Mio, Run Baby Run

Chapter 12 Layla

My body sinks into the depths of the duck-filled sofa, aches festering like leaks in a cracked garden hose. My back muscles throb, a sharp pain radiates from my elbow, and a pounding beat squeezes the sides of my head, stretching down to the backs of my eyes. I press my hands to my temples, trying to push back the pulsating pain. My eyes sneak a glance at his ominous glare. His hardened brown eyes reflecting his thoughts. He thinks I'm a stubborn, pig-headed woman who should be in a hospital. And he's right, on both accounts. But showing up at a hospital would incite questions I can't answer without putting my life in danger. My name, date of birth, social security number—any slip up and my life is over. I don't know the extent of my past demon's reach.

For years, I've walked a razor-thin line, hiding my identity as one of New York's most successful brothel owners while appearing as the innocent prude next door. Extreme measures—wigs, facial prosthetics, even dressing like a man have kept my enemies off my scent. One discovery from my past, and I'd be a dead woman walking. If my past doesn't find me first, a scorned husband might. If a jealous husband learned that his hard-earned cash funded my business, where his wife's unmet sexual needs are fulfilled by my team of stunning young men with overactive libidos, I would also become a dead woman. But flaccid husbands don't scare me as much as the men whose shadows lurk in my past like ghosts in a nightmare.

Selling sex sounds exciting and alluring, but it's dangerous as hell. I hold the futures of hundreds of wealthy women in my hand. These women hail from around the world. They don't understand genuine sacrifice. They want money, status, and the satisfaction of their pussy being filled with pleasure beyond their wildest fantasies. These chicks are in perpetual heat. They'll do anything to keep their monthly allowance flowing. The idea of losing their stature in their hierarchical society, becoming the laughingstock of the country club, or being ostracized by the parent committee at school is a far greater than the value of my life. I am the tap that can turn off their supply of coin and cock. If their husbands discovered their wives' love being tied up, sandwiched between two alpha men, the cost of my life would be nothing compared to the devastation that would follow there's. My life's end, a byproduct of fixing their indiscretions. Just like the witches in Salem, I'd be hunted and executed.

"Where does it hurt in your head?" he asks, breaking into my thoughts. His index finger pointing to his skull.

When our eyes meet, I take him in. He has deep, dark eyes, a mesmerizing smile, and panty dropping cheekbones that could cut glass. Momentarily, I imagine his sensual lips between my legs, his tongue licking and sucking my wetness. A hot flush travels up my body, dampening my underarms and thighs. Jesus, Layla, what's wrong with you? I know what's wrong—sexual frustration. It's been over three years since I slept with a man. Not since Danielle took over the training of the team of boys to men. With the tension, frustration of the past two days, and now the accident, I just want to escape it all. Fuck it all away. He is an absolute stranger. To a certain degree, I am confident he would perform the task. He most likely wouldn't fuck the way I want, but he'd get the job done. If men understood how to please women, my business wouldn't be thriving.

He's easy on the eye. I don't need to imagine. It could be like it was with Raphaelle. At worst, he's human, and it can ease the loneliness of using a toy. Tips of his fingers brush over mine. There's a spark, and I know I could easily turn it into a flame.

"You, okay?" he asks again.

Absentmindedly, I blink turning to face him. Maybe he's right. I'm preoccupied, lost in my world. It's possible I have a concussion. My doctor, Dr. Patel, is away. It would be selfish to interrupt his 50th wedding anniversary. Without his help to be admitted into a hospital, I can't get the tests I require to confirm I am ok. Using my fake ID's won't work either, since they are stored in a safe at work. I can't take Mr. Chivalry with me, nor can I just send him away because I know he won't go. The idea of taking this strong, confident man to 'The Gym' brings a warm internal smile. The women would eat him alive.