Floored (2 page)

She went to the bathroom and turned on the hot water, undressing while she waited for the pilot light on the old heater to ignite. She shivered on the tiny coloured tiles, watching for the blue and orange flame, and wondering if naphthalene and natural gas were in any way an explosive combination. It was like an igloo in here. She really should buy a bathmat.

How the stripper managed not to be covered in goose bumps, teeth chattering, by the time she got down to a g-string and pasties with the stiff breeze blowing across the harbour, she didn’t know. How she didn’t get arrested was another question. She’d had an incredible figure and dead eyes.

Caitlyn knew she was the only one who’d noticed the eyes, or worried about her being cold, or getting charged with indecent exposure. When her striptease ended and the stripper had given the buck a very public lap dance on a park bench, she’d simply bundled up her clothing, shrugged on a coat, got in a rust bucket Mazda and driven off. Not one of the nine men who’d hooted and cheered for her bump and grind, or the two other male chauffers who’d tried to look like they weren’t enjoying the show, bothered to help her collect her gear, or offered to walk her to her car. In fact, not one of the men had spoken to her without using the words, ‘take it off’, ‘babe’, a swear word, or variations of ‘cor’, raah’, or ‘auw’. She was a much-loved abandoned toy. No wonder her eyes were dead.

Caitlyn had blue toes when the pilot light eventually came on and held, and hot water flowed through the showerhead. She stepped over the lip of the tub and got under its heat. This really was a crappy flat. But it was what she could afford after the licence was paid, the Statesman bought and registered, and the monthly payments got made. In addition, it had the very attractive advantage of being as far away from any connection with her old life as a latex nurse’s uniform was from a real stethoscope.

If Caitlyn’s old life was ignorant bliss, this—the lukewarm water, the chemical smell, and the obscure address—was breadline reality. This is where you lived when you’d screwed up and you were trying to start again. This is where you lived, without a phone connection, using a post office box, when you didn’t want anyone to find you, and it was a reasonable bet they wouldn’t.

Dry, warm and tucked up in bed, she stared at the fingers of sunlight invading the room. If she continued to book night jobs and needed to sleep late, she should hang a sheet over the window to help the threadbare curtains keep the light out. That would mean buying another sheet. And a bathmat. And trousers. At this rate she was going to need a second job to keep her first job floating.

Still, she was alone, and free, and safe. In control of her own destiny again. She wasn’t some man’s plaything. His dupe. His walking, talking, promise of respectability, or his fall girl. Even though she was rigorously staying off the grid as much as possible, she wasn’t reduced to earning her living as a stripper.

Her eyes weren’t dead. They were wide open for once. If it meant she could pull herself out of this hole and build herself a new life, she’d never blink again.

3: Claim

There was nothing porky about Nikki. But she wasn’t credit card, need to run around in the shower to get wet thin, the way Wacker liked his women. Skinny with breasts so big they defied a chick’s ability to stand upright.

Nikki was blonde and freckled and cute, if you looked past the horrible music video slut eye-makeup and the skanky clothes. She’d been here a week after running away from home. She was sixteen and she should’ve been in school.

Fetch would’ve been happier to see her cuddling stuffed animals and giggling over Facebook posts than he was to find her curled up next to him in bed. He sighed and stretched, tried not to wake her. He didn’t have a lot of time for this today, but maybe since they were alone, he could talk her into abandoning cousin Maisy and going back home, back to school, or tech college, or pretty much anywhere but 10 Robinson Street, before it was too late.

Or he could get up and leave her.

She wasn’t his responsibility. She wasn’t the job. And some people had to work for a living. Some people even had two jobs, neither of them likely to lead to a secure retirement. He sat up and leaned against the wall behind the bed. He needed coffee something bad. Mouth tasted like he’d been sucking on Play-doh all night. He needed to get out of here and get on with the drops. More today than normal. That had to mean something. But even one more day in this place could be too late for Nikki.

So far Wacker had been easy with her. He hadn’t auctioned her off, or rostered her for suck circle duties. If she wasn’t family, he’d have had her in one of the cathouses taking bids for her virginity before her backpack had even hit the floor. In deference to Maisy, he’d let Nikki choose who to pair off with and she’d chosen him. And that was a problem. Because deference and Wacker were only casual acquaintances, so unless Fetch claimed her, she’d revert to being Wacker’s property to dispense with as he saw fit. Not even Maisy could do anything about that. Them was the rules.

At least she’d kept her underwear on. He wondered when she’d crept in and how he’d managed not to wake. That was bad. That meant he’d gotten comfortable in the house. Comfortable was not a good development. Comfortable could get you killed, or at least badly beaten before breakfast.

Ah, what to do about this kid? For a few fleeting moments he wondered if it might not be best to claim her to keep her safe. Better him than Johno, Tod or Grumble: a sadist, a drunk and a drug addict. Or Wacker himself. He’d muck her up permanently and use her to score points in his ever-loving war with Maisy. Shit, this was so screwed up. What he really wanted to do was bundle her up and take her home to his mother. She’d sort Nikki out; have the girl back in school getting straight A’s before the nail polish remover on her black painted toenails dried.

If he claimed her, she’d be in his bed every night. He didn’t think he could get away with not showing off bloody sheets. Nikki was a present, or a reward, or a bonus, or some other fucking nasty kind of prize that was supposed to be a binding agent between him and Wacker.

Fuck. He had to get her out of here. It was the only way.

He gave her shoulder a prod. “Nikki, wake up.”

She came awake slowly. She’d been drinking heavily last night. She’d have a sore head and a sick stomach. Under the circumstances that was helpful. He could get away with saying she was too drunk and he didn’t fuck comatose chicks. That would win him another day and the usual round of ridicule over his being soft in the head, over his ‘sensitivity’.

She blinked up at him, eyes unfocused and bleary.

“How do you feel?”

“Um.”

“That good.” He hunkered down so he could look in her red-rimmed eyes. “Listen Nik, the party’s over. It’s time for you to go home. You’ve had your walk on the wild side and before it all goes too far, you need to go.”

She was all sleepy kitten. “No. Fetch, I want to be with you.”

“No you don’t. I’m too old and cranky. Anyway, I don’t do sixteen year old schoolgirls. So you don’t have an option.”

“Wacker said I was yours.”

“Wacker doesn’t own you. He can’t give you away. You own you. You have to start acting like it.”

“But I want to be with you.”

“No. You don’t. I’m not very nice.”

She showed her pretty teeth. She really was a cutie. And frigging young. “Yeah you are. You’re the nicest of everyone.”

He pushed hair out of his eyes. “Why did you come here anyway?”

“My parents don’t understand.”

She thought she was being winsome and damsel in distress. She thought that would work on him. “What, that you have ambitions to be a crack whore?”

She struggled to a sitting position, but her face paled from the effort to stop feeling motion sick. “My father pushes me around.”

Fetch sat straighter too. He kept his eyes resolutely on her face. “Your dad hits you?”

Her forehead crinkled, but her eyes widened. She’d been shocked by the suggestion. Her dad probably didn’t want her dressed like jail bait either. Fetch would bet he wasn’t hitting her, or doing anything worse. Nikki sniffed as if she was about to cry. It wasn’t good acting. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He moved so quickly she gave a little gasp of shock. He grabbed both her arms and pulled her close. He breathed nasty morning breath on her. “So you’re used to being roughed up then. That’s good. You know your place. Crack whore on P plates.”

“No, I…” She tried to pull away. She had no chance. He moved a hand to the back of her neck and anchored her. She wasn’t going anywhere except home.

“No, you what?” he mocked.

“I—”

“You listen to me, Nikki. I’m going to work now. I’ll be gone all day. This is what you’re going to do. You’re going to get dressed, wash that black crap off your face. Tell Maise you’re going to run an errand for me.”

She nodded. Bambi caught in the crosshairs. Except she thought she was frolicking in the freaking meadow.

“You’re going to take the five hundred bucks I give you.”

She nodded again. She didn’t know where this was going.

“You’re going to walk to the station and stand at the taxi rank. When a driver pulls up, you’re going to get in and give him your home address.”

Now she got it. “No… I—”

He squeezed the back of her neck. Enough so she’d know he wasn’t mucking around.

“You’ll do it, Nikki. And you won’t ever come back here.”

He held her neck, he held her eyes. He was going to be late with the first drop. He’d be running behind all day. When he got back, Wacker would want to know why he was so incompetent he couldn’t manage to make a few deliveries on time. But he’d have given the poor kid her life back and sent her home, where bad things were less likely to happen to her.

It’d be easy to explain, once a runaway, always a runaway. He could let Wacker think he’d gone hard on her and frightened her off, or better, that he’d been a stupid enough fuck to be nice to her, and she’d run out and stolen his money. Yeah—that worked much better. It was more in line with his profile of not too bright, but earnest delivery boy. They’d laugh at him and forget about her.

There were tears in her eyes now. Poor silly kid. He relaxed his grip and leaned forward to kiss her forehead. “Go. Have a good life, Nikki.” She let go a genuine sob. He pulled her against his chest. “Go back to school, study hard, get a qualification. Fall in love with a nice boy who doesn’t think he owns you.” He gave her a little shake. “Stay away from Maisy and this kind of life. It’ll fuck you over.”

“What about you?” She was looking up at him with eyes like planets.

“I’ll be all right. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“But I will. You really are the only nice one.”

Fuck, he’d let himself get all soft there for a minute. She’d seen through his tough guy routine. He pushed her away roughly and stood up, shocking her with his sudden looming nakedness. The other men were all taller than him, heavier. He was a runt in comparison, but by no means small outside the company of giants Wacker kept around as enforcers.

He looked for his jeans. “Go home, little girl.”

He found them on the floor and pulled them on, grabbed a t-shirt that wasn’t too dirty and shrugged over his head. He sat on the bed with his back to her and stuffed his feet in socks and heavy boots.

“Fetch.”

He felt her little hand on his back. He stilled. He really was going to be late. He’d ditch the delivery protocol and take his bike.

“Thank you.”

He nodded in acknowledgement, making the bed bounce. She understood. She’d be all right. He combed his fingers through his tangled hair and dug cash out of his pocket, putting it on the bed for her. It felt oddly like prostitution. But he’d be the only guy in the house, in the chapter, in the whole damn club, who was paying a girl to leave him alone.

He didn’t look back at her, and he slammed the door on his way out. Best she was confused and forgot about him real quick.

He made the first two drops without incident. Coded paperwork, he couldn’t make head or tail of in one, and cash, probably around ten G in the other. Using the bike made it all quicker, but it also exposed him. The bikes tended to call attention to themselves; people noticed them, remembered them. Plus he could get picked up by a speed camera, or be unlucky enough to be pulled over. That’s why they used taxis for the drops. Quick, efficient, anonymous. And if they hit anything, you just did a runner.

It was drop number five where his luck ran out: a pedestrian crossing, a pensioner, awkward with a four-pronged walking stick, a woman with a toddler trying to wrestle an overfull supermarket trolley across the road and hold onto the kid at the same time. He watched the young mum struggle with the independent thought of the trolley wheels and the self-determination of the kid. He was the first vehicle in line. It was fifteen seconds of mayhem. The trolley veered sideways, the old bloke’s stick got caught in its struts. Mum let go of the kid to make a grab for the old man to stop him toppling, and the kid made a bid for freedom. He shot across the street, making straight for a guy with one of those dogs that looked like wolves, and Fetch’s face met tarmac as he was thrown sideways off the bike.

He hit the road, the bike crashing down on his leg as he scrambled away to avoid it. He looked up to see the driver behind him and the two behind her getting out of their cars. He’d been rear-ended in a four car pile-up.

“Are you okay?” It was the mum, leaning down over him. She had the kid by the hand. The guy with the dog was beside her. The old man was holding onto the trolley.

He got to his feet; put a hand to his cheek, sticky with blood. But all his limbs were working, nothing broken, though the bruising would be a bitch. The bike however—DOA.
Shit
. He didn’t have time for this. It was way too complicated. He needed to keep moving. He’d have to risk calling it in. He took out his phone, and made the call.

“I’ve had an accident.”

“Didn’t you get a toilet training certificate before they sent you out?”