Page 13 of Her Guardian
The termMafia princeimmediately triggers something inside me, and I perk up.
“Oh, I have a question!” I say, some excitement lifting my voice. “What was it like when the Mafia Prince Killer was still at large, hunting down the children of crime bosses? That had to bereallyfreaking tense.”
And like that, I’m back in business mode. Trying not to think dirty thoughts about the guy behind the steering wheel.
“Oh, that fucker?” Boyd shakes his head. “Yeah, we had our guard up. Extra guys around the properties and traveling with the family. But he never made it to Vegas. They caught him… where was it? New York?”
“Yep!” I confirm. “The Mafia Prince Murders was my biggest podcast series ever. I had over a million hits on it!”
“Impressive,” Boyd says. “Then why do you need a bunch of old stories?”
“Things haven’t been going so well recently.” I take a puff of my vape and swallow hard. “People love cases that are hot, like an active serial killer, or they want things they’ve never heard before. The Mafia Prince Killer is in prison now, and there’s nothing new to talk about. Unless he gets killed while he’s behind bars, like Jeffrey Dahmer, but that’s only like one episode.”
“You’re going to spin a bunch of old stories into a series, huh?” Boyd surmises, nodding as he pulls up to the front door of the hotel casino. “Yeah, I could see that. Don’t stay up too late working on your notes. Get some sleep. We’ll go over everything tomorrow morning.”
“Eight o’clock,” I chime. “I’ll see you then.”
Boyd tries to get out of the car, but I hop out on my own. He frowns and slams his door. I turn and wave as he pulls away, but he doesn’t look back.
“Hmm,” I say, taking a long puff of my vape and exhaling a cloud before tucking it away in my purse. “I don’t think I should have another drink. Not after that Cherry-whatever. That drink had a kick. Time to work on my notes. Sleep can wait. It always does.”
I walk into the hotel on a mission and go straight to the elevator. I could spend some time in the casino, but I need to get everything down on paper before I forget it.
As soon as I make it to my room, I collapse on my bed with my phone in one hand and my notebook in the other. I’m doing it the old-fashioned way, because it’s easier, especially if Boyd has to read over everything. I can already imagine him sitting on myother bed, burning a hole through my notes with a disapproving glare.
I start jotting down what I can remember. I use a code for certain things, like M for murder, and SM for suspected murder. Instead of names, I use initials, finishing with a Mr. or Ms. if I think it matters.
I didn’t catch many names. The three girls, I remember. I jot their initials down in the margin and circle them. I go through several pages of random tidbits that surface as I rack my brain for every detail that soaked in.
“Meh,” I say, tapping my pen against the page. “There’s not much to go on, but maybe I can make something out of it. It’s mostly legends and bragging. This guy went missing. Weren’t those guys a part of it? Laughter, jokes. Like they know the answer, but they’re not saying it. Not everyone was talking about their crimes. I’m not sure where Armilla’s is, but it’s a brothel, and some of those guys really like to go there.”
I’m speaking into the ether again. I think my brain does need a rest. I toss my notebook to the side, change into my sleepshirt, and hop into bed. I leave the light on for a few minutes while I ponder my notes, then I take one last hit of my vape and turn off the lamp.
I reach for my phone and enjoy a little doom-scrolling as I catch up on the rest of the true crime world. I don’t feel like listening to a podcast, even though there are a few that help me fall asleep. I set my alarm, plug my phone in the charger, and lay my head against the pillow.
“Big Boyd,” I sigh, rubbing my foot against the sheet. “Why couldn’t you have been a carpenter or a mechanic? I’m not Las Vegas pretty, but I’mPine Grovepretty. If you lived there…”
I slip into that spot between half-asleep and half-awake. I spend a lot of time here, most nights, not getting the rest I need. I imagine Big Boyd as a carpenter, seeing me walk by in a pair of shorts that show off my ass. Then as a mechanic, and I’m wearing the same shorts, but I don’t seem to have enough money to pay my bill.
I tug at the corner of my sleepshirt and smile as I move a hand between my legs and into my panties. This helps me sleep, too. Usually, it’s just a nameless, faceless guy. But tonight, he has emerald-gold eyes, really big shoulders, and a big…
“Oh, fuck,” I whimper, feeling wetness as my fingers rub their way to my clit.
But Big Boyd isn’t a mechanic anymore. Now he’s wearing an expensive tailored suit, like the one he had on today. That grumpy look on his face with a hint of sarcasm sometimes when he speaks. He doesn’t hurt women… but hespanksthem when they need it.
Would he spank me? I’ve never been turned on by that sort of thing, but if it was him…
I imagine being bent across his thick, powerful thighs. His enormous hand under my sleepshirt, pulling my panties down.
I pant, push them down, and grind against my finger.
His hand would hurt. It could hurt a lot, but maybe he would be gentle. Is there any gentleness in him? No, it wouldn’t begentle. Not if he was spanking me because I pissed him off. He’d probably call me a little girl, too, while he was doing it.
“B-but I’m not a little girl,” I whimper, imagining the slaps stinging my bare bottom.
Then he’s on top of me. That heavy, muscular frame pinning me down. I’m getting more than a spanking. Would I be on my back or my stomach the first time?
“Oh, sweet mercy!” I squeal, an orgasm catching me completely by surprise.
