2
I dream of the dark and the light, Maksim and Charlie.
I’m on my knees, and Maksim is holding my tiny face in both hands. He’s rubbing my temples with the calloused pads of his fingers, and his cock is jutting out at me through the zipper of his gray trousers, twitching for attention.
“Suck it, My Little Pet,” he says in gruff Russian, arching his hips forward.
I’m cringing in my shoulders, terrified, as James cannot save me today. He’s training with Demetrius. It makes me cry. I don’t want to do this! Though, I have no other choice. My master will beat me again if I say no.
He takes a hand from my face, fists his cock, and shoves it in my mouth. The crown is seasoned in salty pre-cum, smearing across my tongue and stretching out my cheeks. I gag from the pit of my stomach when his thick, warm flesh prods the back of my throat, forcing my tonsils to give way.
“O da,” he moans, oh yeah, in Russian, satisfied I’m taking him in compulsory submission. “No hands. Ahhh, good little pet. Take it all.”
His head falls back in rapture, hips pumping in and out of my saliva saturated lips. I grip my naked thighs with jagged nails, overlapping bloody bruises from where I held myself yesterday while doing this, in fear and defeat. James wasn’t around to save me then, either. He usually interrupts the beatings. I hope that one day he can interrupt the sexual violation, too.
Maybe he will, when he knows it’s happening.
“Yes, suck harder. Faster!” Maksim is getting breathless, groaning and grinding his lean body. “When I cum, I want you to swallow every last drop again. That’s it...suck it! Make me cum!”
Oh no. This is when he gets mad. I shut my eyes and cower, dreading he’s going to slap me and blacken the other side of my face this time. But he yells for me to look at him, shoving his entire length down my throat so his balls are mashed against my chin.
Heaving with my eyes watering, I lift my head a little, praying he’ll take pity on me for doing as I’m told.
Charlie!
My stomach bottoms out of me at the sight of him.
“Hey, baby,” he rasps, smiling down on me. His sleek black hair is tied away from his handsome face, making his features appear savage and hard. He’s wearing fitted jeans and a gray, round-neck t-shirt, easy attire to compliment his dark beauty. Holding up the hem, he gives me full access to the most private part of him, so I can see every powerful muscle in his stomach.
In an instant, I realize he’s dressed in the exact clothes he wore when I first went down on him. This is the first time I went down on him.
The heavy blueness of his eyes darkens as he tips his head to watch me in a mixture of lust and affection. I watch him back with confusion, unsure of where he came from. Where did Maksim go?
It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. Charlie is here.
Yes, Charlie is here.
I shift forward on my knees and clutch at his muscled hips like a pawing puppy, knowing I am safe now. Charlie might toy with me, but he said he loves me. He came for me, he tried to save me, so it’s okay. Everything is okay.
He molds one hand around my cheek and strokes under my eye, tickling the spot there. “S’all right,” he whispers. “I’m here, Blaire.”
I nod without ever looking away, waiting eagerly for his tenderness while my tummy swarms with butterflies—but his tenderness doesn’t come. He knocks me off kilter by thrusting his hips so hard I choke on his shaft. At first, I’m so stunned that I don’t know how to react. My eyes bulge, and I unwillingly hack up clots of spit. It dribbles out of my mouth and off the end of my chin; worse when he thrusts again and again, obstructing my will to breathe. I hold out for as long as I can, squawking and gargling with ugly noises, but the drums of panic roar in my ears. I whack his thighs to put some distance between us, desperate for oxygen, though he won’t stop. His powerful body fucks my mouth until he tenses and tremors, and warm, salty liquid spurts out, suffocating my air passage. My vision flashes with spots, and a wave of vertigo comes over me, conquering my fight.
This isn’t right. It didn’t happen like this. I’m having a nightmare. I’m certain of it.
Wake up, I beg myself. Wake up!
“Përshëndetje, Blaire,” a man says in reality, and I bolt upright for a huge gulp of air.
Whatever I’m sitting on creaks and squeaks while I grab at my throat, vibrating with anxiety.
I sense someone backing away from me as the sound of a zipper comes up. My head whips from left to right, wondering who’s there. I can’t speak. My throat feels like it’s clogged. There’s a horrid taste in my mouth, and a thick coat of salt spread across my tongue.
I gasp against my straining lungs, opening and squeezing my eyes shut to gain focus.
“Focus, Blaire,” the man husks from my left, seemingly reading my mind.
I don’t answer him, too overwhelmed by the inability to breathe properly.
A large figure sits in a narrow chair at my bedside, zooming in and out of focus. It’s not Charlie. Whoever that is, he’s fat. He’s dressed in a heavy, long black coat over a tailored blue suit, and his skin is lightly tan like caramel. His face is round, and his cheeks are podgy with long sideburns marring the light stubble on his oval chin. When he smiles at me in a combination of zeal and curiosity, it makes his cheeks indent. It makes those icy brown eyes, under fuzzy eyebrows, ooze an intense sense of death.
Is that Robert, the Albanian?
I don’t know if it’s him, and I don’t know where I am. I squint to look about the gloomy room, seeing a shallow, curving ceiling made up of old, gray blocks. The pale walls are uneven, hanging with long tube lights that glow in the shadows. The floor is aged-cobbled stone, a mish-mash of sandy colors. It’s like I’m underground or something. At the realization, I smell dampness in the air, a stench you only encounter in old, abandoned houses.
The level of concentration it takes to study this place ignites an odd sense of screaming in my body; a scraping sensation within my veins. I can’t stand it. I reach for my neck again, rubbing my sharp collarbones. I run my hands down my slender arms, narrow waist, and toothpick legs. I’m spikey with faint hair, and I’m extremely thin—my shins are poking out.
This doesn’t feel like my body.
When I slip around to touch the base of my spine, I notice that doesn’t feel like mine, either. While my whip scars from Maksim’s belt are still lumpy and intact, the skin on the base of my spine is smooth and desperately tender, tickling as I circle certain places. It doesn’t hurt anymore, though. There is no tightness or pain and there is no burning.
Why do I remember pain and burning?
Maksim’s name... He branded his name in my flesh, but it’s gone.
I don’t understand. How did someone remove his name?
Paranoid, I push the itchy blanket aside to look at myself. I’m not wearing my own clothes. I’m wearing a gray t-shirt and matching shorts. Lifting the hem of the t-shirt, I study the tiny, angry scar on my withdrawn stomach—from where Maksim shot me. It’s bumpy and tender to touch as I round it with a finger.
My world reduces in size when I register the small, purple bruises disfiguring my skin, stretching down from my inner elbows and forearms to my wrists. They are ugly, tiny puncture wounds. I turn my boney ankles in and out, examining them. I have bruises there, too, little dots in my veins scattered about all over the place.
What are the bruises from?
They itch, and it’s an under the skin itch I can’t stimulate no matter how hard I scratch.
Still scratching, I stare about again, certain I’m dreaming. Nothing feels real. I can’t string together a coherent memory.
There’s a door directly opposite the single bed I’m sitting on, made of heavy, old wood with a wrought iron handle. On the right wall, there is another door.
I turn my head, aware the man is scrutinizing me with a deep frown. A huge cove window, bricked up in faded red stone, dominates the left side of the room, surrounded by heavy, russet colored drapes.
An odd-looking fly buzzes past midair and I flinch in reaction, causing the bed to squeak under my convulsing motions. What the hell...I think it’s a mayfly, ones that barely live for a day at a time. It has broad, transparent wings and an inch-long stick-like body.
I shut my eyes, wishing this place away. Wishing the pain in my body away.
“You won’t recognize this room, Blaire,” the man says in his gargling foreign twang, and I know it is Robert.
I might not remember much right now, but I never forget a voice—or a face.
———
I scowl at Robert, battling to level my mind so I can warn him off and gather intelligence.
I don’t see any shoes or keys in the room. No clear view of a location.
Where the fuck is Charlie? I wonder for a second if that’s why Robert is here. Maybe he’s watching over me in Charlie’s absence? They were somewhat...friends, the last I remember.
My head twitches.
Scan the subject. Assess the subject. It’s tough. I feel so uncomfortable in my own skin that I just want to scratch myself all over.
“You had b-better start talking, Robert.” My Russian voice comes out thick with daring, though weak and croaky with fatigue. “Tell me where Charlie is, or I-I’m going to rip off your—”
“Ah, ah, ah,” he interrupts, shaking a porky finger at me. He digs into his coat pocket, rustles around, and pulls out a long black tube with a red button on top beneath a clear, plastic lid. “I have James under my care, so be very careful with how you react, Blaire. One click of this button and your friend will receive one hell of a hiding.”
Right then, I know he’s not watching over me until Charlie returns. I try not to react, hunting through my memories for James’ previous location, so I don’t end up playing chess with his life. He was with Charlie. No. He was at the house with Charlie’s brother. I’m certain of it.
I finger my temples as my skull begins to pound.
“The boy we’ve got at the house is her brother.” That’s what Charlie said to his own brother, Andres, on the night he saved me from Maksim.
Robert must be lying, which means I’ve got the upper hand.
As if following my train of thought, Robert grins knowingly with his brown eyes glowing in amusement. He reveals a mobile from his inner jacket pocket, presses a button, and lifts a finger to his lips. “Shhh,” he whispers, “and listen.”
My eyebrows crease.
“Blaire!” James’ gruff voice fills the cell we’re in, and my attention tunnels. “Whatever Robert tells you, don’t listen! I didn’t mean to—”
Thump!
My eyes flash at the heavy sound of someone punching James while my stomach balls with natural instincts of protection.
“What the fucking hell are you playing at, Robert?” I practically growl, but he doesn’t offer a remark. I continue listening to my brother shouting at the top of his lungs, causing the speaker to crackle. He grunts and barks in tune with a loud clanging, as if tugging against restraints.
“When I get out of here,” he yells, “I’m coming for you! If you touch her, I will murder your entire family as you watch!”
Touch her? He’s defending someone. Defending me.
He knows I’m with Robert.
This cannot be happening.
“Why don’t you quit whining and say something valuable—perhaps to Blaire?” Robert sounds amused on the audio recording, and he looks equally amused sitting before me. “Why don’t you tell her what happened? Warn her of what happens if she tries to escape me?”
“Fuck you, motherfucker—agh!”
I flinch subconsciously, listening to more heavy punches and groans as James hollers bloody murder at anyone who will hear him. I try to assess anything that could give off his location, but I get nothing. I can’t hear a single thing over his madness.
“The more you resist, the more you will endure, you know?” Robert teases on the audio like it’ll actually subdue James rather than fuel his rage. “Why don’t you get to the point, boy? Tell Blaire what happened. Tell Blaire what you did.”
“The boy comes as a freebie.” I recall what occurred the second Robert says boy. That’s what the Arab called James during his sales pitch.
I’m suddenly stone cold sober. My eyes whip around the room we’re in once more, taking in the visual: a jail. My jail.
Robert shuts off his phone and tucks it back into his jacket pocket. “As I said, ah, ah, ah.”
“What have you done?!” I shout, balling my fists at my sides. “Do you even understand what James and I will do to you for this? Do you even—”
“I did only what was done to me.” Robert shrugs, justified. “Eye for an eye.”
I don’t get what he’s talking about. I wrack my mind, but my head starts to hurt with the edges of my skull pulsating. I cup my face to rub my forehead, to invoke the cerebrum part of my brain that obviously isn’t working.
“In pain?” Robert asks, though I’m not listening. I’m calming myself, conjuring up a plan that could actually help my situation. I need collateral. I need to get out of here. I need to find Charlie. And I can’t react on impulse as it could result in James receiving a beating—or worse.
“Where are we?” I say, still rubbing my head. “How did I get here? Wha-what’s wrong with me?”
“That”—he points with the button—“would be the date rape drug they’ve been feeding you, and the heroin. Mostly the heroin. It has a very, very nasty aftereffect when it wears off.”
“The, what?” I blink at him, mortified. “Heroin?”
He nods once to answer and tells me that I was all fucked up. He gave me an injection about an hour ago, apparently, to wake me up from a hazy slumber. “Was like an adrenaline-based liquid medical practitioners use to bring people out of comas. You should be good, for a while.”
I suddenly remember the stabbing sensations I felt in my arms and legs, and I scream, “You hooked me on heroin?!”
“Wasn’t me.” Robert turns up his lips in a shrug. “Trust me, girl, I want you for your talents—I even teamed up with treacherous rats just to get you. I have no desire whatsoever to keep you dosed up on drugs.”
The veins under my eyes pulse, furious someone would load me with any drug—let alone heroin, one of the most addictive narcotics of them all.
I want to explode, tear out Robert’s throat, and make him bleed to death.
“Who gave me the drugs?” I reel with questions, stuttering and shaking to get them out. “Whe-where are you holding James? Where the fuck is Charlie—if you’ve done something to him...!” I shatter into coughs with a hand over my mouth, choking and spluttering up everywhere.
“As I said, James is under my care, and Decena has no idea where you are, so please, don’t hope.”
Hope. That’s what led me back to Charlie in the first place.
“The bidding starts at one million sterling.”
My stomach hangs as the memories slowly but surely trickle into my reality. I subconsciously rub my left wrist where Maksim’s silver teeth marks disfigure my skin, where my bracelet used to be. Where my bracelet should be.
Everything is so wrong.
“I will tell you what happened.” Robert frowns at me in interest. “If you want to know, that is?”
I gawk in disbelief. “Of course I want to—”
“Let me speak.” He lifts a hand, on some level reasoning with me. “The sneaky, swindling Arabs got their hands on you while you were being transported from a hospital in London.”
Arabs. London. I mentally note it all.
“As the story goes, Decena turned his back for a minute to take a call, and they hijacked the van with you and James inside. He told me himself.”
“Who-who told you this?” I ask, kneading spots on my arms.
“Why, James did.”
My face drains of an expression.
“Christ, when the Arabs took you, they were lucky they got away. Decena lit up London with guns, storming every gangster and foreign syndicate in the city looking for you.”
That means he’s coming for me.
“How long has it—ow,” I hiss, scratching sore layers of skin on my inner elbows. “How long has it been, Robert?”
“Since what?” he says, but he knows exactly what I’m asking. “Ah, you were in the hospital for just over six weeks. Three weeks with the Arabs, plus one day with me. Come on, Blaire, you are a smart girl. Do the math.”
My eyes wander off while my brain calculates it’s been nine weeks. Nine weeks since I shot Maksim. Nine weeks since I last saw Charlie.
Fuck. My heart aches. I fought so hard to get back to him, and now I’m stuck here, under Robert’s control?
Robert smiles, his coffee stained teeth matching the color of the drapes. “I spent a pretty fortune on you, girl. Even got double-crossed in the process of collecting you and had to outbid a Spanish organization for you, but you are worth every penny.”
“Why did you buy me? You-you don’t even know me.”
“Hmm.” He taps his oval chin, making his cheeks wobble. “Call it...payback, because I know the Mexican took what was mine.”
Arjana—the girl Charlie saved from the Prince’s party. There’s Robert’s reason.
If I can get her back, maybe I can bargain James’ freedom.
“That girl was special,” Robert says, and he snorts, genuinely insulted by something. “I wouldn’t normally pay for pussy—if I want it, I steal it—but she wasn’t just a virgin. She was half-Palestinian with royal blood, a prize on its own to my people, till Maksim and his friends fucked her up and made her a whore.”
My eyes roam across the room to mask the truth, and he says, “There’s no need to hide what happened. I know Decena set things up so it looked like Maksim kidnapped Arjana. James told me.”
James told him?
I’m absolutely stunned. This is a fucking joke. What happened to our Russian code of silence?
“What do you”—my neck twitches—“want, with me?”
“Anything. Everything,” Robert says, waving out a hand to elaborate. “And now that I own you, it’s all achievable.” He flicks his long coat back on either side of his waist, sitting forward on the creaking chair. “I won’t...how do they say this in English?” His eyes travel up to the ceiling, musing.
“I don’t know,” I snort, passively itching places on my neck. “I’m not fucking English.”
“Dilly-dally? Ahhh, yes, that’s the word. I won’t dilly-dally. First thing’s first”—his deep brown eyes crinkle in the corners, smiling at me with wickedness—“you ever try to run, girl, and I will cut off James’ limbs with a blunt knife. Do you understand?”
My mouth twists. If he dares, I’ll cut off his fucking cock with a blunt knife.
“Secondly, for you to start earning your keep and ensuring James’ safety, you are going to get me Maksim’s body.”
I gape at him, thinking he must be kidding.
“Why do you want his body?”
“Tatiana has secretly spread word that she wants Maksim’s body, to lay him to rest, and since I need her on my side to help get rid of a certain someone—because we all know Russians are geniuses at hiding treachery—I figured I should get her what she wants.”
He actually thinks Tatiana will merge with him on a job because he got her Maksim’s body? I want to laugh, but I can’t conjure it up. What a dumb durak. Russians don’t team up with anyone unless they’re close friends.
“If you refuse to pacify my request,” Robert’s mouth cocks with a sly grin, “well, I hear James likes getting fucked by men.”
My heart drops.
I won’t let that happen to James again. No matter what I must do. I can’t!
“How am I supposed to find his body?” I say, shaking off the blanket to cool the heat. It’s suddenly so hot in here I feel like I’m going to melt.
“Decena has it,” Robert says. “Rumor speculates Maksim is hanging upside down somewhere, rotting without a burial—courtesy of Charlie Decena.”
He’s going to send me back to Charlie?
Slava bogu!
I rest back on the bed, hiding my relief that I’ll be going home soon. Once I’m with Charlie, we can hatch a plan and get James back.
“I can see your brain working,” Robert says, circling his own head as a metaphor to my mind spinning. “Is it a struggle to concentrate while withdrawing from heroin?”
“What am I supposed to say to Charlie?” I speak over his question. “He’s going to want to know who took me and where I’ve been. He won’t settle for, I cannot tell you. Charlie isn’t like that. He’s calculative, smart...”
“Tell him what you like.” Robert shrugs again. “As long as you keep my name out of it, you are good, and James will be good, too.”
Suits me.
I’m just about to ask when can I leave, but he interrupts by informing me one of his top whores is going to come fix me up with some opiates, and that I’ll be locked in this cell until I’m completely clean of the heroin.
“I am not taking any more drugs,” I say. I feel sick just thinking about it.
“No?”
“No.”
“Hmmm.” Robert’s eyebrows arch. “Well, if you don’t take a substitute for the heroin, you’ll be clucking like a chicken within a few hours. Your last hit was around...” He flicks his wrist, revealing a heavy, gold watch. “...Eight hours ago. I would suggest you rethink—”
“I. Am. Not. Taking. Any. More. Drugs,” I hiss every word, so he understands.
“Blaire, you’ve been on heroin for quite some time, amid the other drugs they used to keep you mostly unconscious—look at the evidence. Look at all those puncture marks on your body.” He points at me, at my arms and then my legs. “You also just barely recovered from whatever illness you were suffering from when the Arabs stole you...”
Just barely recovered is an understatement. I remember now: I was on death’s door with blood poisoning—Charlie assumed as much when he found me at Rumo’s house after I escaped Maksim—plus I had a bullet wound to the stomach, and my back was torn to shreds. The six weeks I spent in hospital would not have been enough. To recover from the stomach wound alone, I’d have needed a few months.
“I don’t want you hooked on anything, trust me on that,” Robert says, striving to reason with me. “But I also cannot let you go cold turkey. It’s dangerous. You cost me a fortune. I need your skills. You’re no good to me dead. Just take the pills. You will be okay.” He goes on and on. I wish he would shut up. I scream it over and over in my head. Shut up! Shut up! Just shut up!
“Blaire, are you listening to me? If you don’t have a supplement, you will—”
“I don’t fucking care!” I scream, vibrating with anger. I imagine he is right about the aftereffects when the heroin wears off, but I’m strong. If I can survive Maksim, I can survive this. “If anyone tries to give me drugs, you holding James will be the least of your problems.”
Under my warning, Robert’s face pales of color, and my eyes widen. Is he frightened of me?
In an act of self-preservation, he rises to his feet. He clears his throat and nods a couple of times, pocketing the red button. “Fine. Suffer, if you want. That’s your decision; the only decision I will allow. The bathroom is through there”—he points at the other single door in the room, and then he points down beside the bed I’m sitting on, at a funny looking basket—“in there, you will find supplies. Take a week or so to live in the withdrawals. Then, ill or not, you will appease my request, Blaire.”
I’m more than happy to appease this fat mudak’s request as it means I will see Charlie again.