My eyes slide shut for a moment—over the past decade of isolation, whenever I close my eyes, it has been Isabel I see. When I grip myself in the shower and bring myself to climax, it is memories of her I have turned to, time and again. Even when availing myself of the services of the girls who lease rooms from me down in Hel, it is Isabel I was with, in my mind. Unhealthy, I know. Toxic. Obsessive. Yet I couldn’t ever banish her from my mind, couldn't untangle her from my soul.
Eventually, I spent a year in total celibacy—not even pleasuring myself—in an attempt to exorcise her from within me. I learned to meditate. I journaled and dream-journaled. I did anonymous, voice-only therapy. I threw myself into exercise, lifting massive amounts of weight and running on the treadmill to the point of insanity.
It worked.
Mostly.
I no longer think of her almost at all. I never went back to hiring girls from Hel; it felt…wrong, somehow, in ways I could never articulate. I provide those girls with a comfortable, safe, protected place in which to practice their chosen profession.They are there willingly, of their own free will and choice. My lease terms are generous in their favor. I ensure that Hel is a drug-free working environment; I even provide referrals to drug, crisis, and sexual assault counseling. I have a whole onboarding presentation that Inez—Sophia— now has prepared for potential new hires, listing the benefits of working for me.
I am not a pimp; I do not take a percentage. I merely provide a safe place for them to do what they're going to do, anyway. It's the only ethical way to approach sex work.
I realize I may be an outlier on this topic—in the States, at least; sex work has existed since the dawn of human civilization, and I think it probably occurred in some recognizable capacity before we developed civilization. It is going to happen, and if it isn't regulated and the workers and clients protected, violence and exploitation become the means of control of supply, and those who suffer the most are the sex workers. To me, this is wrong; I have experienced it firsthand. Society and government exist to provide structure and support forallmembers. A wild, dangerous notion, I'm sure, especially in this age.
My rumination is disrupted when the garage door of the safehouse trundles upward—a blacked-out Lincoln Navigator approaches from the left, slows to turn into the driveway, pulls into the garage, and halts. The brake lights glow red for a moment and then shut off. The driver’s door opens; the driver is a suit-clad young man, brawny and lithe—obviously a former operator. He opens the rear passenger door for the occupant—a leg emerges, khaki-clad, with loafers. Fucking loafers: obnoxious, pretentious, impractical footwear, and uglier than sin. Loafers are to shoes what the Pontiac Aztek is to automobiles.
I digress.
The rest of the person unfolds—a black polo tucked in just so. Dark hair slicked back. Clean-shaven. Khakis pressed, the cuffshitting just right. The polo is fitted, likely tailored. Preening, arrogant peacock of a man with the soul of a cornered pit viper. I would gleefully, and with great relish, watch that man's brains paint an alley wall. If I had my way, he would spend the rest of his short life at the bottom of a cobalt mine, and his death would be slow and excruciating.
Alas, the privilege of his murder belongs to Nicolai.
At the very least, I can facilitate that process.
The two figures enter the home, and the garage door rolls quietly back down, and all is still and quiet once more. You'd never know that this sleepy little Rochester suburb harbors one of the cruelest, most bloodthirsty monsters on the planet.
I pull the cell phone I took from the dead guy from my hip pocket, power it on, and dial a long string of numbers; it rings three times, and then there's a digital beep. "It's me. Quarry is in Rochester, New York. Coordinates to follow. Send Lash ASAP." I recite the coordinates and then end the call. That done, I power the phone off, remove the battery, and pocket both pieces.
"Who is Lash? And why send him?" Brys's voice is slow and sleepy. "Who did you call?"
I glance at her; she stretches, yawns, and then watches me expectantly.
"It was an answering service—basically a voicemail box that forwards the message to predetermined recipients." I weigh how much to tell her. "Lash is an employee. He possesses…certain skills that will be invaluable in this situation. More importantly, he hates Pugli far more than I, or anyone, ever could."
"Jesus. What did he do to him?"
"Not only is it not my story to tell, but you also do not want to hear it. Suffice it to say that even the devil would be horrified."
She blinks. "Dear god. I think you're right—I don't think I want to know."
"Trust me when I say that you do not."
"And Lash, what is he like?"
"Complicated. Mysterious. Scary. Kind."
She frowns. “How can he be scaryandkind?"
I shrug. "They are not opposites. He is scary to those on the receiving end of his skills, but if he is your friend, there is no one kinder."
"So we're glad he's on our side?"
My grin at her statement is probably a cold, frightening thing. "Oh yes. Very, very,veryglad."
"How do you come to have an employee like that?" she asks.
I let out a long, slow, cheek-puffing sigh. "If you'll recall, Brys, not long after we met, I told you that if you were to know the truth of what manner of man I am, you would take your chances with the killers in there,” I indicate the safehouse. "That is still true. I am not a good man, Brys."
She stares at the house for a long time. "I don't know that I believe that, Jakob. I have seen no evidence supporting this claim. Perhaps, in the past, it was true. But I like to think peoplecanchange…they just have to want to." Her eyes cut to me. "Listen, Jakob. I just need to know where we stand, okay? If you want the sex stuff to be strictly physical and we keep our pasts and our emotions out of it, I can do that. Most of my liaisons for the past few years have been of that nature. If you'd rather keep things strictly try-not-to-die and eliminate the sex altogether, that's fine too. Like I said, I just need to know the score so I can adjust my expectations accordingly. Just be honest with me, Jakob, even if you're being honest that you can't or won't engage with me emotionally."
