Mikayla
“Jace,” I snip out each word, “let’s eat and get dressed. I cannot wait to go shopping.” You delusional liar. I mentally tell myself to play my cards right, and I’ll get away from Jagger on my own accord.
“Mrs. Windhoek,” Harry nods at me and then regards my abductor with another befuddled look. “Mr. Windhoek, take your time.”
He finally steps out of the suite, closing the double doors behind him. Once again, I can breathe freely. Harry was much too sweet to be snuffed out by the likes of Jagger Johansson.
“Why didn’t you ask him for help, Mikayla?” he asks without an ounce of concern.
I spin around on the heels of my bare feet and it’s hard to keep the anger solidified on my face. I silently cried myself to sleep. No matter how much talking I did while eating Jagger’s Big Mac, I’m prone to tears. My mom and I use to cry for happiness. She taught me that it was ‘okay’ to cry when I was a little kid, and back then I use to have the type of night terrors that rip through your soul even though I never remembered them upon waking.
Now, I hate myself for any weakness I show. Hatred is all I need. Well that and wits. I glance over at Jagger. His chest is glistening now. What a vision of perfection. He’s an idol, with water dripping down each of his muscles. In half a second, my mouth has pooled with saliva, and I can almost feel his powerful fingers caressing my wet walls last night. Why didn’t he just use my body already and trample on me like the trash he thinks I am? Trash enough to traffic out.
I keep my eyes narrowed and on his. Taking a hand to my hip, I respond, “Humph, I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll keep obedient, Jagger, Jace, whatever the hell you determine to call yourself. There’ll be no more dead bodies piling up because of my will to survive. You have me.” My hands fall at my sides, as I offer him everything he was so hell bent on taking anyway.
“Good.”
Jagger heads to the bedroom. My lips bunch into a line, and I stalk after him. I take three hustled steps for his one leisurely step. He’s returned to his flippant demeanor. His shoulders are wide and the muscles in his back remind me of a lion strolling through the jungle, never having nor willing to know fear.
There’s a tattoo on the side of his oblique that extends to his back, there are words I’m not aware of. I mentally curse myself for glancing down again. In the room, Jagger turns around so quickly that I rear back in order not to run into his chest.
“What, Mikayla?” He growls down at me.
I swallow down even more lust, and sift through my brain for a proper response, “I am… mad! Livid! Do I not have the right to be?”
“You have every right. But your temperament is strong. You didn’t get stubborn overnight. However, we will fix that.”
“Oh, we will fix me?” My palms press against the unmovable wall that is Jagger’s chest. “Make me weak; break me down until I no longer know the woman or vessel staring me back in the mirror?” Make me complacent with being raped daily?
Suddenly he isn’t a dog ready to strike at me anymore, as he murmurs, “Don’t start crying now, uthando lwami. This is your fate.”
I rub a hand over my face. It’s hot and ready to flood with tears. Yet my sex is hot with an even stronger torrent of desire that is blossoming within these thick, tight folds of mine. I hate him. But I want him in ways I have never wanted any other man. Suddenly, I realize my palms are still against the steel of his chest. My hands ball into fists and I hurt myself, more than I hurt him, while punching him.
Jagger grabs my wrists and pulls me to him. The blood in my body changes course and I’m incapable of deliberation as I feel his erection slamming against my stomach. I glance down. Not only are my feet dangling off the ground, but his towel, that was just covering his cock, is now down there, too!
His mouth is inches from mine, and the warmth of his breath kisses across my skin. “Are you finished with your temper tantrum?”
“Temper tantrum?” I scoff. “Jagger, you’ve abducted me and murdered people that I love, I’ve yet to act a fool.”
He holds me up with one arm and caresses my cheek with the other. “That is good, princess. I prefer a woman who fights.”
“Princess,” I cackle. “Then who are you, my dark, deadly knight? Is this our palace? Will you continue to keep me safe?”
“You don’t have a palace, Mikayla.”
I slap at him. “Are you George of the Jungle, with absolutely no social skills?”
He laughs from deep within his abdomen, which my breasts are pressed against. My nipples are hardening by the second.
“I was raised around your people, Princess.”
“Since we have placed me in the position of power, I’ll ask that you unhand me,” I mock. My feet kick out against his shins, yet here I am, still the schizo’s captive.
“I’m not your servant, uthando lwami, nor am I a member of your royal regime. Mikayla Bryant, I have been tasked with transporting you to Zihula.”
“Zi... Zihula? Or did you simply watched too much Coming to America as a child? Do you mean Zamunda?”
“Zihula is an island off the coast of South Africa.”
I offer the nod and grin, the one that must signify my disbelief is bordering on hysteria.
“And I’m the Queen—uh, Princess of Zihula?”
“No, not yet. You will be the queen of Zihula. You are the princess of Nivean. Your people are further in land, and exhausted of accommodations.”
“Oh alright? Why is Nivean so poor?”
“Nivean is poor due to tourism for starters, and corruption of the people. Your parents were murdered. Then your uncle, Prince Qaaim, became king regent while you were too young to rule. He hasn’t done a good job, he sold much of their land to people who look like me,” he nods gingerly. “That move made your uncle rich. Your country is about as tapped out as Malawi, Guinea, and the Congo.”
“Hummm... So, my uncle sold off land to white people like you and left our people with dwindling resources?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds like a movie I would watch if I had time. Oh, you actually moved some things around on my schedule. I should be unpacking a dorm, but thanks to you kidnapping me, I guess I have ample time to watch this movie.”
“It’s not a movie. It’s your life!” He grits out with such force that I’m momentarily confused. He actually believes the madness.
I lick my lips and assess his statement for what it is, an episode of schizophrenia. “Will you let me down now? We can skip the chat about the country… which I own, somehow. I prefer the Vegas story, you haven’t yet cooked up the reason we are here, and since I ordered every breakfast item on the menu… just to determine if your card–or whomever you’ve murdered– would work, we can just continue under the guise that we’re man and wife. Rich as sin.”
“I’m not rich as sin, Mikayla.”
“And I’m no princess,” I toss back as he sets me down on my own two feet.
***
Jagger and I were escorted via limousine to Caesar’s Palace. Having frequented the city of sin numerous occasions before, usually whenever a friend turned eighteen or twenty-one years old I know my way around.
Jagger must’ve had our clothing sent to the cleaners while I was asleep, because my dress is almost good as new. He tore the shoulders from his flannel and damn it, he is fit to be a rodeo heartthrob.
I’m not entirely convinced that Jagger’s odd accent is fake. And yet he baffles me more as we walk through the casino than he did yesterday with his truck and bike.
“Are we done scoping out the scene?” I cock an eyebrow as we meander next to a glitzed-out alcove for the high rollers of Caesar’s Palace.
And if you dare ask why I don’t just start running and screaming in order to get away from the maniac, well, I’ll say because his shiny pistol is still riding along in his back pocket. I can’t do that to all these innocent people.
Last night I dreamt of Cree’s funeral…
“For now. I have a better idea of where we will meet William.”
I offer a blasé chuckle. “William Freedman? The man who owns hotels is your friend?” See, Jagger is in the throes of another psychotic bout. This one involves delusions of grandeur.
“Freedman is a powerhouse in commercial real estate, Mikayla.” Jagger grips my arm as tourists rush past us on either side.
I’m well aware that William Freedman is in the business of shining up ghettos and magically displacing the lower class’s apartments and homes with coffee shops and expensive ass shopping centers, like we’re headed to now.
And I had hoped to trip up Jagger Johansson ‘The Unhinged Psychotic’. Clearly, he’s a functioning schizo-effective asshole.
We walk for the longest time until reaching the Fontana do Trevi at the Caesar’s Palace Forum Shops. There’s a faux beautiful blue sky and cloud mural above that matches Jagger’s gaze. This monster is perfect at transforming into a normal human being. We pass by Louis Vuitton and Gucci only to stop at a boutique where there are a few garments on each shelf, or a simple rack offering an almost haute couture aura.
There are skirts that will hardly cover my ass cheeks and dresses that have plunging necklines.
“Hello, Mr. And Mrs. Windhoek, we were expecting you.” A young blond greets us with her hand out. She shakes mine in haste, and then offers Jagger all of her attention. “Wine or champagne? I am here to please,” she says with, what I’m assuming was meant to be a sultry sexy voice, but really she just came off desperate and needy.
My eyes flutter toward the exit and a sardonic smirk sets my lips.
“Nothing for me.” Jagger says, “My beautiful wife, she’s prissy. She prefers champagne.”
I purse my lips. Prissy is the term that was tossed around at the dinner table at Gianni’s yesterday evening.
The woman offers me another quick grin before turning on the heels of her skyscraper stilettos. My gaze roams over the store. Most of the attire is fitting for the VIP section at an upscale lounge. The only pants on display have lace woven throughout to play up the sexiness or are a size 0.
Jagger is on the heels of my flip flops at each turn. “Chill, I’ll bide my time, Jagger and run when you least expect it and there’s no one for you to get into a tantrum with. Contrary to what you think, I don’t have tantrums, but you damn sure do.”
He smiles.
Dang, Jagger’s thick lips don’t even tense nor does his eyes cool over with anger. I want to get under his skin, into his brain. Break him before he sells me in to sexual slavery.
“So, what’s my budget? How many people have you...” I reach in closer to him, “Robbed and or … you know, to afford this dream? Or are you compensated well for what you do…?” Like, you know, steal women and sell them…
He scratches at the scuff on his chin. “I have never robbed a person of anything but his life, Mikayla. And yes, my career is lucrative.”
“Lucrative?” I all but shout. There’s virtually no one around. Who can afford this place? A sparkly bra, which I believe these suckers are hawking off as a shirt, cost more than I made in a year in tips at my mother’s soul food restaurant. The only other attendant is refolding a perfectly laid scarf. And the security guard, wearing a tailored suit and standing by the exit, is stoic.
If I blow up and scream about Jagger’s intentions, will they believe me?
“Mrs. Windhoek…” The blond says as she shoved a glass of champagne in my face.
Was I just hyperventilating again?
“Thanks!” I take it and drink every last drop. Because I’ve been abducted, my hormones are ablaze with fear of the unknown and I decide to be ‘Queen Petty’. See how Jagger reacts to this sort of disobedience in front of others. “And I’m not the real Mrs. Windhoek. I’m just his black whore. His mistress.” Yup, I’ve gone from classic morals to hoe in less than 24 hours. And yes, I referred to myself exactly how he thinks of me, and how he will ultimately benefit from me being a whore.
“Alisha,” Jagger’s warn is a low growl into my ears as he presses against my hip.
The plastic smile on her face twitches. “Forgive me. I had to exchange your entire wardrobe. We were told size eight. You’re a ten right?”
“Huh?” My eyebrows pull together.
The blond moves aside and behind her are three other attendants holding boxes and bags with tissue paper. “All the clothing is size ten,” she stresses.
“Yes,” I grit out, like Jagger is accustom to. She just insulted the size I wear. “I am, but what is this?”
“You…” The blond is hesitant about how to address Jagger, “requested two cocktail dresses, a ballroom gown, and three leisure outfits. Oh, two bikinis and of course, accessories for each ensemble.”
“I don’t wear bikinis.”
The blond offers a face that can read volumes as if to say: ‘Is the sex good enough to put up with her mouth?’ This, in return, causes Jagger to crack a smile.
“I can’t help but spoil her,” he grips my arm so tightly that I grin from ear to ear to stave off the pain.
“In that case, Jag—Jace, I have a few more items that I’d like.” The stubborn streak that’s rarely roused leaps out. I pick up all the chic slutty attire in my wake and head to checkout.
Jagger is on my heels. “Are you done, uthando lwami?” He asks.
“I’ve only just begun, baby,” I reply, allowing my hand to caress along his steel-plated jaw. The bristles along the sharp angles of him are surprisingly soft and ticklish instead of hard and painful. Our eyes connect, and Jagger leans down. His lips descend over mine, and the world dashes away from around us as his tongue pets my own. I have never been kissed like this. Have I ever even been kissed? Those contemplations roam through my mind until it transforms into nothing but mush. Any attempts at romance that came before, no longer exist to me as liquid lust courses through my veins to one precise focal point. The lips of my pussy feel heavy, achy, as his tongue continues to delve into my mouth.
“Allow me,” the attendant brushes up against me.
Was I just moaning? I slap Jagger’s hand off my ass. Was he pawing at me the entire time we kissed? And exactly how long was said kiss? And what am I allowing her to do? Damn, my mind just completed a full circle.
The world crashes back around Jagger and I as the blonde picks up the additional items I selected from the floor. Not only had I chosen the bra, but the lingerie I hastily grabbed, that both felt like warm butter, is tossed on the counter by none other than the jealous attendant who has seen the worst side of me today.
“Will your concierge be claiming your items?” A light-skinned woman asks, as she scans a half of a shirt that under no circumstances will I be wearing. It also costs an arm, a foot, and a big toe! But who’s complaining?
“Yes,” I tell her. “Harry, will—”
“No,” Jagger intercedes. “We have more places to go.”
“Oh, then there should be no issue with communicating with Harry, he sends a lot of customers our way, and having him will ease your day if you chose to continue shopping or dine at one of our eateries.”
“No,” he says once more, not only dominating the space beside me, but the brute force of his tone is not to be questioned.
I grin, deciding to screw with him again… metaphorically speaking and from a safe distance. There will be no more kissing me crazy. I lean my hip against the counter and fold my arms. “You need clothes, honey. You look like the only white hillbilly that Tyler Perry likes…”
I glance around needing assistance with fishing for a name.
His blue eyes are a tranquil lake.
The woman acts as if she doesn’t know the filmmaker.
Okay, not funny? Whatever. “Don’t you need clothing?” I perch an eyebrow, and then the thought hits me.
We’re here solely for me…These are starter items for the man Jagger is selling me to. And I grabbed the most expensive items, which equate to the most whorish ones, while stepping toward the cash register. I just prepared myself for my own new pimp!
Hezekiah Walker, you helped me survive finals week, especially before the holidays, when my mother needed more assistance at the soul food restaurant. Help me now, Jesus, please!