Betrothed

THE COLLECTIVE

A DARK STAR STORY

CHAPTER 3 -- THE BETROTHED

The place is a cacophony of bright lights and loud music.

It is the not the same as it once was, it was better before although I would never openly admit that.

'Servitu' attempts to replicate Logan Hughes former premises 'The Dark Star' but it lacks a sole, a twisted dark sole that the former owner gave to City's most illustrious venue, even I had to admit that.

"How are you Hector?" She smiles as she steps into my eye-line, immediately laying kisses or rather air kisses to each of my cheeks, "It's been far too long since you visited my club."

As we part from our gentile embrace I cast my eyes over her. Not with any longing but to take her in.

Laura Mancini is no longer the young naïve girl I recall, dressed tonight in a satin lilac colour corset style top that accentuates her natural tanned complexion. Her hips exposed a little beneath the corset by the low waistband of her black figure-hugging leather trousers. She is beautiful.

"Your Club...," I smirk, "...I still can't get used to that."

"Has been for 9 months now" Laura Mancini offers on a beaming smile.

Plenty had changed in the months to which Laura Mancini refers to, the club had only been rebranded recently but between Laura and her father Gio, the premises had been torn from Logan Hughes grip swiftly. Lost on a technicality written into the contracts he had agreed following their initial investment. The business was rumoured to be heavily debt laden but for a nominal purchase price of one pound sterling the debt was massively offset by the cost to purchase.

Logan Hughes had fallen from grace in spectacular fashion, not even affording me enough time for me to dwell on his misery. I had not seen him since the night we had shared the young DJ, who still performed regularly for me, at Warehouse 43.

The talk of his being infected with HIV had initially terrified me, having shared a handful of girls with him directly or indirectly since he had become known to me, as well as having accepted the gratification his long-term girlfriend had offered me on the most illicit of surrenders.

The ignominy of arranging a private health check had been nothing compared to the stigma that testing positive for the vile disease that coursed through his veins coursing through my veins would have been.

As she stands before me I can only hope and pray that Laura has had foresight enough to have similarly tested given I know that I am aware of at least one occasion that she had succumb to the vile charm of Logan Hughes.

Hughes descent had continued beyond losing the Night Club, his pride and joy, finally resulting in a miserable death at the hands of an unknown murderer. 'Former Club Owner Butchered In A Bedsit' my favourite local newspaper headline relating to events.

Besides the satisfaction of witnessing from a distance as Logan Hughes coffin was lowered into the ground in the windswept cemetery as the rain lashed down around me the genuine highlight of the day had been the re-emergence of the platinum blonde. Morbidly fixating on her despite her clear distress, unable to draw my eyes away from her as she stood there with her slender figure wrapped all in black. Longing to step closer to her as she stood there supported emotionally and physically between a large black male and a tall blonde, I only saw her from behind and at distance. Her perfection was instantly recognisable as he stood there one of only six attendees, a pitifully low number for a funeral that served as no greater footnote to regard in which Hughes was held.

I noted with equally dark fascination that the brunette Hannah Walker had not been in attendance, my mind could only linger on the reason for her absence as I tried not to inappropriately dwell on the sweetness of securing her previous surrender to me.

Anticipation regarding the elusive blonde creature soon turned to fresh frustration. I had tasked my trusted confident Artero to follow her and recommence his quest to surreptitiously discover more knowledge about her. For everything he had done for me over the years I could never accuse my fixer of letting me down, inexplicably though somehow he had lost sight of her once again within a matter of hours. Arturo had followed her to a Taxi Rank after she had left a dirty little Irish Bar, where an even smaller party than had attended the funeral held a wake for the repugnant former owner of the establishment I stood.

Logan Hughes little platinum blonde consort was proving to be an enigma as she apparently disappeared into the night and at the same off the face of the earth once more.

As I glance back around the venue in which I stand I cannot help but look to my feet. Since Mr Hughes death the discovery of two bodies, one male and one female in the basement of the property had cast further aspersion and very public attention on the integrity and character of the former proprietor. A posthumous trial awaited him within a matter of months.

I had harboured a desire to leverage ownership of the popular club myself, as an extension to my base of operations at Warehouse 43, which lay several miles from the doorstep of the venue. I had approached Gio but been instantly rebuffed such was Laura's desire to run the venue, her legitimate management serving the dual purpose of facilitating the darker elements of the family business on many levels I had no doubt. Respectfully but regrettably therefore I had made no further enquiry on taking ownership. Looking around I know immediately I would have run the establishment differently, better.

"Look at you all grown up and standing on your own two feet." I compliment Laura.

"A proper Mancini... I've got his passion in me," Laura offers, and I see the tears briefly well in her eyes.

"He'll pull through," I offer knowing how gravelly ill Gio Mancini is following the sudden and vicious heart attack he had suffered a little over a week ago. Private Medics now providing twenty-four hour a day care in the confines of the lavish family mansion built on a huge plot around twenty miles away from here. "He's a fighter is your Padre."

"He better be." Laura forlornly whispers.

"I was looking for your brother actually..." I offer moving the subject matter swiftly if coldly along; my intention well meaning, if only to stop the beautiful young dark haired Italian girl dwelling. "...He said he'd be here tonight?"

"He was but you've missed him...," Laura offers with a weak smile "...as a result I'm short of his favourite blonde barmaid again on a Saturday night,"

"Sarah?" I offer without thinking.

"Yeah how'd you know her?" Laura quizzes me.

An unnatural and unusual slip of the tongue I appreciate, silently I curse my defences lowered by the annoyance that Marco Mancini had seemingly broken the terms of our long-standing arrangement to facilitate a tribute on behalf of 'The Collective.'

"He told me about her..." I hastily offer, "...he seems smitten."

Laura brings her hand to her exposed chest as she laughs aloud. "It's only been a week."

"That's long term for your brother." I offer with a quirked eyebrow noting an attractive strawberry blonde approach Laura from behind offering me a weak smile. Laura breaks way from our conversation before offering an apology and heading away with the toned slightly older looking blonde, the blonde looking mature only in comparison to the rest of the venues staff who all appeared to be aged somewhere between their late teens and early twenties. I watch until the two females are lost from sight through the hoards of staff busily scurrying around like ants whilst serving drinks from behind the long stetch of a bar.

Taking my phone, I press it to my ear on the tap of a speed dial to call Marco, the ring tone barely audible against the invasive dance music of the club. As I listen to the start of his answerphone message my eyes scan the patrons of the club.

I decide not to leave Marco a message, as I slip my phone back into my pocket my fingers graze the little plastic bag in the corner of my pocket. The final two little blue tablets that I have clung to for months now given the supply chain issues that have been encountered. I had burnt through my initial supply far too quickly, never wasted but confident that a fresh and continuous supply would soon be at my disposal. So far that had not proven to have been the case.

If Marco has let me down then addressing his behaviour can wait. For now, I have my own obligations to keep, the recompense will be bad enough, managing the collective disappointment of the situation that has presented itself by Marco's disappearance with the supposedly 'filthy little blonde' he had waxed lyrical about offering as a tribute only days prior would be far tougher.

Turning my attention away from Laura Mancini, but maybe not her colleague, my eye sets as a scour the scene before me like a Hyena on the Savannah, Servitu will offer up a suitable replacement of that I am sure.

I need a subject, a fresh tribute, 'The Collective' awaits.

**********

She stood out immediately, not least through because of what she was wearing.

I recognise her I am sure, but I cannot place exactly where from as she walks towards the bar at which I sit finishing the latest of my complimentary whiskies I have consumed since my arrival a little over an hour ago.

As she draws closer her white dress is illuminating a vivid violet colour under the ultraviolet lights that cast largely invisible light with the effect of infecting pale colours with an artificial neon glare.

By sheer fortune, a space to my left opens up. Not wishing to appear overbearing I turn my attention from the brunette as she steps up to the bar and sets her handbag down on the bars marble surface. She rifles through the contents of the small shoulder strap black bag in search of an item as I drain the last of my whisky from the tumbler.

The brunette appears to have broken away from a group of girls I had already noted them, assessed them; all dressed in black, all hugely attractive all clearly inebriated by virtue of their occasional raucous outbursts alone. There was a tall blonde who really stood out amongst there number and a mixed raced girl with tight curly hair who seemed a little aloof to proceedings. I am not sure how I had missed the vision in white in the first place.

"You didn't get the memo on all black then?" I offer as she finds a bank card within the bag and plucks it from the other contents.

"Me... I'm not allowed to wear black...that's the rules of Hen Do apparently" She offers on a heavily exaggerated and sarcastically loaded roll of her eyes. The brief shake of her head underlines her obvious grievance.

"I see," I reply looking down her svelte figure in the tight dress, the cut and fit across her chest pressing up her cleavage beneath white very opaque chiffon that still shines bright under the ultraviolet lights, her legs are exposed but meet viciously heeled red open toe shoes. Suddenly the symbolism of the short white dress becomes apparent to me. She is the bride, and they are the wider bridal party.

"Well congratulations..." I offer dwelling on the good fortune and exquisite taste her fiancé must possess. "...do I know you from somewhere?"

She flashes me a side eyed glance, having already turned her attention back towards catching a member of the bar staff's attention. Shaking her head once more now but the intent of her head shake is directed firmly at me.

"That's two dire attempts at pick up lines you've made in the last minute...I'll give you a third try before I tell you to fuck off because I'm getting married."

Holding up her left hand she wriggles her fingers and the sizeable diamond set in the ring on her finger glistens clearly even in the dim light of the club.

Despite the perceived gentle humour, her attitude irks me, the predetermined assumption that because I speak to her I want to fuck her.

Letting her be I leave her alone, barely watching her as orders a drink. I make up my mind though as a pretty young blonde barmaid hands over her drink in a long glass, a dark red cocktail of some description reaches three quarters of the way up the glass in which a straw nestles amongst crushed ice.

"On my tab," I assertively state to the barmaid.

"Why thank you," the brunette offers choosing not to take exception with my most recent interaction with her.

Leaning myself towards her as she slides the drink towards herself across the bar I gently state into her ear, "We're I trying to pick you up, you wouldn't even know I'd acted."

"Now that doesn't come across menacing in the slightest," she offers looking briefly towards me, but she does not press away from my proximity to her.

"I'm serious though..." I offer not dwelling on her comment and stepping away myself, "...I've seen you before it'll either have been at this place... or maybe The Sapphire."

Her eyes snap to attention on mention the second venue, I witness her physical form almost tense as I mention the name.

"I've never been here before," she offers taking another sip from her drink through the straw via pursed lips.

"If not the former Dark Star what about the Sapphire then?" I press already processing the sea of pretty faces I could associate with the West London venue.

"Once..." she offers casting her eyes up and down me now, "... maybe twice."

"Ever with Logan Hughes?" I fixate on the man I realise, even after his death.

Suddenly though I place her face on the memory of a night in which I had revelled in his displeasure under my assumption, and truth be told at one point his, that the overconfident smarmy shit of a man had been stood up. That was until his pretty brunette associate had turned up. His associate who shared more than an uncanny resemblance to the brunette now stood next to me.

"Maybe..." the words are all but confirmation, despite the further shake of her head. "... That the name means nothing to me now."

"You heard his big news though," I offer with no hint of sorrow, in fact I cannot help but callously grin.

"That cunt was dead to me long before whichever psychotic little slag he crossed turned him into mince meat," she offers bluntly.

The grin that now crosses my lips certainly cannot be disguised. Finding a kindred spirit whose views match my own on Logan Hughes probably are not all that difficult within this venue, but like-minded individuals are always appreciated. Her sneer holds as she silently dwells on the man.

"What's the connection?" I enquire.

The brunette turns her head along her right shoulder, the dress still so distractingly illuminated under the subtle purple light. Her eyes fix mine, she does not shake her head this time, her look of contempt speaks for her before she offers.

"You'd think less of me if I told you."

"I sense a back story," I smirk.

"It's a little inappropriate being here... his old domain... but that's my past, and very little tonight has been of my choice... like I say that cunt has been dead to me for years."

"Hector Salazar," I finally offer an introduction given how she captivates me, on more than one level now.

The backstory she refers to with Logan Hughes probably no different to that of a hundred girls before his timely demise. A slow painful life of abject misery would have been preferred, however, death by bleeding out form more than seventy stab wounds made up for such disappointment.

As I watch Laura Mancini pass through the bar headed for a door marked private my hatred for the man grows, the scant knowledge of this girls back story troubles me considering the man's repugnant personality, the fact that Laura may secretly harbour or hide similar feelings of repulsion riles me.

Everything about the man still repulses me. My teeth grind before I snap myself away from my ruminating.

"Kate Flynn... although they all know me as Katie," she offers looking back to her group of friends as I raise my near empty glass towards her, "...looks like you need a refill on that tab of yours?"

"One for the road," I agree looking to my watch, noting I have about twenty to thirty minutes before I should look to depart.

"Salut," Katie offers as she reaches out to tap her glass to mine once it has been refilled.

"Salud," I offer not to correct her but to express my native tongue. "To your future"

**********

"Holy fucking shit..." Katie offers, "...Holy fucking ...Ok ...OK ...well I'm going nowhere am I?"

"That's the idea," I offer as I secure tightly the final strap across her slender left wrist.

Eight black leather straps distributed at equal points across her arms hold her secure, two straps to each of her upper arms, with a strap over her forearm and wrists on each arm.

The white leather effect dress still clings to her body the black straps of leather against the white sheer material of her sleeves accentuate the garment, especially against the thick black crucifix that she is now strapped to.

Standing before her dressed in only my suit trousers I look into the glazed dark pools that stare back at me, the blue pill holds her in its grip, she has no idea of its influence.

Coerced away from her friends on the promise of a private celebration, convincing her to leave her own celebration had been easy, even given the nature of the event. She had become bored of her circumstances which played her perfectly into my hands. "I shouldn't be seeking a little excitement," had been her exact words as I had negotiated a discreet exit via the back access to the Club. She had still followed, intrigued by the scant details of the secret underground night club I had surreptitiously fed her.

The cost of one of the remaining two pills that I had slipped into her drink mere seconds after she had ordered it far outweighed the value her capture now presented to me.

"This... this is all horribly familiar...." Katie chuckles breathlessly as I watch her flex her wrists, the only movement her arms can achieve. "...Did he tell you about me?"

"He didn't..." I offer sincerely. "...We weren't exactly what you'd call friends."

"Well... He tried to warn me about perverts like you..." she playfully bites her lip as she looks up from doe like wide eyes, "...what would happen to me in the wrong hands."

"What did he tell you would happen to you?" as I speak my hands reach down her thighs to grasp the hem of the skirt of her dress.

"That you'd be keen to betray my trust... that you'd take advantage of me." her words spoken on wanton breath now as she is now held in the narrow dark red drape lined confines of the room on the fifth floor of Warehouse 43.

"And you trusted that animal?" I offer, not referencing Logan Hughes by name as I begin to hitch her skirt,.

"The immorality appealed to me," her dark eyes deviously narrow as they fix on me, feeling my fingers graze the outside her legs as all I peel her leather dress up her thighs.

"Who was he to you?" I cannot help but try to discover once again.

"No one," Katie shakes her head, not in denial but in further refusal to impart any knowledge of the past she has shared with Hughes.

Pulling the skirt now around her waist her breathing hitches further as her chest rises and falls on nervous expectation.

"I'm trusting you," Katie offers.

"You shouldn't" I offer as I tilt her head back by her jaw.

Katie looks up at me, she offers no response. As my hands then slip over the backs of her thighs, she contributes by raising her legs to assist me as I part them and pull them up around my waist.

"I shouldn't be here..." she softly states.

"Yet you are." I reply.

With one hand I unbuckle the black leather belt that threads the waistband of my charcoal grey trousers, in haste I unbutton and lower the zip fly. My hard length spills through the fly of my trouser.