties every once in a while, just to remind people how important and awesome he was.
He knew a lot of people, and therefore he knew a lot of people’s secrets. When you were wrist deep in someone’s data on their laptop, it was hard not to accidentally notice something damning, illegal, or just plain fucked up. The things he found on some computers had people screaming and begging for him not to go to the cops. He never went to the authorities. He played it cagey, though, acting up enough that, when he asked for a hefty increase in his fee for extra ‘parts and labor,’ not a one of those rich motherfuckers ever made a peep.
It had been a while since I’d been to one of Rabbit’s parties, but I knew what to expect. It would be an even split: a group of twenty-something-year-old kids, high as fuck and out of their goddamn minds, dancing liketheywere the ones who discovered expression through goddamn movement or some other bullshit. And at the bar and sitting in dark corners, a bunch of older, stuck up well-to-dos with their hands in their pockets, all talking in code, hating each other. The air would be thick with jealousy, pride, arrogance, and deafeningly bad EDM music. I had to hand it to Rabbit, though. He blew an inconceivable amount of money on his parties, so there was always enough booze. And party favors, if that was your thing. Usually there’d be a group of girls fingering each other in the pool by the end of the night.
Monica was right. Taking Sera along to this thing was a bad fucking idea. Rabbit was as paranoid as they came and was constantly accusing people of being cops. He’d done an array of questionable things on the dark web. Had been involved in an underground supply and demand site that had catered to just about every messed up, dark, deviant desire known to man, and the administrator of that site had been arrested just under a year ago. His ass was still rotting in jail, awaiting trial, and Rabbit was convinced his old boss was going to start spilling people’s real names and addresses to the authorities in order to reduce his own sentence. There was a very real chance he was right, and the cops were going to smash his door in any day now. I didn’t point that out to Rabbit, though. Fucker was already difficult to be around as it was, without stoking the flames of his distrust. Sera’s presence this evening might be tricky. I was going to have to work out what Rabbit’s issue was with me, and I was going to have to smooth over the fact that I’d brought a guest with me. And once I’d accomplished that, I had to get him to take Monica’s laptop off my hands, so he could figure out who the fuck Carver was, and hopefully be able to pinpoint his actual location for me.
All in a night’s work.
I showered quickly and then got dressed in my bedroom, trying to ignore the fact that my dick was still raging hard. Coming home to find Sera wandering around in a towel, her hair wet and plastered to her head, beads of water rolling down between her pronounced shoulder blades…My reaction had been instant and demanding. She was so fucking beautiful. She had no idea just how beautiful she was. Her wet, naked body, barely concealed beneath that towel, had made it very difficult not to fucking take her. I’d considered it. Had wanted to. Had wanted her to unfasten my fly and to take my swollen cock into that pert, pretty little mouth of hers. But then Sofia and Martina had shown up and spirited her away, and I was left to only imagine what it would have felt like.
There was later, of course. After the party. There would be plenty of time to strip Sera bare and fuck her in as many holes as she would allow. I slid my arms inside the jacket of the suit I’d picked out for the evening—jet black, pristine, specifically tailored to my body, so that it fit me like a second skin. It was a thing of true beauty. I’d only worn it once before, many years ago, but the moment I saw it sitting there in the closet, I’d known tonight was the night I was meant to wear it again.
Sofia and Martina were still busy working on Sera by the time I made my way to the kitchen and poured myself a large measure of scotch over a single ice cube. I’d met the sisters before, had run into them all over the city, in various situations, most of which involved the mafia in one way or another. I’d been hired by the mob before. I’d also had to take care of a few higher up members of The Family, which had been really fucking stressful. The Italians were proud people. They believed in honor and respect. Forgiveness? Not so much. They all professed to be Catholic and went to church every Sunday without fail, but fuck me sideways if they didn’t know how to hold a grudge. I was lucky that I was so good at what I did. If I’d been careless or sloppy and the cops had somehow tied me to any of those murders, then it wouldn’t have mattered if I were in police custody or not. I’d have been eighty-sixed within a matter of hours. And the mob had so much money, pull and influence, that it wouldn’t have even been the other inmates I would have had to worry about. It would have the prison guards and the cops themselves that put the bullet in the back of my brainpan.
I sipped the scotch, relishing the burn as it slipped down the back of my throat. The sky outside was a deep royal blue, smattered with a handful of white pinpricks—the only stars visible beyond the light pollution of the blazing, burning city at night. I stood at the window, sipping the scotch, watching the ferries slowly shuttle out across the water toward Lower Manhattan, and the whole time my ears were trained on the low hum of conversation that was coming from the bathroom. Was she all right in there?
