Cajun Gothic (Blood Haven) (8 page)

“Did you know her well?”

“
Da
, Nairi was friend, good friend. Vit me,
Vit Svetlana.”

That got my attention. Svetlana had been heavy into
the Council of Gotham shit, doing the clubs and acting out to the point of
allowing herself to be bitten. Some of that had been part and parcel of her hooking,
but most of it seemed to fall into that euphemistic ‘lifestyle choice’
category. From what I’d gleaned from Ivan, she was one of the true believers.

I asked, “Did Nairi go with Svetlana to the clubs?”

I realized I should be more specific because, of
course, she’d done the club circuit—as an escort, or on her own, or with the
other acolytes. Sasha understood well enough to answer in the affirmative.

I looked at the upper row of windows. How many
working girls lived here on a permanent basis? I’d seen one small bedroom, but
hadn’t paid much attention when Ivan had led me upstairs last Saturday. There’d
be three bedrooms at most in a row home this size, bunks in each, leaving six,
maybe nine girls sharing space if they converted the basement for sleeping
quarters.

“Did Nairi live here?”

“
Nyet
, but she not far. Manny has two houses,
this one and one on 7
^th
.”

That was a good-sized stable for a single pimp to
run, which might be why he hired guys like Ivan to house-mother the lot while
he saw to the street. Manny was the hands-on type; but he didn’t strike me as
admin material, and procurement required a network and contacts that went above
and beyond.

It was hard to shake the feeling I was poking at a
hornet’s nest.

I asked, “Was she here a lot?”

Sasha shrugged. “Manny sometimes hard on her. For
what she liked. She would come to us to hide.” With pride in her voice she
said, “I take care of both. They need me.”

Then her voice broke and I could barely make out the
words, something to the effect that they didn’t need her anymore; no one needed
her.

At that point, I sat on the lounger, my thigh
hugging her bare hip.

I need you
hung on my lips, but
instead I asked, “When was the last time you saw her?”

“She come here. Olga cooks on Sunday. Is tradition
for us.” Her eyes glazed over, remembering. “It was hot, so no one was too
hungry. Olga made borscht and black bread. I made salad. Cucumbers, tomatoes.
It was nice, all of us work in kitchen. Like family.” She hitched a sharp breath.
“Like home.”

“How was she?” Sasha didn’t understand what I meant
so I elaborated, “Was she scared or sad about Svetlana? What did she talk
about?”

“We all scared. Nairi said… she said she would pray.
For all of us. She would go to church and light candles.” Hiccoughing a sob,
Sasha’s voice trailed off until I could barely hear her. “She made this vow.”

That went a long way toward explaining why the
latest victim was at St. Vartan’s on Sunday night or early Monday morning. But
how she got from her usual haunts down to 34
^th
in the middle of the
night was a big question mark.

Manny was good as far as pimps went, providing
livable accommodations and protection; but he was a stickler when it came to
money. For Manny, there was no such thing as a slow night and he kept careful
tabs on transactions, emptying the till at regular intervals. Not a bad idea
either. It was safer for the girls, but it also meant there’d be nothing left
over for cab fare.

I needed to pursue that thought, so I pressed her
further. “When did you leave… to go to work?”

“Manny pick us up before nine. He drop me off at my
spot, then leave. That’s the last I saw her.”

Her friend, Nairi, would have been close by, leaving
more than twenty long city blocks to hoof in stilettos to go to church. Not
frigging likely. If I was a betting man, I’d put a C-note on her having a ride
to the Cathedral. But was it a one-off with the wrong customer—that
opportunistic thing again? Or was it a friend, or at least a person who she
trusted enough to take a chance at risking Manny’s ire? If a friend, had they
hung around, ready to give her a ride back? If yes, what did they see, if
anything? And where the hell were they now?

My head was about to explode with all the
permutations. That tingle along my spine alerted me that I might be on the
right track. And that empty column on the ledger might be getting some entries
once I’d worked through the possibilities.

Sasha chose that moment to lick the sweat off her
upper lip, first with her tongue, then with that pouty full lower lip. All
thoughts of asking more questions vanished.

I watched the sweat trickling down between her
breasts, the path meandering as she drew shallow breaths, the rise and fall
mesmerizing. With my thumb I traced the path through the valley between the
firm globes, using my left hand on her hip to brace my upper body. She stilled
but didn’t pull away.

Ivan was just inside, I was armed with a raging hard
on, and the goddess reclining at my fingertips smiled and set aside the towel.

That combination made me horny
and
stupid.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Retainer

T
he vinyl cushion slid against my
skin, slick with sweat, her sweat. She straddled me at the knees, my shoulder
holster draped across her thighs. Slowly removing the nine, she handled it
cautiously, turning it this way and that, the sun’s rays bluing out the steel,
the only cool oasis in a furnace of lava heat.

With barrel and finger tips, the girl cum whore
expertly maneuvered my jeans low on my thighs, trapping me, exposing my lust.

Why her? Why now?

Eyes narrowing against the glare, I watched as Sasha
thumbed the trigger and thanked the gods of good sense that I never carry hot
with a round in the chamber. Leaning forward, breasts swaying enticingly close
to my belly, she pressed the cool metal against my throat then dragged it
whisper soft down my chest. As she traced the line of my hip, pressure
increased to the point of pain.

Swallowing hard, I concentrated on nipples pinched
to stiff peaks, slim tanned thighs pressing in, holding me hostage. Not
touching was killing me slowly, fear and self-loathing coating my mouth,
willing her to do it…

We weren’t alone.

She liked to watch, to be
watched. Because she liked it, I learned to shut everything out, everything but
pure sensation, the greed of lust, the luxury of pain.

She called it discipline…

It was a thing I knew,
intimately.

Then there was something else, another memory
intruding, overpowering the first.

They say you always remember your
first… It came sharp and sweet, a sting that echoed and tingled, leaving my
skin raw and hot. His slow smile of satisfaction, liking it, savoring the
power. He left without a word and I huddled at the bedroom door, listening to
sounds not meant for a child’s ear.

Shielding my eyes against the sun’s glare I begged
silently, hips arching as the demoness dragged the muzzle across the weeping
tip. Imagining the worst made me harder, thicker, the vein distended in
purplish splendor… screaming for release.

Beads of moisture popped and trickled between
shoulder blades tensed against the harsh plastic.

The rank stink of lust and sex
hung heavy, air too thick to breathe, candles flickering and weaving against
shadowed stone. Stretched out on wooden tables shoved together, hands tied
above my head, the anticipation was almost better than the first crack…

He’d remove the belt with
exquisite care, first the buckle, using both hands, making me watch, building
fear and desire. Then the wide, worn leather eased from the loops, one at a
time, hand-over-hand pulling it forward and wrapping it around his left hand
until only a few inches swung free.

Brushing my hair off my forehead,
he’d stare with cold eyes, making me face him, right hand at my throat, thumb
stroking with loving strength.

Drop ’em, he’d muttered, eyes
hooded with satisfaction. Asking me… how many. Forcing me to keep score. If I
was right, his eyes would gleam with satisfaction. If I was wrong…

Time ceased to exist, I ceased to exist, memory and
sensation cross-firing, misfiring, until there was no distinguishing past or
present. Without being told, I sensed what was allowed, what wasn’t. The only
rule… there were no rules.

Nails, blunted and squared, teased, one, then two,
then many… cold steel gone, set aside for a more personal approach. If I
sighed, if I made any sound at all, it was more with regret than relief.

She hummed a question, guttural and thick, but
looking wasn’t permitted… seeing was, an inner vision releasing a floodgate of
heat, cascading and pooling in my groin. A touch, one, one only and I’d be
gone.

She’d yet to cup the length, preferring to toy and
promise, massaging the soft sacs, forcing them to contract. My legs grew numb,
her weight, the grip of unyielding fabric, all driving blood and sensation
away, upwards, as she directed lust and stole my control.

I whimpered.

Hands clasped my ankles, pinning
me in place.

Soft scuffling, chairs being
moved, a brush of dreadlocks against my chest, dragging lower, blanketing my
tortured flesh.

A voice like an angel,
child-like, trilled in my ear, assuring me though the words made no sense.

Hot chill and icy heat spilled
over my belly, inching closer, the smell of liquid wax assaulting my nostrils.
I opened my mouth to breath and gagged, the taste of copper vicious and
unexpected. Bucking against the restraints, twisting, moaning, my body yearned
to give in to fear.

They say you always remember the
first time. Your first kiss… Your first love…

The first time you face down a
bully.

He returned from a teacher
conference, face set in hard lines, my mother’s voice anxious.

Acting out. Anger issues. Where
did he get that from? He’s a good boy, they have the wrong one…

I loved her for that, the
blindness. She’d earned it the same way I had.

I knew it was coming. Small for
my age, weak, all I could do was endure and pray someday I’d become the man who
would stand up and say no.

That wasn’t the day.

You’re bleeding, he’d said. Flat,
unemotional.

Keeping my back to him, I
wallowed in the harsh stinging on my thighs and buttocks, the trickle of blood
a new feeling, distracting. And unnerving.

I didn’t hear him leave but he
returned with a washcloth and gently dabbed at the slices and welts, hand on my
hip to steady himself, steady me.

Eyes scrunched shut, I’d yet to
succumb to the tears. Then he ordered me to turn around and I dared a stare
filled with hate, fists clenched and ready.

His eyes shone with… pride.

He told me to take care of myself.
And left me alone. He never used the belt again.

I was a man now. Only fists would
do.

Drifting back into consciousness, I became only
dimly aware of the long pulls, the wet heat enveloping my cock. I reached for
her fine silky hair, wanting to crush the waves between my fingers. To hold her
head steady while I pummeled her mouth.

Cold steel bit into my temple and I arched back into
the cushion, the taste of iron thick on my tongue. Lip throbbing, swelling
where I’d bitten down… in ecstasy or pain I hadn’t a clue.

Gripping the arms of the lounger, I willed my
muscles rigid, riding the storm, wave after wave as she sucked me dry and left
me quivering.

And then her weight lifted and heat settled on skin
sheltered under her sweet cunt. I hissed for breath through clenched teeth,
neck aching from bracing against the unyielding plastic. The screen door
snicked open and closed.

The muzzle rested a moment longer, making a point.
Then Ivan slipped it into the holster and set it on the ground.

Looming over me, he said with a small smile, “That’s
your retainer,” and left me to ponder what had just happened.

****

I walked aimlessly for an hour, perhaps more. When
my stomach rumbled, I found a Jewish deli and settled into a booth with a
Rueben and a side of slaw and dill pickles. They had sweet tea, and I smiled at
the anomaly and the mixing of cultures.