Valentine
a D.V. Hent novel
Published by Naughty Ink Press at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 D.V. Hent
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Chapter 1: Introductions
New York City
“Damn, baby, you keep fuckin’ me like this, you might just see a grown-ass man cry.”
She slowly licked the underside of my shaft, kissed me at the very tip of my manhood, and put just enough tongue on it to make me shiver like a wet damn dog.
“So, you’d cry for me, Antoine? I didn’t think men like you cried for much.”
She was right. Even though I’d only spent three days with this woman, I couldn’t stop myself from acting like a goddamn fool whenever she was around me. What the fuck is wrong with you, man? Show her why they call you the ‘Rock Hound’.
I’d come too far and I wasn’t about to become a bitch now, not when I was so close. I was Antoine ‘Rock Hound’ Davis and it was time that she knew this, too.
“Perhaps cry is too strong a word. See, you got me wearing this damn blindfold and I’m not really feeling it right now because I can’t see shit. But I do know that if my dick is anywhere near your mouth, you can’t take what I say seriously.”
She wrapped her hands around my dick like a singer with a microphone, and softly whispered into it, her warm breath making me shiver again.
“You mean like this?”
I cringed but there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it, she had me trapped. “Stop doing that shit! If you’re just going to tease me, then you got to go.”
“What are you willing to do for me?” she asked, before licking the tip a second time.
“What the hell do you mean, what else am I willing to do?”
I pulled against my arm and leg restraints. I was securely tied to both ends of the bed, helpless and vulnerable. “You think I would let some other chick do this shit?”
She laughed and I loved it when she did. “I think I’ve made you wait long enough. It’s time for Daddy to cum,” she whispered.
She made her way up to me and softly slid her clit across the tip of my nose before asking, “Can you smell it, baby?”
“I can smell it.”
“Does it smell good to you?”
I loved the way both she and her pussy smelled. I didn’t care if other men had been here before me; all that mattered was that she was with me now. “I wanna taste it. Can I taste it, Ma?”
“I want you to taste it, Daddy.”
I could feel her heat above my face, calling me. I wanted nothing more than to grab her and press her against my face, but with the handcuffs still restraining me, it was a losing battle. I cursed her several times for doing this to me, but as soon as she pressed her clit against my lips, I ate greedily, lapping at her like a starving man.
She softly rocked her hips, sliding across my face; my ton-gue followed her every motion. Several times I pushed my tongue inside of her, but as I felt her clit growing against my tongue, I began to suck on it.
“Don’t do that,” she begged. “Not yet.” But as she clamped her legs against the side of my head, I knew I was near and needed to finish her off.
I continued to suck on her until she yelled out my name and spilled her essence over my lips and inside my mouth.
When her body relaxed and stopped trembling, she stood up and quietly stepped off my bed.
“I know you not gone leave me hangin’ like this, right?” I heard her moving around, but when she didn’t answer, I tugged at the restraints again. “Right?” I yelled angrily.
“Don’t get so mad, baby. I just had to get something.” She straddled my thighs and I became a little more agitated when I felt her slide the condom on.
“What the fuck is this?”
“You know what? I don’t have time for this shit. I’m gone.” She climbed down again and walked away from the bed. I could hear her footsteps heading toward the door.
Still chained to the bed, I wasn’t about to let her leave so somebody else could catch me like this. “Whoa, you need to just chill the fuck out. I just thought that since this was the third date and all—that we could get past this goddamn jacket thing.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
Even though I couldn’t see her, she sounded upset.
“Look, I said if anything like that ever happened that I’d take care of you, didn’t I? Hell, I told you I’d take care of you after the first night, so why you trippin’? I got you, Ma. Whatever you want, I got you. Don’t take that lightly.”
I could hear walking back toward the bed where my erec-tion was still waiting for her.
“The condom stays on.”
“All right, but after this is all done, I really wanna talk to you.”
Before I had a chance to say anything else, she grabbed hold of me and slid me inside of her. I gasped, trying to prepare myself for how good she felt, but she’d moved too quickly for me to prepare. As she rode me, her body grinding against me, her warmth permeating the condom, I tried desperately to stave off my orgasm—but I couldn’t. We were only thirty seconds in and I could feel my body giving way. I hated how she did this to me, but I loved the way she did it.
I didn’t know whether she saw my toes curling or because I allowed an extra ‘fuck’ to escape my mouth, but she quickly switched from grinding to riding. With our flesh slapping against each another, I felt more like I was in Madison Square receiving applause than in my bedroom getting my brains screwed out.
“Talk to me, Ma. Tell me you love this dick.”
She dug her nails into my chest before reaching up and grabbing my throat. With one hand on my chest and the other firmly clutching the front of my neck, she began to squeeze.
“What—the—fuck—are you—doing?” I asked, barely able to get it out past her choking fingers.
“I’m almost there, baby. You got me there.”
With her so close, I didn’t want to say anything, but even in complete darkness, I was beginning to black out. “Get it—Ma. Please…fuckin’ get it,” I yelped, hoping that she got hers before I passed out.
“I love your dick, Daddy. I love it. You love this pussy, right?” she whispered, her smoky voice exactly what I needed to push me over the edge.
“Fuck you,” I wheezed, her hand still tightly squeezing my neck. “Fuck you!”
“I’m coming, baby,” she said, and that was all it took.
We both came, but that didn’t stop me from cursing this woman and what she’d done to me. As soon as I began to relax, she pulled me out of her, removed the condom, and sucked up any remaining seed. As several shockwaves rippled through my body, a single tear began to form in my eye and I thanked God that I still had on a blindfold. Crying like a bitch wouldn’t do anything for my image.
When she finished, she left me alone in the room. My neck hurt like hell and I wanted to choke the hell out of her ass, but I simply yelled, “Yo’ ass better be coming back!”
With her gone, I was forced to listen to the sounds of my own breathing and inhale the wonderful scent that she’d left on my nose and tongue.
Damn, she even tastes like strawberries. How the hell did I get so damn lucky?
That woman was so fucking perfect that it hurt not to be around her. I’d just met her three days ago, through Angelica’s service, and already I was ready to give up all this shit for her. Hell, I was afraid she was white for the first couple of days, but she always swore she wasn’t; told me she was Creole. Shit, it wouldn't have even mattered. Creole, Italian, Irish—I didn't give a shit if she was all three; the things we'd done in the last few days, coupled with how fine she was, made me want to put a ring on her finger. Not really a wed-ding ring, shit, I was still 'Rock Hound', but definitely a promise ring.
She was light as hell and I knew I was gonna catch hell from my momma, but I got butterflies in my stomach as I thought about them meeting her. Her hazel eyes were so clear that I felt like I could see her soul and because she was also built like a sister, I really didn’t give a damn what my family was gonna say. Truthfully, she was everything that I’d ever wanted in a wife: smart, sexy, well toned, and the pussy was so damn good she could keep my wallet.
This wasn’t the first time I’d used Angelica’s Escorting service, but she had certainly gone out of her way this time. Shit, for the grand an hour I was paying, the service should’ve always been this good.
There were two problems I had, though. The first was that she didn’t know what I did, almost no one did, and if she found out, how long would she stick around? I mean, I made good money, but then traffickers always do.
From drugs to stolen cars, I could have anything shipped anywhere in the world, but for the last few months, I’d been trafficking kids. Goddamn kids from other countries were being shipped in to me and suddenly, I found myself up to my ass in Slovaks and Eastern Europeans. It made me sick to my stomach, but I just needed this last deal to pay out and I’d be set for life. I’d just have to eat another bottle of antacids for the next few days.
That brought me to my second problem: my wife. She didn’t know what I did either, but I suspected she didn’t care. We weren’t together out of love, at least not anymore; we were together because we had to be. She was a well-known marriage guru and when we were married, I was legit. Now that I’m not as legal as I used to be, a divorce would be very bad for her lucrative business and even worse for me.
Shit, if it wasn’t for her terrible business sense, buying all this shit that we don't need, flying all around the damn country trying to promote her fuckin’ book, I wouldn’t have even had to get on the hustle.
I had to take a deep breath to keep from myself from thinking about how pissed she made me. I exhaled and once my wife was out of my head, I smiled.
That was the past and this fine strawberry tasting woman that just screwed my brains out was certainly my future.
“I’m back.”
The sound of her sexy Southern drawl brought me out of my daydream and back to the present.
“What took you so long and when can I get these damn chains off? My shit is starting to hurt. It’s not fun anymore.” I tried to keep the bitchy whine out of my voice.
“I still have a surprise for you,” she crooned.
“And what kind of surprise is it? You came, I came—you wouldn’t happen to have a friend with you, would you? Because I think I can squeeze out one more if you brought a friend.”
“I had to make a call, and it doesn’t seem as if my friend will be coming.”
“That sounds fucked up, but I still need to be untied. This shit is really starting to hurt my rotator cuff.”
“You never answered my question,” she asked as she stroked my flaccid dick and ran something extremely cold down the center of my chest.
She brought ice. This bitch is freak-y! I think I’m in love!
“And what question is that?”
“What are you willing to do for me?”
I pulled hard against my restraints, hoping that she would let me go. This was getting tiresome. “I answered that already, but if you want to know more, then fine. Look, I’m really digging you, Val.”
“I’m digging you too, Antoine, but I need to know some-thing. Would you die for me?” When she said the word die, she ran a fingernail down my chest, making me shiver.
“Die for you? Hell naw! I mean, I don’t even know the real you. What’s your real name? I know it can’t be Valentine, right? That’s just your trickin’ name, right? I mean who the fuck names their kid after a holiday?” When she didn’t answer, I stopped joking. She was obviously serious and wanted an answer, so I took in a deep breath and continued. “I mean look…I see a future for us. I know you don’t wanna be an escort for the rest of your life and I wanna be able to take care of you. That’s real shit.”
Suddenly there was only silence in the room and her hands were still. “That’s so sad to hear.”
“What do you mean? Why is it sad to hear? It's still a fu-ture, right?” And that’s when I began to smell something strange.
"You cookin’?"
"No," she replied. "Well, not really."
“Because I smell something funny? Do you smell smoke?”
“You know something? I do. See, baby, I had this gun in my hand and I was just going to shoot you; you know, make it quick, but I can’t do that anymore. After the phone call I just made, my benefactor decided that you should suffer just a little bit more.”
Benefactor? Suffer? What the hell was going on? If this was another game, like tying my ass up, I wasn’t down with it. “What the fuck did you do?” I yelled, struggling to break free of the bonds she’d placed me in, but they wouldn’t let up. “Val, let me go. This shit ain’t funny.”
“To answer your question, yes, my name is Valentine and the sad thing is that this is goodbye, Antoine. I’ll always remember—your tongue.”
She gently placed tape over my mouth as I flailed around my bed, trying to break free.
“It’s time for me to go, but I just wanted you to know that your house is on fire. Maybe we can hook up next lifetime—if there is such a thing as reincarnation, but in this one, you shouldn’t have crossed someone you know. Didn’t you know selling kids was a no-no? Had I known about what you were really into, I would've poured gasoline on you myself, but I guess this will have to do.”
I heard her heels clicking against the bedroom’s wooden floor as she walked away from me, then suddenly she stopped.
“Just so you know, you weren’t that great of a fuck, Rock Hound. Maybe next time around, you’ll get a bigger dick. And uh, your last ride was compliments of the soon to be widowed Mrs. Davis.”
Fuck you! I wanted to scream out, but the tape was pressed so hard against my face that all she could hear was gurgling. I tried to push my tongue against the tape and scream for help, but it wasn’t moving. I wriggled around my bed for what seemed like an eternity, but no matter how hard I fought, I knew this was about to be my tomb.
For the next few minutes, I panicked. I screamed, wrestled, cried, cursed, and fought against the handcuffs she’d put on my hands and feet—all the while feeling the steel dig deeper into my flesh. Even though I couldn’t see the fire, I smelled the charred remains of my house and I could feel the heat from the flames moving closer to me. I fiercely pulled against my restraints one last time and I could hear the headboard cracking, but I was already too weak. I had inhaled too much smoke and the world was slowly darkening.
There wasn't a doubt in my mind now, I was going to die.
As I felt the unbearable heat from the flames closing in around me, the last thought going through my mind was a satisfying scene with me choking the life out of both my wife and that fucking Valentine.
Chapter 2: A Separate Life
Houston
Sassia
I turned the key in the lock and walked into my cool, quiet apartment. It felt good to finally be home. Even though I felt like a hot walking mess, instead of immediately taking a long, hot shower, I sat down on my plush leather sofa and turned the TV on to a random national news station.
After about fifteen minutes of political fluff and weather reporting, I finally saw it. A picture of the recently deceased Antoine Davis and the grieving Lynette Davis filled the screen. The reporter described Antoine’s death as a ritual killing, most likely from the result of his past gang affiliations, but the tearful Mrs. Davis swore that that part of his life was behind him.
Damn, she is good. Damn if I wasn’t better.
I smiled at the screen before standing up; pulling away the clothes I’d been wearing for the last two days and letting them fall to the floor. Ordinarily, I liked a clean apartment, but the payday for this job was the biggest I’ve ever had and I deserved a little time to celebrate.
As I walked toward the shower, my satellite phone, which I dubbed 'the hotline', began ringing.
“What the hell do you want now?” I mumbled. Because it was the hotline, I had to answer. I’d just gotten home, but there might be another job to do. I hoped it would be closer to home.
I picked up the phone and heard a series of beeps before I spoke. “What is it, CT?”
“One sec, okay—the line is secure. I just wanted to say that you did a good job, Val. You have them looking everywhere but where they’re supposed to. How about I come over and we celebrate?”
“How’s about you kiss my ass.”
“I can do that, too.”
I’d known CT since I’d gotten into the business—barely a year ago. I’d never actually met him, we’d met through a mutual acquaintance, but he was kind of like my agent. He’d get the CFT’s, or contracts for termination, and he’d get them to me. In the year we’d known each other, I didn’t have many notches under my belt, but I was still good at what I did. And getting better.
CT always swore I didn’t get many contracts because of all the other professional killers he had under his umbrella. He always tried to make it seem like there were dozens under him, which I doubted, but I didn’t care as long as I got a job every so often. Because he was always trying to get in my pants, I figured he’d still push the best scores in my direction, like the Davis job. It was almost too easy for the thirty-five thousand I stood to make.
“I’ll tell you what. Give me your real name and I may let you have a taste.”
“My real name is CT.”
“No it’s not, liar! I gave you that nickname! How can I ever be with someone who can’t tell the truth?” I whined. One thing I did know about him was that he was a terrible liar. I’d given him the name CT because of all his off the wall conspiracy theories. Before that, he was just ‘Dispatch’.
“Shit, you know I can’t give that information out, so I don’t know why you ask. It’s called covering your ass. Your name ain’t Valentine so I don’t know why it’s so important that you know mine.”
“Because I like to know the names of the men I fuck.”
“Is that what you told Antoine before you baked his ass? I don’t get you. You’ll screw a bad guy like Antoine Davis, a goddamn modern day slave trader, but not me?” He asked like a man who’d been snubbed before.
“What makes you think you’re any less of a bad man than him? You arrange deaths. Doesn’t that make you bad, too?”
“So what you’re saying is, I have a chance?” He lowered his voice an octave, trying to be sexy.
I answered back just as seductively. “If you do get that chance, don’t be mad if I have to kill you afterward.”
“I’d risk it.”
“You could try. Speaking of trying," I quickly changed the subject, "have you found the man I asked you to find?”
“Not yet, but I’ll let you know when I do. He can’t hide forever, especially not from me. Anyway, you know you owe me for this. I’ll take my payment in the form of a massage…a personal hand massage.”
“Good night, CT.”
He laughed. “The second half of the payment is in your account. Have a good night…Valentine.”
I hung up the hotline and stepped into the shower. Before I even turned on the faucet, I could hear the screams of pleasure emanating from the next apartment. With such thin walls, I listened to my next-door neighbors, Charlie and her fiancé Steve, screaming like banshees.
Hmmm, now that’s some of what I really needed.
And I might just get it, but after two days on the bus traveling from New York City back to Houston, I needed this hot shower more than I needed a good lay—but not by much. Even though I hated how slow the bus lines were, for me, it was a matter of anonymity. Airports have too many cameras, too much security, and the last thing any professional killer needs is more exposure. With a baseball cap and a made up ID provided by CT, I bought bus tickets to eight different cities before I finally boarded the one to Houston.
As the water poured down over me, I teased my clit with my fingers while I thought about the last thing Antoine had said to me. I wondered if he had really wanted to take care of me or if was he just another Omar.
Omar.
Remembering him made my skin crawl, but it didn’t matter now, he was dead. Both of them were and the world was better off for it. Because of what I’d been through, taking out people who deserved it seemed like justice, but it was a little harder with Antoine’s last confession.
“Let me take care of you.”
I shook it off and lathered my body, letting the hot water caress me. I’d heard that line many times before and I’d probably hear it a million times more. He loved what I gave him, they all did, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy any good fuck. Besides, letting him live would be breaking the first rule.
As I continued listening to my neighbors, I smirked. The way Steve was crying out her name I guessed that Charlie knew what a good lay could do, too. I was certainly going to have to make another trip next door sooner rather than later.
I stepped out of the shower feeling like a new woman, the smells of sex, smoke, and death down the drain. After flexing several times and admiring myself in the mirror, I stepped out of the bathroom to the sound of my personal phone’s jazzy ringtone. Because it was almost midnight and I didn’t have any friends besides the two screwing next door, I knew who it was.
“Hello?” I answered as innocently as I could.
“Sassia, don’t give me that goddamn nice hello BS! Where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling your ass all week and you haven’t been picking up. Most of your fan club is mad as hell that they have to go somewhere else. What excuse do you have now? Sick? Relative died? What? Tell me something!”
That was Lady Zara. She ran the most lucrative escort service on this side of the Mississippi. Because I was one of her best attractions, she’d always treated me like a beloved member of her family, but every now and then my other job would conflict with Lady Zara’s. That’s when I really became family—the type of family that catches the ass-whooping.
“Sorry, Lady Z, but I had some family business to take care of back home.” That’s all she was getting this time because I didn’t feel like concocting another crazy ass story. She’d already heard so many.
“Look, Sassia, if you don’t want to work here I have plenty of girls who would love to escort your clients.”
“I’m sure they would too, but no one does it better than me, LZ. You know that as well as I do.”
“Fine, but I’m not going through this shit again, you hear me? For the rest of this month, your commission is down to fifty percent and I don’t wanna hear another word about it. Get your ass in early tomorrow. You have a lot of time to make up for!”
I knew she had to flex her muscles in front of the other girls because she didn’t want to appear soft on me, but I wasn’t about to lay down either. “Sixty percent.”
“You’re fired.”
“Fine, dammit, fifty percent and I’ll be in early tomorrow!” I had to start getting on her good side again. I didn’t live extravagantly, but I needed my escort money for the cushy retirement I had planned. It was a good thing that I’d just finished that job for thirty-five grand.
I threw on some jogging shorts and a loose t-shirt, then sat down on my bed to read a few pages from Sleeping with Strangers before falling asleep on top of the covers.
My last thoughts before sleep took me were about the book’s main character. That crazy Gideon, I need me a man like him. I cut off the light, closed my eyes and let my head rest on the pillows.
It was time to put Valentine back in her box; a few hours of sleep would help me do it. I was home now and here in Houston I was Sassia Santinos, escort extraordinaire.
“I will ask you again. Do you seek vengeance?”
“Who the hell are you? Are you the police? Get me the hell out of here, please!” I cried.
“The offer is only valid for five seconds. Do you seek vengeance for what was done to you?”
“Yes, dammit,” I yelled desperately. “Get me the fuck outta here and I’ll give you whatever you want!”
She stood up from the bed and began to walk away.
“You don’t want vengeance, you want freedom. Sorry, Valentine, I don’t do freedom, only vengeance.”
“Don’t leave me, dammit! If you don’t let me go, they—they won’t stop! They’ll keep raping me until I’m dead! Please, help me god dammit!”
I screamed, choking so hard I woke myself up.
I jumped out of bed, knelt beside the mattress, and pulled the shiny black Beretta from under my pillow, wildly pointing it at the darkness. I didn’t utter a word, just listened intently for creaking floorboards, whispering, or even an exhale. For several minutes I didn’t move a muscle and aimed the gun at my bedroom doorway as my eyes adjusted. When I didn’t hear anything, I turned on all the lights and walked around the apartment just to be sure.
I sighed and shook my head when I didn’t find anything wrong; I peeked in all the places where I stashed weapons. Everything was as it should be, but that still didn’t bring me any comfort.
“It was the damn dream again,” I mumbled, returning to my bed. I didn’t dare cut off a single light, though. If I hadn’t been so agitated, I would’ve laughed. I mean, whoever heard of a professional killer who was afraid of the dark? But after what I’d gone through, it wasn’t totally implausible.
I grew up in the heart of New Orleans’ fourth ward. We had our gangs and rivalries against the other wards in the parish; murder was an almost daily occurrence and the city stayed dirty, but even still, there was no better place in the world. There was soul and passion in the fourth ward like no other place I’d ever been.
My mama was Creole, born and raised in the city. She always told me that she considered herself black, but her hair was as blond as any white lady I’d ever met. She’d always called me her little mixed blessing and according to her, everything good I got from her: my hazel eyes, light complexion—the beauty I’d traded on my whole life. For as long as I could remember, people tended to trust a pretty face like mine and I always banked on their naïveté.
She also said that the only good thing I got from my father, who was Guyanese, was my dark hair. He came by every so often to see me and give Mama a check, but as I grew older I stopped caring when he didn’t show. Mama was different. Every day she would ramble on about how no good he was, until he died. He wasn’t ever really around, so I didn’t miss him much, but Mama cried for him every night.
My mama used to make a mean shrimp etoufee, but after my daddy died, she stopped cooking and grew a little colder and more distant each day. We didn’t have many friends, so I just went to school and came home to her, but when she got sick, I didn’t go to school at all anymore. The doctors said there wasn’t anything medically wrong with her, but even I knew what a broken heart looked like. Daddy died when I was eleven, and Mama died shortly after I turned twelve. At that age I became a skinny orphan surrounded by the heartbeat of the French Quarter.
After her death, I became property of the state and I hated that. Everyone reminded me of how pretty I was, especially when I started filling out, but the only people that wanted me ended up being perverts. After the last man tried to touch me, I ran away for good. I lived in the streets and alleys for about a month, scraping together a living by helping an old lady sell fresh fruit and shrimp the French Quarter. With the smell of shrimp always on her smock, she reminded me a lot of how my mama used to smell. I liked working with her, but one day she just stopped showing up and never came back. I was alone again, this time without anywhere to go and barely any change in my pocket. .
That’s when I met Omar.
He was a light-skinned, round faced, overweight man who wasn’t at all handsome—just another ordinary street hustler. I met him on a corner and was ready to wash his shiny dark blue Caprice Classic when he asked, “Hey, you wanna make some real money?”
I vehemently nodded and he opened the back door. “Get in, sugar.”
His car was as nice inside as it was outside. The seats were covered with white fur and the whole dash board looked like it was made out of real wood. This man had money and he was asking me if I needed some? I grew suspicious. I was going to scratch his eyes out and run for my life if he wanted me to trick. I would never do that—not for anyone.
He saw the skeptical way I was looking at him and smiled. “It ain’t what you think, kid. I’m not that kind of pervert. I need you to be a lookout for my…operation. You look like you need some food and I need some eyes on the street. Can you do that for me?”
He seemed like a nice guy, so I nodded again.
“What’s your name?” When I didn’t answer, he smiled again, this time showing all of his gold teeth. “Okay then, how old are you?”
“I’m twelve.” I answered, barely moving my lips.
“How about I call you Twelve then?”
I shrugged. Didn’t matter to me, just as long as he didn't try to touch me like those adoption perverts.
For almost six years, he called me Twelve. He asked me my name several times, but because my mama and I shared the same name, I never told him. I never wanted him to know her name because if he did, I might die of a broken heart like she did. During that time, I sold a few drugs and played lookout for Omar. He didn’t pay me a lot, but he gave me enough to buy things I needed and he let me live with him in a rundown house in the middle of the fifth ward. After being in crappy foster homes and on the street, it seemed like a castle to me.
On my eighteenth birthday, everything changed between Omar and me. I’d cared about him for years, had come to depend on him for my very life, and even though I’d finally offered him my body out of gratitude, he’d never accepted. He always treated me with respect, which made me admire him even more. On my eighteenth birthday, I gave my virginity to Omar. It hurt like hell, he was a big man in every way, but I believed that I loved Omar more than I loved my own life. He knew that I would do anything for him, and I ended up doing everything for him, too. To make him happy, a little pain between my legs was nothing.
We had been together for almost a month and we’d just finished making love when he turned toward me and said, “Twelve, I gotta give you a different name. You can’t be helping me run my shit with a name like that! Is there a name you want me to give you? Like maybe you can finally tell me the name you were born with?”
I was still sweating from the workout he’d given me and I rested my head on his hairy chest. Even though he was the only man I’d ever been with, I didn’t care much for the sex. It was something I did to make him happy. I still loved him though, and if we were going to be together, then he should know. I smiled and told him.
“I don’t really like that name for you. You’re too good for such a plain name. How about I call you Valentine?”
“Why Valentine and not my real name?” I asked as I fondled him under the covers.
“Because yo’ li’l pussy is so damn good that every time we get down, I wanna fall in love with the shit.” I smiled at what sounded like a compliment, but he wasn’t finished. “Look…Valentine, I’m going to need you to do something for me.”
“Anything, baby.”
“I need you to help out the girls. They money ain’t right and I might need you to drum in more business. The way I see it,” he lifted one of my breasts to his lips and softly kissed the tip of my brown nipple, “you got this pretty-ass hair that’s halfway down your back, these big-ass titties, and that nice ass you totin’. Oh yeah, you gone make Omar a lot of grip.”
I felt uneasy about what I knew he was asking, but we loved each other. He wouldn’t ask unless he really needed it, right? Besides, I’d lived with him for all these years and it was time for me to start pulling my weight.
“Whatever you need.”
“Good, good.” He picked up the phone off the nightstand and called his friend Cali. “Yo, Cal, get Honey, Temp, and Dixie asses up here. They’re gonna show my new girl Valentine the ropes.” After he hung up, he kissed me. “But them bitches ain’t got nothin’ on you. You will always be number one. You never forget that.”
It took a while, but the name grew on me and for two years I honed my craft, which made Omar a very rich man. I made a living turning both men and women out. Local judges, politicians, and men who invested in Omar’s illegal businesses were typically treated to a night with Val. After it was all done, I had the kind of power over them that even Omar couldn’t dream of. I usually didn't think much of the power I yielded, but it seemed to make the sex more enjoyable when I did. Omar would always tell me that I had the GP, the Golden Pussy he called it. Because of the prestige I had, there would be regular feuds between me, Honey Sugarpot, Temptress Jones, and Dixie Wrecked. Due to my fair complexion and hazel eyes, they always called me the “white bitch’ and in turn I’d call them what they were: old pussy.
Life was great for me until I met Boogie, then it got complicated. I didn’t want to betray Omar, but love is a fickle thing and after the first time Boogie and I got together, I was whipped. In Omar’s world, it didn’t matter how many men I fucked for money, but for me to love another man meant I was betraying him. I’d signed my own death warrant by loving Charles ‘Boogie’ Jackson.
Chapter 3: Memories
New Orleans
5 Years Ago
Sassia
I didn’t know how many times he’d struck me, but I could feel my bottom lip swelling more after each time Omar attacked. I didn’t mind being punched in the belly, that would heal, but Omar was slowly working his way up my face.
For the first time in my life, I was truly afraid of the light-skinned, balding man that had practically raised me. As he twirled his gun around his finger like someone from a thirties gangster movie, he just shook his head at me as I lay sprawled on the bed we’d shared for so many years. He’d walked in with the cadre of men, loyal to him, all of them looking at me as if they knew. None of them spoke, but I knew what he wanted.
So this is how I’m going to die.
“Where the hell is my shit, Valentine?”
I wanted to cry, to show how remorseful I was for sneaking around behind his back, but my body wouldn’t let me. I tried desperately to squeeze a tear down a cheek, but I couldn’t. Perhaps it was biological, but I knew better. I’d seen too much while living with Omar to allow myself to be weak in front of anyone—even in the face of the man himself.
“I don’t know who’s got your money—or your blow, Omar. You know I ain’t got the shit, so why are you fucking with me?” I pleaded, but I knew that once Omar had found me that he knew. Even though I could only speak out of one side of my swollen mouth, I still lied. Boogie was my boyfriend, swore he’d die for me, and even gotten ‘Val’ tattooed inside a huge red heart on his neck. After what we’d shared, I wasn’t about to sell him out—not even for Omar. Deep inside, I knew he was going to be waiting outside and he’d rescue me from my impending death.
“That’s funny, Val, because I can’t find Boogie anywhere. From what I hear, he ran off with my cash, my weed, and my blow… and that’s after fucking my woman. But you wanna hear some real funny shit? I had heard you and Boogie were fucking weeks ago, but since you were always by my side, I didn’t see how that shit was happening. I even heard someone was planning this little robbery, too. A little bug put something in my ear, but I knew my girl, Val, she wasn’t about to betray me! Me! The man who gave her a fuckin’ life—money—prestige—everything her ass didn’t have when I got her off the streets!”
“Omar, listen, baby, I…” I tried to lie again, but Omar wasn’t listening to anything I wanted to say.
He slapped me, this time his hand landing flat against my cheek, the stinging almost unbearable.
“Shut the fuck up, Val! I suspected you were fucking Boogie, but I didn’t think you were stupid enough to fuck him and steal from me!” He laughed and the other men around him all cracked smiles. “It looks like you’re the fucking scapegoat,” he continued, “and he left you to take the blame.” He laughed again as he looked at me with the same contempt I’d seen him look at others before me. Betrayal wasn’t a new thing to Omar, but for the first time I had a firsthand account of what the others must have gone through before their end.
“Omar—baby…let me tell you what happened…”
“Fine, I’ll let you explain. Get yo’ ass in the car.” He grabbed me by the hair and led me toward his new black Escalade with everyone following. As soon as he threw me in the back seat, he jumped in with me and snarled. “Now, fuckin’ talk.”
With every word that came from my mouth, Omar beat me repeatedly. I tried covering up, but he was too big and strong. I knew I was biding time, but something must have gone wrong if Omar was onto me this fast. Boogie and I were supposed to meet up and run away.
Where was he? Why hadn’t he saved me yet?
As I cried, he shouted over my pleas of mercy. “I bet you didn’t know anything about that, did you?” As quick as a rattlesnake, he flung his arm at me and tightly wrapped his chubby, yellow fingers around my throat. “You bitch. You crossed me? Me? The man who gave you the world and turned you into the best pussy on this side of the Mississippi—and you had the nerve to cross me! Cross me and then you got double-crossed. Ain’t karma a mothafucka?” Omar laughed, but there was no humor in it.
Chopper, who was Omar’s driver and dark-skinned counterpart, laughed too.
I curled up in the back seat of his Escalade while they laughed and prayed that Boogie would be wherever he was taking me. I didn’t pray often—hell, I never prayed, but since I knew that I was living my last few moments on Earth, it seemed like a good idea. As I huddled against the dark tinted window, tears collecting on the underside of my chin, I thought about jumping out and running for my life. Straining to see out of the window, I faced two major obstacles. The first was that we were going sixty-five miles an hour. The second was that we were crossing the mighty Mississippi River on the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway. In either case, I was a dead woman if I tried to escape.
But if I jump out as soon as we get across the bridge…
It was the last thought I had before a painful flash of light led to complete darkness. That goddamn Omar had thought of everything.
I woke up on a bed with no sheets.
I shivered because the room was so cold, but when I tried to move, I couldn't. When I opened my eyes to see where I was, I suddenly felt the blindfold pressing into my face. After a few minutes of struggling to see and move, I rested my head on the bed and in the distance I heard men talking. I couldn’t distinguish the voices, but when one of them laughed loudly enough, I knew Chopper was around. Because all that fat-ass did was laugh, I knew his big man laugh better than I knew the sound of my own voice. Since my legs were free, I tried to use them as leverage to pull my hands of out what felt like handcuffs, but all I succeeded in doing was alerting the men that I had awakened.
One of the men walked along the right side of the bed and spoke.
“So you’re finally awake. I was gonna fuck you while you were unconscious, but I decided I wanted you up. I wanted you to know whose dick you were lovin’.”
“Fuck you!” I screamed. I didn’t know his voice, but he’d already promised to rape me and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.
For what seemed like forever, I endured the types of torture than no one should endure. I was beaten, punished, violated, and barely allowed enough water to live. They wouldn't let me up and so I was forced to piss in the bed, but that didn't stop them from raping me. Only when I shit on myself did they take notice. I was beaten until I passed out and when I finally awoke, the smell was gone and whoever had cleaned me had removed my underwear as well. I desperately wanted to kill them all, but without anything to sustain me, I was living on air and borrowed time.
One by one, they continued molesting me, and several times I simply dry heaved until I blacked out. When I couldn’t do that anymore I just endured the torture. On the occasions where I was lucid, I screamed as loud as I could, hoping that someone would hear me and save me, but they laughed at my attempts. If I knew Omar, no one would find me, no one would save me—certainly not Boogie, who had deserted me—betrayed me.
For several days I was repeatedly violated by men I did and didn’t know. On more than one occasion, I’d wished I was dead, but death ignored me, watching and forcing me to endure more. I could taste the dried blood on my lips and I also felt it drying on the inside of my thighs.
Whenever a man would walk into the room I clenched my eyes and begged him to kill me. I’d even laugh at random ones and tell them how small their dicks were, but I wasn’t greeted by death, simply more beatings. I knew Omar and I knew that this ritual wouldn’t stop until I was dead, and maybe not even then. He wanted me dead all right, he just wanted to make me an example.
I was barely alive, clinging to life, when the angel of mercy finally came. I was asleep on the bed when I was awakened by a woman’s voice.
“Are you with these men?”
I had lost my voice, mostly due to all the screaming and choking I'd endured, and it hurt to talk, but I managed to whisper, “No.”
“Then, I offer you a chance for vengeance, do you accept?”
She spoke with an accent that I’d never heard before. After not having anything of substance to eat for the last few days, I thought I was dreaming, but when I realized how weak I was, I knew I was wide awake.
“Oh, thank God you found me! They were gonna kill me.” When she didn’t loosen the handcuffs, I spoke again. “Are you gonna get me outta here? If anyone comes in, they’ll kill us both!”
“I will ask you again. Do you seek vengeance?” This time she seemed a lot less caring, almost angry.
“Who the hell are you? Are you the police? Get me the hell out of here, please!” I whispered while crying. Who the hell was she to keep me here after everything I’d been through? Couldn’t she see what they had done to me?
“You have five seconds. Do you seek vengeance for what was done to you?”
“Yes, dammit,” I screamed. “Get me the fuck outta here and I’ll give you whatever you want!”
She stood up from the piss-stained bed and began to walk away.
“You don’t want revenge, you want freedom. Sorry, I don’t do freedom, only vengeance.”
She wasn't an Angel of Mercy, she was the Angel of Vengeance; I was caught between newfound freedom and inevitable death.
“Don’t leave me, dammit! If you don’t let me go, they—they won’t stop! They’ll keep beating and raping me until I’m dead! Please, help me!” I screamed, my voice cracking and weak. Whether she let me go or not, I knew it was probably going to be the last time I cried anyway.
“Then do you want vengeance? Do you want them to pay for what they’ve done to you?” she shouted.
“Yes!” I tried to scream, but with my voice so hoarse, it was barely audible. “I want them all to pay, god dammit! I want them all dead! I want them all to die.”
She walked over to the bed, unlocked the handcuffs, and pulled off my blindfold. It took a few minutes, but as my eyes adjusted, I saw a beautiful Middle Eastern woman standing over me. She couldn’t have been much older than me; her eyes were the shape and color of almonds, her skin wasn’t too much lighter than mine, and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, but she still had the look of someone who was ready to kill me at a moment’s notice. As she helped sit up in the bed, I saw that in her right hand she carried a Glock.
My body hurt so badly that with every movement I wanted to cry out. For what seemed like an eternity, my arms had been tied above my head and my legs hurt from what those animals had done to me. I wanted to move—to stand, but I could barely blink without grimacing in pain.
“Get up, we must go.”
“I can’t move. It hurts so much.”
She pointed the Glock at me. “You get up now or you die here.”
I slowly stood up and pushed myself away from the bed, arms and legs tingling from lack of circulation. She threw a shirt and a pair of pants at me. With her Glock aimed squarely at my head, I dressed as fast as I could. As I did, the feeling in all of my extremities began to return and the realization of where I was began to settle in. I looked around and saw that Omar had hidden me inside one of his warehouses. I wasn’t sure which one, but as we stepped out of the room, there were enough compartments to make a life-sized labyrinth. As I limped away from my torture chamber and down a narrow hallway filled with empty barrels, I noticed that no one was chasing us, shooting at us, or even talking, and quickly I learned why.
The mysterious lady brought me to a locked room and as I looked through the small window, I saw four men with bags over their heads, kneeling on the floor. As she pulled out a key and opened the door, several of the men stood up, but a quick kick to their midsection from her sent them all sprawling back to the concrete floor.
“What the fuck do you want?” The only man who was sitting in a chair yelled. Even through the fear, I knew that voice. It was Omar, his arms and legs were securely tied to a wooden chair.
When she didn’t answer, one of the men on the floor began to cry.
“Shut the fuck up, Cal, and die like a goddamn man!” Omar shouted.
“I agree,” said the mystery woman and shot Cal in the leg. Then she walked over to Omar and punched him in the face. “You don’t talk."
With their hands bound behind their backs and cries of pain echoing through the room, I feared and loved the way this woman dominated these men, especially Omar.
I didn’t know if any of these men had pissed in their pants, but the foul smell of urine permeated the room. Because of the last few days, I knew the scent well. I slowly looked around, hoping to find out where exactly the smell was coming from when I noticed several barrels of ether in the corner. This wasn’t just any warehouse; it was where Omar processed his meth.
Suddenly this woman I’d begun to admire didn’t seem so stable. Firing her gun with all this ether around wasn’t the smartest thing to do. One bullet could turn the warehouse into a big Fourth of July fireworks display.
I turned and slowly began to work my way back toward the door when the mystery woman grabbed my elbow and led me to a chair a few feet away from the men. A million thoughts scattered through my mind, but the chattering ceased when she spoke.
“These are three of the men who treated you like the dog. When you were hungry, they laughed at you. When you were thirsty, they did not give you water, they spit in a cup and forced you to drink it. They raped you and when you asked for mercy, your pleas fell on deaf ears. There was no mercy for you. Not one of them stopped indulging their carnal efforts to violate you and they all left you to die a horrible death.”
She walked over to me, reached inside of her green camouflage jacket, and pulled out a 9mm. After making sure the safety was off, she reached over my shoulder and placed it in my hand. “If you want, I will find the other guilty men, but these men have taken something that they did not deserve. Show them your wrath.”
I dry heaved several more times, my throat raw and sore from screaming, as I recalled again what they had done to me. Regaining my composure, I looked at each hooded man. Now that I had the power, each one of them was a coward. Each one of them knew the name Omar had given to me, Valentine, but that hadn’t stopped them from treating me the way they had. One pleaded for forgiveness, the others profusely apologizing and wanting to live, but this time their pleas fell on deaf ears. Without any remorse, I shot each one of my torturers in his groin. The noise inside the small room was deafening; I had forgotten momentarily about the chemicals. I just wanted to inflict pain—as much pain as I could, but not enough to kill them.
At least not yet.
As each man screamed, the feeling of the power that overwhelmed me was nearly orgasmic. For several brief moments, their cries faded and I stared at the gun—wondering why I’d never had the pleasure of firing one before.
When the men’s shouting had returned, I realized what I’d done—then I quickly reminded myself of what they had done to me. They all deserved to die. I pointed the gun at one of the hoods and softly squeezed the trigger. It was so easy that I did it once more, putting several bullets in the second man's head.
I heard Cal whimpering and I knew it was him all along who said to me that, “Mercy was for the weak.” I shot his kneecaps out and watched in joy as he fell to the ground and whimpered like the animal he was. As he gyrated against the floor, I walked over to him, stepped on each of his hands before I put a bullet in both of them.
The Angel of Vengeance smiled at how much satisfaction I received from torturing him and sat down atop one of the barrels of ether.
I allowed Cali to wriggle across the floor for a few more minutes, blood trails scraping across the concrete, before I gave him the mercy he never showed me. I pointed at his chest and emptied the clip.
Click. Click. Click.
I continued pulling the trigger even though not a single bullet fired. I looked over and saw Omar jump like a scared rabbit with each trigger pull, looking completely mortified with his blindfold on, now that Cali was reduced to a bloody mess.
He was the last one left. Omar. I began focusing my emptied gun on him, when my mystery Angel of Vengeance pulled a huge Desert Eagle out of the holster she had on her hip. She quickly pointed it at me even while she had her other gun focused on Omar’s skull. “He is mine. You are free. Go. I will contact you when I have found the others.”
I dropped my impotent gun on the ground and only then did I see the blood and pieces of skull and brain matter on my arms and shirt. I should’ve been repulsed, but I didn’t care. Those men deserved exactly what they got.