
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/999151.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Death_Note
  Relationship:
      Matt/Mello, Mello/Rod_Ross
  Character:
      Mello_|_Mihael_Keehl, Matt_|_Mail_Jeevas, Rod_Ross_|_Dwhite_Gordon, L_
      (Death_Note), Halle_Lidner_|_Halle_Bullock, Ill_Ratt, OCs
  Additional Tags:
      Death_Note_Kink_Meme, Prostitution, Loss_of_Virginity, Established
      Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Russian_Mafia
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-10-10 Words: 9424
****** Like Amway with Guns ******
by IndigoJones
Summary
     Written for Death Note Kink Meme 2 prompt:"Never thought of another
     way Mello could have got such a high rank in the Mafia. Pairing
     RodRoss/Mello kink is prostitution (Mello whores himself to get into
     the Mafia. Plus Mello is a virgin. PlusPlus theoretically he is with
     Matt, they just hadn't had sex."
     Written in style of Another Note, warnings for cross dressing,
     prostitution, non-explicit references to underage sexy-times
     (offscreen) angsty backstories, some very dubious sexual situations,
     violence, masturbation and foot massages.
     And L makes a cameo appearance. Lemon with a lemony narrator.
     This repost tidies up the tensing errors in the kink meme reply post.
     I hope.
Higher Source were your average tech and rainbows California whackos.
As I don’t need to tell the know- it-alls currently rolling their eyes at me,
their ordinariness ended abruptly one spring morning when the police raided.
They found thirty-nine bodies in a state of early decomposition each with a
polythene bag taped over the head.
Gentle up suicide cult and they’re usually top of the list.
But what you know- it- alls almost certainly do not know, because the San Diego
Department of Social Services expressly requested the press not to report it,
was that the thirty nine bodies were all found downstairs. Upstairs, they found
one seven year old kid bashing buttons on his Sega Genesis.
So I’m not the worst thing that’s happened to Matt. But being sweet sixteen
with a whore that won’t put out must run it pretty close.
 
*
 
The buzzer went again. I put down my pen and straightened up. It’s a strange
sensation going from writing to being, like pouring yourself back into a mould.
So where my body is is in a plywood box about twelve feet square somewhere
under Los Angeles. It is arranged neatly, almost demurely which is not in any
way a state that comes naturally too it.
Back in my skin, the cheap velvet of the couch is digging in to the bare flesh
at the top of my thighs. I am waiting for none other than Mr. Rod Ross, a name
I do not need to explain to anyone with a passing knowledge of organised crime,
Mr. Valeri Tymoshenko who will be equally familiar and a Secret Services raid.
Outside, a woman giggles and coos. There is a blast of bass heavy music and
then a door is pulled shut again. So far, Mr Ross has kept me waiting for two
and a half hours. Due to having left my previous base on the six am sly I have
not had anything to eat today and it would not be in keeping with the red plush
and tea-lit ambience if my stomach was to start rumbling.
I pick the pen back up and go back into the pages. It wasn’t so bad. But I
hadn’t come to LA to sit in a plywood box and I was starting to get antsy.
 
*
 
Little-Thief lived on the roof of an old paper mill. He slept in the machine
hut where the elevator had been, bathed in an oil drum that collected rainwater
and wrote in his note book looking down over the spiked and turreted skyline to
the glittering sea.
He shared the roof with two half grown kittens and a family of seagulls raising
their noisy speckled offspring. Otherwise, he was undisturbed. The fire escapes
were privatised by scrap-scavengers shortly after the factory closed and tricky
climb of window ledges and ventilation shafts was impassable to the drunk,
stoned or fully grown.
Little-Thief did not know one day he will end up in Los Angeles. What he knew
were the boulevards, the cafes where the rich men from abroad drink and talk
into mobile phones. He knew how to beg sugar cubes and the tiny almond
biscuits, how to make the kits purr by stealing cartons of cream for them, how
to get the men to follow him to back alleys and empty buildings where their
Euros and Dollars can be easily removed.
Corporate directors become very creative with their investments when threatened
with free web hosting of footage of them soliciting sex from an eight-year old
child.
Little-Thief was careful to stay freelance, offering his services to each of
the city’s gangs, declining their offers of hospitality and providing each with
enough information on each other to keep the creaky peace. He did not drink of
huff glue, returned his books on time to the central library and kept strong by
swimming daily in the blue, contaminated ocean.
L never involved himself with a case unless there was more than a million
dollars at stake. Little-Thief never cared for England, for the grey skies and
the constant drizzle and the endless rules about behaving oneself. But he felt
much better about things when he found that out.
 
*
 
Of course, it must be most obvious to even the slowest of my readers that
Little-Thief and your narrator were once one and the same. So should I drop the
pretence? He was not so very long ago sitting in this very same skin, looking
out these eyes, holding his pen exactly as I am holding mine. But the truth is
he feels like a fictional ancestor to the current occupant.
Little-Thief was insubstantial, like a fairy or a ghost. He lived for the taste
of sugar, the swell of warm water and the furry whorls of the kits curled up
against him. He cared for no-one and was connected to nothing so that when he
finally disappeared from his rooftop perch it went as unremarked as the
dissipation of sea mist in the mid-morning sun.
I believe Wammy’s House would have liked me to continue in this state of
dislocation. Set up by a genius, designed to mass-produce genius, it was not a
regime with any place for the irrational. Their success story was a porridge
coloured homunculus that bloomed asexually from the carpet each morning in a
burst of baby powder and E-45 cream. He had an IQ of 204 and the emotional age
of a five year old. As I said, that is what Wammy’s House considered success.
But if they had wanted me to be like that they committed several fundamental
errors. They should not have fed me so well. They should not have given me a
warm bed to sleep in, so that within eight weeks of being there I had grown
five inches and put on nearly twenty pounds. They should not have given me a
room share with the lazy-eyed L-code refusnik so calm that not even I could
irritate. Above all, they should not have let me meet L.
These things destroyed Little-Thief. He became connected to the faces around
him by new and runaway emotions: love, hate, anger, desire, envy, trust. He
could not help them, they had arrived as uninvited as any of the other changes
happening to his body, and yet he knew their presence was somehow a black mark
under the current regime. So slowly he faded back into the flimsy dream world
of childhood, and a new creature, all angles and bones emerged. He is who lives
here now. His name is Mello.
 
*
 
The room swims back, the mirror, the cheap prints of porno-girls and the sharp
and citrus smell of Jeyes Fluid. It’s hard to stay focused when you’re waiting
this hard and even all the tricks of Wammy’s House won’t get me to relax. You
see, the things I am waiting for need to happen in an exact sequence. If they
do I have a plan. If I don’t, well I have a rather unfortunate mess that will
probably be the death of me.
That was another difference of opinion between Wammy House and Mello. Wammy
House set great store in the ability to make plans. But really - how often does
anything occur in the order you want it too? Perhaps in England where the
buildings are old and people grumblingly wait in line. But it does not happen
in the new and angry places of the world. Underneath Los Angeles nobody is
playing by the Marquis of Queensbury’s. That’s why I remembered to steal
Sasha’s gun.
The only plan that’s worth shit is to be prepared for anything.
I knew I’d be on camera so I did my best to sit like a girl. There are always
cameras in places like this to prevent any cash transfers not through official
channels. But I don’t care that they can see that I am writing. I’m not
deluding myself that I am a great storyteller – I do not have time to sit down
and worry at words long past the events in question.
I write because I want to leave something behind, so if I do die before I make
it there will still be something of me, some snapshots of the world behind my
eyes.
So I had better get back to it before the big guy turns up or the screaming
starts.
 
*
 
Then there is Matt. Now that is something I can rest my thoughts on. Matt is
sweet and calm and sees the world in blocky old-school 64-bit images. If I told
you how young I was when I first started fantasising about making love to Matt
you would probably be shocked and call me a liar. But pretty much as soon as I
was in working order I was craving the pasty skin of the boy in the bed next to
mine. Maybe it was just his proximity.
Is this where I should be all cool and in denial and claim to feel nothing?
Sorry to disappoint but even Little-Thief had seen where that will get you.
It’s the first rule of the Mafiya code: to have no family other than your
brother thieves. It gets you a fat neck and a sheepskin coat and a dumb life of
obeying the guy in front’s orders. Whatever name I wear, I do not obey. So I’m
happy to tell you that as far as Matt’s concerned I don’t mind any of the stuff
he makes me feel.
And it turned out Matt felt pretty much the same way. So we just got on with it
as kids do, no script, no clue, just hands and kisses in the dark. We never
quite made it all the way, which I put down to Higher Source’s barbaric
attitude towards human sexuality. As I said, Gentle it; I’m not repeating their
atrocities here. We never quite got to home base before the summer ended and
time run dry; the leafless afternoon I was called into Roger’s office and told
that L had died.
After that, all I wanted to do was run.
The upshot of this is I left Wammy’s House Virgo Intacta and sixteen months
later that is still the state in which I find myself.
This is despite the unexpected events of five days ago. What happened then? I
found Matt or possibly he found me. We haven’t worked out the details yet. But
there he was stopped at a light on Santa Monica, and there I was doing what I
do. You tell me who did the finding.
 
*
 
Streetwalking is a misnomer; streetwalking is standing still, standing on
spikes that drill in from the pads of the heel to the brain. Standing still is
the second worst part of it, because stillness and waiting are not things that
are comfortable for me.
Now hang on, once again I can feel the eye-rollers raising an exception. Didn’t
you just call Mello a virgin? So how can he be out walking the streets?
The answer is simple: most street workers only do oral. You might be able to
book one for a longer service, but the quickie blowjob is the street walkers
staple. It’s easier to escape from; it’s less likely to leave you with a nasty
disease, but mostly its mathematics. A lucky girl can do five blowjobs an hour
but even the most efficient worker is unlikely to get away with full sex in
much less than twenty minutes. The going rate for oral is $20, $25 if you do a
girlfriend experience; nobody will pay a street-whore more than $30 for a full
fuck and very few are crazy enough to do that without a rubber. So as tedious
as the answer is: Mello is a virgin because it is most cost effective.
Of course, most street hookers are strictly bottom of the pile – too old or
addicted to get a job at a massage place or with an agency, reduced to johns
too cheap to pay for anything more than some shut-eye suction. That was until
Valeri’s girls started appearing, fresh, young and still only $20. They are
hated, but they are rarely fucked up because they always work with heavy
protection; never far from a lounging man sweltering in a sheepskin jacket,
hiding his eyes behind Armani shades.
Valeri’s top earner is a snub-nosed, slender, bob-cut blonde called Nadia.
She’s a little flat-chested and very proud, but she’s leggy as an ostrich and
plenty of men secretly enjoy the whole domme thing from a teenage Tartar. She’s
been on Santa Monica for five months and that whole time she’s been raking it
in.
Nadia was once a boy called Mello. She hopes she can be Mello again at some
point in future, but she needs the time to be right. So for now she pulls her
skirt down over her hipbones and zips her top half way down her chest; swallows
contraceptive pills with her morning coffee like the other girls in the safe
house, and waits.
Now hold on you are probably saying to yourself at this point. What kind of a
story is this? So far I have met three characters who are all the same person,
no plot of which to speak and this is all growing rapidly tiresome. But that is
how we live at the bottom of the world; where one part knows things that
another part of the same person may not live so happily if they knew. That’s
why we have a lot of names. As for action, this will be arriving shortly. If
you find the waiting uncomfortable, spare a thought for how our heroine feels.
She really hates waiting.
So when a hot pink Camaro pulls up at the lights Nadia was all over it, leaning
her fake chest through the window and purring out:
‘Looking for a date?’
Because the hardest part is looking at them. Harder than waiting, much, much
harder than the salty, smelly business of getting them off, the hardest bit is
looking because it is then that Nadia feels the hate, and she has to bunch it
down hard because if it escaped for a minute she would punch them in the face
for daring. So she half looked, with her eyes kind of slid out of focus.
‘Mello!’
Too late – she took in the striped arms, the goggles and the gloves. Nadia
froze and thought she should run, but by the time she heard the car pull away
she realises she is looking out the windscreen.
Matt reached over and clicked the door shut before returning his eyes to the
road, cigarette dangling from his lip.
‘Did Near send you?’
On the roof above the city, two white birds nestled their clumsy, idiot child.
Little-Thief watched it, dumb and shambling, unsure whether to hide as a rock
or flap as a bird.
Something similar was just then happening inside Nadia. She was floating out of
Mello even as her instincts are screaming at her to hide. There was something
in the car that was making me stretch my wings.
I looked over again to the driver’s seat. Matt does not have a haircut. Matt
has something brownish that sits on top of his head like a squid and neither
grows or shrinks.
When I looked again, I had put my boots up on the dash.
‘My grandmother died.’
That checked out. Matt did have family left in California, some grandparent to
old or broken to take him in but who sent him letters and money that he had
spent on fags, batteries and chocolate. He got a lot of mileage out of dairy
milk in those days.
‘So you inherit anything?’
‘The whole estate,’ said Matt, flicking the butt of his cigarette out the
widow. ‘You’re in it.’
‘Okay,’ I gathered my composure. ‘Take a turn off right here and pull in behind
the vacant lot.’
I put my feet back down on the floor and smoothed the front of my skirt. ‘I’m
probably going to be watched from here on in so we’re gonna have to make this
look real. You got any cash?’
‘Twenty dollars.’
‘That’ll be fine. Now park up and hand me the cash.’
‘What are you up to Mello?’
‘What does it look like I’m up too?’
‘It looks like you’re turning tricks.’
I undid my seatbelt and leaned across the gear shift placing my head directly
in front of Matt’s crotch.
‘Eight years at the world’s greatest detective school weren’t wasted on you.’
With my head in front of Matt’s lap it was easy to reach in and open up his
jeans -
‘Hey -,’
‘Shut up,’ I said moving my hand up to look like I was stroking his shaft. ‘I’m
not going to attack you. As I told you, I’m being watched so we got to make
this real, okay?’
‘Watched by whom?’
‘My pimp of course.’
‘Mello!’
‘Could you please make it look like I’m good at this?’
‘Huh?’
I tilted my head back and made a vague blowjob face.
‘Oh right, yeah.’ He paused while he copied me, rolling his head back on the
seat. ‘What you really up to?’
‘Same as Matty, same as. Beating the competition and being the best.’
‘Kira’s not hiding in anyone’s boxers.’
‘Shame to inherit such a nice car on the same day you got your balls bitten
off.’
Matt ruffled his hand through my hair.
‘Do you do housecalls?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How much?’
‘Two hundred dollars.’
‘Can you come to this address tonight?’
Matt pulled out an empty fag packet with the name of a familiar hotel scrawled
on the back.
‘Classy joint. I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other already.’
Matt snorted but kept up the hair stroking. It was confusing to be touched like
that, like he did back in the dairy milk days.
‘Thursday night. Uugh stop that.’
His hand stilled but he kept it there.
‘Why Thursday?’
‘Cos there’s a party at Valeri’s until then.’
‘Who’s she?’ said Matt, suddenly tense, which was kind of nice but damn stupid
being jealous over a whore.
‘He,’ I said, ‘he’s my importer. I need to go keep him sweet. Stop that.’ Matt
was running his hand down my back, ‘Besides, you’re about to have the best
orgasm of your life so it’ll look better if you’re good for few nights.’
‘Okay, 10pm Thursday night.’
‘I won’t sleep with you.’
‘I know.’
‘You should probably finish up about now.’
‘What – oh got you.’
Matt must have pushed his head back because the metal of the fly suddenly stuck
right into my nose while he made a reasonable imitation of a porno cum-grunt.
‘It didn’t need sound effects.’
I wiped my mouth and opened the passenger door, swinging my legs out first like
a real girl.
‘Uh Mello. In the glove box. There’s something for you.’
My heartbeat picked up. I knew what was there even before I pulled out the
purple bar.
‘It’s British.’
My stockings got soaked as a wash of sweat ran down the back of my legs.
There’s nothing worse than sloppy wet nylon, but right then I didn’t care.
‘Thursday night.’ I said.
I didn’t look back. It had to look like just an ordinary john. When I heard the
car pull away I walked over to Sasha who was waiting for the twenty dollars.
Then I sat on a sidewall and slipped my mouth onto it.
When I first tasted American chocolate, I nearly cried. That’s Wammy
productions for you; unfazed by guns or torture, driven to despair by a
Hershey’s bar. But to anyone raised in Britain, the first taste of the sugar-
wax monstrosity the Americans call ‘chocolate’ is bound to be traumatic.
I was probably giving Sasha a freebie sucking on the chocolate in my leather
gloves but the proper salty, cocoa-rich milky loveliness just tasted so good.
When I make it, I swear I’m going to have those chocolate bars imported.
 
*
 
It was spring on Santa Monica, already there was an amber tint to the days but
the heat was not yet so heavy it took the tang of freshness from the sea.
This time last year, Nadia was in jail. Well, not quite jail, theoretically it
was a refuge, a place of safety. They gave us hot chocolate and fluffy pyjamas
with teddy bears on. But they did not let us leave.
When Nadia first came to the States she was not taken to Los Angeles. She was
taken to an anonymous building with mattresses on the floor in a place she
later found out was Brooklyn. Unfortunately, the player who run that house had
developed a little of a drink problem and started to get sloppy. Barely four
weeks after her arrival in the US Nadia was already being threatened with the
plane home.
Home? She had no idea where that might be; except it was none of the places she
had lived in previously.
At the centre we were visited by priests and reflexologists, Red Cross nurses
who screened us for diseases and an art group who taught us to make necklaces
by threading glass beads on a wire. There were also the cops: a blonde chick
with delicate, prissy features and an irritating haircut and a guy about the
same age with shifty looking eyes.
The other girls said they were CIA and not to speak to them. If Valeri finds
out you spoke to them, you will be dead. So I don’t think they found out much.
But the woman found out about Nadia because she was organising us to see the
doctor the day they did our STI screens. For some reason, she was very nice to
her after that. She even took her across town to a dentist where Alexi had got
drunk and knocked around some of her teeth.
Afterwards she brought Nadia chocolate milkshake from McDonalds and spoke to
her in Russian. She had been born in Brooklyn, but her family were from Odessa.
‘I know you can’t say anything,’ she said. ‘But if you ever can talk, this is
my cell.’
She didn’t eat anything herself. She didn’t look the type to eat in a fast food
joint. She just sat there, speaking, while Nadia watched her and wondered why
those silly bits of hair never moved.
Maybe she hairsprayed them to her cheeks.
Nadia suspected she told her colleague because she never got hassle off him.
The girls used to complain about his hands, about his demands, about the
watered down vodka he brought in for girls that were good to him. Nadia got no
trouble. It could be that he knew, although it could also be because Nadia had
a bit of a reputation as a bitch.
There was internet access at the hostel, monitored of course, but some girls
used it to check in with their kids back home. Nadia used it for something
else. She’d rigged one of the reflexologist’s mobiles to record the girls that
swivel-eyes went with and downloaded it onto the same .ru hosting that Little-
Thief had used so long ago.
A computer can be wiped, a photograph can be burnt, but internet fame is
forever.
‘And I know the password,’ she whispered casually. ‘Any time I like I can
change the setting to public.’
It wasn’t long before Nadia was back on the streets. Valeri had been very
interested to learn everything she knew. He agreed it would not be prudent to
have her pop up in the neighbourhood she had just been liberated from. So just
as the cherry-blossoms were starting in New York she was given a pair of
aviator shades and bundled in the back of an SUV heading west.
Which is where we now find her; wide eyed and begging the john she just
serviced for five minutes on his mobile phone. Sasha had taken a shine to Ida,
bought her a big velvet coat with a feathery hood like they wear in St
Petersburg. She was off behind the Laundromat with him, putting in a payment so
Nadia was quite alone.
‘Please Chad,’ Nadia whined, there are so many of them, but she has learned to
be good with names and faces. ‘Just five minutes, I promise.’
She twisted a strand of blonde around her finger before she caught herself. God
help her sink that low.
She knew she couldn’t risk Russian or he would get funny. They don’t like that
the girls know other languages, that they can have secrets.
She soothed the john, running her hand down his chest. He passed the phone to
her and she flipped it open and dialled the memorised number:
- Halle, it’s me – Nadia.
 
*
 
The receptionist did not look surprised to see a blonde in an SS guard cap and
zip front leather dress call for a guest in such an hour. He just gave out the
room number and told her to go on up and knock. Nadia wiggled a thank you from
her hips as she climbed the staircase; clutching her purse beneath her right
hand.
It took a fair bit of – persuading – to get Sasha to lend her special
protection that evening. But Nadia’s his best girl, and if she gets a bad
feeling there’s no way he’d want his star money maker hurt. The number had come
off the door but there was still the shadow of a seven white against the grime.
Nadia knocked, heard movement and then:
‘Whoa Mello, you got legs!’
‘It’s Nadia,’ she hissed, pulling the door behind her and reaching into her
purse.
Matt just stood there looking pale, crumpled and newly woken.
Then it wasn’t Nadia at all.
I clicked the safety off the Beretta and aimed at Matt’s head.
‘Show me there’s no one else here.’
‘Missed you too,’ said Matt, raising his hands in the air. We did a circuit of
the room in that fashion; I kicked about under the bed with my boots. On the
whole, it would have been better if Matt had not found me like this, but that’s
Matt. There’s got to be someone to know your secrets or you’d go mad; I know
his and he knows mine. It’s not like I don’t have plenty on him.
If Near had been lurking about I’d have blown his overstuffed head off rather
than let him live with the memory.
‘It’s just you, me and your paranoia,’ said Matt.
‘So where you get the two hundred bucks from?’
‘I pawned my DS.’
‘Fuck Matt.’ I sat down on the bed and lowered the gun. ‘You got any more –,’
He threw the bar into my hand before I finished asking. I tore it open and
stuffed it in my mouth as I set about trawling the room for bugs while Matt
tried subtly to look up my skirt. When one of us at least was satisfied, I sat
back on the bed and let my body go Mello-shapes, curling my left knee up on the
bed and leaving my right leg swinging.
‘So I got an audition at the liveshow tomorrow.’ I said zipping off my boots.
Matt slumped down on the floor in front of me. To his credit he mostly looked
at my face.
‘You trying to get famous now?’
‘Don’t be a moron, Matty. It’s one of Rod Ross’ places. And I know from the
other girls that he always auditions star performers personally.’
My toes were still smarting from being trapped in the crinkly nylon. I peeled
down my stockings and wiggled them free.
‘So?’
‘So how long you been in LA for? Rod Ross is the guy who controls things here,
all the drugs, the whores, the protection rackets. He’s got security coming out
his eyeballs, but this way I can get a private audience with him - Nghaaah!’
‘What was that?’
I ran my feet over the cheap plush of the carpet again.
‘Fuck that feels good.’
I hadn’t realised what bitches the boots were until my feet squirmed at the
scratch of carpet. I slid them over the floor like I was running trying to keep
my breathing decent.
‘So –um, why you interested in this guy?’
Matt grabbed my foot and pushed his thumb hard into the centre. My soles were
so tender from the sidewalk pounding that my back arched up.
‘Aah! Gaaah!.’ I bit down on the leather of my glove to stop further
embarrassment. ‘Well, I reckon by now Near’s got all the cops on his side so
what does that leave me?’
‘So you’re still on about that?’ he said and drove another hard circle into the
shredded muscle.
‘Yeah! Yes. Oh yes. I’m going to be good enough Matt. If all is left is the
criminals then I’ll use them. I’ll pick the best and use them to prove I’m
number one.’ I was panting. The pressure was agonisingly good. I licked the
last of the chocolate from my back teeth and cursed Matt for knowing, for
always being the one to -
‘Harder!’
Know.
‘Guess we won’t have to worry about making it sound real to the neighbours,’
said Matt, massaging his thumb under the ache in my ankle. ‘And why they call
them kinky boots.’
‘My feet are just sore. Gah. Don’t make it sound so perverted.’
Matt was still wearing his goggles. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to ask if the
freak act was twenty dollar’s extra.
‘Foot rub’s not perverted,’ he said suddenly going teasingly gentle on the
pads. ‘Now this -.’
He kissed inside the arch of my foot.
‘- this is perverted.’
I kicked him with my free foot. My thighs were sweating again as five month’s
worth of cramp emptied itself into his fingers. Matt ran his tongue down the
length of my sole.
‘Mmm, gorgonzola.’
It’s not sex, I told myself, it’s relief. It’s not hurting anymore. It’s not
sex, even though I could feel it at the base of my spine like I did in the
dairy milk days when I was a bit more accommodating.
‘You rinse that mouth before you put it anywhere near me.’
Fuck.
I reached for the zipper of the dress. Matt slid his hands up my legs and under
my ass to help me shrug out of it, before tugging at my panties with his free
hand.
He kept tugging.
‘This some kind of chastity device?’
‘They got a lot of work to do,’ I said, showing him how to roll the spandex
down until my cock sprung out from between my legs. Matt pulled them over my
feet while I sorted myself out. When I looked up he whistled.
‘Fuck-up and get back to my feet.’
I’d been hiding out as a girl so long my body felt alien under my fingers, hard
ridges of muscle, taught and tough. It was like touching another person. It was
like meeting an old friend.
Matt was sucking and biting on my toes as he ground his knuckles into the arch
of my foot. I lay back and shut my eyes just feeling myself, rolling my balls,
curling my fingers through the crisp springy hair of my pubes, feeling the
release travel up my legs as I reached around and stroked the slick head of my
cock.
I could hear whimpering. It just felt so fucking wonderful to have this again,
to be touching my cock again, not to have it as my dirty secret but to have it
hard and leaking out in the open with someone who wanted it here. Who wanted it
bad. My feet didn’t hurt and my legs didn’t ache and I could smell my own hard
on, musky and salty as I groaned and writhed and –
‘Oh God!’
Matt pressed his lips hard against my foot as I came. I think someone banged on
one of the walls from the shouting but fuck it, if you don’t like it pay for a
better place. I screamed so loud they should thank their stars the flimsy wall
didn’t fall in.
Afterwards, my feet felt like gravity had been cancelled. They were nearly
floating off the bed. Matt threw me another bar of chocolate and I worked on it
as he undressed. All the time I’d been running, I’d forgotten how much I liked
just seeing him naked. I stroked my tongue across the jagged edge of the bitten
chocolate taking in what had changed. A little taller, a bit broader in the
shoulders, a visible trail of hair now running from his navel to the dark curls
around his fuller cock.
I snapped the square of chocolate between my teeth.
He rolled naked on top of me and we were just boys again, firm and rough as we
taste each other’s skin. It ached the same as it did then, angry and yearning
all at once.
‘I didn’t rinse my mouth.’ said Matt.
‘Fuck it,’ I gasped. Too many things have been in my mouth, too much pushing
and thrusting. You lose your voice after a hard night. You feel swollen as if
the back of your mouth has bruised. Usually couldn’t stand anything touching my
mouth that wasn’t paying, but right now I wanted tongue. I wanted Matt to
reclaim it.
We made out like that, touching each other, loving each other until finally
Matt groaned and started to jerk himself off in my arms. I watched him pleasure
himself while I stroked his chest and pinched at his nipples, moaning
encouragement, saying stupid things about how big he’s gotten, how good he
makes me feel, how satisfied I feel watching him touch himself. It was Matt, so
it was alright; it was always alright. We didn’t need fancy moves. We’d been
doing this since we were thirteen years old; it was as easy as falling out of
bed, as natural as sunrise.
Soon Matt was moaning too, incoherent stuff, calling my name over and over and
making the neighbours work the wall again. My boy, my lover was coming for me.
I wanted to see it, smell it, taste it, so good, so right, so close. Matt’s
balls tightened and he lifted his hips right off the bed; I spread my hand over
his belly, eager to feel the struggling muscles relax.
‘Fuck Mello – I’m going to -,’
He just growled and I buried my nose in his hair soaking up the skin and the
sweat and the sweet, sweet salty tang from the white fluid spurting over his
hand. After he’d ridden it through I lifted his hand to my mouth and licked it
clean. He watched me. It felt restful. It felt right. I wanted him to toss off
in my arms forever.
We lay together for a while afterwards. Matt nosed the sweaty hair out of my
eyes.
‘So just how you going to get the big shot guy on side?’
‘Can’t tell you.’ I said, running my hand over his sated hips. ‘Too dangerous.
I’ll tell you once it’s worked.’
He kissed my forehead through the damp hair.
‘Couldn’t you have -,’
‘No I couldn’t have. I grew up with these guys. The only people who get
anything out of a gang are the guys on top. All the wannabe’s spend years
running round trying to prove themselves and most of them end up getting their
faces shot off. I ain’t got the time for that.’
‘You make it sound like Amway with guns.’
I laughed.
‘Yes Matt, just like that. Amway with big fucking guns.’
‘But – Mello, you’re not really a girl.’
‘Of course I am Matt. I’m a good Catholic girl who is saving herself for her
husband.’
As I’ve sunk into the scene I’ve gradually come to realise that this lie is
probably as much for the pimps as for the punters. Hell, it was Valeri who
bought me the beads. Half of them have done serious jail time anyway, so it’s
not like a new thing to them. All they care is they’re getting head on tap from
a bitch who is both filthy and five star gorgeous. Hail Mary, full of grace;
grant me denial while I fuck a man’s face.
‘God Mello.’ He kissed my shoulder. If he starts getting soppy, I thought, I’ll
rip that lovely fat dick off with my bare hands.
‘It’s all in the plan, Matty.’
‘I worry about you,’ he said.
‘I can take care of myself.’ I guessed I should be getting up. Sasha would be
waiting outside. He’d given me two hours. I didn’t want him busting in and
catching me like this.
‘Not about tomorrow,’ his voice was so fucking low it burnt something in my
chest. ‘I’m sure you’ll handle that fine.’ He paused, nudging at my hair with
his nose. ‘I worry about what’s in here.’
‘That’s past praying for.’
‘I know.’ He stroked my chest. ‘But I still worry that you’ll only feel good
enough when you’re dead.’
That cult really fucked his head up.
 
*
 
When he finally makes it, Ross is an eight foot ‘roid head the size of a
greyhound bus. I shove my notebook in the bag and stand up, indicating he
should sit on the sofa. One of his minions shuts the door behind him and I hear
them turn the lock. I guess they must have turned the camera off. I am bad at
smiling so I do not. I just lean in and press my gloved hand hard against his
shirt. It’s rougher than most girls can manage and I’ve not met a john yet who
wasn’t excited by it. Ross’ flesh kind of wobbles like a water-bed under my
fingers, definitely a ‘roider, and he clamps his hand hard around my wrist.
I hope he can cum, I think using my free hand to undo his tie. The last thing I
need is to be locked in with some sadistic prick who has taken too many
steroids to get off.
‘You speak English?’ asks Ross, still crushing my wrist.
‘Yes I speak English,’ I reply in perfect Wammy’s British.
He shrugs. I toss his tie behind the sofa as far away from me as possible. I
can see under his jacket he’s packing heat but then so am I. The guns are not
the problem. If he is a pervert it won’t be the gun that gets used.
‘I thought you were one of those Russian bitches undercutting my girls.’
‘Ukraine,’ I say, unbuttoning his shirt and sliding my hand inside. It’s
slippery and bare; the vain bastard must wax. ‘But I was brought up in boarding
school in England.’
He’s got the smallest eyes I have ever seen, squashed in under his heavy brow
like he had missed out on several phases of evolution.
‘Pretty flash for a whore.’
I shrug Ida’s coat off and sling it over the arm of the sofa, close enough to
grab the gun from the pocket if needed.
‘I’m from good family.’
He looks me over with his sea slug proto-eyes.
‘I’ll bet you are.’
A small white refrigerator had been placed just alongside the couch, probably
just for the visit. I bend down, straight legged, like a show girl so I can
feel the draught as my skirt rises up over my butt cheeks.
‘Don’t think about it sugar,’ I say, straightening up and holding out the
tequila, working my hand over his inner thigh, ‘just think about how good I’m
going to make you feel.’
He takes the glass from my hand. Even to him, the lines must sound fake. Like I
said, I’m no good at the geisha bit; I just want to get down to the sex. He
rests his glass on his knee as I slip off his shirt and scoot between his legs.
‘Not so soon,’ Ross grunts touching me for the first time. I hadn’t counted on
how much he wants to touch but his hand shoots straight into my vest, ‘Every
minute you got a john in here costs him money. The more we make, the more you
make,’ He pinches my nipple painfully but doesn’t seem disturbed by the lack of
jiggle. ‘You give quality service here.’
I try not to grimace. It not like I want a job in this cum-dump anyway and I
could do without the lecture. Reluctantly, I slide back onto his massive thigh.
‘That’s the problem with you Russians,’ he says and shoves his hand roughly up
my skirt. That’s trouble. I wiggle my hips away as Matt makes an appearance in
my head, ‘But Mello - you’re not a real girl’. I move the hand not stroking
into Ida’s coat where I’d stashed the Beretta. ‘You’re just after the money,’
he scratches over my stocking tops, ’all you’re good for is street work.’
I moan and wiggle my ass against his crotch. Like I said, I’m much better at
faking sex than faking nice. So the dumb bastard actually looks like he
believes I’m getting off.
‘You better make this worth my while.’
‘Mmm,’ I nod, bringing my tongue out to lick at my lips as if being squeezed
like sausagemeat is doing something for me. ‘Not Russian.’
‘Same thing.’
It’s not but the time to argue the point was not now. Now was for arching
against his cock and lapdancing him with my ass while keeping his hands off my
crotch and my fingers hooked around the trigger. He gets too close and I wiggle
away again until he’s panting like a dog and I can feel his sweat slippery
against my back.
I wrap my arms around his shoulders and whisper into his neck.
‘If you hate the Russians so much why do you put up with them?’
He swallows a mouthful of tequila and laughed.
‘So just because you’re the biggest draw on Santa Monica you think you’re Lady
Macbeth now?’
‘What you talking about, sugar?’
I decide now is as good at time as any to broach his pants. I’m pretty sure I
just messed up, but I’m also fairly sure people are less likely to kill you
while getting a handjob off you.
‘Now that’s more like it,’ he opens his legs wider allowing me free play with
his cock. ‘You ain’t no babushka in the land of the free honey. So shut your
mouth and make your dollar and don’t play politics with the big guys that are
no concern of yours.’
I reach my hand further into his trousers. As expected, his balls are shrunken
to peanuts, but I gave what was there a good roll before working up to the
head. It seems to have the desired effect in relaxing him.
I let him kiss me. It’s fairly disgusting and I try not to think of Matt and
how it had been with us last night. Ross is sloppy and tasted of sour tequila,
but at least he doesn’t smoke. I can’t take that taste when it reminds me. I
start to kiss my way down his throat.
‘Do you do a girlfriend experience?’
‘No,’ I say.
‘I thought you Red bitches always did.’
‘Maybe. But here we don’t. Here we always use protection, sir.’
He lifts my face and looks at me.
‘Clever girl.’ He strokes my cheek thoughtfully with his enormous fingers.
‘You’re a very beautiful girl.’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘You should keep yourself safe.’
‘Yes.’
‘So if I find you offering any extra services while you work here, I will see
to it you do not leave here so beautiful.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Now get down to it.’
He must have put aftershave down there because aside from the usual crotchy
musk I find myself sucking in sandalwood and spices. I want to laugh almost as
much as I want to gag, but you get pretty good at controlling your reflexes. I
pull my teeth over my gums and start on an all- the- trimmings blow-job which
works well enough judging from his clawing at my ass.
Then suddenly, he pushes me back:
‘Well, you’re good Nadia, but I’m still not happy about employing a Russki.’
I lean back on my heels. If he’s kicking me out now it it’s a disaster, but I
don’t think he is. His cock’s still a tent pole poking up through his gaping
fly. He’ll want that seeing to before he slings me out.
‘What don’t you like?’ I purr, ‘haven’t I shown you quality service?’
‘I don’t trust you.’
‘That’s sad,’ I say, leaning back into him, ‘You’re a good man, a big man. What
would it take to make you trust me?’
His enormous hands are digging chunks out of my ass.
Oh I think, that. It’s going to take that.
I lean in and stroke his face. I’m sweating now, I don’t want to be, but I am.
A little pool of sweat is collecting at the base of my spine. I run my gloved
fingers over his lips, undulating my hips and tell myself I can do this. I can
do anything, because I’m number one.
He doesn’t miss the invite. I am seized me by the hips and suddenly whirled
round.
‘Oh baby, no,’ I coo, trying to rub my ass against him and act coy at the same
time.
‘You holding out on me?’ says Ross, shoving one of his twinkie-roll fingers
into my ass cleft.
‘No sugar,’ I say, making a pathetic grasp at my rosary, ‘just do it so you
don’t spoil me.’
His fingers worm insistently under the black spandex between my legs, and then
he let out an enormous laugh.
‘So it’s true you Ruski bitches only take it up the ass.’
He’s millimetres away from my cockhead, and though I’m sure he knows, I don’t
think he’s told himself he knows, which means I’m pretty much done for if he
moves his hand up a little higher.
‘Please,’ I say, trying to sound a bit teary, ‘Please let me feel you inside me
without dishonouring me.’
He’s nearly hysterical with laughter.
‘Don’t worry little Tsarina, I’ll fuck you like a bullet train and still leave
you a virgin on your wedding night.’
I decide to cut my losses and pull down my panties, pull them right down so
they’re hanging over my left boot and won’t hobble me if I have to move fast. I
scoop my cock up into my hand away from his exploring fingers, writhing a
little, like a girl feeling herself up. He’s pushing his fingers pretty
insistently inside my ass now and my body is objecting.
I have words with my body but my heart continues racing.
‘You touching your pussy?’ Thank God he’s vain and dumb.
‘I want you inside me honey,’ I moan.
‘Here I come, Red Princess.’
Then he’s inside and for a moment I’m too shocked to feel pain. There’s nothing
except my balls popping out from where I tucked them. It doesn’t last.
Sex is weird. Sex makes you lose control of bits of yourself. So I’d guessed it
was going to hurt but I thought maybe like a burn or at worst like breaking
your arm. But it’s not like that. When he finally thrusts what happens is my
body goes ice-cold and my stomach heaves until I’m swallowing down bile.
‘Oh fuck yeah,’ Ross grunts. ‘Fuck yeah.’
I’d like to moan, to gasp ‘oh honey,’ and seal the deal, but I can’t because
nobody tells you it doesn’t just hurt in your ass but it hurts everywhere,
spiked, shattered-glass the bloodstream and I can’t open my mouth or I’ll
vomit. I have to hit him. I have to get him off me.
Then suddenly, I’m not there. I’m on the roof tiles of Wammy house, peering
down through the crosses.
‘I think Roger was a little concerned he hadn’t seen you,’
There’s something velvety about L, the darkness of his eyes, the silent way in
which he moves. He’s crawled up behind me on the roof and I didn’t even see he
was there. We look over the edge of the roof to where Rod Ross is boning my
body and I feel sad that L is watching, that L knows.
‘I think Roger can go fuck himself,’ I said, but it comes out thin and reedy as
my back buckles in pain.
L reaches out and very gently strokes the hair out of my face with his thumb
and forefinger.
‘Do you know Mello, the strange thing is – had I been asked to pass an exam to
become L I could not say with any certainty I would have been the most
successful candidate.’
I’m bleeding. I don’t know how I know this, up on the roof the pain’s just
hazy, like the fog that drifts across the English lowlands, the autumn mist
that L and I are wrapped in. I just know I am, like you know a bone is broken
when you look down at it all-shapes.
L watches with his wide sad eyes. I think he was the first person that was ever
kind to me. The first person with any power, I mean. He believed in me. When he
let me scream and shout and kick Roger’s room about, curled patiently:
‘Have you quite finished Mello?’
Did he think that this kid he put up with, that he stuck up for, would come to
this? His eyes don’t move and his fingers graze his mouth as we look down at
some Mafia boss screwing a twenty dollar whore.
‘I’m so sorry you had to know,’ I say.
‘I think you should go back to class now,’ says L.
Then I am falling off the roof again and this time I must have broken my back
properly because the pain in my hips is every bit as bad as it was in my arm
when it broke. There’s gold on the edge of my vision, and there’s screaming.
I check my mouth. There’s screaming, but it isn’t me. There’s the rip-rip of
gunshots and the lock comes crashing off the door.
I know what I look like. Even in trousers, I know I don’t really look like a
boy. It’s useful, the way it gives people pause as they try to work out what I
am. It gives me time to act.
So when Valeri Tymoshenko kicks open the door to find his best girl spread
across Rod Ross crotch with her cock and balls out, it gives him pause. Not for
long, but long enough for me to pull the gun from Ida’s pocket and put a bullet
through his head. Then I’m on my feet and trying not to twist my ankles from
the recoil firing off at Sasha and Nikolai as they crowd in through the door.
By then Ross is on his feet too and we’re behind the sofa, avoiding the blind
gunshots coming in through the doorway and busting holes in the plywood.
Valeri must have thought he was doing a straight repossession; he couldn’t have
expected Ross’ full security team to be in the lobby waiting. So with a few
more shots it was all over, six of the Odessa lot dead, two ran out the
staircase; Ross down one with another lying on the carpet gurgling.
‘I suggest you make this look like your idea,’ I hiss to Ross, who is now
pointing his gun firmly against my jaw.
‘You fucking crazy freak,’ shouts Ross, ‘You trying to start a gang war.’
‘Looks pretty finished to me.’
‘We ain’t got the firepower to take out the rest of those rats.’
‘You don’t have to. Just about now the FBI will be raiding their headquarters
and three of their whore places. You’re all clear to move in.’
Ross continues to goggle at me. He really has missed the fore-brain boat.
‘What do you want?’
‘To catch Kira.’
He just stares at me. He even lowered the gun in shock.
‘Don’t tell me you’d not feel safer with Kira gone.’
‘You’re crazy.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. I have just wiped your rival clean out of Los Angeles. Don’t
you think that proves something?’
‘Alright,’ says Rod, ‘we’ll discuss further in headquarters.’
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘But two things: you really need your men to think taking down
Valeri was your idea. For your leadership’s sake.’
‘My leadership is non-negotiable.’
The gun comes back.
‘Absolutely. That’s why it’s important your men think it was you. All I am
interested in is Kira.’
‘Like I said, we’ll talk at my place.’
‘Very good. That leads me to the second point.’
He lowers the gun and stashes it back into the holster.
‘Please find me some pants.’
 
*
 
They pulled some leather strides off one of the dead Ukrainians. He was taller
than me, so when I finally lost my spike heels I had to cut them off with a
knife. It made the edge kind of raggedy, which I like. It took about another
eight hours of haggling up in headquarters, during which time Ross left me in
no doubt that he had no qualms about working off some of his pussy-fatigue on a
hot blond in black leather, before the deal was sealed. Mello was the new
adviser to the LA mafia, and hunting Kira was top of the gang’s agenda.
After that, I was free to do as I pleased. So I sneaked back to the old flea
pit and rapped the door of room seven.
Matt did not seem fazed that I was now a boy again. He’s not one to sweat the
small stuff. He’s a kid I can rely on, which was useful as I was pretty beat by
the time I got there. He stripped me off and cleaned me up; I repaid the favour
by falling fast asleep on him.
Which is where I am now, with Matt’s warm weight beside me. It feels very grown
up to finally share a double bed together. I’m still sore; I think that I must
have tensed more during the gunfight than I realised, and firing in stiletto
heels certainly shook me around. But it’s a warm ache with Matt snuffling next
to me; almost relaxing.
Matt acts as both painkiller and sedative. I could tell you the theoretical
neurobiology behind it, Wammy’s House encouraged it’s would be-L’s to read up
extensively on human psychology; to a fourteen year old that’s pretty much a
licence to read up extensively on sex. So there’s something about the brains of
kids that grew up freelance; kids like Little-Thief, that makes them hyper-
alert and painfully short on all the hormones that calm them.
Matt makes me make those hormones. Which I guess is why I keep him around. I’d
probably end up on drugs or something otherwise. You can look it up too; it is
not my place to do your homework for you and besides I think this story is
drawing to its natural close.
So I feel much better when I wake up. I guess I’m still pretty bad down there;
my whole ass feels swollen and it’s going to start smarting like hell when I
move. Though right now, I don’t need to. I have done more than enough for one
day; now it was time to take time. Because today is the day I won.
It’s easy enough to say I will do anything to get X. People say that all the
time. They might even mean it. But it is another thing altogether to be able to
go through with it. Bodies let you down at the oddest moments; they fumble for
a gun, they run when they should stay.
I kind of guessed I had a bit of an advantage that way; as I said, kids who
grow up freelance have a natural ability to do things that others would not
dare. But I didn’t know for sure until this morning and now I do.
I know that I could kill without flinching; that whatever action is needed, my
body will not let me down. I can bargain with my life if needs be, if that is
what it takes. I’m not just a person who says the words. I know I can go
through with it, with anything.
That’s how I know I will beat Near. That’s how I know I will win.
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