Love and War: Part One – Chapter 7

“When can you have it?”

The razorblade works at the line from both directions, ensuring it’s fine enough. I bend forward, one nostril closed, and snort it from right to left until I can feel the fine powder at the back of my throat and all that remains is a residue on the glass. “How many you need?” I answer.

“Three dozen.”

“Fully automatic?”

“Yes. How quick can you get them?”

“Two weeks.”

“How sure are you?”

I glance at him to my side, staring into a pair of gold frame sunglasses, the lens light enough I can see his eyes. Gold jewelry accents his dark skin in multiple places, just as it always does. His hair remains tight to the scalp in braided rows. “As sure as I am that you didn’t cut this shit for once.”

He smirks. “Gotta take care of my dealer.”

“I’ll have it.”

He slides an envelope down the length of the table. “Here’s half. Other half will be ready at pickup.”

“Of course. Be expecting my call. Transfer will be same place.”

He sits back and drapes his arm over the back of the couch when the topless girl straddles his lap. We’ve been working together for about eight months now and still we don’t know each other’s names. That’s the way I like to keep things and so does he.

Meetings always occur in the same place: a private room in this strip club. In this business, you learn where you can wheel and deal and where the traps are. The owner is a fucking sleezeball, but that’s better for me. He has underage strippers and we both know it, so he keeps his eyes away and his lips closed.

I grab my beer and take a drink, staring out at the stage through the one-way window. It’s empty. Stripper change. “Ride it, girl. You sure you don’t want one, man? I can put in a call.”

I glance over at him, his hands on her ass and her hands on his head. She’s lighter complected than he is, her hair long in tight curls. She’s got a nice ass and rack, but I’ve learned very recently that I prefer a custom flavor I’ve yet to try. “Nah. I’m good.”

“Whatever you say, man. I’ll enjoy enough for both of us.”

My eyes settle back on the stage. Leather and lace and long, black hair assault me. Lots of fucking black. The kind of darkness that I like. The kind that I thrive in. The kind I’ve never seen here before.

My thoughts race. Too much like the kind that I’ve been fucking dreaming about for a while now, despite the effort to stop. My eyes linger on every line of ink visible to the naked eye.

The second I recognize the tattoos my jaw locks. I have one skill better than most: photographic memory. It’s what sets me apart from the rest. I never fucking forget something once I see it, especially tattoos. And I have damn good vision, even at a distance.

One thought registers—she lied to me again. I watch her dance at the end of the raised stage, and then her top comes off. She spins it around one finger before tossing it down on the stage, immediately going for the pole. She doesn’t even look like a fucking amateur.

Before I can stop it, my mind begins to fog and something that hasn’t haunted me for a long time returns.

My eyes pop open. “Rachel,” I say, looking around at the dimly lit room as I rub my eyes. She’s gone. The table with the big lights all around the mirror is empty. The others are too. I’m alone. She was just there. Where is she?

The walls are shaking from the loud music again. I stand from the little cot in the corner and walk to the door. I stop in front of it, standing and staring. I’m not supposed to leave this room. Rachel said never leave. It’s unsafe. I’m supposed to stay here. Why did she leave me? Did I forget to follow her? Maybe she tried to wake me up. I should go find her. I think. I’m not supposed to wander around.

I tug down on my cartoon shirt. My eyes go big. I cross my leg over the other and grab myself. “Don’t go. Don’t go.” I wiggle, trying to hold it. I squeeze, trying to make it stay. My wee-wee hurts but I try to hold it anyway. Warm wetness runs down my leg. Oh no. I’m going to get in trouble. I need to find Rachel.

I push up with both hands in the air, standing on the tips of my toes to reach the doorknob. It opens and the music gets louder. I follow the bright pink tube that runs along the top of the walls, passing the closed doors. I’m not supposed to open doors without Rachel.

I walk out into a big room. Lots of pink tubes and some other colors glow, but mostly pink. They’re bright and hanging on the walls. I can’t read them. I don’t know how. It’s dark and I can’t see good with the lights flashing. I’ve been here before. It looks different. I stay by the wall, trying not to look at the men I don’t know.

I keep my head down as I walk past, toward the light, calling her name out, hoping she can hear me. I look up when I step on something by accident. My eyes get big. “Rachel.”

She doesn’t have her clothes on. She’s dancing, but that’s not the way she dances to ‘The Wiggles’ on TV with me. There are people here. Boys. Boys aren’t supposed to see girls naked. Why are her clothes gone? Did they break? Did she have an accident like me? I look around. What’s that metal thing? Is this where firemen live?

I shout this time, trying to make my voice loud. “Rachel, I had an accident.”

She stops and looks at me, but then starts back dancing as she looks around. She doesn’t look happy. When her head points to me, her eyes go big like when I’m in trouble. “Kross, go back to the room,” she whispers.

“But, Rachel, I—”

“Run, Kross. Now. Run.”

I turn around to do as she says and bump into someone. I look up. The first thing I see is a large cross, drawn on the side of his neck. He squats down. “What are you doing here, boy?”

“I’m looking for Rachel. I had an accident.”

He looks up. His face looks mad. “You can’t be in here. Come with me. I’ll deal with Rachel later.”

I look back at Rachel as she whispers my name. I’ve been bad. And now she’s the one in trouble . . .

I snort another line, ridding my brain of the content with no context. It’s like reading a damn chapter without the rest of the book. A movie ending missing the beginning. Memories with no belonging. I refocus on the girl on that stage. Black leather boots on heels. Lace thongs to match. Hair I want to pull hard. A neck I want to grip. And a beautiful body on view that belongs to no one but me. I bought it.

One emotion in my fucking high state takes precedent over the rest: rage. With cocaine, that’s never a good combination for me. She spins around the pole and my anger cannot stay in this one fucking spot any longer. “I take that back. I found one I want. We done here?”

“Yeah, man. I’ll be waiting to hear from you. Two weeks.”

I salute him and walk out of the room. The one thing that has always crawled under my skin and desecrated me is a fucking whore or stripper. Don’t ask me why. I do business here, but that’s it. I look at them with anger in my veins, not pleasure.

There is no way in Hell she’s going to be working here if she’s working for me. I don’t care what I have to do to enforce it. I always get what I want. Always.

I group my tips together and fold them in half. I’ll count them later. Right now, I just want to take these shoes off my feet. Dancing in stilettos sucks. They were not intended to be worn for extreme activities. Then again, maybe they were. I prefer chucks, high-tops . . . hell, anything flat. These are more Lux’s style.

I’m sweating; burning up, even though I know Chuck keeps it cold in here. Keeps the nipples out, he said, and nipples make the customers happy.

I roll my eyes at the memory of that conversation from my first night. I thought he was ‘the shit’ back then, my way out of a shitty, unwanted existence. A way to live on my own. And it was . . . until I wanted better for myself.

My thighs and calves are burning. I’m ready to go home and shower, to crawl into bed with a movie in the background as I fall asleep, but unfortunately, that won’t happen anytime soon for me. I still have another set later.

I walk into my dressing room and shut the door. “Lock it.”

I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of his voice, my hand immediately snaking over my breasts to cover them. Reflexively, I lock it without questioning him. His tone is a little . . . harsher than usual, and his irritation is nothing new to those that work for him.

I look at him sitting in my chair, hunched over, legs spread wide with his elbows to his thighs, holding a lighter between them—my lighter, in fact. In a hypnotic rhythm he strikes it, causing the flame to emerge, before letting it go. He’s looking at it and not at me, as if he’s trying to cool some sort of fury inside of him.

My heart begins to race. I can feel my pulse beating along every passage in my body. My nerves spark like two wires being touched together with opposite charges. My oxygen tries to recede back into my lungs. I force the words out. “Kross . . . what are you doing here?”

He looks up at me, a cold, stone-like demeanor present, emotion absent. The words come out as controlled as he is. “Come here.”

His eyes look different—determined, angry maybe. My feet automatically move toward him. I should stay where I am, but instead, I quickly tread across the floor to where he sits.

The second I get to him he stands and grabs my neck so fast I can barely blink between movements. He forces me to sit on top of my vanity, head against the mirror as he comes between my legs. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

I grab his wrist as a reflex. “Kross, I’m working.”

He looks down my almost-naked body, his judgment cutting into me like a serrated edged knife. If I didn’t already feel like trash I would with just that look. “I can see that. What happened to the damn bar, Delta?”

He’s seething. Fear sets in. Little to nothing scares me. I’ve worked for him for a while now. I’ve seen him on a daily basis and in many different moods. I’ve never heard this tone before. It’s bordering on psychotic. And his eyes. What’s wrong with his eyes?

His grip tightens, but still not enough to hurt me in ways I can’t take or cut off my air. Because even though he’s holding me in a way that most would deem abusive, no bone in my body feels like he would physically hurt me. The only thing my mind can process is the fact that he’s close, and he’s touching me in a way I’ve wanted him to since I laid eyes on him.

He’s looking at me like I’m his, like he’s angry with me. I stare into his eyes, unable to look away even though I can’t read them. “Answer me.”

The words tumble out with no remorse. “He cut me for always being late. Demoted me to a fill-in as a form of punishment. I’m not working as many hours. I’m behind on rent. If I don’t come up with the money, I’ll get kicked out of my apartment. This was an easy rehire, so I had no choice.”

“Rehire? Fuck, Delta, I pay you,” he grits.

I fight to speak against the constriction of my throat. “Minimum wage. I’m not a college kid chasing a social tag. It’s not enough to cover bills.” I cringe inside, not wanting him to know the shit I’m dealing with. It’s personal. It’s fucking embarrassing. I try to sit up, but he pushes me back against the mirror. “Look, I’m making it work. What the hell does it matter? It’s not interfering with my schedule at the shop.”

“Why didn’t you come to me? I specifically asked you this morning if you had any problems with your pay.” He’s staring at me, eyes deadpanned, not even blinking.

My anger is spilling out in waves. “Because I want to earn my spot just like everyone else. I’m going to show you one way or another that I fucking deserve to be tattooing beside you, and I’ll do whatever it takes to do so.”

His lips crash against mine, hard, roaring sounds ripping from his throat as his hands grip behind my knees and pull me to the edge of the table. His fists close around the waistband of my black thongs so hard I’m probably going to have bruises on my hips from his knuckles. He removes them.

I grip onto the table’s edges, holding myself steady, and internally chanting for him to continue. Damn, he can kiss. It’s rough, hard in nature just like him, but then his lips are so soft, cushioning mine for every strike. His tongue enters at the right moment, leaving long enough for you to want it back.

I can hear his belt buckle—the jingling sound before his zipper follows—my insides rejoicing in anticipation. He angles my bottom and then I feel it. He enters me. With one clench, my body molds around him, an auto response to something I’ve been dreaming about.

I moan into his mouth, not expecting his size. Truthfully, I expected him to be smaller because of his large build. Judging on past experience. It’s a hard habit to kill. But I guess it’s true . . . what they say about those who assume. It makes an ass out of you and me. This time, me.

All he’s done is shove his cock inside of me and already he’s satiating a need I’ve had for so long—the very act that drove me to this neediness to begin with. I need this. I want this. Already my pussy is panting. And it’s only just begun.

He pulls my foot up onto the table and pounds into me. His lips trail down until his teeth sink into my neck, and then he crosses my leg over, roughly turning me around without pulling out. “Fuck!”

He pulls my hair as he drives inside of me over and over again, deeper this way. He grinds against my backside, his thrusts slowing, until he’s completely still. He jerks me up, grabbing my breast in his tattooed hand, his teeth skimming my neck once again, until his mouth is outside of my ear. “You want to live like a whore you get treated like one. Respect is earned, and not just in my shop.”

He pulls out and immediately I hear his pants being pulled back up, leaving his seed smeared between my thighs. I turn around, our eyes locking. Anger is rolling off of him in waves. That much is clear. And even though I didn’t orgasm like I had hoped, my pussy is throbbing, the hungry bitch wanting more. “I guess I’ll see you in the morning then?”

“No. Put on clothes and get your shit. You’re coming with me.”

“I can’t leave yet. Did you not hear anything I said? I thought that was you understanding.”

He closes in on me, his jaw ticking. “Did you not hear anything I said this morning? I don’t share my fucking property. As long as I write your checks and you call my shop home, you’re mine. Rightfully owned. That was me dotting the i’s and crossing the fucking t’s. To make myself clear, you won’t need your apartment, because obviously, I have to babysit my employees.”

“Don’t be a dick. Last time I checked I’m an adult. I don’t need supervision.”

“This is the way it’s going to go, and if you don’t like it, you’re free to walk out the door you walked into that night. The one that has my name on it. Which option you choose doesn’t matter to me. Should you choose to stay, you’re going to live with me. Pay is earned just like my respect. I didn’t get where I am by being a pushover. You’re still an apprentice. Just because you’re a hot piece of ass in the shop all day doesn’t mean you get special treatment. All of us have put our time in somewhere. But right now, you work for me. When I say be there, you ask what time. When I say stay, don’t question how long. If I tell you to jump, you ask how high. That’s the way this works. I keep business and play as separate as church and state. I’m not going to show you favoritism just because I’m fucking you before bedtime, so instead, I’m eliminating your biggest bill.”

“No. I can’t do that. I’ve never—”

“It’s not optional. Do you want this job or not? No employee or girl of mine is going to be showing ninety percent of her body to other men. What part of my property isn’t for public use did you not understand? Until you walk away, you are mine.”

My mouth isn’t going to win me any tokens here, but it just won’t stay shut. “Well, maybe I was a little confused at what specifically you meant by me being your property,” I bite back, tired of his angry tone. “Boss and bed mate are two totally different things.”

“All that apply. Are you still confused or was my dick enough of an explanation?”

I cross my arms over my chest, and my leg cocks out to prove my mouth isn’t going to shut anytime soon. It used to piss my mother off. I’m sure it’s not going to stop for him. “That depends. Is this mutually owned exclusive property?”

“One is more than enough for me.”

His response catches me off guard. I’m sure my face shows it. I’m trying really hard not to smile. When a knock sounds at the door it becomes easier not to. “Delta, baby, let me in.”

“Shit.”

Every inch of his body becomes rigid. “Let me guess. The reason for your phone being off lately?”

“It’s a long story that I can’t explain right now.”

“You fuck him?”

“That’s completely irrelevant. I needed my job back and I’ve known him for a long time. This shit right here happened today. You cannot ask me questions regarding things prior to you telling me you wanted something between us.”

The doorknob wiggles. “Delta, unlock the door.”

“Put your goddamn clothes on. We’re leaving.”

I quickly unzip the thigh-high leather boots, tossing them on the floor. He stalks to the door and I grab a pair of denims and a tee shirt, pulling them on. Then I step into my high-top sneakers, quickly working the backs over my heels.

Kross disappears out the door and then I hear something fall into the wall. I grab my stuff in a hurry and take off running. “That was her resignation. Try to contact my girl and I’ll rip you apart, motherfucker. You know I’m good for it.”

He looks at me, anger blazing in his eyes. “Let’s go.”

I follow behind him, passing by Chuck sitting on the floor against the wall, holding his eye with blood trickling down his cheek. I’m not even sure that this is realistically happening right now. I could be dreaming for all I know, but what I’m sure of is that if it’s a dream, I don’t want to wake up, because even without an orgasm that was quite possibly the best fucking I’ve ever gotten.

Living in a house . . . with Kross. Holy shit.