Married Lovers

  His mind flashed–Grab a condom–Grab a condom.

  His cock said–Fuck it.

  So he did. He fucked her all the way to kingdom come and back.

  And then it was over and he thought–Damn. That was not the direction I should’ve gone in. No frigging way.

  Marty was getting drunker by the minute, and his pursuit of Lucy did not go unnoticed by Phil–who was hitting a few back himself.

  Ryan kept a steady eye on both of them, for he smelled trouble ahead, and that was all he needed to make the night perfect.

  He approached Mandy who was chatting to his mother as if they were the best of buddies.

  “When is dinner being served?” he asked.

  “Soon,” Mandy replied, reaching out to clutch Noreen’s hand.

  “You’d better make it soon,” Ryan said tersely. “Marty’s drunk and chasing after Lucy.”

  “Don’t you love it when our Ryan gets all flustered?” Mandy giggled to her mother-in-law. “He’s just like a little boy.”

  “You should’ve seen him when he was ten,” Noreen replied, joining in to what she thought was fun banter. “Smart as a whip and so grown up.”

  “Nothing’s changed,” Mandy said. “Has it, sweetheart?”

  This was hardly the Mandy he knew. Had she gone through a lobotomy and he hadn’t noticed?

  The doorbell rang. Nobody seemed to hear it except for him, so he marched to the front door and flung it open.

  Standing there was Hamilton J. Heckerling and his beautiful young bride, Pola. She was wearing a green satin Yves Saint Laurent suit and an array of tasteful diamond jewelry.

  Hamilton stood tall, the proud new husband, his arm flung possessively across her shoulders.

  “Ah, it’s my son-in-law,” Hamilton boomed, stepping inside the house. “Meet my new bride, Pola.”

  Pola was smiling.

  The blood drained from Ryan’s face.

  “Well?” Hamilton said in a loud voice. “Aren’t you gonna congratulate us?”

  Amsterdam

  Seven years earlier

  The private plane, commandeered by Don Verona, arrived in Amsterdam at noon–carrying a group of hung-over men–including Don’s best friend, the bridegroom-to-be, Ryan Richards. Also aboard were Ryan’s other best friends–Phil Standard, Eddie Serrano, an actor who’d starred in Ryan’s first movie, and Jenna, a lesbian friend from college who’d co-produced one of his films.

  Four American men and one American woman with “Bachelor Party” screaming in their heads. Although Ryan’s head wasn’t exactly screaming, he would’ve been happier staying home. But Don and Phil were having none of it. Their friend, Ryan, was finally getting married and they’d all decided he deserved a worthy send-off.

  Don had one divorce behind him, and Phil had been married for three years to the luscious movie star, Lucy Lyons, who’d already presented him with a son and was currently pregnant with their second child.

  Phil was hot to party, as was Don–coming out of a divorce was always stressful.

  Not only had Don arranged the plane, he’d also organized the hotel and a special tour guide to show them the sights of Amsterdam. “None of that tourist crap,” Don had instructed. “We’re interested in seeing the real thing.”

  Their tour guide met them at the hotel. She was not what any of them had expected. First off they’d expected a male. Hanna might’ve been one once, but she certainly wasn’t anymore. She was six feet tall with cascades of blonde curls, large breasts, wide shoulders and strong features. She smelled of ode to–you’re going to have an excellent time. And if you don’t, I am quite capable of beating the shit out of you.

  Jenna fell instantly in love. So did Eddie, while Phil decided he might give it a try.

  Hanna spoke perfect English in a deep masculine voice. Ryan was convinced he/she was a sex change.

  “All the better,” Don said. “She’ll know the ins and outs of every hot place to go.”

  In a way Ryan felt he’d been totally railroaded so his friends could have themselves a fine old time at his expense. They’d lured him onto the plane, promising Vegas as their destination. And now here they were in Amsterdam, one of the sex capitals of Europe.

  He didn’t want sex, he wasn’t interested in getting laid. He was thirty-three years old and up until this point–as far as women were concerned–his entire life had been one long crazy bachelor party. Now he was ready to settle down with one woman, and she was all he needed. Mandy Heckerling. She was perfect for him. Pretty, smart and quite content to be his wife. A woman with no career ambitions in Hollywood was a big plus.

  “Here’s the plan,” Don announced after they’d checked into their hotel overlooking one of the many canals in the heart of Amsterdam. “A coupla hours to recover, then we hit the streets big time. Everybody ready?”

  Everybody signaled they were indeed ready, except for Ryan, who wondered how he could get out of it. Mandy had no idea they’d dragged him across the Atlantic for fun and games in Amsterdam. She wouldn’t be exactly thrilled.

  “Remember–this is your final fling,” Don informed him. “You’d better make the most of it.”

  Ryan remembered Don’s final fling eighteen months ago before he married Sacha, his French movie star. It had been some blow-out. Two booze-filled nights in Tijuana with strippers and hookers galore, farm animals, and hang-overs that had lasted a week. Now Don was divorced, so it hadn’t exactly been his final fling.

  Ryan took a shower, readying himself for the ordeal that lay ahead. One thing he was determined about, and that was to stay sober and in control.

  Yeah, sure. With his group of friends. It was his bachelor party, he’d better be prepared for anything.

  It was many hours later when they finally hit the red-light district. Hours filled with the usual requisites of a bachelor party. Strippers, who did it with snakes; a live sex show between two women and a Sumo wrestler; clubs that featured women with cucumbers, bananas, little people, chickens, sheep–you name it, they could produce it. And along the way they’d stopped in cafés where grass was legal and getting high was an everyday occurrence.

  The infamous street was where women sat in lighted windows waiting for someone–anyone–to choose them, fuck them, pay them and go home. Pimps lurked in the shadows, touting for customers.

  “Take your pick,” Don said, as they walked along the street inspecting the women for sale. There were all types. Young, old, fat, thin, big-breasted, flat-chested. Asian, European, black, Scandinavian. Something for everyone.

  “You gotta do it,” Don urged. “If you don’t, it means bad luck forever.”

  Ryan forced himself to inspect the poor pathetic creatures sitting in their windows. He felt sorry for all of them. The skinny black hooker in pink lingerie; the fat blonde in a see-though baby-doll nightdress; the hyper redhead licking her fingers and suggestively beckoning passersby to come join her.

  Then he spotted her, the young girl from one of the earlier sex shows they’d attended. He was sure she couldn’t be more than fifteen or sixteen. She was exquisitely beautiful, but her face was sad, and her eyes were full of pain.

  He’d tried not to watch earlier when she’d appeared in a show with three different men and a woman. He’d put his mind elsewhere when, after the men had screwed her, she’d been pissed on and abused for the audience’s entertainment. He’d had to walk outside and wait for the others.

  He’d felt ashamed of himself for witnessing things he didn’t care to see, but it was his bachelor party, so what could he do? The rest of his friends were enjoying themselves, he didn’t want to ruin it for them.

  Now here he was on the street, and there she was again, a forlorn, lost and very beautiful little creature.

  He stopped abruptly. “I’ll take her,” he said.

  Phil roared his approval. “An’ I’ll take the one next door,” he said, gesturing toward a comely dark-haired woman in a short red dress who sat at a table looking bored while
playing Solitaire.

  Hanna produced a smile, exhibiting big horse teeth. “Anyone else see anything they like?” she inquired.

  Don shook his head and punched Ryan on the arm. “Make it a good one,” he laughed. “Cause after tonight, all you’ll have are the memories.”

  “I go broker the deal,” Hanna announced, approaching a tall, skinny pimp who hovered nearby.

  Hanna and the pimp seemed to know each other, they exchanged pleasantries and money, then Hanna told Ryan and Phil to go into the respective rooms.

  “We’ll see you back at the hotel,” Don said, patting Ryan on the back. “Unless you’d like us to stay and watch!”

  “Not necessary,” Ryan replied, forcing himself to crack a smile. “I might take longer than you think.”

  “That’s my best friend,” Don crowed. “See you back at the hotel.”

  “You may tip the girl if she performs well,” Hanna said, all business. “She’ll do anything you want. Everything is paid for.”

  “Yeah, compliments of me,” Don said, grinning broadly. “An’ wear a jacket if you get what I mean.”

  Seconds later Ryan found himself alone in the room with the girl.

  Without looking at him she walked over and closed the flimsy curtains, cutting off the light from the street, leaving on a tall floor lamp with a red lightbulb. Then she began taking off her skimpy top.

  “No!” Ryan said abruptly. “Don’t do that.”

  She turned and stared at him.

  “Can you understand me?” he said. “Do you speak English?”

  “A little,” she replied.

  Yes, over the two years she’d been in Amsterdam she’d learned English. She’d learned many other things too. She’d learned that she couldn’t trust anyone, even Velma, because one night–after a vicious verbal battle with Joe–Velma had vanished, never to return. And after that she’d been at Joe’s mercy, and he was a hard taskmaster, forcing her to do terrible things.

  “What can I do to please you?” Anya asked, her face devoid of any expression.

  “Nothing,” Ryan said.

  “Nothing,” she repeated blankly. “But you have paid for me, and if I do not please you–”

  “What’ll happen if you don’t please me?” he asked.

  She hung her head and muttered, “Nothing.”

  Of course she was lying.

  “How old are you?” he said, figuring she couldn’t be more than sixteen.

  “How old would you like me to be?” she replied boldly. “I can be any age you want. I can do anything you want. You like me to suck—”

  “Stop!”

  “I can do anything you want, mister,” she said again, her tone sulky.

  He sensed that all she wanted was to get it over with. Another john. Another night. And the same tomorrow, and the day after that and so on and so forth.

  “Where are you from?” he asked, noticing that her arms were covered in large purple bruises.

  “Nowhere,” she answered flatly.

  He sat on the edge of the saggy bed with the faded blue coverlet. “Do you have parents?”

  “You police?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

  “No, I’m not police. I’m just a guy who’s getting married next week, and this was my friend’s idea of a celebration. Believe me–it’s not mine.”

  “You don’t want to fuck me?” she said incredulously.

  “No, I don’t. What I’d like to do is help you.”

  “Help me?” she said suspiciously. “How could you do that?”

  “It would be my way of making my bachelor night memorable. Helping someone who’s obviously caught in a trap.”

  “You can’t help me,” she said bitterly. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “I’m a film-maker. That’s what I do, listen to people’s stories, so why don’t you tell me yours?”

  “You make porno?”

  “No. I make legitimate movies.”

  “You want to buy porno?” she said, just as Joe had trained her to do. “My boyfriend–he sell filthy movies most American men want. Girls together, boys—”

  “Your boyfriend, huh?” Ryan interrupted. “Don’t you mean your pimp?”

  Her gaze swiveled fearfully toward the door as if she expected Joe to appear at any time.

  “I’m guessing,” Ryan said. “But here goes. You’re from a poor family–Slovakia or maybe Poland. A man came to your house one day and promised your parents he could get you a good job in Holland, so they sent you off with him in return for a small payment. When you got here, the job turned out to be prostitution, and now you’re trapped.”

  She shrugged. His version of her life was a fairy story compared to the real deal.

  “Am I right?” Ryan asked.

  She stared at him for a long silent moment, wondering if this was a trap Joe had set, a test to see if she would betray him to the authorities.

  Yes.

  No.

  This American man seemed genuine enough, only he didn’t require sex, which made him suspect, because all men wanted sex.

  “Sit down and let’s you and I talk,” Ryan said gently. “Please don’t be afraid, I’m not going to hurt you. I have three sisters and if any one of them was in trouble, I would hope someone would step forward to help them.”

  Anya felt dizzy. Was it possible he meant what he said?

  Maybe.

  Maybe not.

  Anya was not sure of anything anymore.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Anya’s eyes were a steely pale blue as she stared Ryan down as if she’d never seen him before, as if he wasn’t the man who’d rescued her from a life of degradation and despair.

  “So nice to meet you,” she said, in a flat, strongly-accented voice.

  “Uh…likewise,” he managed, as Mandy appeared in the front hallway, extremely startled to see her father whom she’d thought was still on his so-called honeymoon.

  “Daddy!” Mandy exclaimed with a petulant pout. “Why didn’t you let me know you were back?”

  “Thought I’d surprise you, Princess,” Hamilton said, smoothing back his head of thick silvery hair. “Wanted you to meet Pola in person. Isn’t she a little doll?”

  Only Hamilton would have the nerve to call a woman a doll.

  Mandy’s head swiveled to take in her father’s latest wife. The girl was exactly as she’d expected, another money-grubbing piece of trash. Why couldn’t he just sleep with them? Why did he have to marry them?

  Mandy kept her feelings to herself, but inside she was seething. What was wrong with her father? Did he really believe that people admired his taste in women when anyone with half a brain could see they were just after him for his money? And to make matters worse–this one wasn’t even a woman; this one was a girl all dressed up in designer clothes and too many diamonds that were way too sophisticated for one so young.

  “Hi,” Mandy said, summoning a lackluster smile.

  “So nice to meet you,” Anya said, the same flat greeting she’d given Ryan.

  Standing by, Ryan was still in a state of shock. Pola/Anya. How the hell had she gotten here? Married to his father-in-law, standing in the hallway of his house. It was quite unbelievable.

  Did she even realize it was him? Ryan Richards, her rescuer, the man who’d paid plenty of money to gain her freedom, the man who’d called in so many favors to get her a Visa and entry into America. Thank God he hadn’t fucked her. That would’ve really been bad.

  No flicker of recognition crossed her exquisite face. Did she suffer from amnesia? It was only seven years ago, and he hadn’t changed that much, in fact hardly at all. His hair was longer, that was about it.

  She, however, had changed a great deal. No longer a frightened, abused young girl, she was sleek and groomed, with auburn hair, expert make-up, and expensive clothes on her slim body. The diamonds she was adorned with were staggering. Hamilton must really like her.

  “Well,” Mandy said, rallying to th
e occasion because she had no choice, “this is quite a surprise. Will you be staying for dinner?”

  “Didn’t realize you were in the middle of a party,” Hamilton said, brushing imaginary lint off the lapel of his Brioni suit. “Don’t wish to intrude.”

  “You’re not intruding,” Mandy replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. “It’s only Ryan’s family. Hardly a party.”

  Ryan shot her a look. Only his family indeed, as if they were so unimportant. Did words pop out of her mouth without thinking?

  Yes. Mandy had a habit of always saying the wrong thing, she had no thought for other people’s feelings.

  “We’ll stay,” Hamilton decided. “You and Pola are about to become close.”

  “We are?” Mandy said, swallowing her indignation that he would expect her to be friends with his latest wife.

  “Pola doesn’t know anyone in L.A.,” Hamilton continued. “And I’m not exposing her to the dragon lady wives of my friends. Besides, she’ll have nothing in common with them, they’re all too old. You’re it, Princess. You’ll show her all that girly crap such as where to get her hair and nails done, the best masseuse, what stores to frequent.”

  “Of course,” Mandy gushed, thinking no way was she cozying up to Daddy’s latest piece of ass. “Come,” she said, ushering her father toward the living room. “You must need a drink. Phil and Lucy Standard are here. Wasn’t Lucy in one of your movies?”

  “Blue Sapphire,” he said, eyes gleaming. “We made a fortune with that one. Overseas sales alone set all kinds of records. I was anxious to make a sequel, but Lucy balked, she wasn’t prepared to show her tits again. Actresses! They have no idea how to build a career.”

  By this time Ryan had returned to the living room, in two minds about whether to alert Phil or not. Would Phil even remember the girl from the live sex show one drunken night in Amsterdam?

  Probably not. Phil had been totally out of it, busy concentrating on his own pleasure.