Mikayla
My minor is in sociology. And with that, came the study of sex trafficking. I was just groomed, given expensive clothing and trinkets like gems to blind my eyes. Now, we’re at this shady place where my photo will be taken, and I’ll be auctioned off. The pit of my stomach sinks. I should’ve done more to save myself.
At the threat of another person or persons lives?
A war rages within my soul. Could I save myself without causing more bloodshed?
I hate myself for this weakness, and for desiring his strength, while murmuring the words, “Please, don’t let anything bad happen to me.”
Jagger’s face softens in a manner that I’d never dreamed of. He really is as beautiful as the fallen angel. Who am I to make this killer, who sells women, lust after and fall for me? But there’s a connection, because his mouth begins to descend onto mine. And then his Magnum is in his hand and the box of clothing I swore that I’d piss in and fight in if he forced me to take glamour shots in order to bid on, falls to the floor.
There’s another gun pointed dead at us. This one has two holes, and an even lengthier nozzle, I’m pretty sure it’s a shotgun.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Juggernaut?” The Caucasian man before us has arms so furry that if I shed my eyes, he’d resemble a black bear. His voice is southern. The orbs he currently narrows at us are a murky green, and I can hardly see the rest of him. The double barrel shotgun is commanding all my attention. I thought Jagger’s revolver could stop a bobcat. This thing can put down Godzilla.
“Don’t call me Juggernaut, Jagger does just fine, Black.”
“What do we have here? Fresh meat? She isn’t one of us, is she?”
“What do you mean one of us?” My voice comes out of nowhere.
He holds the shotgun with one hand and places up his left palm. The scar in his hand is so rigid. “That’s right, she’s never seen it! She doesn’t have one!”
“Not all of us have one, Black. Put your gun down before you go down with it,” Jagger’s tone is smooth as silk, yet the hair on my forearms prickles, and I silently thank God he’s on my side … for now.
This can’t be a place where women are brought to the auction block. Where the hell are we?
The room is devoid of any mementos and doesn’t have anything to signify that it’s a business.
Another man appears, waving a white flag. He’s wearing a suit that molds to his lean frame and his demeanor cuts through the tension. He’s fit for Las Vegas. I imagine that he’s a magician, as there is a top hat perched on his head. He had a British accent as he says, “Black, Juggernaut, mates, put your guns down.”
Jagger grits out, “Don’t’ call me–”
“C’mon, everybody has a cool name,” the man says. Is he for real? Is this real or am I in a dream? Maybe I’m in a coma and Jagger crashed down on the asphalt around the corner from Gianni’s? He says, “I’m a nobody, mates, but even I have a name.”
“Yeah, you’re a regular old trick.” Black scoffs, keeping his shotgun trained on us.
“Trick. Don’t be an arsehole, Fatso. Besides, you’re in my establishment.” He drops the flag and pulls out a pen from his pocket. “Juggernaut, I’d say the only person here who has broken protocol is you.”
There’s a red beam at the end of his pen! It points straight at my chest. Jagger is standing before me in a flash. The Magnum is now dangling from Jagger’s index finger. He has both hands up. “I did not break the rules, Trick, she is on a mission with me. She has a blood oath; some of them aren’t as visible as everyone else’s are. If you wouldn’t mind putting that down, because you press the tip of that damn pen, and it’s the end of me and her. Don’t kill us before you have the chance to make a dime off of us, alright?”
Kill us? What does this guy… uh…? Have in his pen? A missile?
“What mission are you two on?” I believe Trick asked that question but I’m not positive. My guess is solely due to Black having a southern voice, because with Jagger’s shoulders being so wide, and him so tall, I cannot see past his powerful back.
“Black, have you got what you need?” Jagger barks.
The bear of a man grunts as he bends down to pick up a steel briefcase. “All the bells and fucking whistles. And a few grenades. You know I don’t dress for the occasion.”
Dress? My breathing is labored. Crap, I can feel myself slipping. My knees cave beneath me. Trick is still pointing the pen at me, which I assume must be some sort of weapon as my eyes flutter closed. But I’m in Jagger’s arms before the darkness can fully surrounds me.
***
“Are you crazy, Juggernaut?–”
“Stop calling me–”
“I am the best pal you have, mate. This doesn’t say much. I started the bloody rumors that it was your name, so that’s what I will refer to you as. You have to have a name in this business! But you, you are a lone wolf. You only work with Sinclair by force.”
“She doesn’t force me to do shit…”
“Ha! Sinclair is beauty personified. She has her ways. This woman you brought is just as gorgeous, but she doesn’t have it in her to be one of us– shit, she’s awake.”
My eyes flutter open. I’m lying on something rock hard and cold. The ceiling is black. The walls are too.
A visual of a mortuary slab flashes before my eyes. Then there’s a silver flask in my face.
“It’s strong, I promise,” the eccentric man named Trick says.
I shake my head. “No thanks.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Manners are dead to us, sweetheart, toughen’ up. And I’ll sit this right here,” he says, as I sit up on the table. “This one will force you to the bottle if you haven’t been pushed to it already.”
I rub a hand over my face and can feel a warmth spread through me as Jagger places himself between my thighs. “Are you alright?”
He doesn’t offer me a chance to respond before he looks over his shoulder and barks, “Get her some water, she might be dehydrated, asshole.”
“Don’t have to be a wanker about it.” Trick says as he shrugs his shoulders and moves.
I instantly gasp.
“What’s wrong?” Jagger paws at my cheeks much too hard but there’s sincerity in his eyes.
“Th-that..,” I nudge my head. There are custom made wall cabinets, with recessed lighting, inside each of them, instead of China or crystal trinkets, are guns. Big guns. Little tiny guns and bombs!
“Sweetheart, this is the reason why they come to me,” Trick says, standing before me with a sparkling water bottle. “That and the suits.”
He backs away, grinning like a Cheshire Cat. He picks up a handgun, and then in his other hand is a very nice suit. “Would you like to do the honors?”
“No,” Jagger snaps.
“What an arsehole. Gorgeous, he doesn’t trust you enough to let you shoot a gun,” he shakes his head at me, “but he’s using you as eye candy for Freedman. What fun is that, Gorgeous?”
Freedman? I wrack my brain and recall that Jagger’s delusions might not just be delusions! He really wants to murder William Freedman, the real estate mogul.
Jagger grabs the gun from Trick and shoots at the suit. The eccentric man bows, shakes out the suit and says, “Gorgeous, do you see a bullet?”
“No,” I respond hesitantly. “Is the gun real?”
He chuckles. Jagger points the gun over his shoulder and shoots.
Then he turns around, appalled about something.
“Maybe you should stick to your Magnums…” Trick shrugs.
There’s a snapping sound. The ceiling fan is hanging on a tread. Oh, that’s what he was shooting at. Jagger shoots another bullet at the thread. It snaps. The fan crashes down onto the ground.
Trick hands over the suit to me.
“It’s made of the most expensive silk, Gorgeous, but look,” he says, pointing out the inlay. “Bulletproof.”
“Oh…” I breathe out, still in shock.
Jagger seems bored by Trick’s show and tell. He turns and says, “Mikayla, the inside of your two dresses will be modified, just as all of my clothing has been. I don’t plan on you being in any imminent danger, but the bullets still hurt.”