Feral Hearts Read online

  None of her other companions sparked any real interest in Angela, nothing primal anyway, and nothing that fired up her libido to any maximum sense of thrill.

  Lucy was, of course, attractive in her own way, but her business woman professional persona just left Angela cold. That was no slight on the psychologist herself, merely the aura she exuded. Strictly career oriented people didn’t float Angela’s boat, which she supposed was a little narrow minded of her, but she could never see herself settling into any relationship groove with one. More to the point, she could imagine how horrified Lucy would be if Angela did elect to make a move on her.

  Jenna…well, she might be a whole lot of fun to play with despite the fact that she evoked no physical desire in Angela. She was somebody who could have her horizons vastly broadened, somebody who might be eager to learn new things. Then again, maybe not. Shit, look at her with the M&Ms. She needed odd numbers to balance her life. Angela couldn’t fathom how she might function in any sort of monogamous relationship.

  That means two people, Jenna. Exclusively two. Your numbers thing wouldn’t cope well with that. Maybe a threesome would be more up your alley.

  In a way, it seemed as though Jenna had already slipped into some type of threesome, with the triumvirate of Lucy, Jamie and herself. She was clearly somewhat fascinated by Jamie and having the feeling reciprocated, with Lucy acting as the buffer to ensure neither one of the others found themselves floundering in water too deep for them.

  Funny how that had worked out, especially considering Lucy’s story with the M&Ms as well, painting herself as some sort of third wheel in everything, watching life pass her by.

  Jamie didn’t send Angela’s hormones skyrocketing either. He was certainly a nice guy, the nicest of the three who’d joined the tour thus far, which wasn’t a difficult task stacking him up alongside Double Trouble Paul and Barry the Brute.

  However, he came across a fraction effeminate and morose. She understood his despair over the suicide of his ex-partner—oh she understood losing somebody only too well. However, that was just one of the things that made her wary about even contemplating anything with him.

  Stefania, on the other hand…

  After the tour broke up, concluding with them all enjoying some time at the café, they returned to the hotel. Jenna and Lucy elected to head back to their room, opting for showers and relaxation. The gal pals probably intended on discussing Jenna’s burgeoning ‘relationship’ with Jamie over mud masks and cucumber slices for their eyes.

  As for Jamie, he politely said his own goodbyes, reserving a special smile just for Jenna, and then took his leave of everybody else, vanishing to parts unknown with an agenda not made privy to anybody else. Not even Jenna.

  Maybe off to pick up some trade, Angela mused to herself, though she decided not to voice that aloud. She envisioned how swiftly she might incur the righteous ire of Lucy and the horrified disbelief of Jenna if she dared to even broach the subject, so she kept that one well and truly to herself.

  With Drunk and Drunker still off frolicking in the funhouse that was Feral Hearts, only Angela and Stefania remained. Just when it became apparent that Stefania was about to clock off and go to wherever it was she called home, Angela had made her decision.

  “If you’ve got nothing on right now, Stefania, how would you like to come back and have a couple of drinks? We’ve all had a big day. It might be nice to unwind. If you want to know more about me, we can have a little one-on-one talk over a nice cocktail or two.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Don’t what? Don’t have anything on, or don’t want to know any more about me?”

  “Oh, I don’t have anything on!” Stefania laughed, a little nervously. “I…well, I’m definitely intrigued to learn more about you, Angela, the mystery woman.”

  “Well, all right!” Angela enthused. “If you want me to peel back my mystical veneer a little, first you have to get me liquored up. No, I’m just kidding around. Just a couple of drinks to lighten the mood. No need to worry about me turning into the female version of Boozehound Barry or Prince Paul of the Golden Spoon.

  “Besides, to tell you the truth, I’m feeling a bit left out here. Those two guys are all buddied up and more interested in whores than anything else, and well, the three Musketeers have got their own thing going on.”

  “Three Musketeers?” Stefania didn’t follow.

  “Jenna, Jamie and Lucy. Three Musketeers, Three Amigos, Three Stooges, whatever you want to call them.”

  The references were lost on Stefania, but the names of the other three tour members together like that made all the sense, and she nodded solemnly.

  “So, are you sure?” Angela queried, wanting to be certain. “Nothing you need to do, nowhere you need to be? No hot date lined up elsewhere? Nothing?”

  “No. Nothing. I’m completely free.”

  And that was that.

  They began with cocktails in the bar of the Derosso Grande, and then continued with some more drinks in Angela’s hotel room.

  Conversation went from light-hearted banter to more serious discussions. Their interaction went from playful touches that seemed accidental, to more deliberate motions and protracted eye contact.

  They went from testing each other’s amateur massage skills on one another’s knotted up muscles, aches, and pains from the lengthy day to that very first instance where Angela captured one of Stefania’s small, perfectly formed hands in her own and soft, pliant lips met.

  At first, there was a transitory instance of resistance, and Stefania drew back, her face an exhibition of surprise, nervousness, and more than a little excitement.

  “I…I’ve never done this before,” she said, breathlessly.

  “This?”

  “This. With…a girl before.”

  “Do you want to stop?” Angela asked gently.

  “No,” Stefania responded after a momentary pause during which her dark eyes searched the depths of Angela’s. There was no reluctance in her voice, just a shaky quaver of anticipation. “No, I don’t.”

  From that point on, it was a tangle of mouths, lips locking, hands in each other’s hair, barely pausing for breath while they removed sections of each other’s clothing. Then there were lips and tongues everywhere, fingers and hands, mouths all over one another.

  Stefania may not have had any sort of experience with another woman before, but she was keen with desire to learn. She was a rapid learner, soaking up everything Angela had to offer with a fervent passion.

  Now some inharmonious burst of activity outside in the hotel hallway was impolitely wrenching Angela out of the best sleep she could recall, at what she assumed was some ridiculous hour of the early morning.

  The red LED numbers on the alarm clock atop the bedside drawer informed Angela that it was quarter past two in the morning. She was wearing a dainty gold wristwatch on her left wrist (a present from Dallas), but its dial wasn’t luminous for her to see the time.

  Aside from the watch and her black teardrop earrings, she wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. Reluctant to leave the sanctuary of the bed shared with Stefania, Angela nonetheless knew she had to check out what was going on out there, if only just to have a laugh at the stupidly intoxicated pair of Barry and Paul. Perhaps they were being carted back to the hotel in disgrace by the local and apparently corrupt constabulary. Polizia. Or whatever they were called over here.

  Slinking out of bed quietly, Angela proceeded to locate some fresh clothes, observing the random tangles of what she and Stefania were wearing before, knotted together in patches all over the carpet as if they too were engaged in some fabric lovers tryst.

  She stepped into a new thong, recalling with a certain thrill of delight how Stefania assisted in the removal of her other one, tentatively at first and then with more commanding motions.

  She was surprised by how deeply the Italian girl was slumbering, unconcerned by the commotion that issued from outside. She shrugged as she moved silently around
the room to dress, her eyes somewhat accustomed to the dark now.

  Perhaps the girl was thoroughly worn out, or perhaps she was quite used to sleeping through a certain degree of noise. Whatever the case, Angela elected not to disturb her. She looked beautiful, angelic, and at peace in her sleeping reverie with strands of hair trailing over her forehead and cheekbones.

  She finished dressing in a black blouse and a black skirt that flowed nicely around her thighs. Angela ensured she had the electronic card, which acted as her room key, on her person, slipping it into the pocket of her top, over her right breast. It wouldn’t be smart, slipping out into the hallway and having that heavy door glide shut behind her, locking her out in the hallway, the tour guide inside her room fast asleep and naked in her bed.

  She realised it might have been quicker just throwing on one of those fluffy white bathrobes and making her way out to investigate the ruckus, but if it was the two loudmouths returning from their whorehouse excursion, she could only imagine how inebriated they would be now and what sort of crass innuendos would be prone to tumble from their mouths. Barry was on the way to stumbling around drunk before he and Paul even set off on their illicit jaunt to the place of ill repute…

  …where the Russian harlots preyed upon men. Married men, young men, old men. Infected them with a contagion that had them howling at the moon. Seeing demons. Witches. Madness on their brains…

  …so by now, the tattooed hunk must be at the stage of falling down flat on his face, inebriated, curling up and vomiting streams of hot liquid puke and bile. Paul probably wasn’t much better if he’d strived to keep up with the copious amounts of liquor Barry ‘The Needle’ Nero imbibed in. That is, unless he somehow had the good sense to maintain some level of sobriety to make sure the pair of them weren’t completely suckered and fleeced of everything they own by the Russian whores, and that they made it back to the correct hotel in one piece.

  In a foreign country, shit could hit the fan real quick. Wandering around drunk in a bad part of town, where by Stefania’s account the police force were on the payroll of the brothel kingpin, was a sure fire way to find themselves well and truly fucked.

  And not in a good way.

  Angela stepped outside, letting the door slide shut behind her, knowing it would close and automatically lock. Impulsively, she touched the area around her right breast and felt the comfort of the small plastic shape, making sure she had indeed placed the item there.

  Damn Angie, she thought to herself with a small laugh. You’re turning into Jenna!

  The hallway outside the rooms was deserted, and she halted in a quandary of indecision. Surely, she hadn’t been dreaming the commotion. After all, she’d heard the sounds carry on long after they yanked her out of sleep. She’d wasted moments gazing at Stefania sleeping and mentally wandering back over their first sexual encounter.

  Now, whatever or whoever had been the source of her awakening, was absent.

  Angela couldn’t quite recall hearing any slamming doors. Then she noticed, as evidenced by the very moderate thump her own room door just made closing behind her, that the hydraulic system prevented slamming.

  She would hardly have heard any doors shut unless she was virtually out in the hallway with them. Even with the electronic key system in place, the doors still had security chains on them, but would she have even heard anybody putting one of them up in place? She didn’t think so.

  Again, she heard panicked voices, some hushed and fearful, others raised and aggressive, albeit still with hints of dread loitering in them. They emanated from the room shared by Paul and Barry.

  It sounded like there were more than the two guys in there. There were female voices as well.

  Shit, did they bring a couple of the Russian hookers back with them? No, wait…it sounds like Jenna…and Lucy.

  For a brief moment, Angela debated totally ignoring the whole thing altogether and returning to her room, slipping back into the comfort of her bed with the warm, beguiling flesh of Stefania. Then she decided otherwise. At least one of the drunk fuckheads owed her an explanation as to why they were making a hell of a disturbance in the dead of night.

  She knocked loudly with a closed fist, not a rap with her knuckles but a thumping with the curled up side of her hand.

  “Don’t touch that fucking door!” said the panicked voice of Barry. “Nobody go near that door!”

  “Quiet!” hissed another voice, this one belonging to Paul. “You idiot, don’t let them know where we are!”

  “Guys, it’s me,” Angela called back, her mouth up close to where the door sat in the frame, assuming that might in some way carry her voice inside a little better. “I don’t know what the hell kind of bad trip you guys have been on, or if you snorted some fucked up lines out there in the Russian whorehouse, but it’s just me.”

  “Who is me?” Jenna’s voice trilled, small and worried.

  “Angela.” Angela shook her head, wondering to herself who the fuck else it could be? Jesus, they all sound scared out of their wits. What the hell is going on?

  “Don’t let anyone in! She…could be one of them!” Barry warned.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Lucy reprimanded. Then, a couple of impossibly long seconds later, the room door cracked open and widened enough for Angela to see the face of Lucy, framed by her hair. She looked solemn and yet incredibly afraid as she peered out over the security chain.

  “What the hell is going on?” Angela asked.

  “Either get in or stay out!” Paul shouted. “But get that fucking door shut! Now!”

  Lucy removed the chain with trembling hands that she couldn’t hide from Angela’s watchful eyes. Angela slipped into the room, noticing that the normally unruffled psychologist did not bother to open the door all the way, only enough to allow Angela entry.

  Once she was inside, Lucy hurriedly pushed the door shut again and replaced the chain. Angela cast her eyes around the room shared by the two guys. Aside from more luggage than seemed necessary for two bachelors, the lodgings were virtually identical to the one she at the moment had to herself, although the small size of it felt cramped with five individuals now inside it.

  Paul was stalking around the perimeter of the room in the fashion of a caged animal, muttering impotent ramblings, threats, and curses to nobody in particular. Jenna sat on the very edge of one of the twin double beds, wringing her hands, her visage a picture of consternation laced with abject fear.

  There was a single leather recliner chair in the corner of the room seating the slumped figure of Barry ‘The Needle’ Nero, his shirt hanging around his muscled frame in bloody ribbons of fabric. His big hand was clapped around the side of his neck.

  From his midriff leered an impressive demon visage, a tattoo that Angela thought to be quite impressive, but right now didn’t seem to be the time to appreciate the intricacies of the work; instead, with splashes of blood dotted across it, the hideous devilish entity looked wrong and unnerving.

  “What the fuck happened to you?” She wanted to know, raising both eyes in query. “You dumbasses get into a fight at the Russian knock shop? Let me guess—someone tried to touch the dancers without flashing some bills first?”

  “No!” Barry yelled back frantically. “They’re fucking vampires, those bitches, all of them, and I killed one because she fucking bit me, and fucking now, they’re here and we’re all fucked!”

  “What?” Angela shot looks from Barry to Paul, then to Lucy and Jenna.

  “That fucking fag Jamie led them right to us!” Barry continued his ranting tirade, his tone almost feverish.

  “He’s not a fag!” Jenna blurted, affronted.

  “Well, he swings both ways then,” Paul added. “He swings all ways. Now he’s swung a rope in a noose right around all our necks.”

  “We didn’t do anything,” Jenna asserted, as if somehow that absolved her and Lucy, and possibly Angela, from any involvement.

  “I don’t know what the fuck any of you are talking a
bout,” Angela said, “but I sure wish if there was going to be a big drug party that I’d at least have been invited.”

  “Nobody took any drugs,” Lucy spoke up sharply. “At least not Jenna or I, but…”

  “Don’t just tell her,” Barry groaned from his chair. “Show her!”

  “Show me what?”

  Once again, it was Lucy taking charge of the situation, hastening Angela to the window while Paul persisted in his aimless prowl, Jenna continued to clasp her hands, and Barry slouched in the chair.

  Below was a scene of complete bedlam and insanity. Bizarre, misshapen figures she presumed were human were teeming over the courtyard and the hotel grounds, giving vent to a conglomeration of sounds that married howls with guttural growls.

  Howling at the moon? Demons? Madness on the brain?

  That wasn’t all. Amidst them moved voluptuous women in revealing outfits with savage eyes and vicious purpose mirrored on their faces.

  As Angela gazed in disbelief, she saw these stooped and deformed foot soldiers launching attacks upon any foolish souls unfortunate enough to be caught in the slipstream, any luckless hotel patrons perhaps returning from a very late night out.

  The skimpily dressed cordon of women ignored these random assaults, instead spanning out their formation. A bunch of them went straight in the front entrance of the Derosso Grande and into the foyer, while others spread all around the hotel’s perimeter.

  Before Angela’s astonished eyes, she saw a young couple, arm-in-arm, evidently on their way back from a late romantic stroll or an illicit fumble in the dark, wander with blissful oblivion into the hell that was unfolding on the grounds of the hotel.

  A throng of baying, gibbering maniacs surrounded them like a pack of wolves, the only difference between them and wolves being that they didn’t wait to spring in on their prey. They lacked the finesse of attacking wolves. They ripped limbs with clawed hands, bending them and breaking bones. They battered with fists and gnashed with teeth at flesh, yanking hair out of heads with a ferocity that must have scalped the hapless victims.