Absolution Read online

  “Look at me,” I say, and his eyes groggily open. “Look at me.”

  “I don’t…” his words slur, his eyes rolling around in his head like water circling a drain. “What did you. That. I…I don't feel...”

  I grind over him fast, hard, angry. I'm so angry because I'm not the sin. He is. And I'm taking this little piece of wrong out of the world. I'm doing good. His judgment has come, and he is guilty. And the wages of sin are death.

  I stop fucking him, straddling his stomach as I stare down at him. His face twists and morphs and now all I can see beneath me is Zachariah. His dark hair, his blue eyes. The person who broke me time and time again. The man who made me his sin. The reason I murdered my father. The person who forced my little sister and me to run away. The person who forced God to choose me to carry out his will by killing men like him. Every time I kill a man all I can see is Zachariah's face because I want nothing more than to kill him, and with each man like him, I do. I kill a tiny, insignificant piece of that evil that lives inside of me.

  “This is what you deserve, Zachariah. You did this to yourself.”

  I watch Matthew gasp for breath, and life is a precious, precious thing, but watching evil as it's sucked out of this world like a vortex is a beautiful thing. He's no longer fighting death; he's embracing it. His eyes close and his chest rises in ragged swells. I lay my head on his chest and listen to the sluggish sound of his heart fighting for each beat. I move off his stomach, lying next to him and grinning as I trace my finger over the indentation of his pecs. “Men like you deserve far worse than this, but if I took pleasure in this, well, that would be a sin wouldn't it?”

  I lay there for another minute or so until the uneven thumping silences, and his chest stops rising. I climb off the bed, pushing my skirt back down and straightening out my hair. His eyes finally fix on the ceiling with a glassy stare, his lips slightly parted. I take a few pills and scatter them on the bed. When the police come, they'll think he got into a bad batch of drugs. And in a way, it was...

  I take a washcloth from the bathroom, pull the condom off, and wipe myself off of him, stuffing the damp rag into my purse. On my way out of his apartment, my eyes land on a Bible in the center of his bookshelf. I walk over, pull it from the shelf, and clutch it beneath my arms as I leave.

  The belt makes a resounding crack when it meets her skin. She screams, her back bowing. Her naked body presses flat against the thick wood of the cross and every time she flinches away from the pain, the leather restraints bite into her wrists.

  "Take it, Maria!" I shout at her, cracking the belt against the back of her thigh this time. She screams and writhes desperately, submitting to her body's natural reaction.

  What I do is psychological manipulation more than anything. I have to override her survival instinct. I have to make her want me, want to please me, want to take the pain. But, I still want her fear—her screams, her tears. I do not want her submission. Why? Because submission does not make me money. It's her fear my clients pay top-dollar for.

  There's a market for everything, and the world is full of sick fuckers. I just happen to be a man who exploits their fucked up fantasies. It's all about supply and demand.

  I can barely remember a time when I haven't needed this, thrived on it, wanted it.

  Seamus, my father for all intents and purposes, said that everyone has their place in this world. There are those with power and those who serve the ones with power. And for me to evolve into what he wanted, he put me in a position of authority, and I became sick with it. As I beat Maria, I think back to the first time I ever took a belt to a whore.

  He places a belt in my hand, and I stare at it as he points at the wooden door. "You are going to walk into that room. In there is a girl, restrained."

  I swallow heavily.

  "You're gonna to take that belt and hit her with it." He smiles, inhaling on his cigar.

  I glance at it again, the light reflecting off the polished black leather. "Why?" I ask.

  "You have a lot to learn son." A thick cloud of smoke puffs from his lips as he laughs. "Men like power. There are those who have it and those who serve it. She..." He points once more at the door. "Is here to serve, and that service means fulfilling sick little fuckers' desires. You understand?"

  "Why do I have to hit her?"

  "Because she needs to be trained." His lips twist into a smirk as he strokes a hand over his short grey beard. He bends down and brings his face close to mine. "She needs to be broken. She needs to reach the pain barrier and be pushed over it. They never know how much pain they can take until they're pushed." He grabs my chin, forcing me to look into his hard eyes. "She will cry, and you will keep hitting her. You're too soft, Ezra. This is a test. Do not fail. Break. Her."

  I want to please him. I do not wish to fail, so I nod and turn away from him, pushing the door open. There, in the middle of the room, is a four poster bed. The girl is standing at the end of it, her back to me. Her arms stretch between the posts; her wrists are bound. Wavy red hair cascades around her shoulders. Her perfectly pale skin is completely unmarred. When I step toward her, she keeps her head down because that’s what she’s been told to. My eyes trace the curve of her back, her round arse, and I can't help the erection that starts pressing against my jeans. Her shoulders rise and fall rapidly with her accelerating breaths. She's terrified. I learned a long time ago that sympathy is weakness, and as I watch fear eat away at this girl I know I should feel something for her, but I don't. I feel nothing.

  I feel nothing because she's a whore, this is her job. I will beat her, and she will get paid for it. Disgust replaces the feeling of nothingness, and I step up behind her, running the belt through my fingers.

  I swing my arm back. The belt sails through the air with a satisfying whistle before it connects, cracking against her perfect skin. Her back bows and she yells, her knees buckling. A brilliant pink line blossoms across her back. I swing again and again, and then again. I keep hitting her, anger coursing through my body because she is a whore, a filthy fucking whore, and she deserves this. She wants this. She will take this because I hold the belt, I hold the power, and she is here to serve, to give pleasure, to be used. The more I hit her, the more the scene morphs. She is no longer a girl I have never met; she is my mother, my dirty, good for nothing whore of a mother.

  I lose track of how many times I hit her. Pink skin turns red. Blood runs down her back, over her arse, until it trickles down the backs of her thighs. And the blood only spurs me on. I hit her until my arm is too tired to lift it anymore, and I fall to my knees on the floor.

  The door swings open and Seamus walks in. He looks at the scene before him, his eyes tracing over the girls ruined body. She's unconscious, hanging limply in the restraints. I'm breathing heavily and shaking as a thin sheen of sweat covers my brow.

  He looks at me, his face a mask of indifference. "Lesson number one, you never ruin your merchandise, because, without merchandise, you have no client, no money." He nods at the girl. "High-end clients like to beat girls, but they don't want to see scars where another has already done it. Powerful men covet that which others cannot have. They will pay for that which looks innocent."

  I learned my lesson. Never mark the girls.

  Maria's beautiful sobs yank me back to the present. Her body hangs limp in the cuffs, and I clench my fist around the belt.

  "Stand up!" I shout. I deliberately leave the cuffs loose, so the girls are forced to hold themselves up. This is not about the pain; this is about enduring the pain, fighting the instinct to let the pain consume. Her legs tremble as she struggles to stand on them.

  "Pain is in the mind, Maria! Endure it. Fight it." CRACK. "Master it." I watch her hands wrap around the chains of the cuffs as she steels herself. I smile at her perseverance and hit her again. She doesn't flinch away from it this time. She embraces it.

  I drop the belt to the ground and approach her, staring at the angry red marks covering her back. Those rising welt
s are beautiful. Her body heaves with sobs as she leans her forehead against the cross. I wrap an arm around her waist.

  "Good, Maria." I glide my hand up to her tit, pinching her nipple as I nip her shoulder. She shivers, but otherwise makes no move. I sweep my hand up to her neck, slowly winding my fingers around her throat, applying only a small amount of pressure. Her breath hitches, her pulse quickening under my fingers. I slide my free hand down her toned stomach and between her legs. "Spread," I say with a growl. She does so without hesitation, and I slam two fingers inside her wet pussy. A strangled gasp leaves her lips as she clenches around me. "See, you're wet, Maria. You secretly want to be beaten, to be forced to endure this." She groans as I pull my fingers out and thrust back inside. "You want to be owned."

  I fuck her with my hand, all the time tightening my hold on her throat. I feel her panic for a moment when my grip becomes tight enough to restrict her air. "Embrace. It." I demand.

  Her body shakes, her pussy gripping my fingers as she gasps for air. "Don't fight," I tighten my grip further and she relaxes, submitting to my hold. "Good." I rub my thumb over her clit, and her body stiffens. Her head falls back the second I squeeze her throat with enough force to choke her. Her back arches, pushing her arse against my cock. Moaning breathlessly, she comes hard. When her body goes limp, I release her and step away. I pull a tissue from my pocket and wipe my fingers clean as I study the way she hangs in the restraints. Her head is rolled to one side and resting against her arm. It's beautiful when they give into it. I leave her in the room, breathless and beaten, still hanging on the cross. One of my guys will show her out.

  When I step out of the room, I find Jonty smoking a cigarette right outside the door, his massive frame leaning against the wall. Dave, my Doberman sits at his feet, waiting patiently. Jonty is my best friend, my brother in many ways. We grew up together, both of us raised to be ruthlessly efficient, to prioritise the business and the family at all times. I flourish in a world where brutality and cold calculation are valued, but Jonty has always fought with his morals. Jonty runs the club with me, but he gets attached to the girls, sees them as people.

  They are business assets, nothing more.

  "What's up?" I ask.

  He inhales a lungful of smoke and holds it for a second before he speaks. "Soph's dead, Ez." He rubs the back of his neck, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor.

  "How?"

  His eyes lock with mine. "Zee."

  "Motherfucker!" I walk past him, heading to the office.

  Jonty follows me down the hallway and shuts the office door behind us. Dave assumes his position, laying down underneath my desk. I clench my fist as I brace myself against the desk. I'm trying fucking hard not to lose my shit. I need to keep calm. I need to think.

  "How?" my voice snaps.

  "Cindy found her body down by the river outside of their flats. She called the cops, then called me. She said Soph had been severely beaten, covered in cuts. Probably bled out the way Cindy made it sound."

  "And you know it was definitely him?"

  "She said Soph never came back after her appointment." He shrugs and swallows heavily. "You know how it is. Sometimes they take it too far."

  We handle two operations outside of the club itself. We run whores from the club that work the street. We protect them, and they cut us in. Simple. Then we run elite 'escorts', expensive whores, trained whores that cater to the less civilized clientele. Sophie was one of the elite, and she was one of my best girls. The best. That girl had no limit, no threshold. She could take everything and then some. She’s booked up solid for the next three months, putting me out of pocket by over sixty grand. And Zee is going to pay for it one way or another.

  "You fucking find him, and you bring him to me!"

  Jonty stares at me for a second. "Ez, he's a client..."

  "He just cost me fucking money. You bring him to me, Jonty if you have to shoot his fucking kneecaps off to do it."

  A small smile pulls at his lips, and he leaves the room.

  Zee sits across from me, his ankle propped on his knee and his arms folded across his chest as though he hasn't got a care in the world. I'm keeping a firm hold on my temper, but his lack of concern for his wellbeing in my presence pisses me off.

  "I should put a fucking bullet in your head," I say with a slight growl, stubbing out my cigarette in the ashtray.

  "What do you want me to say, Ez?" Zee shrugs and a twisted smile forms on his lips. "She wouldn't scream."

  "Fuck!" I push up from my desk and pace. This is a fucking shitstorm, and I'm going to get the blow back. Whores are one thing, but dead whores—that's a fucking headache, not to mention a blow to my profits.

  "We're done," I tell him.

  "No, Ezra," he laughs, "we are not done."

  I pull my suit jacket open, making sure he sees the Colt 45 holstered to my chest. "We. Are. Done. Now get out." He still doesn't move, and I pull the gun, releasing the safety and pointing it at his head.

  "Oh, you don't want to do that." He's too calm. People have different reactions when a gun is pointed at their head, some panic, some beg, and a few will even get angry, but they are never calm. "You see," he says, his thin lips curling into a smile. "You kill me and your entire world goes to shit."

  I lower the gun an inch, glaring at him. "You have two minutes, and then I fucking shoot you."

  "Victor Moorcroft," he says with a smirk. I freeze, my pulse rising.

  Victor Moorcroft, the British politician who was shot outside his home in London. By me. He was dirty, his pockets overflowing with mob money, family money. The money we paid to ensure that certain bills would pass, and laws not apply to us. He wasn't the first to turn dirty, and he sure as shit won't be the last. Moorcroft was the first high profile politician we worked with, and he made the mistake of thinking that his position gave him more power than the family. No one has more power than the mob. Seamus took me in and raised me as his own when I had no one else, and that is why I didn't question it when he chose me to take Moorcroft down. I did what had to be done, and then I was forced to run. Seamus has my absolute loyalty, which means I would do it again in a heartbeat, but equally, I don't fancy spending the rest of my life behind bars. How the fuck does this little shit know anything about Moorcroft?

  "Bullshit," I say.

  Zee sighs, pushing his hand into his pocket, and pulling out a small MP3 player. He hits play, and my own voice fills the room.

  "Moorcroft is dead.” There's a pause, and then a loud exhale.

  "Confirmed kill?” Seamus' course Irish accent comes over the recording.

  "Yeah."

  "Good." I hear a drawer open and close. "I don't know what Moorcroft put in place, but he will have something. He's not stupid. Here's a passport, and your plane ticket. Go to New York. Run the club, and lay low until I tell ya otherwise. I don't need ya gettin' arrested."

  Zee presses the button, and the recording cuts off. My finger twitches on the trigger. I remember having that conversation in Seamus' office, so either Seamus sold me out, or someone planted a wire. Seamus would never sell me out. I know he wouldn't.

  "You kill me, and I have people ready to send this straight to MI5." Zee grins. Shit!

  "What do you want?" I say through gritted teeth.

  His smile widens and I want to slice it to his fucking ears. "Well..." He clasps his hands together in front of him. "You know I work in the sex business."

  I know he sells girls from Mexico. I don't necessarily agree with it, but it's not as though I expect my clients to be the most upstanding individuals. I've wondered before why he would pay such high prices for my girls when he has his own, but then I guess rape must get boring after a while.

  Zee's beady eyes narrow. "As you've probably guessed I have an acquaintance who informed me of Seamus' little operation. That's why I started using your girls. I wanted to see for myself exactly what you're doing. And I have to say," his eyebrows arch, "you don't disappoint. I've fucked you
r girls, Ezra. I've beat them until they should be ruined, and yes, they scream and they cry, but low and behold, the next week, there they are. Subservient, willing." His eyes flash with excitement. "Do you know what someone would pay for a slave like that?"

  "My girls are whores. They are paid, and they choose to do this. They are not fucking slaves," I growl. That is my line. None of these girls are here against their will. They are paid well. What their motivations are for being here are—I don't care. It's not my problem.

  "But they could be slaves," he purrs. "Millions. They are worth millions."

  "They are not for sale."

  "So train my girls." He shrugs. "No one produces girls quite like you do. They're so resilient, yet so very fragile." He closes his eyes, shaking his head. "It's an art form, it really is. Come into business with me. I'll make you more money than the mob ever has.”

  "Yeah, spare me your professional courtesy. I'm not for sale either. So either turn me in or get out of my office."

  "I don't want to turn you in, Ezra. You're much more useful to me here than behind bars. This," he waves the device at me, "is simply insurance, to ensure you don't kill me. You'll forgive me for not trusting your reputation, but you are a businessman, and I'm sure you can see the merit of working with me." He claps his hands together. "Anyway, I'm going to leave you to think about this little opportunity."

  "I don't need to think about it." I raise the gun again.

  He narrows his eyes. "I like you, Ezra, but do not push me. I can, and will, take everything from you if I have to." His face slips back into a smile. "I'll be in touch." He stands and leaves; my gun fixed on the back of his head the entire time.

  "Fuck!" I launch a bottle of whiskey off my desk, smashing it against the wall. Jonty is still standing beside the door with a scowl etched onto his face. "Get me Seamus on the phone."

  It's half past eight by the time I reach my apartment. My cheeks are on fire from the wet winter wind whipping between the buildings, and my fingers have grown numb from the cold. I clumsily fumble with my keys as I round the corner, stopping dead in my tracks when I see two police officers standing outside my apartment door. My heart holds back several beats before going into a full-on sprint. I tell my feet to move, but they betray me and remain firmly planted on the floor. They've come for you, Evelyn. Flashbacks of all the men I've rid this world of dance through my mind. These police will never understand that what I did was justified. My hands shake from fear, causing my keys to jingle. The noise catches their attention, and they turn around. I swallow. I tell myself to breathe. I force myself to smile because I look innocent. I do.