Deuces Wild Read online

  Deuces Wild

  High Stakes Book 3

  Christina C Jones

  Warm Hues Publishing

  Copyright © 2018 Christina C. Jones

  Cover art by Christina Jones,

  Images courtesy of Porsha Antalan at brwnstockimaging.com.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real locations, people, or events is coincidental and unintentional.

  Acknowledgements

  It’s the same people every time,

  and y’all know what you mean to me.

  My readers, y’all too.

  We been through this.

  Don’t play.

  But, to R.S & A.C., thank you ladies for joining the team for this go round. You’ve been invaluable, and I appreciate you.

  Thank you.

  All of you.

  Note to the Reader –

  I have one request.

  Don’t expect Alicia to do _____ because she’s a badass.

  Don’t expect Cree to do ______ because he’s a detective.

  I know what you’ve read in other books.

  I know how these character archetypes “usually” are, and what they “usually” do.

  But to me, and hopefully to you as well once you start reading, these aren’t just characters, to fit in a box.

  They’re people.

  Trust me enough to let them just be that.

  And, as always, enjoy.

  (that’s two requests, sorry!)

  One.

  Death wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to you.

  I knew this for a fact because I’d been the purveyor of worse – the lovely, unexpected deliverer of gruesome punishments that left the recipients pleading for death.

  Because death was merciful.

  Death was freedom.

  I didn’t want to kill the men who’d placed the women in the cage-like stalls in front of me – the women who weren’t the one I was looking for. I wanted to do something much, much worse.

  “You see something you like?” the tall, copper-skinned man beside me asked, fouling the air with his breath. Just from his inflection – the lazy, casual way the words formed across his tongue – I could tell it was a question he asked often. A question that usually got an affirmative answer.

  Just thinking about it deepened my already overwhelming disgust.

  “No. Do you have any more?” I inquired. I swallowed the desperate urge to vomit as I turned to him, the owner of this establishment, if you could call it that. The flyer had boasted of “dancers” serving “high end” clientele, but the flyer had lied, just like so many in this hellhole of a city.

  This place was a dump, in every sense of the word.

  An abandoned shipping warehouse, nestled deep into a part of the city you didn’t end up by accident. This was a place you came to on purpose, to do illicit things you knew you had no business doing.

  The stench of human waste and decay permeated the air, laying so thickly that I could feel it – so strong it made me itch. Every available wall was covered with profanity-laced graffiti, every window featured the cobwebbed lines of broken glass. Everything around me was a red flag. An alarm bell clanging in my ear, insisting that I run.

  But I couldn’t.

  Because, like so many others, I was here on purpose.

  “Of course I have more,” Roach insisted, offering me a grin that was too wide, too enthusiastic to be anything except sinister. He ran a hand over the coarse, scraggly wisps of hair sprouting from his chin. “I was saving my best girl for last. Just for you… what did you say your name was again?”

  “I didn’t.”

  He raised a bushy eyebrow at the coolness in my tone, and then his eyes narrowed. “You know… you not really giving me customer vibe. You a cop or something?”

  “Absolutely not,” I told him, crossing my arms. “And even if I was, hiring someone to… “dance”… is perfectly legal in Las Vegas. Unless these women aren’t here by choice. But that’s not a problem here, is it?”

  Brown-stained teeth flashed yet again as his mouth cranked into a sideways grin. “Course not. I run a legit business around here. Everything on the up and up.”

  “Sure you do. Now you said you had something for me?”

  He stared at me for a few more seconds. Just long enough for me to put a little more brain power toward the escape route I’d already plotted out, as soon as I walked in the place. If Roach or any of his men so much as moved wrong, I’d be halfway out the door before he even realized his throat was slit. I was ready and prepared to put that plan into action when he nodded.

  “Right this way,” he said, pointing me toward the last of the stalls. He’d already shown me the inside of one after another – the ones that weren’t locked, while the stomach-churning sounds and smells of sex permeated from the other side. Inside each of those stalls was another reason I wanted to slowly, methodically eviscerate this man, with his all-too-appropriate name.

  He was a pest. Lowest of the low, meant to crawl through garbage. But I couldn’t exterminate him, because of the women in those stalls.

  Not yet, at least.

  “You know, you should consider working for me,” he said, making unnecessary small talk that only raised my desire to torture him. “Fine ass like you could make me a lot of money.”

  “One can only imagine,” I answered, not giving him the gift of looking at him when I spoke. It was a lesson I hoped he would pick up, and heed – he didn’t deserve to speak to me at all, and certainly not in such a casual way.

  He brought me to the last stall, snatched the curtain back, and shined his light inside. At first, I didn’t see anyone there, but then a soiled blanket moved, and Roach yelled, “Hey bitch! Get that blanket off before I kick your ass again!”

  Beside him, my finger itched, anxious to pull the trigger on the gun these men had missed when they did their pat down, before allowing me inside their disgustingly named “Playpen”. Or maybe the garrote mechanism hidden in the rings I wore on both hands. Or the blade carefully sewn into my sleeve.

  If he put a hand on any woman in front of me… any weapon would do.

  He reached in, snatching the blanket aside, and a lump rose in my throat as the person beneath came into view. Big, terrified brown eyes, a mass of wild, matted coils, countless purple bruises marring brown skin.

  My gaze shot up to Roach. “How old is she?!” I spat, even though I was trying to contain myself.

  He shrugged. “Eighteen. Why?”

  My nostrils flared as I turned back to that young girl.

  Eighteen my ass.

  More like fifteen.

  Maybe.

  The taste of bile stained the back of my throat as those big brown eyes squinted, struggling to focus, then went wider as she took me in. Waiting, wondering what was next. Hoping to see a savior in me.

  “No,” I told Roach, angling my head so that I didn’t have to look at her. “I gave you a very specific age range. This girl is ten years younger – at least.”

  Roach shrugged. “Well shit, I don’t know what to tell you about that. The fuck does it matter how old she is – all the parts work. Are we doing business or what?”

  The girl – still nameless – shrunk back against the flimsy plywood wall, arms wrapped tight around her knees as she attempted to make herself smaller.

  Invisible.

  As she curled herself into a tighter circle, the filthy, oversized shirt she was wearing slipped off her shoulder, leaving her bare skin exposed. I willed myself not to react, but I couldn�
�t keep from turning to Roach with newly suspicious eyes.

  “No,” I said, finally. “We won’t be doing business. I’m done here.”

  Shaking his head, Roach stepped in front of me, blocking my path. “Nah, redbone. That’s not how this works. Ain’t nothing for free around here.”

  My eyebrow went up. “I’m not interested in any of your merchandise.”

  “But you looked, didn’t you?”

  I pushed out a sigh as I nodded. As much as I wanted to tell him to fuck off, it did me no favors to cause a commotion now. “Okay. Fine.” I pulled a few hundred-dollar bills from my back pocket, holding the cash out to him with two fingers. “That good enough?”

  He snatched it from me, quickly thumbing through it to count before stashing it away. “I guess it’ll do. You really should consider working for me. Not like these bitches out here. You could be my star.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” I lied, stepping around him. I ignored the feeling of disgust that accompanied his eyes on my ass as he watched me walk away, keeping my focus on the door that would get me out of there. I didn’t breathe easily until I was on the other side of it, heading for the black SUV that was waiting for me.

  I heard the locks disengage as I approached the passenger side to open the door. As soon as I was inside, I pulled the door behind me, and Kerri locked them again.

  “No luck?” she asked, when I’d been sitting there several moments, without offering any instructions.

  Snapping away from my own thoughts, I shook my head. “Not exactly.”

  “So then… we’re leaving? Taking you home?”

  I shook my head again. “No. Not yet. I just… one of those girls was really young. And it was obvious she didn’t want to be there.”

  “You want to call the police? Have them do a raid?”

  “Right,” I snorted. “There’s probably a few of them in there now, already taking part in the festivities. They wouldn’t be any help.”

  Kerri nodded. “Okay. Then what, boss lady? What do you want to do?”

  Turning away from her, I stared at the warehouse, knowing firsthand the horrors that were going on inside. It made me sick enough to want to do something about it, but I had an objective that had nothing to do with putting a stop to human trafficking, as disgusting as I found it. If I intervened here, it could put me in jeopardy – nobody wanted to talk if they were fearful of a raid coming afterward.

  Talking was what led to answers.

  I flipped the visor down, then pressed a button to turn on the light next to the mirror. After being inside there, I felt dirty all over, so much I needed to see my reflection to make sure I wasn’t actually covered in filth.

  The first thing I saw though, was her eyes. Not mine, but the girl inside, the one who was much too young to have to endure what she’d been forced into. Desperate, defeated… desolate.

  I couldn’t let it slide.

  With a hard sigh, I pulled out my cell phone to place a call, using an app that would scramble the number the person I was calling could see. I got an answer after just the second ring, closing my eyes at the overly-rehearsed greeting.

  “Las Vegas Metro Police Department, how may I direct your call?”

  “Uh… I need to leave a message, and make sure it gets to someone. Can you do that for me?”

  “Yes ma’am. Who is the message for?”

  I swallowed, hard.

  “Detective Cree Bradley.”

  “In local news, police are still following the trail of an anonymous tip left last week with Las Vegas Metro Police Department. The tip, which one precinct chief referred to as a “Godsend”, led to the raid of a small human trafficking ring, right in the heart of the city. Police are—"

  “Since when do you watch the news?” Kingston asked, his tone surprised as he stepped into the kitchen, interrupting what had been a moment alone.

  Shit.

  “I don’t,” I told him, earning myself a raised eyebrow as I scrambled for the remote to turn it off. “I was looking for something else, and got tired. I don’t understand why you have so many channels,” I fussed.

  I expected a reminder that he could do whatever the hell he wanted in his house, but King only scoffed as he stepped past me, going to the cabinet for two teacups. “Let me rephrase – since when do you watch TV at all? I thought you spent all your spare time sharpening blades and polishing bullets.”

  “You’re not funny.”

  I watched as he set up the electric kettle, then pulled out a canister of sweet mint tea, putting it down on the counter. While he was waiting for his hot water, he turned to me, crossing his arms over his broad chest as he fixed me with a look I’d hated to be on the receiving end of, since the beginning of time.

  Curiosity.

  “So… you want to tell me what you were looking for? Maybe I can help?” he asked, in a casual tone meant to keep my guard low.

  “Nope.” I shook my head. “It was just some cooking show thing. Already gone off now.”

  “Cooking show?” His eyebrows lifted higher. “You’re going full domestic on me, huh?”

  “Says the man fixing morning tea for his pregnant fiancée,” I shot back, with a smirk. “Make sure you remember, it’s two and a half sugars – not three, not two.”

  He shrugged. “Tease all you want, I’ll take it. In three months the baby will be here, and I’d wager good money that you’ll be just as smitten as everybody else.”

  “By a wrinkled, wailing, human-shaped lump? Please.”

  “You say that now, but watch – Baby Whitfield is going to prove all those people wrong – you know, the ones who said you didn’t have a heart.”

  I sucked my teeth. “Like you?”

  “Nah, I already know you’re a gummy bear inside that spiky exterior… Auntie Alicia,” he teased, reaching to playfully pinch my cheek.

  I smacked his hand away with narrowed eyes, then waved him off. “If anybody calls me Auntie Anything, I’m breaking their arm.”

  “You’re not,” King insisted. “Just think about it – little baby, wrapped up in soft blankets, wiggling in your arms. Tell me that doesn’t warm your heart. Assuming you have one, that is.”

  Unbidden, the exact visual he spoke of came to mind, only warming my heart was the very last thing it did. Big brown eyes and tiny perfect lips, set into a heart-shaped face snatched me by the chest, making it impossible to breathe for a second.

  I blinked, trying to clear the image from my mind, but that only served to make it more vivid. Brown sugar skin, just like mine, a tiny perfect hand, clutching my finger… and then… that little face was growing, and maturing. A toddler with huge puffs of hair, a preschooler with pigtails, a kid with pink braces, and then… nothing. I couldn’t see her anymore, through a sudden blur.

  The details were lost to me, forever.

  And it’s my own fault.

  “Damn… you really are thinking this through, huh?” Kingston asked, his thick eyebrows pulled together in concern as he stepped in front of me.

  It took a few blinks to remember where I was, and drag myself back into the present.

  I shook my head. “Remember – that Auntie stuff is a no-no, okay?” I said, then grabbed my coffee from the counter and left the kitchen, depending on him to know me well enough not to follow, or push.

  He didn’t.

  I hurried to the room I used as my own when I was at Kingston’s home and closed the door, shutting myself in. Instead of the bed, or the couch, or any of the available chairs, I chose the floor as my resting spot. A kneeled position, in front of the window, with greedy, desperate sips of my caffeinated fuel for the day.

  This was a moment I’d only recently found myself needing. Emotional baggage, low energy, having to talk myself into taking on the day… that wasn’t me, not usually. I had no emotional ties outside of my loyalty to the Whitfield family, my diet and daily training ensured peak readiness for nearly anything, and my only real goal was to keep Kingston Whi
tfield alive and unharmed.

  Who needed fortification when you had preparation on your side?

  Not me.

  Not… before.

  All it had taken was a passing glance to destroy what I thought I knew about my place in the world. A reflexive look at the crowd, the meeting of a pair of eyes exactly like mine, and an overpowering sense of… familiarity.

  Of… family.

  The family I would’ve sworn I didn’t have, if anybody asked the question. I was an orphan, with the misfortune of having the same upbringing as the tortured hero from some cheesy government conspiracy thriller. Programmed to depend on no one and kill anyone.

  Only, the government had nothing to do with it.

  In many ways, I was a victim, but in other ways, I wasn’t. I was molded into an asset – a pretty, invisible weapon, without the normal burdens of human emotions, healthy romance, typical friends, or traditional family. It wasn’t until my loyalty was purchased by a different kind of master than the one who raised me that I witnessed anything different – realized what I was missing.

  And it wasn’t until a fated night, weeks ago, when I glanced out the car window for some unknown reason, that I realized something even more unsettling.

  I wasn’t as alone in the world as I thought.

  Two.

  “What if they find us?”

  “They won’t.”

  “How do you know? Do you promise?”

  “I can’t promise. Now be quiet, before they hear us!”

  “Alicia… darling, can you come here for a moment?”

  The sound of Angela Whitfield’s voice drew me from the disturbing depths of a fragmented illusion, masquerading as a memory. I blinked, hard, trying to completely clear it from my mind. There was no picture – just dialogue. A terrified exchange in hushed voices, so vivid that I ran my hands over my arms, brushing away goosebumps as I turned to face Mrs. Whitfield, standing in the door to the kitchen.