Devious (23 page)

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Authors: Lisa Jackson

BOOK: Devious
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G
racie Blanc needed cash. She was late on her rent again, and that creep of an apartment manager Harold Horwood, who had the balls to call himself McHorny, like a character on a popular television show—oh, sure—was pressuring her, offering to be her pimp for special privileges. “You’re a whore, and I’ve got a woody. Get it? Horwood?” he’d said, thinking he was super clever.
Gross.
He wasn’t even bad-looking, with his straight, near-black hair and ever-tanned complexion, but his attitude made her stomach churn. She needed to get another place.
All his attempts to enter pimpdom were a waste of time. Grace was independent. She didn’t need some man “managing” her career, as McHorny had put it so often. As if turning tricks was her lifelong ambition.
She needed a new place to live and a new job. The trouble was her current apartment was cheap, and she was good at what she did; she just couldn’t make the same amount of money tending bar or pouring coffee at an all-night diner.
She walked along Bourbon Street, the lights flickering, the crowd jostling her in her platform shoes and shorts. Here, she didn’t get a second look, nearly blending in with the crowd that filled the street, so she turned toward the river and walked a few blocks away, where there was less noise, fewer people, and the cops didn’t patrol as often.
Here, cars could actually pass and identities were hidden in the shadows.
She paused under a streetlamp, lit a cigarette, and made her way to her favorite corner. Sometimes she had to share the territory, which was all right; she felt safer just knowing another working girl would notice her. And she had her cell phone if anything got a little too kinky or rough.
The night was warm but thick, the rain threatening to start in earnest. Even so, because she was desperate and couldn’t go back to her apartment without some cash, she let her jacket slide off her shoulder.
In a tube top and black leather skirt, she knew she looked her best. She kept herself in shape, her waist small, her ass a “bubble butt” that wasn’t too large, just big enough to attract attention. Her hair was still thick and lustrous, falling nearly to her waist in loose red curls. The johns loved her hair. Oh, they were into her breasts, too, but it was her fiery, tousled hair that really caught their attention.
Go figure.
She leaned up against a light post and took a deep drag on her cigarette as a few cars rolled slowly past. She gave each one an interested eye, but no one stopped and no windows were down. It wasn’t worthwhile to call out.
A bunch of teenage boys drove by. Their car, a black Lexus two-door, throbbed with music, the bass heavy even through the closed windows. On the second pass, they stopped and a cloud of marijuana smoke drifted out as the driver’s window was eased down.
She sauntered up to the driver’s door. A pimply faced kid who didn’t look old enough to have a license, his hands gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles showed white, could barely look at her.
There were four other boys crammed into the car.
“How much?” the driver asked nervously, and the kid in the passenger seat had the brains to turn down the rap music.
She eyed the group, thought of her younger brother in Duluth. He was older than these punks, but not by much. “Five hundred a piece,” she said, because she had her standards. Underage horny boys, especially a pack of them, were off-limits. Big trouble.
“What?” In the lamplight, the driver looked like he’d just peed himself.
“Fuck! No way!” an African American dude in the backseat called. “That’s highway robbery, man.”
“Going rate.”
“Like hell.”
“That’s the going part of it. You’d better get going.”
“That bitch tryin’ to rip us off!” said another kid, one in the shadows of the backseat, his face hidden.
She wasn’t into playing games.
“Gang bangs aren’t free,” she said.
“You ain’t seen what I got, baby,” No-Face purred. As if he were God’s gift.
The rain was coming down hard now, so she said, “So let me show
you all
what
I
got, okay?”
“Yeah, baby,” the guy in the passenger seat said.
Gross.
She whipped out her cell phone. “If you don’t want me to call my pimp, then you’d better get yourselves out of here. You know he’s pretty badass.”
“We . . . we got fifty bucks,” one kid offered up. Jesus, had his voice even changed? “Don’t that buy a blow job? It’s my bro Jesse’s birthday.”
“Happy birthday, Jesse,” she said. “How old are you?”
A kid with red hair pressed his face to the window of the backseat.
“He’s eighteen,” No-Face insisted.
She almost laughed. Jesse couldn’t have been more than fourteen, fifteen tops. The fun was over. She threw her cigarette onto the street, mashed it out with the toe of her platform, then dialed a fake number into the phone. When a male voice answered, thank God, she said, “Yeah, Big Len, I got me a little problem down here . . . Yeah, my usual corner. Some punk kids are hassling me . . . Yeah, bring Ralph along. And make it quick.”
“She’s just fuckin’ with us, man.” No-Face again. The wise one.
“I wish she was fuckin’ us,” the black dude said. “Check out her ass.”
Gracie glanced down the street, as if expecting someone. That did it for the driver. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. “I’m outta here. My dad will kill me if I get into any trouble with his car.”
“What a pussy!” No-Face wasn’t impressed, but the driver hit the gas, tearing out and nearly running a stoplight.
She was about to give up when a silver sedan, one that had driven around the block a couple of times, showed up again. This was it, her last chance. The rain was playing hell with her hair and makeup.
The car eased up to the corner, and a guy with dark glasses rolled down his window. No marijuana. No group of testosterone-driven teenagers. No rap music, just the quiet banter of a radio talk show.
“You lookin’ for a good time?”
“Always.” His smile was enigmatic.
“It’ll cost ya,” she said, but he was nodding; he knew the drill. He didn’t even flinch when she upped her standard fee twenty bucks.
Man, the rain was really coming down now. His windshield wipers slapped it wildly off the glass.
“It has to be my place,” she was saying.
“Of course. I’ll drive.”
She hurried around the back of the car and slid into the passenger seat. It smelled clean, no lingering smoke, so she didn’t light up, just rattled off the address as he, dressed all in black, his jacket zipped to his neck, drove calmly, not talking. The swish of the wipers and hiss of the tires over the wet pavement underscored the drone of the radio. He drove the speed limit—no hurry—and they arrived at the old apartment building where she resided. Her two rooms were on the first floor, near the back entrance. She dashed through the rain with him on her heels, and though she thought it odd that he didn’t remove his sunglasses, Gracie was used to all kinds of freaks, some of whom didn’t even want sex; they just wanted to talk or watch her fondle herself, or . . . well, whatever. If she’d learned anything in this business, it was that she couldn’t guess what made a john tick.
Damn, the hallway reeked of Mrs. Rubino’s old-world spaghetti sauce, meaning there was enough essence of garlic to keep even the toughest vampire at bay. And her television was cranked to the max, the noise from one of her favorite late-night game shows echoing down the corridor. Mrs. Rubino, nearly deaf and overly friendly to the point of being downright nosy, was Gracie’s only neighbor on this side of the building. The maintenance room, elevator, and stairway to the upper floors separated the two units.
Gracie didn’t apologize for the odor and knew that it would stop at her doorway. She always made sure her rooms smelled of vanilla and musk, the scents of the candles and incense she burned in her tiny quarters.
Quickly, she unlocked her door and stepped inside.
The john followed after her, and as she lit the candles, she heard him shrug off his jacket.
“I get paid in advance,” she said gently, touching the end of her lighter to the charred wick of a tall, fragrant taper.
“I know.” His voice was low, nearly melodic, and she felt rather than saw him withdraw his wallet, open it, and leave the money on the small kitchen table near the window. Then she heard the venetian blinds snap shut.
She set down the lighter. The ambiance was lost on so many of her johns, but she liked the soft light and warm scents. Shrugging out of her jacket, she turned and her heart nearly stopped when she saw the clerical collar that had been hidden under his coat.
“You’re a . . . priest?” she asked, though it didn’t matter. Men of God were still men, and the john might not even be a priest. How many “doctors” had she met who didn’t know one end of a stethoscope from the other?
He didn’t reply, just removed his clothes, taking off his pants and folding them, doing the same with his shirt and collar. Candlelight showed off his muscles, hard and sinewy, a strong man and handsome, though she couldn’t see his eyes through his dark glasses.
He could have been a male model, she thought, but for the wicked scar on one leg, a jagged, red gash that seemed to pulse. She tried not to think of what might have caused it. A horrid motorcycle accident?
Maybe something worse.
Shuddering inwardly, she caught a glimpse of the bill he’d tucked under the empty vase on the table. A C-note . . . but it was off—Ben Franklin’s eyes blackened. Her skin crawled a little; then she told herself to get over it. So the hundred-dollar bill was marred? So what? It would spend as easily as a crisp new one. And it would make a good dent in the rent she owed, get Harold off her back.
She turned her attention to the job at hand.
His cock hung limp.
“Wear this,” he said, and as he walked closer to her, she caught a glimpse of something sparkling in the candlelight, little glass beads oozing through the fingers of his right hand.
A rosary?
What was this?
Did he expect her to kneel and pray with him?
Talk about kinky!
“You haven’t said what you want,” she told him. He was close enough to kiss her now, to yank off her tube top or push her skirt over her hips.
If he wanted to.
“Submission,” he said softly, and leaned forward, nuzzling her neck. “Total and complete submission.”
“Whatever you want,” she whispered back, smiling, her hands reaching upward to circle his neck, her breasts pushing through the flimsy knit fabric of her top to rub suggestively against the hair that was thick upon his chest. “Everything’s for sale . . . even submission.”
“I thought so.” His smile twisted a bit as he walked her backward through the open bedroom door.
Was there something in his hands? She’d felt something . . . more than the rosary.
“Take off your clothes.”
“No prob.” At least he was getting down to business. She did a quick little striptease for him, hoping to see some life come to his dick, but the damn thing didn’t so much as twitch, not even when she held her breasts in her hands, letting her nipples peek through her fingers.
Wouldn’t you know?
“You look good,” she cooed, working on his male ego.
He didn’t respond, just set a small radio on the bed and turned it on, back to the talk show that had been playing in the car. Then, almost methodically, as if it were a ritual, he slid the rosary over her head and let it dangle against her breasts, the beads warm from holding them in his hand.
To get the show going, she let him kiss her. And fondle her a little roughly.
As they fell onto the faded quilt on her old mattress, she tried to ramp up the heat, licking him, purring against him, rubbing all those places she knew usually guaranteed an immediate and hard reaction.
Not this time.
Oh, great. She’d really have to work for her money tonight. Wouldn’t you know. But at least the guy was good-looking. She reached up to remove his glasses, and he caught her wrist.
“Don’t touch them!”
“Oh, wow. Okay.”
“I mean it.” His voice was rough, and for the first time she felt his cock twitch.
“I said okay.”
Wow, this was getting a little weird. Better get him off and fast, then kick him the hell out. She began kissing him again, working her magic, but he pulled back and stared down at her through the shaded lenses. “You’re a whore,” he said.
She played along. Whatever fantasy turned him on. “And you like whores, don’t you, Father?”
“I detest them.” His dick was actually coming to life.
“So you want to punish me?” she asked. God, was the guy into spanking? Well, she could handle a little of that. She rolled over, pushing her ass into the air; then she looked over her shoulder coquettishly, through a veil of wild red curls. “Have I been bad?” she asked, playing into his fantasy. “Have I sinned? Do I need a spanking?” She let her lips roll into a pout.

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