Stolen Innocence 3: Broken Dreams & Twisted Desires
R.R. Ryan
Broken Dreams & Twisted Desires
Miami’s a hotbed of vice.
Tina’s smack-dab in the middle of it!
R.R. Ryan
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© Copyright 2024 by R.R. Ryan
NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic, sexual nature, and violence. This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Stolen Innocence 3: Broken Dreams & Twisted Desires
Miami, Florida, August 2015
It seemed an eternity since Tian had taken her father’s Corvette and been forced into prostitution.
The Miami, muggy night air clung to Tina’s skin like a damp shroud as she leaned against the hotel balcony railing. Fixing her eyes on the glittering ocean reflecting the rising full moon’s brilliant yellow light. She pulled the smoke into her lungs and flicked the cigarette into the night. Watching it lose speed, she followed the glowing tip until it went out, hitting the water of the pool twenty stores below.
“Bullseye,” she said, though she didn’t know the pool was even there. Tina’s gaze moved to the beach. A few people were still milling about. Husbands and wives, lovers, or couples who’d just met strolled hand in hand. People, unlike Tina or ilk, normal folks with school, jobs, or other responsibilities to ground them in life.
None of them were whores or pimps.
None of them could understand her life now or what her life had been before heading out to visit her boyfriend that night months before. She’d become good at her job. Not just the fucking… the fucking them over… stealing from them… conning them out of more money.
She learned when to play the victim. The issue was she was the victim. The victim of her pimp. The victim of the customer. All of which made it easy to steal from the john or occasional jane.
‘Why couldn’t there be more janes and fewer johns?’
Women were so much nicer, softer, all fingers, lips, and tongues. No cock, no anger, no excuses for needing to get another go because she’d been too sexy for them to hold on long enough. And women enjoyed giving (really giving). Not just fucking. And not just sticking you, but getting you off as well.
The muffled snores drifted from the darkened room behind her brought Tina out of her thoughts. Tina’s fingers curled into fists, and she breathed out, wishing she still held the lungful of smoke from that last cig.
She wanted a snort of coke, but she’d weaned herself off it for the past week. The urge was killing her. But if Tina was ever to find her way out of this life. The life. She needed a mind that didn’t depend on dope to do so.
“Goddamn cheapskate,” she said. Glancing back at the john sprawled across the rumpled sheets. The used condom still clung to his limp member, a pathetic sight that only fueled her anger.
She strode back into the room, her high heels snapped against the tile, and then the noise muffled in the thick carpet. Snatching up his discarded pants, she rifled through the pockets, pulling out a measly wad of crumpled bills.
“Seriously?” Tina hissed, counting the meager sum. “This ain’t even half of what we agreed on.”
Her gaze drifted to his wallet, lying on the nightstand, tempting her to take what she wanted. She bit her lip, weighing her options. Taking from the wallet was riskier—he’d be more likely to notice. But she needed the money.
“Screw it,” Tina thought, reaching for the leather billfold. “Bastard owes me anyway.”
Her fingers hesitated on the clasp. What if it was empty? What if he woke up? Tina’s heart raced as she imagined his reaction to the potential consequences.
“You okay, baby?” the john mumbled, stirring slightly.
Tina froze.
“Yeah, sugarplum,” she said in a fake Southern accent, then forced a smile. “Just getting some water. Go back to sleep, honeybunch.”
As his snores resumed. Tina’s resolve hardened. She’d come too far to back down now. With trembling hands, she reached for the wallet once more, determined to claim what she was owed—one way or another.
Tina flipped open the wallet. ‘Holy shit, Jackpot,’ she thought, her eyes widened at the sight of crisp bills. A grin spread across her face. She quickly pocketed ten one-hundred-dollar bills and a handful of twenties, combining them with the meager thirty she’d already taken.
Glancing back at the sleeping john, her lip curled in disgust.
“Fat bastard,” she said in a muttered insult. Tina stuffed the cash into her shoes. The bills crinkled against her soles as she slipped on her high heels, a reminder of her ill-gotten gains. It felt great to walk on over a thousand dollars.
Tina shimmied back into her tight, black, see-through dress, the fabric clinging to her curves. She gave herself a once-over in the mirror, adjusting her hair and reapplying her lipstick.
‘Time to blow this joint,’ she thought, casting one last contemptuous look at the snoring man before slipping out the door. In the elevator car, she leaned back and gazed up at the security camera. Tina flashed a smile and waved her fingers to the security guard watching. Blowing him a kiss, she moved to the doors when they slid open.
In the lobby, a familiar face caught her eye.
“Shaqueen?” Tina called out, disbelief coloring her voice. “What the hell you doing out here?”
Shaqueen turned, her eyes darting nervously. “Hey, T. Just... workin’, you know?”
Tina grabbed Shaqueen’s arm, pulling her towards the restroom. “Girl, you can’t be serious. After what he did to you last night?”
Once inside, Tina locked the door and faced her friend. “Let me see,” she demanded, motioning for Shaqueen to lift her shirt.
Reluctantly, Shaqueen complied, revealing a patchwork of fresh scars, some still oozing blood, others blistered and raw on her back.
“Jesus, Shaqueen,” Tina said, the words breathed rather than spoken. Her stomach churning at the sight. “He did a number on you. You can’t lay on your back and get fucked with these open wounds.”
Shaqueen lowered her shirt, avoiding Tina’s gaze. “Izz only gots to make 200 bucks tonight.”
“How you gonna do that?” Tina asked, her brow furrowed in concern.
“Blow jobs, I reckon,” Shaqueen replied, her voice small. “I’m sure-nuff good at blow jobs.”
Tina shook her head, anger and frustration warring within her. “Shouldn’t’ve tried to steal from him.”
“Ah, huh,” Shaqueen mumbled, her shoulders slumping.
As Shaqueen shuffled out of the bathroom. Tina felt the weight of the stolen money in her shoes. She knew she should help. Tiny must give Shaqueen some of what she’d taken. But self-preservation won out. With a heavy heart, Tina left the hotel, heading for a bar in another establishment.
The memory of Shaqueen’s wounds haunted her every step.
Tina slid onto the barstool. Her tight black dress riding up her thighs. The bartender eyed her suspiciously, approaching with a raised eyebrow.
“ID, miss?”
Tina smirked, sliding a crisp twenty across the bar.
“How’s this?”
“Gonna need two IDs.” The bartender pocketed it, shaking his head.
With a sigh, Tina produced another bill. The bartender’s demeanor softened instantly.
“That guy at the end,” he said, nodding discreetly. “Looking for young stuff.”
Tina’s gaze locked onto the man—middle-aged, slightly paunchy, wedding ring glinting. A kind face. Her stomach lurched; he reminded her of her father.
The man noticed her stare. The man wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and patted the stool beside him. Tina’s skin crawled, but she pasted on a smile. ‘Just another john,’ she reminded herself. ‘Just more cash for Daddy.’
She sauntered over, perched on the stool next to him.
“Hey, I’m Tina.”
“Dan,” he said, his eyes roving over her body. “And I’m a very lonely boy.”
‘Ain’t they all?’ Tina thought bitterly. Aloud, she said, “You staying here?”