Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Feenix Blaylock

O ne particularly thin woman is dragged in front of the high-paying bidders by one of Andre’s men. East Harlem has a few warehouses, one of them owned by us. Dim lights shine against many heads that belong to the seated crowd, and the smell of dust tickles the inside of my nose.

In the crowd are both men and women, if their wardrobe is anything to go by. I wouldn’t know otherwise if it weren’t for the clothes and body shapes. Everyone is wearing full-headed white masks that were mailed to them when they received this invite. All the better to hide who you are if you can’t hide what you are.

The woman’s eyes are wide with fear, and she begs Andre’s man to let her go in her Russian tongue. I don’t know if it’s a curse or a gift that I can understand her.

I suppose it was a pro in the boss’s eyes – when I wiggled my way in and quickly rose to the top – that I can speak and understand many languages. Or as high as I am right now anyway.

Nobody is above me except the boss. Andre and I are equals, both running different sides of this business for the man himself. The man whose name I don’t know. The man I’ve never seen. But I will someday because Andre has talked to him on the phone. Andre’s job makes the most money, so naturally, he gets the calls, and I get the emails. I’ll be damned if I don’t have Andre’s job by this time next year and be shaking the boss’s hand from whatever throne he relaxes in.

Not that I want to sell men and women for that one single purpose – to be put to death in various ways and fucked once their heart stops beating – but the pay is exponentially greater if Andre’s boasting is to be believed.

Even though the woman is bound by thick rope, she tries to yank her hands free when Andre’s man starts to cut away her dirty clothes. Her red, matted hair scrapes against his bulging biceps, and he moves out of the way just in time to avoid a swift kick toward his shin. I hope she knows that this little show she’s putting on will only drive her price higher. Most of these men and women like to see the fight leave their eyes when they take their last breath.

I scratch at my eyebrow with my thumb as the last garment, her underwear, puddles onto the floor, and she stands naked before us, breasts heaving.

“You’re all going to hell! To hell!” she screams in Russian.

Probably.

I’m close enough to see a fine sheen of sweat break over her skin. She reminds me of the fish my friend and I used to catch when we were kids. Damp, slimy, dirty, and flopping for its life before we skinned it alive.

Tears stream down her cheeks as the bidding starts, and I block off every single emotion I was born with. No emotions, I remind myself. Though she doesn’t speak English, she knows exactly what’s happening. She knows that she’s being sold, and she knows that whoever buys her won’t ever reveal his or her identity, which means that she likely knows she won’t survive what comes next.

The bidding reaches over a million dollars before she’s sold, tagged in the ear like cattle, and shoved into the back of this warehouse.

It takes two of Andre’s men to drag the next person on stage: a man. He isn’t tall, but he’s thin and has good looks. I know without having him stripped down to nothing that he’ll go for a good price.

The man shoves his weight into Andre’s men before two others join to contain him. He doesn’t say a word as the four of them yank him to the front, but his eyes are full of promises of murder, promises he won’t be able to keep.

A man in the crowd is the first bidder as soon as the clothes are stripped off. The amount quickly climbs over a million before I dip out of the shadow I had tucked myself in and head to the champagne bar.

The bartender, who I give credit for seeming unaffected, looks up at me as I approach. I’ve never seen him before – I’d recognize that shade of blue hair anywhere – but I can tell he’s high as fuck. Probably to cope. We all cope in our own ways.

“Anything stronger than champagne back there?” I ask him, half turning toward the bidding while keeping my ear in his direction.

“Andre brought in liquor for the winning bidders,” he mutters. “But that’s not for –”

“I’ll take a glass.”

“But – ”

I fully turn to face him and pin him with my own murderous glare. “I’ll take a glass,” I say threateningly.

“Erm. Right.” Quickly, he bends at the knees and digs around underneath the bar’s top. Glass clinks until he eventually pulls up a bottle of fine whiskey.

As he pours into a crystal-clear glass, I feel someone approach behind me. A quick glance tells me Andre is standing there, a smirk on his face and his arms crossed over his crisp suit. “What?” I demand as I take my glass and gulp a generous amount.

“You came.”

I lift an eyebrow over the rim of my glass before lowering it. “I always do.”

“I never see you.”

“Because I don’t like to be seen.” Nothing could be more true. I’m a watcher until I choose otherwise, both in and out of the bedroom.

He lifts his eyebrows at me before glancing at my drink. “Looting, are we?”

The only answer I give him is shrugging one shoulder. With the hand that’s holding the glass, I point to the room, encompassing everything that’s happening here. “Seems to be going well.”

He glances back and then nods. “It was a good shipment. They’re all feisty.”

“Russians,” I say in a way of explanation with a slight chuckle that I don’t exactly feel.

He turns to face me once more. There’s mischief dancing in his eyes, and I know it’s because he’s about to get paid more than he’s worth. “There’s another shipment of them coming in tomorrow. The boss will be pleased.”

“Should be.” I twist my lips to the side for a second, contemplating whether or not I want to ask, but then I do anyway. “The boss coming to this one? ”

He rolls his eyes. “Of course not. He’ll get the pictures like he always does, and then he’ll watch the bidding like he always does.” He points to the video camera set up at the back of the warehouse that’s angled toward the front.

“Watching his dollars roll in.”

Andre nods curtly. “Basically, yes.”

We focus our attention on the stage where another woman is being dragged to the front. This one doesn’t fight, and I know then that she’s not going to go for a high price. As soon as she gets up front, Andre’s men push back her hair and start stripping her clothes. But I freeze because her blonde head of hair, rosy cheeks, and trembling bottom lip remind me of someone. Someone I try to forget.

All the feelings I shoved deep inside come roaring back to life, and I grip my glass a little tighter. If she smiled, I’m sure she’d look exactly like the woman in my memories. It’s not her, I know this, but my mind...

The emotions threaten to smother me.

I drain the rest of my glass, give it back to the bartender, and whirl to leave.

“You’re leaving?” Andre calls after me as I stride toward the door.

I don’t bother answering him because anything I say will be used against me later.

“Pussy,” I hear him say, and I stop in my tracks and slowly turn to face him.

He’s wearing that smirk again, and my feet move before I tell them to.

From under my jacket, tucked into my jeans, I pull out my Glock and shove it under his chin as soon as I reach him. I’ll give him credit; he doesn’t move an inch.

I lean toward his ear as I deeply, quietly, say, “You may think you know who you’re dealing with, but you won’t fully know until I put a bullet through your head.” His mouth parts just a fraction, but he tries to remain outwardly unaffected. “On your last plea for your life, that’s when you know exactly who’s the pussy.” With my free hand, I sweep the room without backing away from him. “And then I’ll sell your body to be fucked in the ass by one of your groupies.”

I press the gun a little tighter under his jaw, hoping to leave an imprint as a reminder for when I’m gone, and then shove it back into my jeans before striding out the door.

No emotions . Not here. I tuck them down, down, down until I feel nothing but my shoes pressing against the floor and the cool fall breeze lick at my cheeks as soon as I’m outside.