Smoke and Mirrors

By Tiana Laveen

Love appears when the smoke clears…
 

Brent "Smoke" Patterson's upbringing in heartland America was anything but idyllic. Childhood trauma led him into the underground society of Los Angeles, where he mastered "Pimp-ology" at the "School of Hard Knocks." One of the few Caucasian procurers to hit the scene, he makes a name for himself, but Smoke's world shifts when Paris Raven, an unyielding L.A. Madam with her own hidden pain, enters his life.
 

Paris, a self-made woman, refuses to be tamed or intimidated by anyone, even Smoke. Despite their mutual attraction, their love ignites jealousy, revenge, blackmail, and murder. In the city of angels, love and power collide in a deadly game of desire.
 

 Join them on a first-class flight to dark romance, where turbulent conditions await.
 

From USA Today bestselling author Tiana Laveen comes a dark, enemies to lovers, wounded hero, forbidden lovers packed with grit, suspense and passion. Smoke and Mirrors is an exciting, alpha hero/alpha heroine contemporary romance. It is a standalone novel with a HEA (Happily-ever-after). This book includes mature themes and content that may not be suitable for all audiences; reader discretion is advised. Please look inside under the 'Trigger Warnings' for possible topics that may be deemed personally objectionable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tiana Laveen
• Release date: Jul 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9798224921355

Book preview

Warning

This book is adult in nature. It deals with heavy topics such as illegal prostitution/ sex sales, emotional neglect, child abuse and other situations that the reader may find objectionable. There is an abundance of profanity, profuse violence with no aspect spared, as well as ‘gritty’ details concerning a lifestyle many of us do not understand or support. The fact that the author writes about these themes does not mean that she, too, condones, appreciates or wishes to participate in such situations. Nor does it mean that she agrees with the opinions of the character(s) or glamorizes or gives a ‘seal of approval’ to the characters’ actions and behaviors. Please also be forewarned, that though the sexual relationship of the hero and heroine does not start immediately in this book, when it does begin, it is continuous, exceptionally graphic, and not for those that wish to avoid such details. This is fiction, a work from the writer’s imagination, but paired with countless years of research about the lifestyle in question in order for the characters to be authentic, and the situations accurately described to the best of the author’s ability and knowledge. The characters speak as many in this particular lifestyle speak. Thus, word choice must be taken into consideration. If the vernacular is something you find offensive, please be forewarned at this point.

Example: bottom bitch is used several times in this novel. A ‘bottom bitch’ is a pimp’s most dedicated and coveted prostitute. She often ‘runs shop’ when he isn’t able to; she makes sure the other prostitutes, that he controls, are doing what they are supposed to do in and out of his physical presence.

The author does not change the rhetoric, tone or language commonly used by people in this profession. It would do the story a disservice and whitewash the authenticity. That aside, however, this is still a love story. The main focus is placed on the hero and heroine’s relationship.

For categorization purposes, this would be classified as an erotic, interracial, urban/dark romance. If the topics delved upon are not something you would wish to explore at this time, it would be advantageous on your part to not read this particular novel.

Please proceed with caution. Thank you.

* * * *

A Little Freestyle…

Dizzy cigarette smoke, the scent of willowy paths burning like incense, clearing a trail as spiritual as Indian white sage for the natives.

Bearskin rugs, silver, taut handcuffs, wrapped tight around a night of unadulterated sex—

Languid bodies intertwined, arms and hands and tongues tasting all that is sinful and hedonistically inflamed.

Seductive spells, charms, voodoo on one’s loins,

Someone spit fire from the dragon’s lair—

The moon beat the sun in a game of truth, hex and dare

…Now, what’s next?

* * * *

A Chat with Readers Regarding This Book

Greetings readers!

So, for people who’ve read some of my previous work, hello! We meet again!  :)

For those who are new to me, I wish to offer you a warm welcome and let you know that you’ve picked a heck of a book to start off with, lol. My condolences…ha!

Okay, let’s get into it. I’ve gotten into a bit of a habit with putting these little ‘love letters’ in my books to my readers. I think it helps the reader as she or he travels the journey shotgun with the characters. I don’t want you to be passive. I want you to smell the food cooking, feel the angst of a woman who has been betrayed and envision the knife slicing into tattooed flesh. You purchased this book in order to go on a journey, to be told a story. And, that is what I plan to do. This is a story I don’t want you to stop thinking about after you’ve read, ‘The End.’ I want it to stay with you a bit longer, so much so, that you may have to sit and think about some things, possibly in a whole new way. I rarely just write a love story. I tend to write character studies that are all swirled in like a thick stew.

It gives further insight as to what the author, that being me, was doing and thinking when this ‘world’ was being created. Now, that brings me to the world of grit… Yes, grit. Some have accused me of being an interracial ‘street lit’ architect based on my popular Saint series. I am not a street lit author, but regardless, that does not offend me.

I bring this up, ladies and gentlemen, because this story has a rather ‘earthy’ vibe as well, if you will. It is in your face, it is rough, and at times hard to swallow. Unless you are devoid of any emotion at all, there will be times when you may think to yourself, ‘I don’t know if I can digest what I just read…’ I’m not a ‘shock’ author; I simply write the truth as I see it. It is a book of fiction, but the instances I describe in this novel happen to real life people, every day, all day…and the readers (you), know that. The fact that I don’t stay away from this stuff in romance novels turns some people off. Yet others expect it and, dare I say, relish what I do. And to those people, I am thankful for the love and continued support.

Regardless, I’m proud of my work and make no excuses or apologies for the fact that I visit ‘seedy’ worlds, enjoy creating and cerebrally living in them to the utmost, and offer them gift wrapped in detailed naughty graffiti, shed blood from a murder scene, then tie the elements together with a huge counterfeit hundred dollar bill covered in cocaine dust to my readers.

Fact of the matter is, I am rather unpredictable, though this is never intentional. I simply go with my mood, whatever dream I’ve had that I can build upon, and then the story takes off from there. One day, you will receive a story from me about an Italian American priest that falls in love with a beautiful Bohemian African American singer and pianist, Forgive Me Father for I Have Loved, and the next, you will read about a sexy warrior alien from another planet, kidnapping a Baltimore cop and falling madly in love with her to the point of love addiction, ‘The Blood Series’ (Addicted in Cold Blood and The Tale of the Blood Diamond). So it is nothing for me to dig into my warped imagination like a bag of tricks and pull out things that make people raise their brow and even shake their head a time or two. It is just how my brain works, and I won’t back down for it is who I am; it is what I do. I stand firm in my truth; thus, no one can define me, but me. Regardless of what I’m writing about, I promise to always put my best foot forward for you, and handle it in my typical, ‘Tiana Laveen’ style… and if you don’t know what this, people familiar with my work have more than likely grown accustomed to the following:

My stories are usually longer than average (this is not everyone’s preference). I do not follow proper ‘romance’ protocol – I tend to write my love stories in an unconventional way, sometimes with unexpected pairings. I am, more times than not, very descriptive and rather graphic. I want you to be sitting right there, ‘watching’ the book play out. As stated, some people feel bogged down by this style of writing; others delight in it. I do not always get to my ‘sex scenes’ fast, quick and in a hurry. Again, this may cause frustration for some readers. Others tend to enjoy the slow climb to Mt. Orgasm-ville. Rather than use a ‘sex scene’ formula, I listen to my characters and prefer for the reader to know a bit about them before that occurs, if it makes more sense for the flow of the book. In other words, I do quite a bit of character study if you will, but I don’t believe to the point of ad nauseam, because essentially, their story is far more important. If my characters are hot to trot, I listen. If they don’t want to wait, so be it. I’ll listen to those cues as well. And last but not least, I’m insane. I just threw that in there to see if you were paying attention (but it’s true, nevertheless…)

Okay, so let me get into what is going on this story. First of all, what you should know about me is that I have an unhealthy obsession with all that is considered ‘abnormal/vilified human behavior’, as well as topics that are drenched in the macabre and seen as ‘deviant’ in this world. If details that fit the prior description are to be found in a book, true crime show or documentary, I’m all over it. My friends know what to recommend to me, and that includes oftentimes my choices in music as well, but that is another topic for another day. The fact that I feel the need to blend these elements with romance shows that I probably need to make an appointment with a therapist, but it is what it is, and I happen to fancy it. I’ve been this way since I was child, since the show, ‘Cops’ debuted. My parents would argue that it occurred at a much earlier age than that. Anyway, that television program changed my life. It opened a world to me that I was sheltered from, at least to that degree. Then, during my high school and college years, I latched onto documentaries about prostitution, drug dealing, etc. I had no idea that it would one day help me in my future career, but it in fact has. It is amazing what one retains! I already had a ‘basic sense’ of the lifestyle due to watching literally over fifty films about the life of a prostitute from the streets of New York all the way to Mumbai, India. I had also seen many films and read so many books and articles regarding pimps as well as the johns that kept these professions in business, that I felt somewhat knowledgeable.

Everyone at some point in time witnesses or lives some kind of dysfunction, be it an unhealthy friendship, co-dependency with a loved one, taking abuse from a superior at a job, suffering from a bout of depression, or feeling unloved to the point that the person in question really wonders if they should just end it all. These are things many people do not wish to discuss, especially in certain communities and social circles.

There are issues that are tossed under the rug, never to be spoken of, or we simply say, ‘Our people don’t do that.’ Or, ‘We don’t air our dirty laundry.’ But to that I say, How can the laundry ever get clean if we don’t pull it out the old hamper, declare it grimy, wash it and hang it out to dry? Despite writing fiction, I put a lot of research into my books, and I prefer to be true to the characters and lifestyles tackled in the story. A perfect example is the Saint series. I am not a member of a gang, nor was I ever in one; however, I had to research in great detail the gang lifestyle of that era (1960s/1970s) in order to make sure I knew what the heck I was talking about. I needed the characters to be authentic and to avoid, if at all possible, being disrespectful in my representation due to sloppy analysis such as only hearing one side of a story, or believing everything I read without finding at least a few more sources to sustain my ideas. Again, though this is fiction, REAL people endured these circumstances, so because of that, I really try to put forth the extra effort.

An example of research and what it entailed for me as an author: interviews with active and non-active gang members; detailed research about the Savage Skulls (yes, they were/are real though they are more of a motorcycle gang now); as well as research about the Bloods (Piru, in particular) and Crips.

Regardless of what I personally believe, it was important for me, as a writer, to stay true to the characters and have them speak and act with authenticity, and see the world in the same manner that many enmeshed in these lifestyles see the world. It also gave an opportunity for redemption. None of my characters run around unscathed. None of them go on about doing their ‘dirty deeds’ without it being addressed in some manner, and I would venture to say, that is true for the majority of my books. This work in particular definitely had to be dealt with in a special way. Why? Because it IS a romance, regardless of the grittiness and topics explored, and no one gets to fall in love without sacrifice, redemption and revitalization. I don’t believe anyone on this planet is beyond improvement and opportunity for growth.

Even if we do not like a person, possibly even detest them, as long as they are breathing and somewhat coherent, there is an occasion, every second of the day, for transformation into a more positive and productive version of ourselves. We should all be works in progress, growing, changing, and improving. Sometimes, we won’t meet the mark, and sometimes, we will supersede it. That is what I attempt to have my characters demonstrate. Someone may start off as a king-sized jerk, a total ‘pita’ (pain in the ass), but they may not remain that way. Some characters will actually grow worse, but they typically will not be the hero or heroine in my books.

In this particular book, the hero is a pimp. Yup. He has a gang of beautiful, half-naked women around him at any given time, and they have sex with other people and give him their hard earned money…happily. So now that we’ve got that part covered, check this out: He is not your ‘typical’ pimp, though. For one, he is white. Now, I rarely make a big whoop de whoop about race in my stories. It is brought up though from time to time because ignoring it altogether in my opinion is too unrealistic, but it does not become the ‘theme’ of the story unless it is a historic romance, such as, ‘The Slave Master’s Son.’ In this book, ‘Smoke and Mirrors’, it is not continuously discussed either, but it is mentioned more than few times because it is pertinent to the nature of the profession of the hero, Smoke, as well as the heroine, Paris, and their own personal experiences.

White pimps exist; most people who have read a book or two about the subject know that. However, they are not the norm in this country. They are the norm in Europe, but this story takes place in the United States, so that fact stays somewhat irrelevant. How he became a pimp, his mindset, etc., create a situation that hopefully the reader will not only understand, but proceed to develop less revulsion toward him as the main character’s inner workings are explored and revealed. This is not an effort to necessarily excuse his language towards and about women, his mindset and actions, but to at least see how he got from point A to point B. You, as the reader, need to find out that Smoke is in fact VERY human. He is not some demonic, testosterone-drinking robot roaming about the Earth, turning women into sex slaves (Hey! That’s a great story idea! LOL!) Anyway, back to the topic… Some may ask, why did I do this? Why did I write about the life of a pimp? The answer I give to this question each and every time is – Why not? Everyone on this planet has a story and many, in my opinion, are worth exploring.

As Smoke (the hero) grows and develops, chapter after chapter, the reader will see the many layers within this man. He is a complicated person, though he carries himself as if life is simple, picture perfect and crystal clear, and can be broken down into easily understandable compartments. He is organized in his thinking, actions and behaviors, even the occasional vehement ones – but internally, he is a ticking time bomb ready to explode at any moment.

The heroine is equally complex, but a more vulnerable soul, despite her, too, being from a lifestyle many would snub. Contrary to many of our feelings as a whole about people like this, and our preconceived notions, these people may live under the radar. They are our neighbors, family members (whether we know it or not), friends, church members, associates, teachers, bosses, employees, jogging partners, PTA members, and individuals who help collect money for the local lemonade stand and fire department. They will continue to exist until the end of time. The reason I know this is because prostitution is one of the oldest professions on the planet. Men and women will continue to be sexual beings. We will continue to lust, love, seduce and covet other human beings based on how they can make us feel physically, as well as emotionally. This is the human condition, and despite anyone’s religious or spiritual beliefs or lack thereof, this is simply a biological fact. Human beings want to be touched. This need for tactile contact expands and grows as we physically mature and sometimes it can become perverted, warped and downright dangerous if it is not handled in a nurturing, positive, and uplifting way. Our sexuality is so tied into what we observe and witness as children, as well as developed by means of genetic and environment factors, thus, some of our inclinations come to exist through no choice of our own. It is plain to see, at least from my perspective, that sexuality is fluid – it is interpretable and what one may see as tragically vile, another may see as splendidly divine. We came into the world via sex, and we leave it still wanting intimacy. How many times have you seen, heard or read about a person dying, and reaching out to hold their relative’s hand during the final hours? It is that touch that drives us. It is nonstop, and there are people that capitalize on this basic premise. These people are called sex workers, escorts, ‘massage parlor’ employees, prostitutes, hookers, pimps, porn actors/actresses, sex movie directors and producers, sex therapists, sex surrogates, tricks, johns and a host of others, who dedicate a great portion of their lives to what we systemically gravitate towards – and that is sensuality, sexuality, intimacy, affection and lovemaking.

Smoke and Paris are a part of this world. They enter each other’s domain and things happen – strange things, wonderful things, horrible things, and beautiful things. I don’t want to give the story away, so I will just wrap this up now by saying, please sit back and enjoy. If the book gets a bit too heavy at some point, take a break if you need, but by all means, continue on the ride, for Smoke and Paris have a bona fide love story to tell. Are you ready? Let’s go!

* * * *

Preface

She is an indestructible ruby red rose growing between the jagged cracks of time. I plucked her uneven petal, and her thorns caught around my heart, making me bleed along the razor blade’s glistening edge. I sacrificed myself for the sweetness of her garden, decided to perish, shed my old skin after inhaling her beauty. Though I now die a million times in her fields, the slow, tortuous fatality is worth it. Pardon me while I take my last breath. I want to be alone, to savor the perfume of her undying love…

* * * *

A Word from Our Hero…

Despite what I am, and what I evolved into, this is a story about love turning up and growing in the oddest and most unlikely of places…

My name is Brent Smoke Jeremy Patterson III, and I am a few hours away from being released from California State Prison. I’ve decided to tell my story so that maybe one day, it could help someone. Not to mention, it needs to be told. It’s time. Another reason is, I’d like to clear my conscience. I was not always the person that I came to be; I didn’t just wake up one morning and decide to fight the world, tooth and nail. There are more reasons for this confession, but for now, that will do. Now, as I sit here on this teeter-tottering bench with a brown paper sack of my belongings sitting next to me, I realize that this will be my last day of being incarcerated. No, not in prison, but in my mind… I am done with this. I can’t point the finger at anyone though. I can’t blame my choices on my childhood. Actually, I could, but I’m a grown ass man that made grown ass choices with grown ass consequences. I’m not one of those motherfuckers that tried to plead insanity, or claim to not know right from wrong to save my own ass.

I knew exactly what the fuck I was doing. In other words, I did what I did, I own it, but many would say that my crimes against women weren’t my greatest offense. You see, I broke the code and then took it to a whole different level. I was trained to never fall in love with my product. As the saying goes, don’t mix business with pleasure—but I did that and then some. I came from a long line of men who simply don’t fall in love. It is not even in our nature, but it is our legacy. I used this to my advantage, and it helped me with my product. In my case, the product was women…

So you see, my greatest violation and my ultimate love coexisted; actually, some would say they were one and the same. I won’t sugarcoat this or beat around the bush, I’ll come straight out and tell you what I am, and make it perfectly clear who you’re talking to.

I’m a pimp.

Being a pimp is a mindset; it’s a way of life. Pimps are born; they aren’t made. Before you go passing judgment, let me break something down for you. Some men, who are born pimps, don’t pimp just women, but an entire enterprise. They are called CEOs and government officials. We’ve been tricking for them since the day we were assigned a social security number. These aren’t semantics; this is the real world, the reality of the shit. A man could go his entire damn life not knowing he was a born pimp, but under the right circumstances, if he rolls around in just the precise amount of filth and delusions of grandeur, and he is seasoned to perfection from an environment that encourages such behavior, the personality will manifest, and he will take on his birthright at just the precise time…

The shit going on out here in the streets right now is bullshit. Those aren’t real playas, O.G.s or aristocrat playboys. They are little children with the personality of a piece of chicken shit. Despite their adult physical age, they are mere babies feigning to be full-fledged men. They are simps, man-ginas, Bettys, Mitches, reluctant betas pretending to be alphas, professing to be down by law. They’re caught up in their feelings, instead of keeping their mind on their money, and their money on their mind. Yes, I came into the world this way, but it took a series of twisted events to serve as a platinum key and unlock this darkness inside of me. Before you think to yourself, ‘what could this man who peddles pussy and then collects the cash possibly have to say worth listening to?’—I think I have a lot worth hearing, actually.

You see, you don’t know me…but you’re about to.

I don’t think I’m special, but I know for a damn fact that I’m different. You may think based on what I’ve told you that I’m the scum of the earth and well, in some ways you’d be right. Regardless of that, I’ve got a story to tell because you see, I’ve learned a few lessons along the way and if I can spare someone else from repeating my mistakes, then all of this shit was well worth it. On top of all of this, my story is rather unique. I’m a rare breed. So, I take back what I said…I am fucking special, and in a minute, you’ll know it, too.

I don’t know what image you had in your mind of me, but let’s get the preliminaries out of the way so there is no misunderstanding. I’m white. When you look at me, there is no mistaking that, no second-guessing, or the need for a survey or family tree DNA test. If I don’t get enough sunlight, I look like a fucking vampire. Some would say I was one anyway, sucking the life out of women for my own financial gain. My straight, thick, dark brown hair is usually combed back away from my face, cut close at the sides. My electric light blue eyes will either entice a woman to drop her fucking panties on a dime, or lure her ass to sleep, whichever I so choose. I have them due to a recessed albino gene from the paternal side of my family. They are the first thing motherfuckers see when I approach, and the last thing they look into when I have to stomp some son of a bitch into the ground.

Now, in regards to my confessions, don’t go making assumptions. I didn’t fall in love with one of my whores. That’s what you were thinking, weren’t you? No…it was much deeper than that. You see, I fell in love with someone in the same league as me. This particular female, this woman, is a Madame or Madam, however you wish to say it…you can make it sound French if you like, put a fancy twist on it like double olives in a martini. In any case, this woman is like no other. She is a ball breaker, john shaker and money taker. An individual whose confidence, influence and beauty brought me to my goddamn knees.

The day I met Madam Paris Raven was the day my life took a turn not even God himself could have expected. In some eyes, I’m now viewed as fallen from grace. I’m looked upon with disdain, seen as no better than a trick, because there is not a damn thing I wouldn’t do for this woman, even behind these bars, moments away from my freedom…

If you want to hear me out, I’m going to sit here and tell you my story while I wait for official discharge. It’s my first time telling it to anyone, the entire damn truth, and nothing but the truth, since the shit went down. You may wonder, ‘Why now?’ Well, I’m one hundred and eighty-two minutes away from being a free man…and they say a man is only truly free, if his heart and mind are as well. So, here you are, and here I am. Have a seat. I want to tell you my narrative…a love story born in the midst of chaos and self-destruction. A story that turned me, Brent ‘Smoke’ Patterson, from Legend, to Legal ward of the state, and now, Lover of a lady of the night…

* * * *

Prelude

Present Day…

Dru Down’s, ‘Can You Feel Me’, played on the baroque music system in Smoke’s brand spanking new, black on black Porsche 918 Spider as he sat parked on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. He’d been in the mood for some music that drew him into his younger days when he’d sit outside a baseball park and daydream, with the palm trees swaying above his head and the wind flipping through his hair. Regardless of him feeling rather relaxed, a sense of urgency had begun to slowly creep up his spine like tiny fingers meandering towards the base of his neck. So he sat on the side of the road, his head still spinning from a rather loud and crazy evening and his hangover gripped his cranium as if it, too, was trying to read his damn mind.

Wait a minute, what’s going on? That’s him getting in his car. Leaving early? She didn’t call me to tell me she was finished. That’s not like her. Something’s not right…

He got out of the car, adjusted his Urwerk CC1 King Cobra watch and made his way into the L’Ermitage Beverly Hills Hotel, one of five hotels that he used in steady rotation. It had all the amenities needed to keep his clients exultant, his stable content, and most importantly, he did it so well, the staff, minus one manager that was well paid to keep his fucking mouth shut, remained none the wiser to his exploits. Regardless, it was time for a come-up, an upgrade, and he had just the solution. He’d just purchased an apartment building, hired an old friend of the family to help stand guard and contracted several working crews to revamp the place, make it fit exactly what he had in mind. It would be turned into a place for his stable to reside all under one roof, as well as double as a pussy palace. Several of the apartments within it would be used as space for his employees to work, but in the meantime, this was their current situation. It had taken a while to reach this pinnacle. Over time, he not only taught himself the game, he fucking improved it, making the dull shine, the mundane draw curiosity, and the undesirable coveted. This would be the place, this would the time…a slice of the busted cherry pie to call their very own. No more hotels, no cop infested or dangerous areas. His whores rarely walked the track. That was his first rule. The second was, he commanded and demanded complete obedience. They had one time and one time only to try him: lie, take his money, or get on drugs, and their ass would be blowing in the Los Angeles winds.

Thanks to his father’s reputation, many members of his old man’s previous stable put in a good word for him, making his trek to street stardom a bit less of a tedious climb, though it proved challenging all the same. Nevertheless, he had a golden resume by association alone. He thought he understood that his father’s specially selected whores were dedicated to that man, but he really had no clue until after the man was long gone.

He’d had no inkling of just how revered his father had been out in the thoroughfares, but the adoration that was surely showered upon him by default was a beautiful thing. His father followed old-school rules with new school flair, and that was precisely what Smoke wanted to duplicate, with his own wicked twist and a touch of class. He needed to prove himself, and when he first got his feet wet, he found the prospects daunting. The hardheaded bitches gravitated towards him, including the ones with ravenous cocaine addictions. If he survived that first round draft pick, he’d have to duck and dodge some of his first deranged and obsessive recruits who believed they were in love with him and would grow perilously jealous should he dare turn his affections towards another in the stable. As time passed, he grew wiser and devised an internal radar to avoid such circumstances, but the ladies still came in droves.

He dressed unlike most of his peers and predecessors… not too flashy, not like your average Joe, but somewhere in the middle. He drifted toward dapper with a slight dash of flash. He wore custom suits in various earth tones and kept his shit simple. By all appearances, he was a white, rich businessman and refused to be addressed as anything differently. After he broke his first two steady whores in, he’d gotten a clean grip on the life. Joan, a transplant from Alabama who was as country as buttery grits, red dirt roads and greasy pig feet, stood at his side as well as ‘Tiny Tammy’, a pretty little naïve thing that seemed to get wet when he simply uttered her name. With the two of them, he built his regal reputation, earning respect as they pulled more johns than many thought was humanly possible.

Soon, other pimps’ whores were choosing him, and as an old-school act of good faith after teaching himself the ropes, receiving royal advice and studying his father’s blueprint, he would pay the pimps a few dollars, as a consolation prize. He did his shit bigger and better than anyone else. He had two legitimate businesses – he owned the pizzeria he used to work at when he was eighteen and he’d also jumped into real estate, renting several houses out to respectable families. His T’s were crossed, and his I’s dotted, too. Never fucked up or delayed his taxes, kept his nose out of other peoples’ business, and would beat someone into near oblivion if they tried to strong-arm him. Not bad for a naïve, pussy fearing mama’s boy from Monroe, Ohio…

Stacia, are you ready? He rapped on the locked hotel door with the pale gray ‘Do Not Disturb’ hanger placed across the brassy handle and clicked his tongue impatiently against the side of his mouth. He began to count inside his head. She knew the routine. If one of his women didn’t respond to him when he came knocking, he surmised she was in danger, and then he’d let himself inside and take care of his business. One too many times, he’d seen a sick john get a hold of one of his ladies, tie her up against her will and do shit that wasn’t agreed upon. He jiggled his leg, feeling the hard, heavy metal against his waist shake a bit. Stacia had three more seconds…

3…2…1…

Sliding the extra hotel room key out of his pocket and inserting it in the lock, he heard the click and eased himself inside. He was swallowed in darkness, but didn’t dare flip on a light. He focused, relying on his other senses to make swift assessments of the situation, and sniffed the air like a trained bloodhound as he cautiously moved about, his gun now in his grip. His dander rose to a fever pitch while he made for the bathroom as if he had a built in Garmin to find her ass, dead center in the middle of his brain. Once he reached the lavatory door, he wrapped his large hand around the cool knob. Locked. He stepped back, and kicked the motherfucker in, causing muffled cries to echo throughout the small quarters. Then, he flipped the switch and groaned in fury. Naked, Stacia sat crouched down inside of the white tub, the floor of the basin peppered with blood splatter as the muscles beneath her pale skin jumped. Her blond hair was crimson streaked, her mouth tightly gagged, bruised wrist and ankles wrapped with sticky electrical tape. Her left breast bled profusely from an abrasion, as well as cavernous teeth marks that had punctured the soft tissue right above the muted pink areola against her reddened flesh. Copious tears ran down her face as she mumbled incoherently, trembling, on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Hold on, baby, I got you… he whispered as he placed his gun along the tub ledge before him, pulled out his switchblade and released her, cutting the thick tape that secured her wrists, and gently removed the gag from her face. The woman immediately gasped for air, and wailed out like a mother who’d lost her child, falling into his arms like a damp, limp rag. The fear in her hazel eyes was alive and breathing as she wheezed for air, shaking against him, bloodying his clothing with her battered and tormented body.

It’s okay, baby. I’ll get you to hospital. He patted her back as he looked around them cautiously. He kept his ears sharply tuned into his surroundings, just in case. He wasn’t so certain he may not have to utilize Mr. Midnight after all.

I just saw him leave. Look at me for a second, baby.

The woman’s eyes danced with fear as she looked around in a daze, looking completely and utterly confused. Do you know by chance where he may have headed to? He gripped her chin, forcing her to focus and look him in the eye.

I…I don’t know, Smoke. A trickle of blood ran down the side of her face, dawdling, moving in slow motion like a sole, rubicund raindrop down a windowpane.

Stay in this hotel room and sit down on the bed. He stated as he escorted her to it and placed her on the mattress, then marched towards the door, his cellphone gripped tightly in hand.

Felicia, get your ass down here at the hotel. Stacia has been attacked. She’s in her usual room… Take her to the hospital, he did a number on ’er…Yeah, she’s alive, talking and everything…she’s okay, but he worked her over pretty good. Hurry up. I’ll meet you over there. I need to go after this motherfucker before he gets too far. He disconnected the call and burst out the door like a flame doused in gasoline, his nostrils flaring and his breathing accelerated.

Like an enraged lion on the loose from the San Diego Zoo, he tore through the halls of the place then calmed himself down when he got into an area monitored by security cameras. He flew like a bird, made his way back out the hotel front doors and jumped into his car so quickly, he practically ripped the door off the hinges. Cruising the street with brute determination, he knew the bastard couldn’t have gotten terribly far, especially due to a traffic delay a few blocks ahead. He cursed and grunted as he maneuvered and swerved through traffic, causing a song of honking from annoyed drivers. He blocked them out; this matter simply couldn’t wait. He wouldn’t give up until he spotted the bastard and had a little pow-wow, a coming together.

I can’t believe this son of a bitch! He beat on his steering wheel with a heavy fist.

He always ran background checks on the johns that came to see his girls. No one was allowed near his whores otherwise. Still, it didn’t stop some of the lunatics from trying to do their thing. This convinced him even more that his plans to relocate his women were long overdue. He was set to implement a ‘John Check Out’ system as soon as they got into their new digs. The bastards could go in, but no one was leaving until he cleared them first.

…A lot of damn audacity… Wait until I catch up with your ass.

He knew the son of a bitch, an attorney originally from Texas, who drove a light baby blue Lexus with white wall tires. The guy had had a few uneventful dates with some of his other girls, all without a hitch. This time, he’d let his true desires get the best of him. Not only did the guy beat up his asset, knocking one of his top of the line whores out of commission, he ran off with her money, too.

There’s that son of a bitch. He grinned as he spotted the fucker’s car several feet away. He got behind him, following him from a safe distance until he arrived at the Pastaio restaurant in Beverly Hills, where the bastard was getting valet parking.

Well isn’t this about a bitch… Smoke scoffed as he cut the car off and patiently waited against a sidewalk curb. So, you’re just going to beat up my woman and take my money to stuff your big fucking face, huh?! Worked up an appetite with all that biting, cutting and duct-taping, you sick bastard. I got something for you… He turned his music on and leaned back against his seat, on phase II of his self-imposed stakeout. Arctic Monkeys sang, ‘Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High’, marking the start of his patient wait. After about forty-five minutes, the ferocious john emerged with a satisfied, smug smile etched on his round, ruddy face and his puffy hand grazing his extended stomach in gastronomic satisfaction.

You tortured and mutilated my girl, yet you stand there, without a care in the world…but you’re about to care…oh yeah, you’re going to care a whole fucking lot…

Sucking his teeth, Smoke swung his door open. He was making an entrance, and he wanted to be seen; it made the kill all the more enjoyable…

He waited for a clearing in traffic while the bastard lingered for his car to be pulled up. As he drew closer, the man appeared to be squinting, and then he stiffened up, as if realizing that the fast stride in Smoke’s step may not have been because he had insatiable taste for some good Italian food. There would be some chomping all right, but not the kind that required fine cuisine or a supple breast to sink one’s teeth into like some vicious wolverine. No, this would be a feast of a whole different kind.

Yes…it’s me, motherfucker…

Smoke fisted and unfisted his palms in delightful anticipation.

Oh yes, this is going to be gooooood. Damn good!

The man began to back up once realization set in, but it was far too late, Smoke was upon him like a dark cloud on a rainy day. He yanked Humpty Dumpty up by his crisp white collar like a trash bag from a curb and dragged his big ass to the side of the place, out of street view, to take care of a little business.

What do you want?! the man blubbered. I paid ’er! I paid ’er!

Smoke laughed lightly. "Liar. This isn’t just about the money. You enjoyed doing that fucked up shit, didn’t you? This isn’t your first rodeo. Nah, this isn’t your first time, that’s for damn sure. You’re far too calm and relaxed. You’ve done this to a lot of prostitutes, haven’t you, Mr. Lone Star?!"

I haven’t done anything…No! Don’t know what you’re talking about! he sniveled.

"Shut up! Some of you out-of-towners come to California and think you can do whatever the fuck you wanna do, when you want to do it! I should cut your gigantic ass up, let you see how it feels to bleed from every damn pore, but I’d be slicing all goddamn day and night and still never get to the white meat you big, sloppy son of a bitch!" He rammed his knee hard and fast into the guy’s crotch, causing him to moan raucously and bend sharply at the waist, his trembling lips parted.

I hope you weren’t planning on having any more kids! Smoke laughed. I think I just made that an impossibility. You like beating up bitches? He sneered, balled up his fist, and smashed it into the bastard’s nose, surely breaking it, as blood began to gush and splatter like cerise paint across a canvas.

Give me my motherfucking money, goddamn it. I don’t have all fucking day!

The man fell to the ground, spitting up blood, holding himself as if he’d surely die.

Smoke leisurely reached into the bastard’s pockets, pilfering about until he found the prize—a dark brown leather wallet. He pulled out the cash and the fiend’s ID.

You see this, Mr. Ted Zurich? He twirled the license around in his hand before distributing a swift kick to the asshole’s stomach. The wretched excuse for a man groaned and begged for his life, but his cries were ignored. He raised one shaky hand, pleading for mercy.

Puh…please! Stooop!

Ohhhh, no sir! We’re just getting started!

The man’s hands continued to shake, as if he’d withstood nerve damage.

That’s funny! Smoke guffawed. You look like you got jazz hands! Puttin’ on the Ritz! he teased, doing a quick six step shuffle tap dance routine before growing serious once more. "You didn’t give my whore any mercy, so you get none either, big boy! And if you try anything, and I mean anything, I will snap every fucking bone in your body then stomp them all into dust!"

Pluh…pleaaasssse! Someone help! the man called out, though his voice was too weak to carry past Smoke’s ears, due to the immense pain he was in no doubt.

"If you yell like that again, I will take out my gun, shove it in your mouth and serve you some dessert…and the kind I’m talking about will blow your damn mind… Now, that’s your final warning. Oh, and let me get the rules of this contest out of the way. If you report this or go to the police, I will go to your motherfucking house, he snarled, pointing at his face, and speak to your wife personally. Won’t that be nice? How’d you think she’d react to find out that her upstanding, conservative husband that buys her pretty little things has also been buying pussy like it’s street meat at the