11. Dahlia
Each milethat vanished behind us sent another surge of adrenaline through my body. Where did we go next? We’d already run from Greece to Italy, and if Sam could follow us that closely, then he could follow us anywhere. It all made me want to throw up. That and kill. As Drake drove into the downtown area again, I imagined cutting out Sam’s asshole and then jamming my hand into the gaping wound, shredding flesh until I could yank his cock and balls out through the back door. Despite my nervousness and fear, a tremor of desire washed over me as I pictured it in my head. My pussy was wet when Drake spoke next.
“I want to try something. I’ve got a bad feeling,” he said.
“About what?”
“You’ll see in a second if I’m right.”
He pulled the car into a parking spot beside a well-lit ATM on a busy street. Probably choosing the spot to ensure no one could sneak up on us and do harm without being seen. Not wanting to be left behind, I got out and followed him to the ATM as he pulled his wallet out.
“I thought we weren’t using cards,” I said.
“We weren’t going to for a while, but we’re running low on money.” He nodded back toward the car. “That cost way more than it should have to keep them from filing paperwork. Renting that villa? Same thing. We’ve got plenty for now, but I’m wondering how long it will last.”
He slid the card into the reader and punched in his pin and tried to withdraw a hundred euros, only to see the following notification in bright red letters: Transaction Declined.
“Son of a bitch,” he hissed. “He’s gotten into my accounts. It’s what I thought.” Drake yanked his card from the reader in frustration and jammed it back into his wallet.
“What do we do now?”
“We obviously need new identities again. God knows if these have been burned. That will cost money; we also need them to get out of the country. I don’t know…” He trailed off, his worried expression fading until a faint smile crossed his lips.
“What? What are you thinking?” I grabbed his shirt, tugging on him to snap him out of his reverie.
“There’s a safe house I own. I’ve not been there in years. As far as I know I never mentioned it to Sam, er, Owen. Not even in passing. It’s fully paid for and the small staff that keeps it up is paid from a shell account. There’s noway he could know about it. If we get there with them tailing us, we should be able to stay there indefinitely until we figure out how to go after these fucks chasing us.”
“Where is it, Drake? You haven’t said yet.”
He opened his mouth to speak but then closed it again just as fast, glancing around. “I’ll tell you, but not right now. I’m a little paranoid about how Owen is tracking us. First things first. IDs.”
Drake and I got back into the car and he drove us to the heart of the city, bypassing the tourist areas, and skirting around Naples International Airport until we were driving into a more run-down part of town. Even the worst areas looked better than many American cities I’d seen on TV, but I could tell we were in a location that tourists rarely, if ever, visited.
He cruised the tiny streets at a snail pace, looking out his driver’s side window at the passing buildings.
“What the hell are you looking for?” I asked, my nerves rattling my brain, and making me jumpy.
“A place that looks right,” he replied cryptically.
“Looks like fucking what?”
“Like that,” he said, nodding toward what appeared to be a small jewelry or pawn shop.
I leaned over him, looking out the window, and getting a view of the building. A couple of men sat out front playing dominoes. It was still strange seeing how vibrant life was here even deep into the night. Beside them sat a mountain of a man on a stool gazing at people walking back and forth along the sidewalk. I could even make out the bulge of a gun under his arm beneath his light jacket.
“He doesn’t look very nice,” I said, meaning the big guy.
“That’s the point. Only people who really want to go in there will go in. Probably a mafia run front,” he said as he pulled the car into a spot.
“Wait, we’re going in there? Why? Don’t people in the mafia like, I don’t know, whack people?”
Drake turned and gave me a confused look. “Whack? I didn’t realize this was a nineteen-forties gangster flick.”
I slapped his arm. “You know what the fuck I mean.”
“I do, but they only do that to people who either fuck them over, threaten them, or act like they want to do one of those things. Keep your head down and let me do the talking.”
Drake’s history was still a bit of a mystery to me. His story about his first kill had been shocking, but also eye opening. The way he knew how to move in this strange underworld was at times even more surprising than his proclivity to derive sexual pleasure from punishment, torture, and murder.
Drake took my hand and led me toward the door. He walked briskly and confidently. The big man saw him coming and eased himself off the stool before we stepped up on the curb.
“Vattene da qui, cazzo.” A sentence Drake would later tell me basically meant get the fuck out of here.
Without missing a beat, Drake pulled a wad of American hundreds from his pocket and waved them at the man. “In Inglese, per favore?”
The big man eyed the money and nodded grudgingly. “What do you want?” he asked in a thickly accented voice.
“I need to speak with whoever is in charge inside,” he said and glanced around before adding, “We need documents.”
The big man heaved a weary sigh. “What kind?” he swept an appreciative gaze across my body. “Marriage?”
“Passports. Should be simple. Is that something you can do for us? Tonight?”
“You want to be done tonight?” he asked. “That,” he shook his head and sat back down, waving dismissively at us, “is not possible. Be gone.”
Drake stepped forward and shoved the entire wad of bills into the man’s hand. “How about now?” He nodded at the money. “You’ll get another of those if you can sweet talk them into getting me what I need.”
The guy grinned appreciatively at the money as he flicked his thumb across the bills. Finally he shrugged, like he’d decided to do something that wouldn’t actually bother him greatly. “Follow,” he said and opened the door.
Inside, the building looked much like a pawn shop back home, though there was more jewelry and small items than guns and TVs like in America. Behind the counter, sat a man watching a small flat screen television. An Italian dubbed episode of the old sitcom Friends was playing.
The man was not what I’d expected. Rather than the tiny Geppetto elderly man I’d imagined, the person behind the counter watching the television was a rather portly man who looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties with greasy black hair hanging in stringy clumps around his shoulders.
“Americano,” the first man said, gesturing to Drake with a thumb.
“Canadian, actually,” Drake said, still doing his best to keep whatever cover we had.
The fat guy behind the counter turned and glanced at us. He grunted and tossed aside a magazine he’d had on his lap. The cover slapped closed, and I saw a young woman amidst a group of three other men, her legs held wide while another man slid what looked like the fat end of a baseball bat into her vagina. The look on her face said it was one of rapturous ecstasy. I wrinkled my nose.
“Canadian,” the fat man said, his voice less heavily accented than the door guard’s. He glanced at us then giggled. It was a high pitched and disconcerting sound.
“Yes,” Drake said then cut to the point. “We need IDs. Two passports. Tonight.”
The fat man stared at Drake for several seconds before bursting into laughter, slapping the counter, and going red.
“Tonight? This bastardo wants passports in a couple hours?” He looked at the door guard. “Georgio? You can’t be serious.”
The man, Georgio?, nodded. “He has money. Good money. Do it.”
“I do have money,” Drake said. “Get them for us before midnight, and I’ll throw in a little extra.” He glanced from the fat man to Georgio. “For both of you.”
Before the fat man could respond, Drake reached into my bag and withdrew a wad of bills and slapped them down on the counter.
The fat man stared at the money, blinking rapidly, then as though coming to a decision, nodded. “Fine then. I can only do an American or Italian passport that fast. I already have what I need for it.” He waved at the door. “You go. Come back in an hour.”
The man reached out to grab the stack of bills, but Drake’s hand shot out, pinning the other man’s palm to the counter. Georgio stiffened and slid his hand inside his jacket. A trembling surge of adrenaline shot through me, making my palms sweaty.
“We’ll stay right here, I think,” Drake said, staring at the fat man.
The two Italians stared at Drake until the fat man nodded, diffusing the tension. “All right then. Have a seat.” He gave me a grinning look and slid his disgusting porno mag across the counter toward me. “Need something to read while you wait?”
“Ugh.” I grunted and tugged Drake away from the counter.
The fat man snatched up the bills and disappeared into the back room. Georgio turned the open sign off, and stepped back outside, moving his stool directly in front of the door. The two old men outside continued their little domino game as though nothing was happening.
Drake eyed the window out to the darkened streets. “Keep an eye out. If you see anything suspicious, let me know.”
“Suspicious?” I asked. “We’re in a fucking mafia run pawn shop getting illegal passports,” I hissed. “What’s more suspicious than that?”
He patted my leg. “It’ll be fine. This shouldn’t take too long.”
His words rang hollow, but he seemed to know his stuff. Within twenty minutes, the fat greasy guy had called us back to take a couple of pictures against a gray backdrop. And less than an hour later, we stood at the counter as the man slid the two little navy-colored books across the table to us.
Drake opened his and checked the picture and the name the man had chosen for him.
“Cary Grant?” Drake raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that a little too familiar?”
“My friend,” he said. “It is not the nineteen-fifties. You’ll be fine.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I said, looking at mine. “Debbie Dallas? You prick.”
The fat man looked offended. “It’s my favorite movie. A high mark of late seventies American pornographic filmmaking.”
“They’ll have to do,” Drake grunted and tossed another smaller stack of bills on the counter. “That’s for you and the guy outside. I’ll let him know I paid the extra as I leave.”
The fat man gave Drake a nasty gash of a smile and yanked the money toward himself. “A pleasure.”
We strode out the door, and Drake informed the guard to go get his cut before the greaseball inside decided to pocket the whole thing.
“Did anyone go near our car?” Drake asked, nodding toward our parking space.
“No,” the man said and vanished into the pawn shop.
The older men were packing up their game to go home, and it appeared that even the late-night activities of the Europeans were drawing to a close.
“Where are we going now?” I asked as we got back into the car.
“Airport. If we hurry, we may be able to get a late-night red eye. Depends on what’s available.”
The building was much more subdued than an airport would have been during peak hours. It was good for us. We could make out and spot the faces of almost everyone in the terminals. Drake walked up to the nearest counter and asked about tickets while I scanned the area behind us. I kept hoping and also dreading seeing Owen’s face, or Bri’s. It would make things less terrifying if we simply knew where they were. This anxiety of never knowing was awful.
Drake had to check three different counters until he found one with a flight he wanted. He took more money from my slowly depleting backpack and bought two first class tickets before joining me again.
“Are you going to tell me where we’re heading yet?” I asked.
“Not yet. Come on, let’s sit over here,” Drake led me to a bench beside the boarding area for a flight that would be going to Rio de Janeiro.
I leaned close, and hissed into his ear, “Are we going to Brazil?”
Drake gave a quick shake of his head and said no more, continuing to glance around at the people milling through the airport. We waited for what, to me, felt like an eternity. After a while I began to understand what was going on. Drake kept subtly glancing across the room to a different boarding area, and as that plane began to board, he scanned the people lining up to get on. That had to be our actual flight. We were trying to use misdirection in case anyone was following or watching.
When the gate attendant announced the final call for that flight, Drake stood and took my hand to hurry toward the plane. The attendant looked a bit irritated at us for our late arrival, but it ensured we would be the last people on the flight, and Owen would have no way of following us. I gave the airport one last glance before disappearing into the hall that led to the airplane itself.
The first-class cabin was nearly empty, and Drake and I got comfortable in the plush seating before the captain came over the intercom.
In a voice heavily inflected with a French accent, he said, “Welcome to Air France flight 7634. We are next in line for takeoff. Our flight to Port-au-Prince, Haiti is estimated to take approximately fifteen hours. We should arrive at approximately 6:30 am local time. Settle in and enjoy your flight.”
The words were repeated again in both Italian and French. Drake took my hand as the plane jolted, engines roaring to life, a monstrous purr that vibrated through my bones. I leaned into Drake, seeking solace in the solid mass of him, and his arm slinked around my waist, pulling me tighter against his body. The lines between comfort and desire blurred as his fingers traced the contours of my hips, igniting a wildfire of need that threatened to consume us both.
“Drake,” I gasped, my voice barely audible above the cacophony of takeoff, “I?—”
“Shh,” he cut me off, his lips grazing the sensitive flesh of my neck. “We survive first. Everything else comes after.”
The plane sped down the runway and a few seconds later the weightless feeling of takeoff freed me of a bit of the anxiety I’d been feeling ever since we woke up to find that poor cat nailed to our door. Maybe we were finally getting away.
A flight attendant came by as soon as the seatbelt light went off. “Can I get you anything?”
“A blanket?” Drake asked.
She returned in moments and covered us in a soft blue lap blanket embroidered with the airline’s logo. “Thank you,” I said with a smile.
As the stewardess walked away, Drake pulled me closer, his touch igniting a fire in my veins. The warmth of his body searing into me, comforting and safe. His powerful chest and arms clutching me to him. His lips trailed kisses down my neck and along my collarbone, his hot breath caressing my skin in warm shudders, sending tingles throughout my body. I moaned softly, unable to resist the violence that now seemed so natural between us.
“Here? Now?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
“Yes,” he growled.
He slid his hand under my skirt and then inside my panties, finding my already wet lips and sliding a finger through the moistness and up across my clit. Suppressing a gasp, I arched into him, craving more as he teased and stroked me. The plane rumbled beneath us, its engine growl echoing through the cabin. Despite the pleasure, I glanced around, sure that someone was looking. Ready to see some random businessman jerking his cock while he watched Drake pleasure me beneath the blanket, but no one was around.
Drake eased two fingers inside me. My pussy already slick with desire, I clamped my teeth into my lip to stop myself from moaning.
Suddenly, a metallic chime echoed from the aisle—the drinks trolley lumbering its way past our secluded trio of seats. The briefest pause ensued, his fingers stilled within my depths—our intimate moment suspended in time. And then, with an intoxicating command of rhythm, he resumed, two digits exploring me with maddening precision and expertise.
White-hot pleasure seared through me, forcing a sigh to slip past my bitten lip. Reflexively, my fingers dug into his toned arm, the feel of taut muscle beneath my grip a silent testament to his strength. I couldn’t quite stifle the soft moans that bubbled up from my throat, echoes of ecstasy racing up against the low hum of plane engines.
“God, I want your cock in me,” I breathed into his ear. “I want you to shoot your cum into my wet cunt.”
“That will need to wait,” he said and moved his hand even faster, fucking me with his fingers. “Until then, I’ll take care of you.”
He added a third finger, stretching my pussy tight in a way I couldn’t describe, the soft wet sounds of his hand slamming into me muffled by the blanket. His free hand was busy too, mapping out sinful patterns on my inner thigh. His touch was an addictive mix of rough and gentle—coaxing out primal cravings I never knew existed within me. My breath hitched as he pressed his thumb against my sensitive flesh, an electrifying jolt of desire zipping through my nerve endings like lightning.
Unable to stop myself, I dug at the zipper of his pants, sliding it down and shoving my hand inside, freeing his massive, throbbing cock, jerking it beneath the blanket. If he was going to torment me, then I’d do the same for him. We both needed a release after everything that had happened the last couple of days. He breathed out a little gasp of delight as I stroked him.
His fingers moved faster than ever, then he grabbed my nipple through my shirt, pinching it. Hard. The mixture of pleasure and pain almost sent me over the edge right then.
“Drake,” I breathed out huskily, “I’m so fucking close…”
His lips claimed mine then, stealing a breath from me as his hand intensified its rhythm within me. I writhed beside him, lost in the tousled world of sensation. This was our intimate dance, one that fueled our desire and kept us tethered to each other.
The stewardess passed by again, but Drake barely noticed, his focus solely on the sweet torment he was causing within me. His hunger for me was evident in every touch, his breaths hot and heavy against my skin.
I moaned again, unable to hold back the pleasure that was coursing through my veins. The plane shook beneath us once more, adding a layer of intensity to our clandestine encounter. My body trembled uncontrollably, the sweat glistening on my skin as I succumbed to the raw lust that had taken hold and went over the edge into oblivion.
The first orgasm slammed into me like a sledgehammer. My body jerked and rocked, and still his fingers slid into me. My own hand never stopped stroking Drake, and even in the throes of my own climax, I heard and felt him grunt and stiffen. Thick hot cum spurted from him, and dripped down my fingers as I slowed my speed, milking him dry and wishing it was sliding into my pussy, ass, or mouth instead of over my knuckles.
The rest of the flight time stretched and snapped like a taut wire. The flight was an eternity wrapped in metal wings, each minute laced with the acute awareness of our vulnerable position, death lay around every corner. With each tick of the clock Owen and Bri might be drawing closer.
The flight attendant brought us a meal, then a snack, followed by breakfast as the hours clicked by, and still we clung to one another. Two souls intertwined in the eye of chaos, finding solace amidst the constant hum of engines and hushed murmurs of passengers in the other areas of the plane.
While fingering me again hours later, Drake kissed me and bit into my lip, drawing blood. I flinched, the pain a hot burning ember shocking me. But instead of pulling away, I kissed him even deeper, and moaned as the agony sent another orgasm thrumming deep inside my pussy, contracting around the fingers still pumping away inside me.
Pain mingled with ecstasy, reminding me that even in the midst of running for our lives, there was no denying the brutal bond that held us captive to one another.
“Mine,” he growled against my lips, sealing the vow with a kiss that tasted of blood and longing.
“Yours,” I moaned back, surrendering to the darkness that promised oblivion from the relentless pursuit that haunted us. Even as the plane carried us toward the supposed safety of Haiti, our reprieve was fleeting. But for now, in Drake’s arms, I found a temporary haven—a place where violence and passion collided, granting us a momentary escape from the horrors that awaited beyond the clouds.
When the plane finally landed, I had the feeling that we’d made it. We were safe. At least for now.