Lady Smith Lock and Key Pt. 01

"What makes the M4 different?" Lucas asks.

"Is this another test?" I tease.

"I was recommended it by a friend. Just wondering why it's better or if it is."

"It is better. Way better than this," I say, pointing at the lock and handle now on the floor. "This lock I could have picked in, twenty seconds on a slow day," I say. "M4, might take me two to three minutes."

That doesn't sound like a huge difference, but I'm a professional locksmith. A common criminal who thinks he's good at picking locks would likely get frustrated and quit. Not to mention, time is everything. Two minutes in the open is a huge risk. Any lock is pickable, the best any lock can offer is how long it takes.

"What makes it harder?"

"Most locks just have top pins. You move it into place, insert further, and so on. This lock has side and lift pins as well, which makes it a real pain. You'd basically have to pick the lock twice. The keys have interactives on them..." I say, holding up the key and lightly touching what looks like a small button, "...making them hard to duplicate and you need special cutting tools to make a duplicate even if you managed to get a hold of a blank key. Bumping it is unrealistic."

"Worth the money?" he asks, and I nod. "Good to know."

I finish up the first door and I get taken to the rest of the job. Three exterior doors are getting the beefy locks, and the interiors get cypher locks with a ten-digit code. I install the locks and set up the code ready for input. I look the other way as he types them in. Before I leave, he asks if I know anything about digital security systems, which I know a fair amount. He leads me outside to the outdoor pin pads for his garage bay doors.

Lucas gives me the rundown on his digital security system, the cameras, and so forth. I make a basic recommendation to change the angle of the outdoor camera facing the pin pad, reducing the likelihood of shoulder surfacing by his own security.

When all the work is done, Lucas asks me to follow him to his office. I give him a summary of the work I just did. Seven installs over two hours. I charge forty an hour, and fifty for each door. After taxes it'll run him almost five hundred. He rights me a check for a thousand.

"Whoa, that's a little more than I said," I say.

"You left out the security consultation," he replies, and I can only smile.

"You got a minute...sorry, didn't know you had someone in here," a male voice says. I turn over my shoulder to a man who looks similar to Lucas. Similar like brothers, or another close relative. Older if I had to guess.

"Just finishing up with the locksmith," Lucas says, and I give the new man a courteous smile.

"I imagined a fat dude with an ass crack showing," he says.

"That's a plumber, and a stereotype, Ryan," Lucas says. "Anyway, thanks for the work. If we have any more security issues, you'll be the first person I call."

"Well thank you. Have a nice day," I say, and see myself out.

--

Five hundred extra dollars should have gone straight into savings, but it didn't. It would be easy to put the money on the tables at a casino, but I lost my taste for that environment. Too sanitized. Too many old people who can't play. It's just boring.

I call my bookie Dante and ask if he knows of a game somewhere. He says he'll check back in with me after he makes a few calls. While I wait, my phone rings after nine. A man says he needs to drill a single cylinder. Worst case scenario, I show up late to the game when he calls back, and I show up looking hot. He provides the place, and I change before leaving my apartment again.

This guy is bold. It has been a long time since I provided this service at a residential address. A two-story home with a large porch. Two window peaks and a driveway leading to a detached garage. No white picket fence, but it is a house that feels like home. I was instructed to use the back door, but to feel free to use the driveway. Next to the garage is patio with furniture worth more than all the stuff in my apartment.

I ascend the back stairs and knock. A few seconds later the door opens, and I lean back. It's the man who came into Lucas's office as I was leaving. Ryan. Do I hope he made a mistake and needed a real drill, or do I hope he wants to drill?

"Lady Smith, please come in," he says. How gracious can a man who called an escort possibly be? "Drink?"

"I don't drink on the job. Where's the lock?" I ask, and he grins. I always double check when they take me to a residence. I'll explain my wardrobe if I have to.

"Relax, I called the afterhours you," he says. I hear ice cubes land in a glass, and the squeak of a cork being pulled from a bottle. "Drink?"

"Same answer," I say. "I do this on a referral basis. How'd you know?"

"A client you had a few months ago. I knew he liked the experience, figured I wanted to taste the product myself. Didn't figure my brother would call you for actual lock smithing. I thought that was bullshit if I'm being honest."

"Taste the product?" I ask. Am I the product? I guess I am.

"My brother is the CEO, but I manage all things related to customer satisfaction. Complaints, comments, concerns, those kinds of things. Sometimes customers ask me for more than just a car. California and Seattle are hemorrhaging the people who can afford to move. Those people are going to Texas, Florida, Arizona, and yes, Montana."

"What does that have to do with me?" I ask.

"People with the money are leaving. My brother moved the entire business here last year. Voted with his feet, and he's not the only one. As more people come, the money comes with them."

I get it now. Lucas is getting ahead of the trend. Wealthy people are moving, and their wealthy tastes are moving with them. They want to feel like a west coast city, without the west coast taxes or mostly peaceful firebombs.

"You're the hospitality guy. So, if the customer wants more than just a car, by that I mean, drugs and or pussy, you help make that happen?" I ask, and he nods.

"Exactly. Hence, tasting the product," he says.

"What's the money look like?" I ask.

"You don't have the job yet," he says, raising his eyebrows. This is an audition. Fine. I lay down my rules, and he complies by dropping the money on the table.

Ryan takes me to his living room and puts his hand on the back of my head to drop it onto his dick. He's firm in seconds, and I start working him with my hands as well. I have an idea of his desired pace by how he holds my head, and work to that. His endurance is moderate, but he holds my head down and nuts without warning. I refuse to swallow, and he refuses to let go, so I squeeze his balls until he does. When I'm free, I spit into what's left of his drink.

"You didn't say no mouth pie," he says.

"It's just polite," I say, and he grins.

"Damn, that was good. Jump on while I'm still hard," he says.

"Condom," I demand.

"Two hundred extra."

"What part of no negotiation do you not understand?" I ask, and he laughs.

"Everything is negotiable," he says, and reaches into the pocket of his pants on the floor. "How much for that ass?"

"My ass is not for sale."

"Five hundred?" he asks, dropping five bills on the table. "Thousand?" Five more. Me saying nothing maintaining an expression of not being impressed is my answer. He looks like he's never met someone who couldn't be bought. I love the feeling of victory when a man realizes not everything has a price tag. He's not the first to barter for my anal virginity.

"Even escorts have standards," I say.

"It's pronounced prostitute," he says, and I feel my hand clench, but I relax it before he notices. He isn't hard anymore, so pulls his pants all the way back on. "So much for that."

I take the hundred he put on the coffee table before we started and slide it into my purse. It doesn't look like I have any stains as I adjust my dress to a comfortable position. Ryan grabs his crotch and move some of the pieces before crossing his legs and leaning back into the cushion.

"Five hundred a customer, tips are yours," Ryan says, restarting the original job offer.

"They need to be perfectly clear of my rules. I don't need to get in that car and start renegotiating with a guy who is trying to raw dog my ass because you oversold the service," I say, making him smile. He nearly forgets about his drink and almost takes a sip before flinching back when he looked down.

"They'll get the memo but some might not read it," he says.

"Then no," I say, and start toward the back door.

"Call me if you change your mind. Always hiring."

--

The drive home is quiet because I don't even bother turning on the radio or plugging in my phone for music. I just roll down the window, light a cigarette, and listen to the wind. I'm around the block from my house when I hear it. Loud pipes from multiple motorcycles.

Two drive out in front of me, and then match speed. Even from distance I can see their colors. Red, gold, and silver with a skull wearing the helmet of a Roman Legionnaire. Roman numerals above the symbol says IX for nine. The 9^th Legion. I look in my rearview and see three more. One of the two toward the front points toward the sidewalk. Sighing, I do as told and keep the car running. All five stop, but only one kicks out the stand and starts walking toward me. I watch him in the sideview mirror and crank down the window after he knocks with his fingertips.

"What's this I hear from Dante you looking for a game rather than making a payment?" he asks. Fucking snitch. Dante just had to tell Pete, who told Titus.

"I can't do both?" I ask, and he leans on the window so low his chin is on his hands.

"You got a good scoop to compensate?" Titus asks.

Titus is the leader of the biker gang known as the 9^th Legion. Older, honestly too old to still be doing this. Not a hint of color in his hair or beard, wrinkled tattoo of a bare-chested woman whose tits look like soggy eggs.

Like many clubs, they have a rank structure with titles. The leader is The Caesar. Other ranks include Centurion and Standard Bearer. I've spoken with three of them personally, so those are the only three I know. I borrowed money last year to pay off a poker debt from someone I thought was worse than these guys. Boy was I wrong.

I missed a payment, and I was threatened with everything you would expect a man to threaten a woman with. That's when I thought of something else I could pay them with; information. When I work, I'm also casing targets. Ten percent of their take goes to my debt. My after-hour services is all toward the goal of not having to do it anymore.

"I did a place up in the Heights today. Had to snip the chain, and most times people don't bend them back into place properly," I say, and open my phone. I show him the pictures I took of the door, which also showed the inside of the house. Titus pulls out reading glasses from his vest and places them over his eyes. "At least fifty-inch TV, wife's out of town, less likely to have someone home during the day."

"Nice," he says, and writes down the address when I give him it. We know better than to make calls or send texts. He knows Detective Deacon has is sights set on me. The gang likely circled the block a few times to make sure it was a clear. "Anything else?"

"Might take some planning, but I got something big."

"How big?" he asks.

"Like I don't ever want to see you again big," I say, and swipe to the pictures of the doors at King's Chariot Luxury. He whistles after I tilt the phone to him.

"Is that a Royce?"

"At least a dozen of them. Benz, BMW, the works. Warehouse in the industrial area," I say, and he thinks for moment.

"I don't think I have a buyer for that right off the top of my head. Cars like that will be low jacked. That might be too big. A lot of heat for a job like that," he says, and hands my phone back to me.

"If it's too much for you, I can find someone else," I say, and he laughs. "I can give it someone with the balls to do it. Take my cut, pay you, and be done with this."

"You're lucky you're cute," he says right before he grabs my hair. I yelp, and he throttles my head to the steering wheel, then back to the headrest. "And now you're not." I can feel blood drizzling down my chin, and I'll be covering the bruise with makeup tomorrow. My mind flashes to when I missed the payment. Titus had two of his guys hold me face down on a table in their bar. My shirt had been ripped open, by breasts had been greedily fondled, and my pants were to my ankles. If I hadn't thought about trading information at the last moment...I can't even think about it without wanting to die.

"Don't forget the only reason you have an alternative is because you have access to these places. Otherwise, I'd toss you on every corner, no rubbers, and your ass would be ten off with a group-on discount, understand?" he asks, and I'm too dazed to reply. I've been hit before, but even pinning me down didn't hurt this bad. "Do we need to straighten you out the old-fashioned way?"

"No," I stammer, and start trying to hold back tears, but a few slithered out and mix with my blood.

"Good. Get me more information on that place. Guards, cameras, security, the works. I don't care how you do it. I'll try to find some buyers in the meantime. The place in the Heights is good enough for this week," he says, and I nod against his fingers still holding my hair steady. "See you around."

I tremble in my car as I watch them leave. Minutes after they depart, I don't put the car into drive. I try to light a cigarette with shaky hands, but I drop it outside. Instead of going after it, I just start pulling another from the pack. I struggle, and end up slinging what's left in the pack onto the dash. Frustrated, scared, and in pain, I sob against the steering wheel, and startle myself when I accidentally make the horn honk.

After ten minutes, I get myself under control and try to wipe the blood off my face, but it's already starting to crust over. Unable to do anything about that until I get home, I start my car and finish the drive.

I stumble into my apartment and hit the wall with my back. I slide all the way down and begin a second breakdown. The last time I was this low, I swallowed pills and made myself puke a minute later. Those kinds of thoughts are swirling in my head right now. A nice quiet ending. A permanent sleep. It stays in my head for too long, and I start looking for something strong enough to do it.

The mirror of the medicine cabinet hits the walls and cracks. Great, more bad luck. Just what a gambler needs. Items in the cabinet are haphazardly thrown over my shoulder. I find some old anxiety meds, and place them on the counter. I might as well die looking good, so I clean up my face before taking the pills to the kitchen. I pour from a bottle of vodka and dump what's left of the pills. Counting them is meaningless, I just make sure it's enough.

The glass is to my lips when the door knocks. It's almost midnight, who the hell could this possible be? I look at the glass still in my hand, and as if my body was retaliating to my intent, my hand loses grip, and it crashes to the floor.

"Fuck," I say, carefully stepping around the debris self-destruction. "What?" I ask.

"It's...um...Matt. From yesterday," Matt says. Who the fuck is Matt? I groan and walk to my door and gaze through the peephole. You gotta be shitting me. "Hello?"

"What?" I ask through the door.

"You left your wallet yesterday. Read your ID, had the address," he says. Matt holds my wallet up to the hole, and I place my forehead against the door. "You want it back?"

"Put it by the door and leave please," I say. I watch him contemplate for several seconds before he places it on the ground.

"About last night..." he starts to say, but I'm not in the mood.

"...leave. Who the fuck brings the wallet back to a prostitute?" I ask, and he stands silently longer than my patience can bear right now. I open the door sharply, and he steps back into the railing.

"Are you expecting a reward or something?" I snap.

"No I..."

"...then why the fuck are you here!?" I scream, pushing him hard into the railing again. He stares at me unsure of what to do or say, and quite frankly I'm stumped as well.

"You want to talk about..."

"...do I look like I want to talk to you?" I cry, and he touches my arms, and I flinch back, and swing at his chest. "Don't fucking touch me."

"I'm sorry," he says, but still catches my hands to protect himself. "Please, stop hitting me." I stop struggling, and he lets me go. "All I wanted to do, was bring you back your wallet. Seriously. No ulterior motive, nothing like that. There it is." I look at the ground and kick my wallet inside the apartment with my heel. "Sorry for stopping by like this. I should have called. Anyway, have a good night."

Matt turns to leave, but I instinctually grab his jacket as he turns. He stops and turns to my face drowned in tears.

"Please," I hiccup. "Could you stay a minute. Anything you want, I don't care. Anything, no rules. I just need the company. I don't trust myself right now."

Matt takes a moment to process my emotional state, and nods before I lead him inside. I start to kiss him before the door shuts, but he pulls away from me. Instead, he shuts the door, and the exhaustion make me collapse. He catches me and carries me like a depressed princess to my bedroom. He places me on my bed, and literally tucks me in. I try to initiate something again, but he only kisses my forehead and sits on the bed until I fall asleep holding his hand to my cheek.

--

Another reminder that voting is ongoing, so get to the forums and vote for your favorites.