Tormented

“Are you working for APCA?”

“Just trying to understand where you’re coming from. So what are you going to do with his request?”

“We’ll meet more, look at options, come to a compromise.”

She made a wry grin. “You’re capable of compromise?”

“What are you saying, pet?”

“You seem to like everything on your terms.”

&

nbsp; She risked perturbing him with talk like this, but he seemed amused.

“I do like things on my terms. Lift your skirt.”

She glanced over at Bataar, who had made no motion, as if he hadn’t heard anything, but he had to have heard.

“Do it,” Ben said.

She lifted her skirt to reveal the chastity belt. He put his hand at her crotch and rubbed the belt. Instantly, her mind imagined him stroking her sans the belt between them. He had already aroused her prior to putting the damn thing back on.

How was it she hadn’t yet learned to keep her trap closed around this guy? Inevitably she said something that would come back to bite her in some way.

Not wanting to draw Bataar’s attention, she remained silent as Ben tapped the belt. She could feel the faintest of pressure on her private parts.

“Maybelle’s, boss,” Bataar announced.

She let out a huge sigh of relief. Bataar came around to open the door for her.

After he had driven away to park the car or do whatever he normally did till Ben needed him, she murmured to Ben, “You pull that kind of stuff around Bataar often?”

“He’s seen a lot more.”

“Don’t you think it makes him uncomfortable?”

Ben looked down at her. “I don’t think it bothers him. And if it did, I compensate him plenty for his discomfort.”

“Just because you can take advantage of someone doesn’t mean you should. You can still treat him nice.”

He caught her chin in his hand, lifting her face up to his. “I’m not a particularly nice guy, but you’ve already figured that out, eh, pet?”

After he let her go, they walked into the small establishment sandwiched between a laundromat and a barber shop. Like the restaurant in Chinatown, Maybelle’s had crammed enough tables and chairs into its space to risk being a fire hazard. The chairs were all folding chairs, mostly mismatched. But who cared about mismatched chairs when the most amazing aroma of barbecue permeated the air?

“It’s about a ten, fifteen-minute wait, hon,” a waitress called to her as she set down collard greens before a table of patrons.

Just then, a man in his early fifties entered behind them. He stood nearly a good six inches shorter than Ben and wore thin metal glasses over an easy and friendly countenance.

“Uncle Gordon,” Ben greeted.

Unlike the stylish and perfectly tailored suit that Ben sported, Gordon Lee wore a much more modest suit. Kimani tried to match their likeness. Gordon had a rounder face, a kinder expression, and faint wrinkles about the eyes suggesting that he liked to laugh a lot.

“This is...Montana,” Ben introduced.

Gordon’s handshake was warm and firm, his tone welcoming, as if he were truly pleased to meet her. “Gordon Lee.”

“Nice to meet you,” she said, already drawn to liking him.