Dirty Ugly Toy (2 page)

“Hold her mouth shut, D,” I grunt when she starts to wiggle in my grasp.

He climbs in beside her and slaps a black, leather glove over her mouth to shut her the fuck up. Dubois isn’t the biggest man but he’s cunning and strong. I’d hired him to be my right hand man when I saw how he handled himself in a gang fight in LA. Six motherfuckers tried to take down the lean, black man but he damn near gutted four of them before one pulled a gun on him and shot him in the belly. They’d left him for dead but when he awoke in the hospital, I was there for him and with a proposition he couldn’t refuse.

They never refuse.

I snatch the scissors from the seat beside me and wave them in front of her face. It actually turns me right the fuck on to see her fighting against Dubois’ unyielding grasp. If we were back home, I’d want him to fuck her so I could watch.

But then I remember her time is up.

I want a
new
toy.

One that I can restore.

An ugly thing turned pristine and shiny.

“I need a souvenir to add to my scrapbook.” I bark out a laugh and clip a long strand of hair from her gorgeous head. I’m pleased when I inhale it and the ginger-wasabi combination remains. Perfect. Like this toy once was.

I give D a nod and he drops his hand.

“Any last words, Swan?”

She sobs but no words come out. Taking pity on her pathetic ass, I draw forward and brush a soft kiss on her lips.

I’ll definitely miss her.

Until I get a new one.

“Goodbye,” I tell her, my breath the last part of me she’ll ever be gifted.

She screams when Dubois jerks her with him out of the car. Matvei helps him wrangle her away from my presence. Together, they do what I don’t like doing. They do the hard part. My part is always easy.

Find new toys.

Play with them.

Tell them goodbye.

And my boys do the rest.

A chill skitters through me from the fall night air and I yank the door closed. My mind clears as I begin wondering what kind of toy I want next. Tonight I’ll do some research. See what strikes my fancy. Perhaps my next toy will be a plus-sized girl—I’ve always had a thing for curves and big tits. Or, maybe I can have a lesbian with a boy haircut—that toy would be fun breaking in for sure. And gingers seem to be the craze right now too—maybe I’ll find me a freckly red-headed toy.

My dick thickens and I smirk. It was smart getting rid of Swan when I did. For one second, I considered keeping her. Then I remembered I don’t keep my toys for very long. I’m a very spoiled man and like new ones.

When Swan’s screams are silenced finally, Dubois returns to the car. He puts it in drive and we head back home. I drop my gaze to the lock of hair between my fingers and grin. Nineteen toys. Nineteen locks of hair. Nineteen times I’d indulged in my greatest fantasies.

I believe the twentieth one will be extra special.

And I can’t wait to make her mine.

At least for a little while . . .

I
wobble down Breightmet Street on my last pair of heels and hope my hair looks decent. Not even a half hour ago, I woke up with my underwear around my thighs, face down on the scummy floor of a pub over on Shifnall twitching for my next fix. But some stupid bastard not only stole the last of my stash, but he took my cash too. I’m too fucked up to even worry about what he did while I was unconscious. Not that it matters anyway. I’m not hurting so his small dick must not have done too much damage.

“My corner you dirty bitch,” a prossie snaps when I near her. “Take your ugly arse elsewhere.”

I snarl my lip in disgust. As if the tart has any room to talk. Her black hair is nothing but a mop of Medusa dreads. I bet her cunt is crawling with fucking crabs.

“Fuck you, whore. You don’t own the whole goddamn town of Bolton,” I spit out and stop about twenty feet from her.

She continues her bitching while I dig around in my bag for my cigs. I’m shaking with the need for a hit of skag. All my needles and shit were gone when I woke up. Instead of washing up in the sink like a normal human would have, I wiped the slobber from my cheek, pulled my underwear back up, and went on a search for a punter. Punters mean money. Money means heroin.

A piece of shit car slows down when it gets near and I hope it’ll stop for me. Medusa may think she owns this corner but I can nail just about any customer I want. Unlike her and her shitty standards, I have none. If a client wants to wheel and deal for a blow job, I’ll take his dumb offer and suck him off. Six quid is six quid—six quid closer to more shit I need.

The skag takes away the pain. The festering wound in my chest that seeps and throbs with sorrow and self-hatred is ever present. Without my damn heroin, I can hardly cope. And right now, memories mix with reality. Past and present become confusing. I need my fucking escape.

“How much for that sweet pussy?”

I jerk out of my daze and flash the fat fucker a smile. “What are you offering?”

He scratches the scruff on his cheek and regards me with a toothless grin. “I’m skint, baby. All I have is a tenner ‘til next pay day.”

I shudder. His ugly ass should have to pay fifty. But ten’ll get me a hit. Brewster, one of the dealers I go to around these parts, won’t take any less than ten.

“I’ll blow you for ten,” I tell him, hoping he’ll give in.

His brows furrow into an agitated glare and he leans back inside his vehicle to talk to another man who’s in the driver’s seat. When he pops his head back out the window, he waves a baggie of crystals at me.

“Ten for your arse,” he negotiates, as if doing anal instead is a better deal for me than regular fucking. “And some brown sugar.”

My heart flops in my chest and it takes everything in me not to kick off my only pair of shoes to my name and dive into his fucking piece of shit car after what he’s offering.

“How much skag you got?” I ask, trying not to seem so eager.

He smirks, knowing he’s won. “Enough to keep you high all night, baby. Get in the car.”

The joy of knowing I’m about to get high again surges through me. They can both fuck my ass if they want—as long as they uphold their end of the deal to party with me all night. I squeal and kick off my heels toward the Medusa bitch before running toward them, ignoring the bite of the frozen concrete beneath my feet. I’m almost to the car when a sleek, black vehicle screeches to a halt behind them.

“Fucking pigs,” the punter snarls in disgust before they peel out away from me, leaving me to deal with the authorities on my own. I nearly burst into tears at having lost the promise of my skag.

A car door slams and I snap my head to face the cop head-on. I may not be getting any drugs tonight but the promise of a warm, dry place to sleep for the night is almost just as alluring. Almost.

“What’s your name?” A tall, slender black man in a fitted suit regards me with question. His accent indicates he’s not from these parts. Most likely American. That notion causes little red flags to wave at me.

“You a pig or what?”

He shakes his head. “Or what. Tell me your name.”

“Jessica Rabbit,” I lie with a harsh laugh. “How much you offering?”

His lips press into a displeased firm line. “Five hundred.”

My eyes bug out of my head. Holy shit. I’d do just about anything for that sum of money. “What? You want my arse? You into some kinky ‘call me daddy’ shit, baby?” I purr and reach for the lapel on his suit. “For five hundred quid, I’ll do whatever you want.”

He swats my hand away in disgust. “Not five hundred pounds, woman.”

I pout at his words. Did I misunderstand him? I’m starting to fucking tweak and I can’t stand it. I get confused as hell. “A fiver?” I question with a huff. “Fine, whatever. Put it in my arse if you want—just give me the fucking money up front and we’re good. We doing this in your car?”

He seizes my wrist and hauls me forward. His scent is masculine yet exotic. Expensive. “
We’re
not doing anything. However, my boss would like to hire you for your services.”

I swallow down the fear that is always present but nod. “Cool. Where is he?” If things get weird, I’ll run. Even way out here in England, I still don’t feel completely safe from
him
.

He looks over his shoulder at the car and then back at me. “Back there. Do you want the job?”

My eyes widen as if he’s lost his mind. “You’re fucking proper as hell, Bruno. Fine, yes. I want the job. Can we tell him I didn’t offer up my arse though? I give a mean blow-job.”

He sighs and stares into my eyes with his that nearly match his dark skin. “My name is Dubois, not Bruno. And Mr. Kennedy wants to hire you for five hundred thousand. Are you interested?”

I let out a breath of relieved air upon hearing a name I don’t recognize. But I think my mind is playing tricks again and I bark out a nervous laugh. “Oh, wow, I thought you said five hundred thousand for a second there.”

His glare never waivers and understanding washes over me. Holy shit. I’m having a Julia Roberts moment. I may be living in the UK but I grew up in America and watched
Pretty Woman
enough times to know it word for word. This opportunity could get me enough heroin that I wouldn’t have to fuck for it. The idea is quite tempting actually.

“Come. Mr. Kennedy has been waiting for you.”

Dubois, remaining stoic, drags me behind him toward the waiting car. He opens the back car door and I laugh. This Kennedy rich motherfucker has a driver. I can’t believe this is happening. Twisting my head, I find the Medusa bitch glaring at me. I wave my middle finger at her and call her a cunt before a warm hand grips my elbow, yanking me into the car.

I land on my knees on the leather of the seat and my handbag hits the pavement outside the car, bullshit clattering out as it spills the contents. The firm, large hand on my elbow never releases and I follow the arm to the owner. Even through my tweaking haze, I can tell he’s beautiful and thank God he’s not
him
. Doesn’t happen around these parts—to get a good-looking man to fuck for the night.

“Jesus, you stink like you bathed in the dumpster. Fucking disgusting.” His insults roll off me and I inhale him. I may stink but he smells decadent—all spices and manly. I bet his dick tastes delicious.

“Want me to suck that big cock of yours?” I purr, wanting to get the party started.

He rolls his eyes and yanks me the rest of the way in. Once he settles me into the seat, he moves to sit across from me. Dubois shuts the door and I bask in the warmth of the car. Tonight it’s cold and my flesh is numb. My dingy puffy jacket does nothing to keep the bite of the chilly air off my skin. And my bare legs under my skirt are cold as ice.

“I want you to be my toy,” he says in a bored tone, withdrawing a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket.

“Fine, toy with me,” I snap. “When do I get paid? What do you want from me?”

His eyes narrow at me. In the dim light of the car, coupled with my confusion, I have no fucking clue what color they are.

“I want you to be my toy for six months.”

I raise a brow in question. “For five hundred grand?”

He nods and smirks, waiting for me to answer.

“Can you get me heroin?” I ask bluntly.

His nostrils flare in an angry manner and he bares his teeth at me. “I promise to take care of that little addiction of yours.”

Rich people always have the hook-up to the best drugs. “Deal. Want me to suck your cock now? I’m in desperate need of a hit. Let’s get this shit started, Ken Doll.”

I’m entertained by the way his vein on his forehead protrudes. He’s pissed and it’s funny.

“Sign this agreement and we can start,” he says in a detached tone. “And don’t ever fucking call me Ken Doll again or I’ll backhand that skanky little mouth of yours.”

Most normal chicks would run from the prick in the seat in front of me. I’ve dealt with a lot worse in my lifetime. People like Mr. Grumpy Ken Doll are nothing. Fucking nothing in comparison.

With a roll of my eyes, I yank the pen and paper from him. The typewritten words dance all around the page and confound me. “Six months? Your fuck toy? You pay me five hundred grand? Did I miss anything?”