Now she was looking confused. She gazed right into his eyes, something a chernye, a whore, should never do. And they didn’t. The women at the club were trained not to look a man in the eyes until they were having sex.
This one was looking straight at him, training forgotten, terrified. “Nothing. I know nothing else.” Her voice was low, shock still in the tones. And truth in every syllable.
Nikitin knew truth and he knew lies. He’d broken enough men to know the difference. The woman had no more information to give. She didn’t know where his men were. If she had any information at all, she’d have given it. She was useless to him.
“Three more times,” he growled to Dmitri in Russian.
Three more would break her. The bitch deserved it. If she hadn’t started acting up, he would never have had to send his men on a mission that had inexplicably swallowed them whole, leaving him with one man in a foreign country, with the vory back home expecting everything to be ready for the arrival of the first shipment very soon.
He stood and looked down at the woman who was so much trouble. If she hadn’t been worth money to his backers, he’d have had her killed, and not slowly.
“Three more,” he said again, and left the room, closing the soundproofed door behind him.
Consuelo came to her senses slowly. She was cold. Terribly cold, down to her bones, in a way she’d never been before. Born in Tijuana, living in San Diego, she’d never experienced true cold, had never seen snow. Now, it was as if she were encased in ice.
She opened her eyes, at first not recognizing what she was seeing. A flat expanse, a reflecting surface. She stared for a long time until she finally understood. Water. Water all over and her own vomit.
She blinked and things started to come into focus. She was lying on the floor, naked, in a pool of water. She shivered convulsively, mind blank.
She had no idea how long she lay there, shivering and shaking on the cold tile floor, moving only her eyes. Nothing made sense. She was used to being naked—that was how she worked, after all—but not like this. She felt more than naked, she felt stripped bare of everything, even her humanity.
It was coming back in slow, painful stages. The cruelty of the Russian’s eyes, the endless questions, the near-drownings.
She couldn’t remember how many times that horrible cloth had been put over her face but she did remember that desperate shock of knowing that she was drowning, being on the verge of death, then brought back to life at the last possible second, gasping and shaking, numb with fear.
And the Russian, carefully watching her, with no expression on his face. It was almost worse than some of her customers who secretly liked inflicting pain. They had a sly smile as they sneaked in a hard pinch, pulled her hair too hard. There was always a secretive smile, because they were doing what they liked best—hurting.
This was nothing like that. The Russian didn’t like what he was doing to her. He didn’t dislike it, either. He was totally indifferent. There was no doubt that if he felt it helped him in any way, he’d have ordered his man to keep pouring water over the cloth until she drowned for real. But she still earned the Meteor Club good money, so she wasn’t killed.
None of it meant anything to him.
Of course, Consuelo had never meant anything to the men who bought her, she knew that. But this was one level down from the horror of the Meteor Club. And they were all going to stay deep down at this level, since the Russians were here to stay. Word had it that they were pumping so much money into the club, they could kill her and her friends and use the skins for coats, for all Sands could care.
She rose shakily, hand slipping in the water, landing facedown on the floor again. Getting up seemed impossible, something beyond her.
She was broken inside.
Often after sex sessions, she was left hurting in some way. Most men went to prostitutes because they could treat a woman exactly as they pleased. A wife, a girlfriend expected certain attentions, which some men found difficult to give. Something built up inside them they had to release during sex for pay.
Consuelo was used to feeling used and thrown away, brought low by lust and coldness. But this was something else again. This was a level of darkness and cruelty she’d never even suspected existed. She knew she’d touched rock bottom. Any further down and she would die.
Consuelo had felt the dark wings of death brush her. The long-forgotten teachings of the nuns in the Tijuana slums when she was a tiny child, before her mother abandoned her, suddenly rose in her mind. She had a soul, and it had just been touched by the Devil himself.
Consuelo knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she had to get out. For her life. For her soul.
She couldn’t stay one second longer.
The ground was slippery and she was shaking, weak. She had to get up, get up now. She had to get away from this place as fast as she could.
Sands treated the girls relatively well. Consuelo knew that. When he’d found her, an abandoned girl living on the streets, he’d saved her life. God knows he’d told her often enough.
And he’d waited until she was fifteen to turn her over to the life. She recognized now that it wasn’t his goodness of heart, but a cold-eyed business decision. First had come intensive English lessons, deportment, long talks with the older women. He’d turned her into an upscale prostitute who earned him much more money than she would have on the street.
She’d been so grateful. It shamed her to realize that she’d been a little in love with Sands all these years. She’d wake up having dreamed that they got married and had children. The dreams left a lingering warmth that lasted until the first trick of the day.
Fool. She was a fool. And if she didn’t want to be a dead fool, she was going to have to move fast.
The core of chill was still there but her muscles felt stronger now. Able to bear her weight. Fear and dread and determination fueled her as she placed the palms of her hands on the slick floor.
She looked around for a second to see what she could cling to if her legs wouldn’t bear her up, and that’s when she saw it. A small metal object on the floor behind an armchair. If you weren’t lying with your face on the floor you wouldn’t see it. It belonged to him, to the ruso. She had an almost tactile memory of him carelessly flinging a dark leather jacket over the chair back, not paying attention because there was work to be done. A woman to torture.
She slithered through the water, pulling herself along by her elbows, reached out and picked it up. A small object with a removable cap. A thumb drive.
Nothing about the outside of the small metallic object gave any indication of what it was, what was contained within it. Consuelo only hoped it would be something that could harm the ruso.
She lay on the cold, wet floor for a while, panting, clutching the thumb drive in her fist until it warmed up, the only source of warmth in the entire world.
Finally, she pushed with her hands and sat up, head swimming, nauseous. After another minute she pulled herself to her feet with the help of the chair.
She looked down at herself, naked and shivering. There were faint red marks across her chest, her shins, wrists and ankles where the restraints had bitten her skin. Other than that her skin looked pale and colorless, with an underlying gray, like that of a dead person. As a child, she’d seen lots of dead people, shot in the streets like animals by the narcotraficantes. As a child, she’d thought death to be the most horrible thing that could happen to a person.
She’d been wrong.
She dressed. Just the bare minimum, panties and the linen shift dress she’d had on. The bra and shoes were beyond her. As she made her way to the door, she glanced at a mirror and stopped, shocked.
She looked like the living dead.
Consuelo brought a hand to her mouth and watched the woman in the mirror do the same thing. It was like watching someone else. Consuelo as she knew herself was dead. She peeked out the door, saw no one and slipped out.
The corridors were mainly empty.
Life at the Meteor Club didn’t really start until 10 P.M.
Consuelo knew she looked like a ghost as she made her way to her room, a wild-eyed ghost with messy hair and ruined makeup. The few girls she met looked downward as she passed and Consuelo realized how many times she’d seen the women of the Meteor looking abused since the arrival of los rusos. They’d all learned to let it go, avert their gaze, pretend nothing was wrong.
This was the beginning of a road that shot straight to hell.
In her room, Consuelo went to the closet and took out her one pair of jeans and a white shirt.
She stared for a moment with loathing at the clothes in her closet. Bright colors, plunging necklines, clothes meant to entice men, clothes easy to get out of so the men wouldn’t have to work for their sex.
Her hand fisted in a blue satin gown that looked good on her. Made her skin glow, highlighted her breasts. She hated it. There was at least $50,000 worth of evening gowns and fine lingerie in her room and her hands shook with the desire to rip all that satin and silk and lace to ribbons. Slash it all, then burn it.
But she didn’t dare. If she had any chance at all, it would be because nobody would sound the alarm until tomorrow evening. Her first client was at 9 P.M.
She would be far far away by the time the client, a famous attorney who had gotten out of control a few times lately, showed up.
So instead of ripping her clothes up or tossing them to the floor, she left the closet as it was, neat and organized.
All of this was so easy to walk away from.
Her hands started trembling again as she pulled a card out from a hidden pocket in the lining of her purse, since their rooms were routinely checked. Most of the girls had the number memorized and so did Consuelo, but she loved the card so much she kept it because it was so beautiful.
A normal visiting card, cream-colored, with only a number and a stylized bird in flight.
Freedom.
There was a rumor that one of the people at the other end of that number was Chloe’s brother. If that was true, Consuelo could only hope he wouldn’t blame her for the attack on Chloe. Whatever the man’s decision, he was now her only hope.
She punched the numbers in and waited, trembling. When a quiet female voice answered she said, “I’m in trouble. Can you help me?”
Chapter 15
La Torre
Coronado Shores
“Are you hungry?” Mike asked. “I never fed you.”
Chloe was in a sex coma. She barely understood what he was saying. More than hearing the words, she felt his deep voice reverberate in his chest and, since she was lying naked on top of him, reverberating against her chest, too.
“Are you?”
That luscious sound was words, presumably meaning something. She should be paying attention to them, instead of relishing those utterly male bass tones.
Mike rubbed his chin against her hair. He had the beginning of a five o’clock shadow and her hair caught in his beard, pulling a little. The tiny bite of pain brought her back to reality.
He’d said something . . . food!
Chloe was just about to answer that food was the last thing on her mind when her body spoke for her. Her stomach rumbled loudly.
He laughed and, after a second, so did she.
“Apparently, I am hungry.” And she was—ravenous. Wow. All of a sudden. This explosion of entirely new feelings had masked it. She lifted her head from his chest and smiled into his eyes. “What’s on offer?”
Was that voice coming out of her mouth really hers? It was sultry, husky. Mike smiled, took her hand and moved it over his groin.
His penis was still iron-hard, slicked with their juices. Chloe lifted her eyebrows. She was exhausted but he seemed to have this nonstop battery. She didn’t want sex right now, but still . . . her hand curled around him instinctively. She felt him thicken even more, moving in her hand.
Like Prince Charming kissing Sleeping Beauty on the lips and bringing her to life. Only the other way round and using another part of the anatomy.
Mike’s breath came in on a hiss and his eyes narrowed. The sound felt like pain, and a couple of hours ago, Chloe would have lifted her hand, startled, wondering if she’d hurt him.
But now she knew better. She wasn’t hurting him.
Now her face creased in a knowing smile.
“You’re not going to get fed anytime soon if you keep that up,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“Men really are different from women,” Chloe mused, looking down at her hand caressing his penis. She pumped her hand slowly, down, up, down, and felt blood coursing through it. It was dark red again, the enormous bulbous tip a plum color.
His penis was the most fascinating thing in the world. She’d been to the Tate, the Louvre and the Uffizi and nothing there could compare to this.
“Well . . . yeah.” Mike arched his hips a little, to put himself more deeply into her hand. His tone was—duh. Yes, men and women are different.
“I mean, we aren’t quite so . . . blatant in our desire. It’s not so easy to tell that we’re turned on. And, well, we have a turn-off switch, too. I’m not that experienced, but you don’t seem to have that switch at all. I’m all tapped out and you’re still raring to go. Sort of like the Energizer Bunny.”
It was a feeble joke, but she did expect him to laugh. Instead, his face grew somber and his hips stopped moving. He placed his hand over hers, stopping her movements.
“I—” he began. “It’s not—” He stopped, clenched his mouth tightly. Some strong emotion was working in him. His throat moved with unsaid words.
How Chloe understood that, needing to say something but not being able to. How many times she’d wanted to say things and choked them back down her throat? If human anatomy were like plumbing, her throat would be clogged with black, unsaid words.
She lifted her hand away. Mike wanted to say something and couldn’t. It was cruel to distract him by sex.
She sat up and covered herself with the sheet. It wasn’t modesty. Mike had feasted on her breasts, he knew every inch of her. But instinct told her that this was a moment for talk, not sex.
His throat clicked and she took pity on him. She picked up his hand, examined it. Actually his hand was almost as fascinating as his penis, and had been the source of almost as much delight. His hand was definitely a sex organ.
And beautiful.
Large, rough, calloused. Immensely strong, big veins popping on the backs. The epitome of male hands. Utterly different from hers.
She curled her fingers through his. A gesture of affection, rather than sex. Meant as support, not arousal. “There’s something you want to say, Mike?” she asked gently.
He looked away, jaws clenched, then huffed out a breath and swiveled his head back to her.
“Yeah. There is.” He stopped. His throat worked, muscles moving. This was obviously hard for him. Chloe understood hard. She waited.
Another long breath whooshing out of him. His fingers tightened around hers. “I guess now’s as good a time as ever to say this. It’s hard because it’s not pretty. I-I’ve slept around a lot, Chloe.”
She smiled. His beautiful face was so solemn, so serious, as if imparting a state secret.
“I know, Mike. Ellen and Nicole told me, and, well, Harry, too. They, uh, they were quite clear that you . . . messed around. A lot.”
Messing around. It was a delicate way to put it.
“But not in the last six months.” He said it belligerently, as if she was going to deny it. “Not since the day I met you.”
After that, he just shut down. The silence in the room grew heavy, then oppressive. He didn’t say a word.
His body was speaking, though. Every muscle was in high relief, a body in complete lockdown. What he wanted to say was painful. It was entirely likely he didn’t even have the words for it.
She laid her other hand on his chest, right over his heart. His thumping heart.
“You have
something to say, Mike. I can tell. And it looks like it’s hard for you. But I’m not in a hurry. Whatever it is, it can wait. Maybe tomorrow—”
“No!” He breathed in, said it more quietly. “No. I need to get this out.” He looked down at his lap, at where his rigid penis reached almost to his belly button. So stiff you’d have to pry it away from that flat, muscular abdomen. “So here it is. I have a strong sex drive. Which most people think is a good thing. I’m male, relatively young, healthy. Strong sex drive kind of goes with the whole package, right?”
He was sweating. A drop of perspiration rolled down his cheek and dropped on his chest. There was such tension in him, like a tuning fork quivering. Chloe had no idea how to relieve him. Her only gift to him could be stillness, and attention.
She nodded.
“Wrong.” The word came out through clenched jaws. “In all these years, it’s never been good, never been clean, healthy fun. It—it didn’t feel healthy, it felt sick. It was more than an itch I had to scratch. It was like—like on a regular basis some terrible poison accumulated in my body and I could only expel it through my dick. There was this tension that would build and build and I simply couldn’t stay put. It was like being possessed. I’d just have to go out and do something about it. And without even planning it, I’d end up in some bar. Exactly the kind of bar a woman looking to hook up with someone goes to. I don’t know . . . I think maybe I gave off some kind of special vibe or smell or dog whistle or something because five minutes in the bar and some dame comes up to me. Regular, like clockwork. Five minutes, ten, and a woman’s drinking my beer and telling me her address. I learned a long time ago to recognize a working girl. Paying for it was going too far, even for me. But anyone else was fair game as long as she wasn’t married or seeing someone else. That was another line I drew. But that leaves a lot of women in the game. I was like this grenade and someone had pulled a pin. So I’d grab the fuck du jour—” He stopped, fixed her in his intense light blue gaze. “Sorry, but that’s exactly what it was. I can’t whitewash it.”