Kitty

A new day dawns, and with it, the sense of being captured starts to solidify. The bed I wake up in is much more comfortable than the one I am used to - and it is much more filled with men. Vicious on one side. Slick on the other, both bare to the waist.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Vicious doesn’t open his eyes as he intercepts my thought.

“Don’t think about what?”

“Leaving. You have your first job today.”

I sigh. Is it worth resisting? Maybe there can be some resistance in compliance. Or maybe I’m just mind-fucking myself into doing as he says. I can still feel the effects of last night’s encounter with the man. I am sore, but it is a good sore. It is a reminder of pure satisfaction.

The cold light of day reminds me of the less pleasurable aspects of this arrangement, like the part where my life is no longer my own.

“Let’s get up,” Vicious suggests, sitting up.

This is the first time I have seen him without his shirt on. My god. His body is perfection. Hard muscle rippling with the motion of rubbing sleep out of his eyes, his hair tussled just the right way from being asleep. He’s not nearly as scarred or tattooed as Blaze said he was. His forearms are marked with incredible geometric designs, hard, bold lines that fit his personality, but his chest and back are bare besides the pelt of hair which curls from his skin.

On the other side of me, Slick is no less appealing. His hair is even more messy, his body a paler shade of tan, but equally well defined. If I was waking up between these two for any other reason than the fact they’d taken me captive, I’d consider this the best morning of my life.

Vicious

It’s only day two and things are already much more settled. As I take stock of the situation, Kitty is eating her cereal and sulking. It’s impressive how she manages to do that. I know last night’s little lesson will wear off. That’s the nature of these things. It takes repetition to make them stick, but I am seeing an improvement in her attitude - if not Slick’s.

She’s wearing a fresh set of clothing. I had it sent up earlier. I cannot abide leggings on her again, so she’s had to settle for a skirt and a blazer. She complains it makes her look like a Catholic school girl, but it doesn’t. It makes her look like a young professional - which is precisely what she is.

While Kitty eats, Slick grumbles. He’s not usually up before mid-day, and a seven am start is wreaking havoc with his native charm.

“Where is my mug?” He snarls the question, rampaging through the cabinet.

He’s possessive of his things, which is odd because he insists on leaving them absolutely everywhere. This isn’t even his place, yet he expects his mug to be here.

As it turns out, it is.

“You have it!” He stalks over to me, eyes flashing with righteous anger.

“What?”

“You’re drinking out of my mug.” He points an accusatory finger at me.

“So?”

“So give it back.”

I lift the mug to my lips and take a long sip. “When I’m done.”

“Give it back or you’ll regret it.”

Slick stands over me, his hands on his hips, his jaw jutting out the way it does when he really, really means something. If I was a street kid who owed him money, I’d find it intimidating. As it is, I find it deeply satisfying to take another sip and watch him simmer.

“Oh my god, give him his damn cup!” Kitty pipes up.

“Quiet, you,” Slick growls at her.

“Scratch that. Keep his cup. Break the damn thing,” she snarks.

Slick reaches for the cup in an ill-fated attempt to snatch it from me.

“What are you doing?” I pull it away.

“Gimme my damn mug.”

There is a giggle from across the table. We are making a scene, and not the impression I want to be making.

I give Slick a cut this shit out, she’s getting ideas look.

He gives me gimme my damn mug look.

I raise a brow, giving him a seriously now? look.

He returns a deadly serious look.

“You two often spend long hours staring into each other’s eyes?” Kitty pipes up. There we go. All the respect I garnered last night is evaporated back into her usual cheek.

I stand up, tip the rest of my coffee into the sink and slap the mug against Slick’s chest. “There you go. Enjoy. Kitty, come with me.”

Kitty

They’re hilarious together, and they don’t know it. For a few minutes, life has felt comfortable and almost normal. Slick’s look of pure triumph as he fills his mug with fresh coffee is priceless.

But Vicious is not amused. He takes me into an office and shuts the door, blocking Slick and his antics out.

Reaching into a desk drawer, he hands me an envelope. “First job, Kitty. Ensure this reaches the target.”

I slip the envelope into my blazer pocket. God I hate these clothes. They’re so grossly formal. I look like Vicious’ personal assistant or something. “You could have just hired me for this. There was no need to kidnap me.”

“I know what I need to do and what I don’t need to do,” he snaps. He’s not in a good mood this morning. I half expected a hug or some physical show of affection, but whatever happened last night is apparently staying last night.

“Okay, where’s the drop and who is the target?”

“Both pieces of information are on this phone. Take it with you and destroy it when you’re done.” He hands me a new phone. Looks like it just came out of the box.

“It’s a new smartphone. Like. Brand new.”

“So?”

“So you want me to destroy a thousand dollar piece of equipment? There are starving children with no phones.”

“Unless they’re making edible phones these days, I don’t see the connection. Make sure you destroy it properly. Smash it into very small pieces, melt it, make sure nothing is recoverable.”

“I mean, you could just write the information on a piece of paper. I could burn that without ruining expensive technology.”

“Don’t argue with me, Kitty.”

“Have you heard of climate change? Pollution? You’re part of the problem, you know.”

His lips quirk and a dark curl of hair falls over his face as he shakes his head at me. “Get to work.”

“One last thing: what am I carrying?”

“You can’t expect me to tell you that.”

“I don’t carry what I don’t know. I won’t look, but I expect you to tell me what the danger level is here.”

“High,” he says bluntly. “I’ve transferred ten thousand dollars to your bank account. You’ll get another twenty when the job is complete.”

“You’re paying me?”

“Of course. This is a job, Kitty.”

He is so strange. Thinks nothing of kidnapping me and forcing me to work for him, but is absolutely set on paying me.

“You’ll only get the full twenty if you don’t miss the delivery window because you’re standing here arguing with me. And you’ll get none of it if you’re caught.“

“Fine. I’m going. I assume I am free to leave?”

“Yes. Report back here when you’re done.”

This is starting to feel more normal. Amid all the strangeness, work is work. And money is money. If Rollo really is dead, I’m going to need a new source.

I take the phone and I leave. God, it feels good to just walk out of his place without being dragged or tied or otherwise punished. Stepping out onto the street, I breathe in fresh air and the illusion of freedom. Already, the phone he gave me is buzzing with a message. An address. It’s all the way across the city, not a great part of town. The target’s name isn’t one I recognize, which is weird, because I like to think I’ve at least heard of pretty much everyone who runs in these circles. New player, maybe?

Jason Atari.

Either Japanese, a fake name, or a mid-life crisis.

The package in my pocket isn’t very big. Not big enough to be a drug shipment. Could be nothing more than a letter, though I’ve known some letters to be dangerous enough to destroy people’s lives.

I grab an Uber and head across the city. No need to get high tech with this one. The truth is, at my core I’m no different from any other delivery service. Could be Chinese. Could be cocaine. Doesn’t matter. I’m going to get it there.

I started doing deliveries when I got my first paper route. It gave me a taste for the business. Back then, a bonus was a bag of candy from Mrs. Smith in Unit 4.

The first time I took an independent delivery, it was a boxed Thanksgiving meal. I ran it from Mrs. Smith to a friend of hers who lived down the block. That was a bag of sweets and a candy bar day, and it was the beginning of my current line of work. If only I’d known back then where the innocent interest would lead, I’d have taken up something less dangerous.

“So, howya doin?”

The driver breaks my concentration with a pedestrian question.

“Doing okay, thanks.”

“Man, this weather I swear…” he lets out a low whistle. “Hot and then cold, and hot again.”

I let his conversation wash over me. It’s nice to hear something mindless and meaningless, just small mouth noises designed to make the world feel safe. It’s working. I’m starting to feel a little better, a bit more in control. I know how to do this job. If this is all Vicious wants from me, I can do it.

There’s an uncomfortable feeling that this isn’t all Vicious wants from me. He wants everything. From the moment my feet left the pavement yesterday, to the second I came for him, he has been in total control.

“Alright, this is me,” I say with a brightness I don’t feel.

“You sure? Not the best neighborhood.”

“I know. It’s cool.”

“Thanks, lady,” the driver says. “Don’t forget to review me!”

I hop out of the Uber a block away from the drop point. There’s no doubt that I’m being tracked by phone and I don’t want to get an innocent, bored guy into any kind of trouble if this goes wrong. Before I head on my way, I give him five stars. Why not. He delivered me. Now let’s see if I can make my own delivery.

Heading along the street, I find the address and press the buzzer for the apartment listed on the phone.

“Yes?” Someone answers over a crackling speaker. I get a prickling feeling. Someone is up there, looking down at me, trying to judge from the top of my head as to whether or not they can trust me.

“Is, uh, Mr. Atari around?”

“I’m him.”

“Got a package for you.”

“Leave it on the doorstep.”

“Can’t do that. Have to hand it over in person.” That’s a basic rule of couriering. Delivery isn’t complete until the target has the package in hand.

There’s a pause.

This guy is scared. I don’t like that. Scared men make bad decisions and more often than not, violent choices. I’m not getting shot over a package. Something about this whole situation is giving me bad vibes. I look around and it occurs to me that this street is far more empty than it should be. Places like this usually have at least one or two disaffected youths. But nobody is here. Either Vicious is testing me, double crossing me, or something has gone wrong. The hairs on the back of my neck tell me it’s time to get out of here.

“No worries, bud. You stay up there, I’ll return the package to sender.”

“Wait!” A man with wild hair and wilder eyes is suddenly leaning out the window above me. “Throw it up!”

“What do I look like, a fucking quarterback? Come down and get it or I’m taking it back.”

He hesitates, then his head disappears. A minute or two later, I hear heavy footsteps stamping down the stairs. Looks like he got the courage up to take the package. Thank god. I didn’t want to go back to Vicious having failed. He wouldn’t like that.

The door opens just a crack. A hairy hand reaches out. “Gimme.”

I take the envelope out of my pocket - and all hell breaks loose.

Sirens erupt around me as three, fucking three unmarked cars burst into light and life.

“HANDS UP NOW! GET THEM UP! NOW!”

Orders are screamed behind me with an aggressive hysteria. I sigh and put them up. I wondered why Vicious didn’t fuck me last night. Now I realize he was waiting until today to fuck me hard.