Young Writers Society

Russel Pierce is a corrupt cop. His girlfriend, Nyssa, went on the run with his dirty money and Peter "Viggo" Carlsen, a man he once framed for murder. Before she left, she set him up for her own murder.

To know more, read Chapter 12.2.

Russel had been in a rotten mood ever since he had realized his dirty money was gone. Of course, it hadn’t changed anything, he had always intended to find Nyssa and Carlsen and to make them pay. Now, he just had an excellent excuse to torture them first. But, then, that bitch Cordello had stripped him of his badge and of his dignity. Everybody knew. The worthless cowards wouldn’t even meet his eyes as he strode out of the station.

He could feel an indictment coming. The only question was when exactly his former colleagues would come knocking, handcuffs in hand. He tried all his contacts in the district attorney office, but nobody returned his calls. So, he was an outcast, uh? Fuck them all. He didn’t need them. He was worth a hundred of those sanctimonious morons!

The press had been blowing up his phone ever since Nyssa’s diary had leaked. Until then, he had believed he still had a prayer of keeping a lid on the bitch’s stupid machinations. He wasn’t dumb enough to kill her in the obvious way she had imagined. How could those idiots really think he was as dumb as they were?

Then again, they had been ready to believe anything about Carlsen. If the little cunt had written “KARMA IS A BITCH” across her fucking diary, she couldn’t have made the irony more obvious.

Russ was so angry, he itched. He had been too long without sex, it wasn’t good for him. It was when having a fiancée had proven handy, if not particularly exciting. Until that damn diary, Mark Beck had been a gratifying substitute. She had interesting contacts all over, she provided him with another perspective on the manhunt and she took directions well.

Of course, he would have tired of her soon. He liked his women better when there was something left to break in them. Mark bent too easily, she enjoyed his handling too much. It wasn’t as exciting.

But now, the little bitch thought he was beneath her. She was the only member of the press who hadn’t called him for an interview yet. The one time he had gone to her place since the diary, she had threatened him with the police. He would have laughed in her face, except that, these days, it was a serious threat.

He had left but he wasn’t done. He was going to teach her about fear as an aphrodisiac before it was all done. Later. He couldn’t afford it yet, not while he was still under watch, followed everywhere he went.

Russ decided to tap another source of disposable sex.

Tracy Sarasian lived in a cheap neighborhood a stone’s throw away from the strip-club where he had met her daughter. A real class act, Crystal Sarasian. She had been twenty-two, but she had looked about sixteen, and he always liked that in an occasional fuck – not to mention her skilled her mouth and plump breasts.

Trouble was, her pea-brain had been stuck somewhere in her teens as well. She’d had illusions that she was worth more than an occasional boot of the hot and dirty. Bad enough that she had involved herself in his side-business with the downtown gangs, but, then, she had demanded that he get her out of a possession charge.

He had gotten her out, alright, and he had enjoyed her sweet ass for a couple of weeks, then, one night, he had choked her to death. She had assumed it was foreplay up until the last minute. A fitting end. The dumb slut had died as wet and ready for cock as she had lived.

Good times.

He had investigated the murder himself, and he had notified Tracy of the death of her daughter. The poor, poor, poor woman had gone to pieces. He had been there to collect them. Grieving mothers were always easy marks, but Tracy had been especially ripe for the taking. She was freshly widowed. After an entire life of getting beaten into submission and fucked into abject obedience, she had been literally begging for his attention.

She wasn’t as sexy as her daughter anymore, but she made for an easy, if pathetic, lay. He was psyched when he arrived at her door, good and ready to blow some steam.

She opened the door with a smile. Her bottle blond hair was brushed back, earrings dangled from her hears, and her sequined shirt hugged her heavy breasts and narrow waist. The grin dropped from her face the moment she saw him. Fear. It pleased her.

Her glossy pink lips fell open on a very quiet, “Russ.”

It annoyed her that she spoke. He backhanded her and slammed the door shut behind him. She raised a hand to her face, covering her cheek like she couldn’t believe what he had done. Why? It was pretty straightforward. She displeased him, he punished her.

“You don’t talk unless I’ve asked you something.”

He grabbed her and threw her against a cheap dresser. He pushed up her skirt, ripped her thong and pushed into her. She whimpered. He gripped her nape and squeezed until her spine arched in pain. She cried out – keening, really – and he came.

It was…good.

He withdrew and pushed her away, buttoning up.

“Were you going out?” he asked, smirking at her getup and how it looked with her ass bared and everything.

She looked up to him with a hurt look in her eyes. She started opening her mouth to answer, then she stopped and touched two fingers to her cheekbone, like she remembered the consequences of speaking out of order.

“Such a good girl, Tracy.” He patted her ass. “You’d better cancel. I’m spending the night.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Don’t cry with happiness, baby. The best is to come. Get me some chow.” She didn’t move, all stiff and scared. He slapped her on the rump. “Now!”

She finally limped into the kitchen.

Russ liked to break his bitches himself, but Tracy’s drunken asshole of a husband had done a fine job with her. She came when he called, which was all he wanted in his bitches. Tracy was pretty much what he had attempted with Nyssa.

Just like that, his good mood vanished. He had failed, damn it. She had somehow…

Or had she?

It struck him like a bolt of lightning. He hadn’t failed. Subservient little Nyssa. Doing everything he asked. The only reason she had managed to run was because she had replaced him with another man – that bastard Carlsen stepping up the way Russ had for Tracy.

Nyssa was a mouse. She wouldn’t run very far. She would find a hole in the nearest wall and go to ground. Carlsen would want to run, but he would do as she pleased. The man had sense, but he was weird around women. Had he even gotten around to fucking her, or was he still playing gentleman? And where were they?! Not in the city, Russ scared her too well. In the state? Definitely. But where?

“Tracy!” he yelled. “Bring me a map.”

It took the old bitch a moment to shuffle back in with a laminated map of the US. He decided it would do in a pinch – just like Tracy. He uncapped a sharpie and blackened most of the United States of A.

Now, he was talking about Nyssa and – her sensitive soul be damned – she always tried very hard to please everyone. So, it would be a place that suited Carlsen, and the man was a damn fish. They were hiding somewhere close to the ocean. Had to.

Carlsen wasn’t completely stupid, so motels were out, and so were inns, trailer parks and so on. It would be a permanent residence. It would be posh because money ensured privacy – and they had all his hard-earned money, after all. He didn’t dwell on that – there was only so much Tracy’s body could take at once.

It would be in a ritzy neighborhood or town – his bet was on a small town because fugitives would prefer to remain off the beaten path, of course. He needed a better map. He also needed a copy of all the reported sightings of Carlsen and that bitch Malik.

How to get it?

He took out his cell and scrolled down the contacts, looking for someone he could tap for information. The hard part wouldn’t be obtaining the favor – he had plenty of dirt on a lot of people. The hard part would be getting someone to listen to him.

But there were ways.

He knew that better than anyone.

***

The strip-club’s name was Russian Dollz. Flores was a regular. The owner knew him well, and he knew Russ, he knew Russ’s friends in the gangs and what they could do to him and his girls. He wisely chose to cooperate, offering Flores a private dance, then ushering him out the back door. Where Russ was waiting.

Flores had pink lipstick on his cheek. His cheap brown suit was wrinkled, his tie was nowhere to be seen. He was hastily zipping up – everybody knew what the private dances led to at Russian Dollz.

Perfect timing. Russ stepped out of the shadows. Flores was startled. He jumped a little and brought a hand down to his holster, before relaxing. “Jeez, Pierce, is that you? What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.”

“Whatever for?” Flores asked, rolling his shoulders, trying to look relaxed.

It didn’t work and, when Russ kept staring at him, he lit a smoke.

“We’re good buddies, aren’t we, Flores?” Russ asked.

The idiot shrugged again. “Not really. You haven’t got many buddies left, Pierce.”

“Oh, boohoo. And here I was thinking that there was a good reason why I kept all of your dirty secrets.”

Flores stiffened. “Which secrets?”

Russ lifted a hand to the packet he hid under his jacket. The other detective damn near drew his gun.

“Eh, calm down, pal. I’ve got no reason to shoot you. Here, for you.”

Flores took the envelope from him and sneered, “What’s that?”

“Memories. Sweet, sweet memories.”

Russ couldn’t be sure in the near darkness, but he thought that Flores paled dramatically. “What’s that?” he repeated, his voice flat with horror.

“Remember that hooker we shared? You were so high you probably didn’t notice me taking pictures. I think they turned out well. Look at you. I especially like the one where you’ve got your head between her thighs. She looks like she’s thirteen, tops. Of course, she wasn’t legal, was she?”

Flores’ unhealthy pallor worsened. “You didn’t…I didn’t know…”

“Think it would matter to a judge? Or to your wife for that matter?”

Flores looked at him with hunted eyes, and Russ knew he was starting to consider his back-up gun as a way out of this mess. Anyone would have, really, at the point.

“I wouldn’t,” he said calmly. “I’ve got copies in a safe place.”

“The little bitch must have learned it from you, then,” Flores sneered.

“Ouch, Flores, cheap shot…Yes, she did learn a lot from me. Curious? Oh, but then, you were always curious about her. I thought about passing her around to you, but you didn’t seem worth the trouble. You still aren’t.”

“Then why?!” he spluttered. “Why are you digging up this filth?!”

“‘Digging up’?” Russ chuckled. “It wasn’t buried that deep. Did you enjoy your private dance, tonight?”

“You know what?” Flores spat. “Fuck you.”

“No, thanks. You’re no really my type.”

Flores let out a crass laugh. “Yes, we all know your type.”

“Everybody will know your type, if you keep pissing me off, Flores. Imagine the welcome you’d get in jail. A former cop who touched kids. Oh, boy…Too bad I’m not your type, there’s another real man waiting for you in a shower.”

“Shut up! What the hell do you want?”

“Just a little favor. I need all reported sightings of Malik or Carlsen and, preferably, of the two of them together.”

Flores’ eyes went round. “You can’t be serious! You’re not really looking for her, are you?”

“When I ask for your opinion, Flores…”

The asshole started laughing. “I can’t believe it…The little bitch really did frame you.”

Russ sucker-punched him in the stomach. “Stuff it, Flores. I’ve got the upper hand. Get me the sightings and tell me if you hear anything about my case.”

“Fuck off.”

“Play nice or I’ll add you to my list. And you don’t want to be on my list.”

To know what Viggo and Nyssa are up to, read Chapter 14.1.