The Second Betrayal (4 page)

We added a rap sheet for Kerrison that included being busted with me for her part in running the club. She'd managed the finances for that part of the business, which included taking cash from the customers paying for sex.

When it was time to head to the conference room, both Donovan and I stood, and I walked toward him. He wrapped

me in his strong embrace and gave me one of his amazing kisses before we left my office.

No doubt about it. I was addicted to Nick Donovan.

CHAPTER TWO

Dosha

Beneath Dasha's palms, the clear plastic pole burned hot as glass heated in a forge. While she pole-danced, thundering techno music in the main floor of the club made her head pound from the inside out. Her mouth hurt, her lips

quivering from forcing herself to smile so she wouldn't be punched by her handler.

Dasha, Yulia, and the blond girl, Jenika, who had become Dasha's friend, were onstage. The three of them writhed

around the poles mounted along a narrow raised strip of the stage in the middle of the "gentleman's club."

A whorehouse, a prison, was what Dasha called it. Two months of being in the depths of hell. But she had learned to never say anything loud enough for one of the handlers to hear. The harsh man had punched her the one and only time she had referred to her life as it now was. What she was.

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Prostitute.

Strobe lights flashed in the smoke-hazed room, making the glitter inside the clear pole sparkle in the colored lights.

Jenika said it looked like fairy dust. Dasha thought it looked like poison ready to seep through the plastic and kill her.

Maybe death would be better than this.

But if she killed herself, Matushka and Otets would be murdered. If she tried to escape, if she tried to talk to anyone, they would murder her parents. First one. Then the other left alive in case she tried something else.

The handlers had either beaten or abused each girl, making it clear that someone they cared for would be killed if the girl tried to escape, contact the police, tell a client, or kill herself. Each girl had been presented with photos of their loved ones to prove to the girls that they had no choice but to obey.

Dasha barely kept back tears as she tried to do what Madame Cherie instructed the girls to do—act like she was having sex while rubbing herself up against the pole. "Be sensual," the madame would say.

Be a good whore,
Dasha always thought.

"Show us those tits, girly!" came a slurred, drunken man's voice.

Dasha raised her head and saw that the man was staring at her. His bald scalp shone beneath the lights as he raised a fistful of cash. Shame crept through her like a thousand Russian ratsnakes. From the leer on the man's face, she feared he would be the one crawling on top of her in a back room after this song was over. A shudder racked her body hard, but she tried to make it look like part of her dance.

More men shouted at her to take off what little she had on—the strip of cloth covering her nipples and her G-string.

Jenika could act like she enjoyed being a prostitute while Dasha struggled to wear a fake smile. Jenika always met

several men's gazes as she danced, her blue eyes giving the invitation for something more, something erotic. She

danced like the madame had constantly worked to teach all of the girls over the past two months. Jenika had tried to help Dasha with her performance, but Eddie always interfered.

Eddie was Dasha's handler, and he acted as a bouncer when the girls danced. Dasha glanced his way. His muscles

flexed as he crossed his arms over his huge chest.

When Dasha slowly started to take off the thin material, revulsion crawled up her body to her throat and threatened to make her throw up on the stage. It didn't matter how many times she had stripped in front of leering men over the past weeks, she always had the desire to puke.

Sometimes women watched them dance, too. Sometimes women went with her to the back rooms and made her do

things that made her as sick as when she was with a man.

Dasha tipped her head back so that she wouldn't have to look any man in the eye as she swallowed down the frothing

sensation in her throat along with the taste of bile. She flung the bra onto the stage while men whistled and shouted horrid things they wanted to do to her.

"Come 'ere girly," came the same man's voice as her nipples hardened from the cool air being pushed down from the fans above the stage. How she hated her body's natural reactions. "I've got somethin' for ya," the man called out louder.

"Show us that fuck-me look, Jewell baby," another man said.

Jewell was her stage name. Jewell was her whore name.

Dasha forced herself to look at the man, hold his gaze, and dance toward him as he rubbed his crotch with his free

hand. She almost stumbled in the high, thin heels she had to wear every night. Her movements were stiff, awkward,

but the men in the room didn't seem to care. Man after man called out for her to take off the G-string, too.

When she reached the side of the stage, the man with the handful of money stuck a few of the bills in the front of her G-string. He shoved his fingers down hard enough that his fingers brushed her trimmed pubic hair.

"That's it, baby," he said as more men pushed dollar bills through whatever spot on her G-string would hold the cash.

The stench of male sweat, sour beer, and cigar smoke nearly gagged her now that she was so close to the men.

Someone gave a hard jerk on one of the ties on her G-string and Dasha gasped. The tiny bit of cloth started to fall away. Dasha stumbled back and the men shouted louder and louder as the last barrier dropped from her body and the

cash floated across the stage.

Shame made her insides sick, like she was filled with slick crude oil. The shame and horror would never end. This

nightmare would never end. If she tried to escape, the men promised they would kill Mother and Father.

Dasha's legs trembled as she turned, bent over, and grabbed her ankles, completely exposing the part of her

womanhood that she now despised.

The pulsing beat of the song ended and Dasha's whole body felt like she was bleeding from every pore. She could

almost feel blood coating her skin.

She straightened, completely nude, soon to be forced into acts that sickened her even more. As she walked toward the three stairs that led down from the stage, she swayed her hips like the madame had taught her. Why couldn't she ignore the men who continued to whistle at her and shout horrible things?

"I'd like a piece of that."

"I'll fuck her right here. Just spread your pussy, baby."

Dasha held her hand to her belly as if that could settle the sickness inside.

Why couldn't she leave her body and visit someplace in her mind like Yulia did? Where did Yulia go when she

traveled outside her body with her mind?

Dasha glanced over her shoulder and saw her pretty friend whose brown eyes looked blank, empty. Yulia followed

Dasha off the stage, but was the girl even aware of her own movements?

When Dasha stepped onto the floor, which was sticky beneath her heels from spilled alcohol, steel fingers grabbed her upper arm and jerked her sideways. Dasha let out a small cry as she tripped and fell against the handler, who forced her to her feet again while almost dragging her across the room to the madame who scheduled all of the girls'

appointments.

"I'm going to let you have it good if you don't pick it up during the show," Eddie said close to her ear, his breath hot and foul with beer. Dasha flinched. "I think I'll have to teach you a lesson anyway. How much depends on how you behave the rest of the night." He stroked her hair away from her ear. "Maybe you screw up so much because you like what I do to you, slut."

The man's touch and his words made the ratsnakes in her belly squirm and push their way into her chest. He was one

of the men who forced himself on her, sometimes in front of other men or the girls. Sometimes in front of everyone.

And sometimes alone where he would hurt her in ways that no one would see. Make her scream and cry and beg.

Which was worse?

Dasha tried to pretend Eddie was nothing but a stranger she had never seen before as he took her to the madame.
Block
him out like Yulia does. Force him out of your thoughts.

They were almost to the madame, who was speaking with the horrid man who had waved the handful of American

dollars. Madame Cherie was a beautiful but sharp-tongued woman who constantly trained the girls to dance and please men. It seemed strange, though, that she never treated the girls like wares for sale. Sometimes Dasha thought the

madame might not know that none of the girls had chosen to be whores.

Was that possible?

One of Dasha's stilettos skidded when she stepped into a puddle of spilled alcohol and she almost fell, but Eddie had a tight hold on her. She cringed and flinched as, at the same time her handler steadied her, a man bumped into her. The man tugged her bare nipple and another man slapped her naked backside hard enough that she knew there would be a

mark.

Because of threats against their families and friends, none of the girls ever said anything aloud about being taken from their homes, their country. Nothing about the fact that they did not choose to be whores with ten, or even more, men a night. Could the madame not know because a word was never spoken about it? Always the cruel handlers were close.

Yet couldn't the madame see from the girls' expressions, their lack of pleasure in their task, that they did not belong in this place?

Sometimes Dasha thought she saw something in the madame's eyes. As if she suspected something was not right.

Dasha prayed that Madame Cherie would learn the truth and find a way out for them all and for all of their families and friends to remain safe.

It was the only hope Dasha had.

CHAPTER THREE

I would sell my soul

"It's so good to have every one of my ducklings around me." Mama gave a broad smile like she always did when the seven of us joined her and Daddy around the family supper table.

She reached over and squeezed Willow's hand. "And my newest girl." Mama looked around at the bunch of us. "Who can kick all of your arses at basketball."

We laughed. It was true. Willow was five-eleven and had been such a good point guard at NYU that the WNBA had

even tried to recruit her out of college. Instead she'd gone on to get her doctorate in education and married my

formerly bachelor-for-life oldest brother, Zane.

Zane smiled and squeezed Willow's hand and winked at her. The grin she gave him was naughty, and I almost grinned

myself.

"Is anyone up to the challenge of a little three-on-three?" Willow asked with a wicked smile.

Noise around the table broke out with the guys insisting this time they were going to beat her, Zane, and me. Picture five-four me next to five-eleven Willow and my over-six-foot-tall brothers. I could still kick major ass, though. I was quick and hard to block and had a mean layup. My younger sister, Rori, was shaking her head. She never joined us—

might break a nail.

Zane also worked for RED, only no one in our family or any of our friends could know. Their lives would be in danger because of our line of work, and neither of us was willing to take that chance. Family and friends thought Zane was still Secret Service.

They also believed that after my time in Army Special Forces, I went on to work for an interpreter service. I speak nine languages, so no one has ever had a problem believing that.

The people around me—even at RED—never knew I'd been an assassin in the past, and they never would.

The exceptions were Karen Oxford and Nick Donovan. Nick had drawn every bit of my horrible history out of me.

Over strawberry crepes one morning during our last op I told him everything. Well, almost everything. Donovan must

have put something into those crepes to make me talk so much—other than making them orgasmically good.

Yet even after I'd let it all hang out, he still wouldn't tell me much about his own past.

It was starting to piss me off.

I turned my focus back to my family.

"You sure went all-out for supper. Mama." I sighed with my hand on my full belly and slumped in my seat where I sat between my brothers Zane and Evan.

Nettle soup, roast stuffed loin of lamb, celery with cream, and cauliflower in cheese sauce for dinner. Yum. Mama

made the best Irish dishes in Boston.

I grinned at Mama and caught what I thought was a hint of wistfulness in her gaze. That one look made my thoughts

pause before Troy spoke.

"Mama likes to spoil the Marine." Troy said with a snort as he gestured with his fork to Ryan, back from his latest tour with the Marines. Ryan was Special Forces and built like a tank.

Ryan didn't have any kind of witty comeback like he normally did. Instead he concentrated on his food. He was putting away as much of Mama's good cooking as he could shove into the gut of his huge six-two frame.

"Someone's in a bad mood," Evan said as he pointed at Ryan with his butter knife. Evan, Troy, and Sean laughed. I frowned.

Daddy leaned back and stretched his arms before clasping his fingers behind his head as his green eyes met Mama's.

"That's my Molly," he said. "Perfect supper as usual."

"You just want your sweets, Keegan." They smiled at each other, and as always love was there—except something was different.

My supper started to sour in my stomach. What was wrong? It must have had to do with Ryan, since he was acting

even more strange. Not to mention he was back from his last tour so soon. He'd only been gone around seven months.

Mama stood, her large bosoms stretching the fabric of her flower-print dress. "I'll need two of you to help me carry out the dessert."

"I'm there!" Sean pushed back his chair.