Page 30 of Professional Liar
Ten
Katherine
Pierce followedme into the house. I adjusted my own clothing as I walked, but I stopped short inside the door. Ten of Pierce’s crew milled around, shuffling papers, talking on phones.
My husband closed the door and tossed his clothes in a pile on the floor. I could only offer an…“Uh…”
“What?” he asked.
I held up my hands, hoping they explained why I stood there gawking. “This is not a military operations center. If it were, I’d have much hotter men to look at.”
“Hey,” came a disgruntled shout from the corner of the dining room.
Pierce grasped my upper arm and gently propelled me into the thankfully empty kitchen. In a rough whisper, he said, “We need to ascertain if the attack came from my side or yours?”
I yanked from his tightened grip. My short fuse inches from ignition. “What do you mean my side?” I asked, careful and slow.
“We need to know if the attack came from one of the families, or if outside of it all. That’s what the crew is doing now.”
The ground shifted slightly underneath me, and I caught myself on the edge of the counter. Suddenly, I felt woefully out of my depth here. I’d only ever dealt with a physical attack once, and my job involved laying in a hospital bed while I pressed a morphine administration button. “Should I call people, do something?”
He scanned my face and traced the edges of my lips with his thumbs. “If you want to call someone, you can. Otherwise, I’ve got this.”
I reached up to cup his fingers in mine, but he pulled away and put the length of the kitchen between us. “I think it’s time we both lay our cards on the table. I trust you, Kat. Do you trust me?”
I’d always been aware we didn’t go into much details about our lives, or our families. We knew the basics about each other and kept it that way. Not out of distrust. I’d always trusted him, through the games, the lies, the manipulation. Not a second passed where I felt he might harm me.
Hurt me…yes.
He ripped me open more times than I could track. But irreparably, physically, no, never. “I trust you.”
He ducked his chin and realized he purposefully hid his eyes from mine. A tactic I depended on more times than I cared to admit.
“Are you ashamed?” I asked.
At first, he only shook his head but then he finally dragged his gaze to mine and held it. “Most of the syndicates assume my family runs drugs. Or that we are involved with drugs in some capacity.”
Basically my assessment all these years. Further queries into what he did were never necessary. How could I have used him for his attention, his time, his body for so many years without knowing. It seemed foolish now.
“We don’t do anything involving drugs. We actually take care of women.” He continued.
I leaned down and unzipped my black knee high boots. They were too stiff around the ankle and this conversation would require comfort. I had a feeling this might take a turn into flying obscenities. “I don’t know what that means.”
He cleared his throat and crossed his arms over his chest. Again, not meeting my eyes, but reluctantly looking up before he spoke. “My family takes care of prostitutes.”
It took me a second to wrap my brain around what he said. “You’re a pimp?”
He surged forward hands raised. “No, the opposite actually. We keep the girls who want that kind of life safe. We help them stay clean, avoid cops, find housing or hotels. They make all their own choices.”
“And you take their money to perform this service?” My insides felt fuzzy. Warm and room temperature like a pot not quite boiling but not cold either. Disgust, disbelief, and downright and dirty fear crept under my skin. Not all at once, tiny slivers containing bits and pieces of memories which should have led me to this conclusion a long time ago.
He took another step forward, and I retreated bumping into the knobs on the stove. Two of them dug into my back.
“Kat, calm down. I can see your mind whirring. We don’t take their money. The money we get comes from the client. They pay for what they want, and they get willing, happy, participating women. The clients who go to our girls are politicians, teachers, regular people who want companionship and don’t want the seedy element.”
“What do you call this?” I waved my hands at the all the men occupying the bursting front rooms. “We almost got shot, and you are trying to say your work doesn’t have a seedy element?”
Someone slipped between us, handed Pierce a phone, and retreated quickly. “What is it now?”
