Title: TDWP2: The Streets
Author: Melanacious
Fandom/Genre: The Devil Wears Prada/AU
Disclaimer: The Devil Wears Prada and its characters are the exclusive property of people who are not me. This particular story however, is mine and the OCs are mine as well. This is a fictional depiction. Characters and events are made up. Any animals, names and places resembling real animals, people or places is not intentional unless of course, you swallowed the red pill and fell down the rabbit hole into OZ and everyone looks like your Aunty Em in drag.
Pairing: Andy/Miranda eventually and few others along the way. F/F; M/M; and M/F pairings.
Rating: NC-17 or possibly a higher rating. Maybe NC-21
Summary: Begging never got Miranda Priestly or Andrea Sachs anything they wanted, nor kept them away from anything they didn't. It's not the life they wanted; It's the life that chose them. It's the life they have to survive. Strangers when they meet; A reluctant dark queen and a damaged pawn who once dreamed of being knight. When the battle lines are drawn sides have to be chosen. In the end it's a matter of trust. Andy's learned that trust will break you and leave you screaming in dark. And Miranda's learned from the best never trust anyone that you can't break and mend back together with your own hands.
Warning: Graphic depictions of Crime/Violence/Language/Sex/drugs—Sometimes all at once. Memories of child abuse. So please proceed with caution. (No drug use for Miranda or Andy however) Believe me when I say proceed with caution—It's quite irritating having to write such disclaimers and warnings, although I understand the need. However, it's even more irritating when they are disregarded.
A/N: Dedicated to Kitnkabootle and big thanks to her for agreeing to beta. And homage to a video that sparked my interest and she makes excellent cyber cookies.
A/N2: Any errors remaining are my own (misspellings for certain Characters dialogues are intentional)
Video:The Streets: theme by Kitnkabootle
The Devil Wears Prada 2: The Streets
PROLOGUE:
The thundershower choked off its fury.
The night was a glazed surface.
Morrisania, its sidewalks strewn with glistening beer bottles, cans and trash, was a grotesque mimicry of a crystal borough. High rise low income projects, cordoned off with chain lined fences, were bleak wet giants losing the battle to degeneration brought on by time, violence and the defacement from scrawls of graffiti.
Train tracks ran parallel to the street and the momentarily deserted rails with gang monikers and declarations of love left by the markings of spray paint, were darker than usual from absorbed moisture.
Run off from rain had been left behind to sop the ground with fat sporadically timed drops, from lamp posts, awnings and window seals.
The cab slowed to a stop, killing the tail and headlights. Leather gloved fingers crushed out the red glow of a cigarette butt in an overflowing ashtray of the backseat.
"Same as usual, Nick?" The cabby grinned at the darkened dash, the meter showing zero mileage and with an expectant glance in the rear view he scrutinized his passenger. "You want I should keep the meter runnin'?" In the backseat of what was likely the cleanest cab in all of New York City, the city lights reflected off Fendi sunglasses.
A hand sporting a black leather Versace glove slipped a thick folded wad of green bills over the driver's shoulder.
"Nay, Jimbo. Too open." The driver shuddered, the fine hairs standing up on his arms and neck at the low feral burr near his ear. "Ten minutes. Circle aroond. No more. No less."
Accepting the bills and pocketing them, Jimbo reached under his seat for the revolver and then slid the weapon under a well worn copy of an Andre Vachss novel.
"With bells on," Jimbo offered a crooked toothed-grin.
The passenger door opened; the driver tipped his hat forward. A foot clad in black Demonia platform Creepers slapped down on the slick blacktop, splattering water up from the wet ground.
In the driver side mirror, Jimbo observed the emergence from the backseat. Thinking and not for the first time, that he would shit in his pants if he'd open his front door to find anything remotely resembling Nicky Smalls standing on the other side of it. Small of build, Nicky had a knack of fading into the woodwork, making his presence unobtrusive until he was ready to make that presence known.
The eyes hidden behind dark Fendi glasses regarded a boarded building sitting condemned along side its ruined and rubbled peers. Most of that section of city block was 'officially' deserted and scheduled for reconstruction, had been for years, under procrastinating bureaucratic hands and red tape.
Nicky's pale face was mostly obscured by the hood of a Black Stone Island sweat jacket.
He could pass for any faceless thug on the streets, except his clothes weren't cheap. Jimbo didn't consider himself a fancy-dud connoisseur, but having perused his wife's fashion rags while sitting bored on the john he was learning to recognize the labeled stuff from the cheap bargain bin selections.
He had big dreams of his own of one day standing in a fitting room and being measured for fancy Armani duds and spoiling his wife Jean, with diamond earrings and real pearl drop necklaces. He patted the wad in his pocket. Making runs like this one might get him there sooner rather than later.
Humming the notes of Mahna de Carnaval, Nicky shoved his leather encased hands into the pockets of his hooded jacket. Moisture kicked up from the heels of tennis shoes, soaking the bottom hems of the dark, relaxed fit Versace Jeans.
Throwing the car into drive Jimbo pulled away from curve peering at Nicky in the rear view mirror one last time before making the first circuit around the neighborhood.
Like anyone else, Jimbo knew and was fascinated by the myths surrounding the slight man. If he believed half of the stories he'd heard, Nicky Smalls had made a deal with the devil for a long life in exchange for sending as many men to hell in his place as possible. Jimbo was inclined to follow the more logical story behind the man. That Nicky Smalls like the mysterious Big Boss who kept him on a short leash, had simply inherited the name and the business he dealt.
It rang with the twisted kind of truth that Jimbo found more frightening than tales about pacts with the devil. It often made him wonder if Nicky Smalls had little Nicky Junior spawns of his own. The idea sent an icy shudder down his spine. He couldn't imagine any woman willingly putting out for and looking Nicky in the eyes.
Jimbo had seen those eyes. Once. He hoped to god he'd never see them again. Months later he still had nightmares about them.
-
Humming still, Nicky skimmed over the vague shapes and shadows of the dark living room.
Floor boards gave up mild creaks of protestation under his light steps. Sure footed, he avoided upturned wooden slats with rusted nails jutting from them. Sections of wall and ceiling lay in plaster pieces on the floor. His gaze paused on a painting hanging cock-eyed on the wall, taking in every nuance of detail at a glance. A cheap reproduction of Lord Leighton's Flaming June. The canvas slashed in half, a sliver of street light haloed the fair-skinned subject of the painting, the woman's hair looked dark in the shadows, framing the soft frail features.
His fingers twitched in his pockets. His right hand convulsed around the folded handle of his switch-blade.
He thought of another young woman, prettier, not so frail in appearance, long lashes just dusting pale cheek bones and such dark hair. Big pretty brown eyes, made for weeping. He'd seen her again earlier in the evening. He'd thought of waiting for the end of her shift, following her until he'd come across a safe place where he could taste those tears at leisure.
Dangerous to dwell upon such matters now—he rolled the sudden tension from his neck—there was work to be done. And plenty of time for pleasure later, he was sure of it.
Facing the door under the stairs leading to the crumbling remains of the second floor, he knocked three times. Then, still humming he waited a beat and knocked once more. He twisted the door knob and then pushed, listening to the heavy groan and creak as it gave under his will.
A small flame flickered in the glass case of an oil lamp. The lamp sat atop a makeshift table: an old chipped kitchen cabinet door lay across the backs of two bow-back Windsors, suffering from severe wood rot.
Frank Sells was seated in a chair. Duct tape bound his arms, wrists and fingers which had been broken and smashed beyond redemption to the wooden arms of the seat. His legs suffering the same malady were likewise bound to the legs of the chair.
His nose had been pulverized into a lump of blood red putty, eyes almost swollen shut. His teeth littered the floor around his chair and a bloodied rag muted his whimpers. His naked chest was a garish canvas of blue, red and black, the flesh puffy and raised.
Sloppy work, Nicky assessed, but in a few minutes it would no longer matter.
Frank having glanced up and caught sight of the newcomer widened his eyes in recognition; he jerked back in his seat and began screaming around the gag muffling the sound.
Nicky's nefarious smile served to agitate the man further until he was practically choking on the gag.
"Nicky!" Sal Moretti's deep booming voice rang out unnecessarily loud.
Nicky slowly canted his head to the side.
Sal's belly hung low over the tight belted waist of his pants. "Nicky Smalls?" The twittering nervous laugh made the nerves around Nicky's eyes twitch. The white button down shirt was blood-splattered, the sleeves rolled sloppily above his elbows.
Still humming, Nicky gazed long and hard at Sal Moretti.
The booming and nervous laughter ended. The muscles along Sal's jawline spasmed. The lines around his eyes tightened.
"You trying to make jokes?" The swarthy man's thick brows furrowed, his expression souring upon having recognized the Godfather theme.
Ignoring the question Nicky ambled over to the makeshift table and only then ended his song, bookmarking where he'd left off in his keen mind.
"So why'd they send you?" Sal charged, his tone resentful. "Pick up ain't your usual beat. Thought theys was sending the bony dame, the redhead." Sal grinned stormily, "Ordja git demoted?"
"Nayded elsewhere, she was. Oi was noot."
"Anybody ever tell you talk kinda funny." Sal jibed, his nervous laughter booming in the small room again. "What are yous suppose to be anyway, a fuckin' mick?" He puffed out his chest, faked a couple of jabs with his beefy arms, showing off his bruised knuckles.
Head lowered, the dark Fendi glasses slid down Nicky's nose. He eased a cigarette between his lips and struck a match. The flare illuminating his eyes as he studied Sal impassively over the flame.
"Jesus H!" Sal hissed, face paling, "What the hell's up with dem eyes?"
"Where's de pick oop?"
"Listen," Sal began his voice strained, refusing to look too closely into Nicky's eyes, made uneasy by the dead look in them. "Found the money on him, easy. See?" A smug grin split Sal's lips. "Mr. genius here, hid the stash in his crib." His laughter rang out again, "Under the fucking bed!" He guffawed, "Unfuckin' believable!" He slapped Frank Sells on the back of the head, rocking the man forward in his seat, evoking a pained whimper. "Isn't that right, stewpid?" He slapped the man again, "Regular genius ain't you, Frankenfucker?" Sal's laughter faded upon a glimpse at the impatient twitch of Nicky's right arm.
Sal grabbed up a silver briefcase and slid it across the table, chest puffing with pride.
"There's your pickup." Sal frowned when rather than just taking it, Nicky popped the lock on the container and rifled through the stacks.
"Hey, man," Sal protested in an insulted tone, "it's all there. Counted it myself."
When Nicky ignored him, Sal pressed on, "Bastard wouldn't spit juice about the package. Worked him over pretty good too. So, I gotta figure either our boy Frankenfucker here is pretty stupid or he's working with a spook." Sal scratched his chin as though giving his theory some weighty thought. "I'm betting on the spook, theory."
Nicky glanced at the man in question, watching the tremors run through the abused body as the bloodshot eyes gawked at him with fear. From the amount of blood soaking the rag, in his mouth, it was doubtable that Frank Sells would be able say much of anything... anymore which Nicky was certain had been the point.
Fury trembled along Nicky's spine. He tamped it down.
"Dinnay matter." Nicky nodded curtly, eyes returning to the stacks, "We'll foind'dit."
Removing a bound stack from the case, he smoothed his fingers over the crisp green bills and placed it on the table, with a brief glance at Sal who looked from Nicky to the thick wad of cash, his expression moved from disbelief to blantant greed.
Sal reached for the stash. Nicky placed a hand over it earning a frown. Glancing at Sells, Nicky gave a terse nod.
"Yer feenishing'em? Or shall'aye?" He removed the nasty long blade from his pocket; it gleamed, sharp and deadly in the oil lamp light. "Oi kin mae'em scream fer'owahs, ye kin watch." His lips twisted into a smile that saw Sal swallowing his nerves.
"Nice as that sounds, Nicky," Sal cleared his throat," "I ain't got all night." He smiled wanly, eyes skittering to the bills under Nicky's left hand. "Leave the prick to me, eh?" He grabbed up a nine mil from the work bench behind him. "I'll put something in him."
Nicky's gaze flickered to the gun and for a moment Sal had the insane desire to toss the weapon aside, as the smaller man's hand twitched around the blade handle.
"Foin, then." Nicky folded his blade and tucked it away. "Feenish'em. And the stack's yers." He glanced at the gun in Sal's hand, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. "Geeve may'three," Nicky grabbed the case off the table, his eyes still on the nine in Sal's hand. "I dinnay like the soond."
Sal swallowed, nodded. "Yeah sure thing, Nick."
Nicky turned, smiled at the bound man in the chair, "Ev'nin' ta yer, Mr. Sells."
Picking up the strains of the song from the beginning, Nicky began humming again making his way out the door and stepping over the debris littering the floor of the decrepit house. He was climbing into the cab, the door closing behind him when he heard two shots.
The cabby pulled away. They'd gotten approximately ten yards; Nicky had just ended his tune at the point he'd left off in the room, when the sky rumbled with explosion. The ball of fire behind them licked the air with fury as pieces of the house rained down on the block.
Nicky stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray.
"Home, Nicky?"
"Nay, Oi've a delivery to mae."
---
It was an old game.
The ground was slick beneath her feet, the soles of her second-hand Nikes made slapping sounds as she stomped in small puddles.
A game from childhood sneaked out after dark on the tail end of the rain storm when everything smelled clean. Like salvation after sin had been scrubbed away. And she'd stomp the rain puddles that reflected street lamps and stars, pretending she was walking on the sky. Reversing the world so that everything wrong with hers would seem right. For a little while.
Not so easy to do in the city.
Because even though street lamps and city lights reflected off the small standing puddles of water the stars were missing. And nothing smelled clean. The soured odors of wet trash and urine mashed together in a noxious scent on the air: a smell she was fast becoming accustomed to.
Maybe she'd grown too old for childhood games. Maybe she'd been too old for a long time. She glanced up at an empty black sky, missing the stars. Missing a lot things, but nothing worth going back for. God help her, she would never go back.
She stopped to cross against a red light when the world went askew, and time became the distorted bubble of a slow motion track.
There was a deafening percussion, a multi-rumble combustion in base. The reverberation sent the brunette stumbling like a drunk and grabbing on to a lamppost as a wall of white smoke rolled across the air. She blinked, eyes stinging. A funnel of flame, blindingly bright, stretched upward into the sky and then shaped itself into a massive ball of fire. The white ball of smoke was now a thick fist of blackness drifting upward and out swimming across an indigo sky.
Reality shaped back into focus. All around her people were running and ducking, cell phones in hands. Her ringing ears registered only indecipherable shouts of confusion as cars sped past her and pedestrians jostled her on the run towards rather than a way from the sight of the explosion.
She ducked behind a car, pulled her jacket over her head for added shielding against the rain of small debris.
The halo of fire on the air, once more drew her attention. Gathering her wits, she absently furrowed her brow, a discordant note striking her nerves as she observed what intuition suggested was orchestrated pandemonium. The explosion had been loud, seemingly devastatingly so. And so she found it odd that the flames seemed relatively restrained to one area rather than fanning out as she might have assumed they would.
She stood straightening her jacket, and her breath caught, at the next incongruity. While others were making a beeline to the sight, a yellow cab squealed around the corner. Her large brown eyes were drawn to the passenger in the backseat. Her heart raced, as the cab slowed. The halo from the fire, cast enough illumination of recognition on the expensive black hooded jacket and the dark glasses which had slipped down Nicky Smalls' nose.
An audible gasp escaped her lips when the odd colored eyes fixated upon her; the car stopped.
She could barely breathe.
A puff of breath fogged the passenger window from the inside.
Gloved fingers rose into view and drew a heart shape in the fading moisture. Fear like nothing she'd ever felt before pressed at the base of her spine, settling a chill there that spread downward to her legs. She was paralyzed and also terrified that the passenger door would fling open.
Pale thin lips pursed at her in a kiss.
Her gaze was riveted to those eyes but the spell was broken by the sound of emergency vehicles and police cars wailing sirens in the distance. She looked away, rescued from the trance and when she glanced back, the cab transporting Nicky Smalls was rolling away.
The wailing shrieks grew closer until emergency vehicles passed her up, spraying a bath of muddied water on her already soaked sneakers and the legs of her Levi's.
Pushing the disturbing image of Nicky Smalls to the back of her mind, she tracked the progress of emergency vehicles and squad cars with a gaze that was only mildly curious. They tore down the avenue making a right onto one of the many familiar streets.
It wasn't a remarkable sight.
Emergency vehicles and patrol cars tearing down the streets, throwing their ghostly spin of light on everything in their path was as common as the brief flash of deadly metal under an untucked shirt.
Still she kept track of the frequency, time of day and the streets visited, read the news reports and compared it to the information she herself managed to gather. If there was time, she'd scope it out in the morning, smile pretty and stupid and ask a few innocent questions.
It wasn't much of a mystery—not the who. No one sane would be pointing the police in Nicky Smalls' direction. She shuddered. For all that, she felt compelled to snoop, get a feel for the investigation's take of what went down. The why might be interesting.
Shoulders hunched, head tucked to the bite of winter, she stared at the smoke, now stretching and thinning.
The pursuit of knowledge...
...It wasn't her life anymore. It had hardly been her life at all. But for a few glorious months, she hadn't been a failure; she'd gotten to brag and tell people that she'd gotten her... that her dream had come true.
Her innate curiosity wasn't a good thing in her new surroundings. But she would follow it anyway. Old habits and all—the voracious hunger for knowledge and truth was a difficult addiction to break—like many others.
But knowledge might not buy her fame, or even power but it was a weapon and shield by which one could arm themselves with for protection.
Her cheeks stung from the cold.
Gloved hands shoved into the pockets of a threadbare bomber jacket; the urgency to get her head in from the cold and lateness of the evening and certainly that frigthening encounter with Nicky Smalls should have spurred her on but her legs were numb and tired, lethargic and rebellious from a long and stressful day (weeks actually) of working doubles.
She looked down at her coat, the soaked jeans and shoes and grimaced. She smelled of sweat, mixed drinks, and an assortment of food. With her arms feeling like lead weights adding strain to sore shoulder muscles, college and what had been her life after seemed like a dream—something she'd made up.
Maybe it had been a dream. But it had felt real.
Bitterness was a weary emotion wearing thin the walls of perseverance, as a temporary situation had become drawn out, and that occasional self-mockery laced with self-pity about having learned too late that sometimes it was better to keep her big mouth shut had begun to burn in her gut and grew thick on her tongue, a sour mash of watery bile and self-hatred. If she had only ...
The strains of Latin Hip Hop blared loudly behind her. Her hands clenched into fists in her pocket. She forced herself to breathe evenly and calmly, reminding herself of the truce that had been declared. And hoping that whatever Nicky Smalls had put in motion wouldn't start a war while she was out in the middle of it.
She kept her head ducked, eyes peeled straight ahead. She neither sped up nor slowed down as the '76 Pinto with rusted doors slowed down keeping pace with her stride. The music faded and the window rolled down as the driver leaned over the lap of the front passenger.
"And-eee." The last syllable of her name, stressed by the melodious Hispanic accent, the voice a soft and deceptively friendly tenor. "S'up girl?" He looked up the street and then back at her.
Andy glanced at the driver, taking care that her smile, while friendly didn't so much as flutter over the boundary of flirtatious.
"Hey Juan," she greeted him and with that same smile, she acknowledged the passenger in the front seat with a nod. "Terésa" There was enough street lamp to see the purpling-blue and black of Terésa's right cheek as she turned to Andy with a strained smile.
The sight of it infuriated her. It made her feel ugly with dangerous anger at the men, the woman and at herself. But she quelled that righteous rage. She was noone's champion. Champions didn't crawl from the fight broken, while the villians walked away in one piece.
"Hey Linda, Pedro." She smiled at the passengers in the back, ignoring the glazed eyes and the curl of smoke from the tip of a hand rolled paper.
"Quite the light show, eh?"
Juan looked her over, eyes burning into her as though he had x-ray vision and could see through the layers of winter protection.
He was fishing. Andy barely managed to keep from glancing nervously up and down the block.
"Might have been?" She offered an innocuous smile which turned sheepish. "'But I was a little busy ducking and covering."
"I hear Nicky Smalls' been around."
Andy's face was a classic study in clueless expression. "Who's that?" She asked schooling her tone to sound curious. "One of Taywan's boys?"
The group in the car stared at her for moment in surprised stupor and then laughed at the question and even harder at Andy's bemused smile.
"Stick around long enough, white girl. Everybody knows Nicky Smalls." Juan laughed uproariously; the other joined in like it was biggest joke ever told. "You gonna freeze that skinny pale ass of yours off, girl."
"Doubt it." She smiled. "I'd probably get a sunburn first." It was an old joke, one that Andy had gotten tired of.
'Girl, you so white you'd get sunburnt in the rain.' Or 'You so pale you'd blister in the moonlight. Yo' skin so fair, you can use a street lamp for a tanning bed.'
Andy glanced up at the sky. There were no stars in New York.
"Warmer in the car." Juan offered. His smile was wide and friendly. Terésa's eyes had hardened. She looked Andy over again, this time like a rival for desperately claimed hunting grounds.
"And then I'd just be colder tomorrow night or the night after."
"Loco Cincinnati logic?" Juan waggled his brows.
"My mama's words of wisdom." Andy tapped her noggin with a gloved finger. "If we complained too much about the cold in the house, she'd shove us out the door for fifteen minutes, before dragging us back in. And you know what? It's always colder outside after you been inside for awhile."
Juan stared at her like she was an alien, and then decided that her words either made sense or were stupid enough to be amusing, he laughed again, gave her a nod. "Yeah, my mama's like that too. Full of smart stuff." He nodded again. "Take it easy, And-ee," he grinned.
The tires spun, splashing her with more water. Laughter faded as the car grew smaller, and the faint swells of Latin rap fluttered on the air now like an accordion in dire need of tuning, distorted by distance and other traffic sounds.
That brief moment of socialization had her spooked. A truce may have been called between the rivalling gangs but there were still a million rules in her new social setting as to what was cool and what was not. Often times they overlapped. More times than not they contradicted.
Andy's eyes darted about furtively as she shoved her hand back into its warmer cocoon. She quickened her pace as the Pinto sped down the avenue.
She kept her head ducked, heart racing as she drew up to the chain lined fence surrounding the apartment complexes.
Andy refrained from looking up the dreary face of the building. There were lookouts on the outside walkways on the floors above the thirteenth. Once during the day she'd managed to catch a glint of sunlight reflecting off the barrel of a sniper rifle poking through the bars of the railings.
For three days after, she'd remained shut up in her apartment.
Approaching slowly, she flipped the collar of her jacket down, displaying the white scarf around her neck.
The shrill whistle from above, saw Andy releasing the breath she'd been holding. She passed through the opening of the fence, every step trip-hammering her heart until she was in the building.
She groaned at the out of order sign on the elevator door. It was most likely being used for business purposes or someone high on the food chain was in the building and probably surrounded by conspicuous 'associates with bulges under their coats.
Andy exhaled slowly turned her jellied legs toward the stairwell and braced herself for the long trek up ten flights.
Sticking close to the wall, she cringed inwardly at the loud popping sounds from the streets below until recognizing them as vehicle backfire. She ignored the angry shouts and piteous cries floating from thin apartment walls.
A hot bath, a microwaveable meal and a mind numbing evening of reality TV awaited.
***
Natalio Souza dripped a waterfall of sweat from his forearms, chest and face, creating a slick surface on the bony back beneath his hands. The drench from his thighs caused suctioning sounds with each slapping of hip against ass. He pressed down on the jutting shoulder blades, profanity flowing in a litanous stream of conscience from his lips.
Clothing lay strewn on the grungy brown carpet, leaving a frenzied trail from the bathroom to the side of a creaking bed. A pair of hastily discarded black thongs sat atop a large television bolted down to a dresser.
The television churned out staged moans and shouts as naked bodies twisted and writhed on the screen to an unispiring soundtrack, drowning out the roar of city traffic and muting the sounds of revelers in nearby rooms.
Glazed eyes shifted between watching the action on the screen to watching his own jacketed cock making swift jabs in and out the blonde from behind. The side of her face was pressed into the mattress. Bottle blonde hair in need of touching up, spidered across her face, damp and limp. A hand was braced against the mattress on each side of her head white-knuckled as they fisted a polyester spread of vomitous green, gold, orange and brown.
The brunette on the screen writhed and moaned for more as she was hammered from behind.
Natalio's excitement increased with the volume of his partner's moans, ignoring the fact that her litany of pleasure were almost an exact replication of the actresses' on the screen.
The neon vacancy sign cast its muted luminescent glow against faded orange curtains. The garish blue letterings VAC sporadically fell across pale flesh, beneath his hands, thin flesh that stretched over protruding ribs like a transparency.
His hands slid, losing purchase on the slippery surface of thin skin. He shook his head, swearing violently as his rhythm was thrown off. Agitated he reached for the small open baggie of white powder beside his right leg, dipped a finger into the bag, the underside of his index fingernail bearing a small scoop of powder to his nose. He inhaled deeply, closed his eyes and then rubbed the excess over his gums.
Shaking his head again, he slapped the pale bottom viciously increasing the momentum of his jabs. The blonde shrieked and squirmed. He held her firm, one hand holding her hip against him and he dipped into the bag again.
Grinning, Natalio reached around between her thighs and vigorously rubbed the drug into her clit earning an astonished gasp and cry of pleasure.
"Yeah!" he surged forward punctuating each word with a forceful thrust. "You. like. that. shit."
"Ooh! Let me up." The blonde giggled suddenly and tried to wriggle free, to Nate's displeasure. "I gotta pee." She giggled and wriggled against him. "I really gotta go."
"Can't you hold it?" Natalion groaned frustratingly.
"I been holdin' it." She raised up looking over her shoulder, puffing her lips out into a pout. "I really gotta go."
"Sure. go ahead." Pulling out, he slapped her on the behind again earning another shriek and giggle. "Go ahead."
He flopped back over onto the bed, scooping up the baggie and placing it on the nightstand. Eyes glued to the screen he propped the pillows behind his back and stroked his left hand up and down his shaft, turning the volume up even louder.
Beyond worked up he glared at the bathroom door with annoyance, giving a sigh of relief when the blonde finally emerged from the john. She opened her mouth to speak, waving a flash of something blue in her hand, a vaguely familiar shape, dismissed as Natalio lunged from the bed, pouncing on the woman. He spun her around making her shriek with laughter. He tossed her onto the bed making her lose her grip on whatever she'd been waving around.
Natalio dipped his tongue into the plastic baggie, retrieving it with a glob of powder on the tip. He dipped his head between the blonde's splayed thighs. The cell phone slipped from her fingers blinking the text of 'seven missed calls' on the screen as she grabbed his head and ground her sex against his face.
Her high pitched squeals pierced his ears. Natalio reached blindly for the remote, lost somewhere on the bed; he was startled when upon finding it and searching for the volume button the device vibrated in his hand.
"What the...!" He jerked from between the blonde's thighs and stared at the phone as it stopped vibrating.
"You left it in the bathroom." The blonde giggled reaching for him again.
"Shit." Natalio batted her hands away. "Eight fucking missed calls."
"That's what I was trying to tell you." She pouted. "You gotta call when I was peeing. Only I didn't answer it in time. On the count of I had to wash my hands."
Natalio moved to sit on the edge of the bed up. The blonde scampered off the bed to her knees. Sliding the face up on the phone he called the number, moaning appreciatively when her mouth slid down over his cock.
"Axel, man." Natalio grunted and gripped the blonde by the back of her hair.
"Fuck I been calling you for an hour."
"Damn!" He sucked in a harsh breath when she took him so deep her face smashed his pelvis. "Fuck. Fuck. Squeeze your tits, babe. What up?"
"Nate! pay attention man—this shit is fer real."
"Right. right." He took a snort of powder for himself, "Real. Go 'head man." Watching the blonde head bob up and down and feeling the heat from her mouth was tripping his reality. "Shit! Shit. Play with yourself."
"What!" The voice on the phone sqwuacked "Nate! Where the fuck are you, man?"
"What?" His eyes fluttered as the blonde reached between her thighs with one hand and began rubbing back forth against her clit. Natalio reached into the bag and smeared the blonde's nostrils laughin as she tried to snort and suck at the same time. "I'm on East End, man. What's the 9-1-1?"
"Sal fucking bought it, man." Axel spoke in hushed tones. Natalio grunted, his thrusts losing momentum as Axel's frantic tone began seeping into his awareness. "Frankenfucker and Sal. Freak-ass fireworks down at the holding house. Lit their shit up like the mother fucking' fourth."
"Shit!" Nate paled and stopped grinding his hips. "Accident?"
"Hell nah." Came the reply. "I got eyes—put Little Nicky on the block before and after."
"Fffuck!" Nate yanked the blonde by the back of her hair, wincing as her teeth scraped sensitive flesh. "Shit. Shit." He barely kept from falling face-first into the carpet as he raced to the bathroom and began hopping into his pants. "You think Sal fucking rolled over?"
"Fuck if I know." Axel breathed heavily over the phone. "Got my head low. Waitin' for Reesey spit juice on the 4-1-1."
"Shit. Shit. I'm clearing out. Stay down, Axel. I gotta..." He stared at the package on the counter he'd been careless enough to leave out in plain sight. The saliva dried in his mouth.
"Nate, don't you fucking tweak out on me. What's going on man?"
"Nothing. Nothing." Nate blinked and stared at his flushed reflection in the mirror. He ran a shaky hand through his dark curls. "Shit. I gotta think." He paced the small room. "What time is it? I gotta meet with..."
"Nah. Nah. Deals off for the night. Too much heat with Nicky fuckin Smalls dickin' 'round." Natalio sucked in a sharp breath at the news. "Just put the shit up, man."
"Alright. Yeah." He stared at his head bobbing in the mirror. "Yeah." Nate worked at trying to clear his head and pulling on the rest of his clothes. "Just sit tight, man. We're rock—you hear me? Rock solid Axe-man. Can't nobody point a finger."
"Fine. Fine. Just put the shit up—alright?"
---
Andy jumped, sending her iBook toppling over. She caught the lap top before it could crash to the floor.
The heavy rap of knuckles on the door, spurred her into a frenzy of organized motion.
She unfolded her legs from the couch while saving the encrypted document.
Rushing into the bedroom, balancing the laptop on one arm she ejected the jump drive and shut the iBook down.
Closing the lid she slid the laptop into its open carrying case and bolted for the bathroom. She threw open the cabinet door beneath the sink and then Andy buried the 8 gig thumb drive in her tampon box. As an after thought she tossed the covers on the bed and mussed her hair on the way to the door.
Deep lines creased her brow after a quick glance at the clock revealed the time of one-thirty a.m. The frown deepened when a look through the peephole revealed Natalio Souza practically pounding her door down.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Nate," Andy threw the door open, hissing, "Where's the goddamned fire?"
"What the hell were you doing?" His eyes were stormy, his expression thunderous.
"What!?" Andy glowered at him as he pushed past her into the apartment almost knocking her over. His pacing made her stomach cramp painfully. "Are you crazy?" She pushed the door closed, securing it.
Her heart thundered in her chest as she kept up the momentum of her indignant act. "Do I have to start making a toilet report now?" She swallowed the bile swirling at the back of her throat.
Natalio turned his wide eyes on her. "Woa." He grinned suddenly, held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Sorry."
"Whatever," she waved at him dismissively. "What the hell are you doing here?" She looked sufficiently irritated.
"Come on, baby." He whined, switching tactics. "Don't be that way." He approched her, pulled her into a hug.
Andy's stomach gave a mild start as she felt and heard the rustle and crinkle of plastic beneath his jacket, the bulky package of whatever it was pressed against her stomach. She glared up at him.
"I just missed ya that's all." He ducked his head to kiss her.
Her nose wrinkled with disgust as she jerked her head back.
"You have got to be kidding me." Andy shoved him back none to gently.
"What?" he stared at her with astonishment, his anger quickly reappearing.
Andy pushed him away, glaring. "Jesus, Nate, you smell like a cunt factory!"
Natalio's expression darkened; he stormed across the room glaring at her with dissaproval. "Do you gotta talk like that?"
"Like what," she frowned, ambling to the kitchen to wash her hands at the sink.
"Like ...like..." He snipped, "Like these project girls." She rolled her eyes at his dissaproving tone. "Saying words like that. It ain't you, Andy."
"If you can come here smelling like you just been to the 'All-you-can-eat Pussy Emporium.'" Andy turned a glare on him. "Then I can say whatever the hell I want. We had an agreement." Her left brow arched. "No sharing leftovers."
Nate stared at her, his dark expression vanishing, becoming warmer.
Andy's stomach churned. She pressed her hands down on the kitchen counter to support her rubbery legs. Natalio left her feeling like she was on a run-away rollercoaster. Any day now it was going to jump the tracks.
"Come on," he grinned. "I thought you chicks secretly dug that kind of shit." He approached but didn't try to hug her when she narrowed her eyes in his direction. "Like some kind of urban fantasy" he waggled his brows playfully, "Every straight chick is dying to know at least once what it tastes like."
"Not second hand, I don't." She mumbled.
Natalio chuckled. "You're right." He offered humbly. "I should have cleaned up first. But I couldn't wait to see you."
"Sure you couldn't," Andy eyed him suspiciously as he walked over to the couch and sat down.
He was twitchy, she noted and had backed down a little too quickly. Her brow creased again when he made no getsure to remove his zipped up jacket. She saw the nine milimeter tucked into the back of his jeans when he reached for the remote on the living room table. Her gut clenched and unbidden an image of Juan smugly asking about Nicky Smalls popped into her head.
Oh Jesus. Nate what the hell have you been doing?
"I'm going back to bed." She maintained her irritated tone, "Uh-uh." She threw her palm up in a halting gesture when he stood to follow. "Don't even think of getting into my bed until you've showered, brushed your teeth and downed at least a half bottle of Listerine."
"Ah... come on Andy." He pouted. "I was wearing a glove," he argued and then stroked the bulge in his pants. "What about a blow job?"
Her chin dropped. She glared at him, furious. "You cannot be serious."
But as she focused, really focused her attention on him, she noticed the flushed face, the sweat beaded above his upper lips and the dilated eyes.
"I missed you." He persisted, standing in her living room looking like a boy told he'd be going to bed without supper.
"I worked all night." Andy groaned inwardly. "You weren't there."
"Jealous," he teased overpleased by the thought.
"Please." She rolled her eyes. "I had plenty of offers." She shuddered and then decided to test the waters. "In fact one in particular couldn't seem to keep his eyes off me." She shuddered again but watched him cautiously.
He frowned at her shiver. "What happened?"
"Creepy dude though," she continued. "Glasses and a hooded jacket." She shrugged. "Anyway, one of the other servers said his name was, Micky or Ricky. Said he was bad news."
"Nicky?" He frowned. His body tightened visibly.
"Yeah, that sounds right." She watched him, her stomach plummetting.
"He was at the bistro?"
"Yeah, you know him?"
Nate blinked and then schooled his expression into something like concern.
"He's a fucking psycho." Nate spoke casually. "Stay away from him."
"Trust me," she rolled her eyes again, "he didn't exactly inspire pleasure tingles." She chuckled. "Anyway, he was okay. Just stared a lot at everybody. Hard to tell with the dark glasses."
"Yeah, yeah." He replied distantly, a small quiver of panic had snaked into his tone. "Nicky's like that."
"So are you...?" Her words died when he drew the nine milimeter from the back of his pants.
"Go to bed, Andy." His tone of voice had gone flat his hands were shaky as he laid the weapon on the scratched surface of the coffee table. She stared into his stormy eyes and gave a terse nod. "I'll be be in soon."
Andy lay in the bed, chewing on her thumb nail. Her kitchen cabinets were being frantically opened and closed. Natalio's muttered curses were becoming violent in nature.
A fist-sized knot had settled in her stomach by the time the tornado wreaking havoc in her living room died down.
On her back she turned her face to the bedroom entrance. Natalio unzipped his jacket and let it thud to the floor. Whatever he'd had in there was nowhere in sight.
Jesus! Jesus!
She closed her eyes an turned over on her side, heart racing. Dread spreading through her rapidly as she imagined him rifling through her cabinets and hiding whatever it was he'd brought with him into her apartment.
The muted sound of the shower, running, irritated her. Much later she could hear him at the sink.
For a moment fear spiked through her chest fiercely enough to make her heart stop. Andy forced herself to relax. Natalio was squeamish about anything to do with feminine products. She'd have to pay him to go rifling through her tampons and she wouldn't be doing that anytime in the next ever.
He came out the bathroom, a fake grin plastered onto his lips. She had a feeling that whatever happened earlier to drive him to her apartment and her letting slip the news about Nicky's presence at the bistro, had sufficiently sobered him.
Natalio crossed over to the bed, leaned over and kissed her.
"Minty fresh." He chuckled. He ripped the covers away revealing her naked skin. "How about that blow job?" His smile lacked any hint of warmth. His tone was demanding.
Andy choked back her initial reply and buried her fury in a deep well of self-preservation.
She glared at him, instead. Sitting up she moved to the edge of the bed, eying his hard-on and then lifting her gaze to his with a raised brow.
She couldn't say no. She could forestall, protest but in the end it was going to happen. They both knew it.
With a smug grin Natalio reached for the back of her head.
But Andy surprised him by moving back and dodging his intentions. Gaining equal footing in the only way she could, she spreads her thighs, traced her blunt nails lightly down the flat of her stomach, and down the toned flesh of her inner thighs.
Natalio froze, his initial protest dying before being voiced. His nostrils flared.
Andy pursed her lips into sensual smirk, her tone low and inviting, she laid down her own proposal, "How about a little minty fresh incentive?"
"Jesus," Natalio sucked in a sharp breath, eagerly climbing onto the bed, he settled between her thighs. "You are so fucking sexy."
She clutched the hair of the head between her thighs with her left hand, grinding her pelvis against Natalio's face. Turning her blank expression to the window, she traced the blunt nails of her right hand over her churning belly.
An image of those odd frightening eyes, peering over the frames of dark glasses, flashed before her.
She sucked in a sharp breath.
Natalio sucked her clit into his mouth.
Andy closed her eyes.
Thin lips pursed into a kiss from the passenger side window.
Andy tensed, gasped.
Two thick fingers drove into her, stretching her, twisting in and out.
Gloved fingers drew the shape of a heart in the fogged passenger window.
A soft moan issued from her lips. Her right hand slid up her belly, the fingers trapping and pinching the pebbled nipple of her left breast as she opened her legs wider. Natalio's encouraging words barely registering the the thick fog enveloping her brain.
Andy shuddered, reliving the terror she experienced. She pressed hard against the fingers driving in and out of her cunt, grinding her sex against Natalio's mouth as he sucked feverishly at her clit. She imagined the passenger door of the cab opening: imagined the frightening man looming over her, the hood of his jacket hiding his face, dead translucent grey eyes burning into her, seeing deep inside her behind the dark glasses.
Her body clenched. Andy's hips rose from the bed. "Oh!"
"That's it baby—give it to me. Give it to me. Let me taste it," Natalio coaxed huskily and sucked hard on her clit, slamming his fingers into her hard and deep.
The gloved fingers reaching for her face.
"Oh god!"
Orgasm erupted through her powerfully. The inner walls of her cunt, clamp down hard on Natalio's fingers. Her hips fell back to the bed and she lay boneless and closed her eyes tight as Natalio withdrew his fingers. She wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball.
"Wow." Natalio pushed her onto her back with a hand on her shoulder. He grinned at her smugly as he straddled her waist. "Fucking impressed myself."
Her scalp felt tight and she felt as though a layer of frost had wedged itself between each vertabrae.
"Shut. Up." Andy smiled wanly, slapping at his chest.
"Sure. sure. Get mean, now." He chuckled. "When you practically drowned me not a minute ago."
"Goddamn you, Nate," she hissed, ignoring the dangerous glint in his eyes. "Shut up!"
She lunged, fortifying an inner fortress to protect the vulnerability and fear creeping over her. She pushed him over forcefully onto his back, taking him by surprise for the second time that night.
She straddled his hips, desperate to drive the dark shadows of the images conjured from her thoughts, and dropped down hard on his erection, forcing a shocked gasp from herself and Natalio.
"That's not a blow job," he complained weakly, moaning as she began to ride him.
"Later," she rasped.
TBC