This is my first time writing erotic fiction. I hope you enjoy it, as these scenarios have been floating around in my head for a while. Be aware, this series will include a variety of adult situations, including bisexuality, interracial sex, incest, group sex and other taboo subjects that not everybody may be into. If any of these subjects bother you, there's an entire site here filled with things you may prefer more. In any event, thanks for reading.
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The Hotel's security holding area was just that. A holding area. It wasn't set up like a police station, it just had a couple of rooms with heavy doors that we could put people in until MPD showed up to take them down to the Clark County Detention Center for processing. There weren't any interview rooms, or rooms with two way mirrors where we could watch an interrogation, so we had to improvise.
When I got down to the holding area (I'd had to ask directions twice), Chris Stoneman, Lionel, Gabby and three other security guards were clustered around Biggs. It didn't look like he'd put up much of a fight. Nyla was there, and the look on her face could have turned a man to stone. And not in a good way.
"Where can we take him to ask him some questions," Nyla asked Chris.
"Why not the conference room on 13," I suggested. "It's not like he's going to try anything with a half dozen guns on him, and I think everybody is going to want to hear what he has to say," I said.
Stoneman nodded, and we all processed from the holding area to the 13th floor conference room. Nyla began texting the rest of the family, and soon Mom, Sol, and Miles had all found their way the 13th floor. Biggs sat at one end of the conference table, with Lionel and two of the security guards, both holding MP-5s slung over their chests, standing over him. Another, holding a shotgun, stood by the door. Chris Stoneman sat on his left, Gabby on his right, and the rest of us were clustered far at the other end of the conference table, Nyla and Miles next to Gabby, Mom and me across from the Sinclairs, and Sol at the other end of the table.
Sol sat there, staring daggers at Biggs. Biggs, for his part, looked ashamed and couldn't meet the eyes of anybody in the room.
I had seen a lot of police shows, but this was the first time I'd ever seen anything like this in real life. And I was surprised. Sol seemed to know exactly what to do to get Biggs to start talking.
He said nothing. He just sat there. A few times I saw someone look at him, as if they were about to start talking, but he'd just shake his head slightly and let the silence fill the room.
We sat there in silence for a good five minutes. Eventually, it got to be too much. Biggs just started talking, without any prompting from anybody.
"Before I started working here, my wife got cancer. She was thirty. Cancer. How the fuck does that happen, a thirty year old getting cancer? I was a beat cop with the LVMPD. I was making like forty grand a year, and we had health insurance but it wasn't enough. A couple of the guys on the force told me I could supplement my income by taking some money under the table at some of the casinos. We just had to look the other way at some of the shit they were doing," Biggs sniffed, cuffing his nose with a hand. He was still looking at the table.
"They had a pretty good system, you know?" He said. "I'd go in there with a couple hundred bucks from my paycheck. They had a couple of blackjacks tables for cops, and for some reason whenever we sat there, we made a ton of money real quick. I was pulling in ten grand a week, and in exchange, we just let everything go by. This was before the whore trade was legal, so there was big money in it. They were running drugs and shit too, but I didn't care. I needed the cash, and this was a pretty foolproof way to earn it - looked like I was making the money legit by gambling. Even paid taxes on it," he laughed, and sniffed again. He looked up for a second, then looked back down again.
"Anyway, my wife got better, cause we could afford her treatments. She's been cancer free six years now. Eventually, you all got prostitution legalized, so that money we were getting paid to look the other way dried up. I left the force, and got a job working here."
He sniffed again. "Can I get a glass of water?" He asked. Stoneman got up, poured him water into a plastic cup from a carafe on a side table and sat it in front of him. He took a sip, then a large drink, draining half the water in one gulp.
None of us said anything. If he thought this sob story as going to make things better, I thought he was nuts.
He kept going.
"But I caught the bug," he said, chuckling. "I knew them games had to have been rigged for us, because there was no way we'd win so much. But the bug, man, it gets you. Gets in your head. You start to think it ain't the game being rigged, you're just so damn good. I thought I was the best fucking blackjack player Las Vegas had ever seen. I got this job, and I was making three times as much as on the force. We bought a house in the burbs, Monica didn't have to work anymore. It was nice. But every day I'd walk past those fucking tables in the hotel and every day they'd call to me. 'Chet, you're leaving money on the table' I would hear in my head. And so I started to play again."
He laughed, then finished his cup of water. "I did okay at first. Turns out I had learned a thing or two playing all them hands. But it wasn't enough. House always get you. Soon, I was in debt, pretty bad. Monica went back to work, the credit cards filled up, but I kept chasing - I knew I could get back to that 10k a week if I just worked it."
He looked up at Sol. "I'm sorry, Mr. Sinclair. I really am. I didn't mean for any of this to happen."
"Keep talking, Chet," Sol said. "What happened next?"
Biggs looked back down at the table. "I knew about some guys who were loan sharking out in Naked City. I borrowed some money from them. It helped me get back on my feet, and I swore off the tables, but pretty soon the vig on the nut they gave me was just too much, and I had to get back to the tables to make it. And, of course, I started losing again. Eventually, I thought the guys were going to kill me. I owed them something like two hundred grand. But they didn't. They had a deal for me," he said.
"Why didn't you come to me, Chet? I would have helped you. You've been with us for years, you've protected me, protected my family. I would have helped you," Sol repeated. The rest of us just looked at Biggs, and he broke down and started crying.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Sinclair, I'm sorry. I couldn't ask for help, I couldn't admit this thing had its claws in me. I had saved Monica, I did that myself, I took a risk and did it myself and that's what a man is supposed to do, isn't it? Protect his family? I did that, ME," he shouted, pounding his chest. "I couldn't come begging to you, I had to get myself out of it. But I couldn't," he cried. "I couldn't. I just fucked it up. But this new offer, it would clear me and get me back where I had been before," he said.
"What was the offer?" Mom asked. Bigg's display of emotion had zero impact on Mom. She looked every bit the tough-as-nails litigator she was.
"I would feed them info on what Sinclair Group was doing. The moves you all were making, who you were meeting with, that kind of thing. Nothing that could compromise the security of the family," he said, looking up. "I told them I wouldn't let them hurt you all," he said.
Nyla sniffed loudly.
"I wouldn't," Biggs said more forcefully. "You all are my friends," he said.
"WERE your friends, you fucking piece of shit," Nyla barked back at him. "You sold us out, you fucking Judas. After all we did for you. You gave them my video, you let them try to paint Jack as a fucking pedo, you told them about the shit we did in private! IN PRIVATE. NOBODY'S FUCKING BUSINESS. HOW THE FUCK DARE YOU!" she stood up and made motions like she was going to hit him. Biggs flinched away from her, but Gabby stood up and stopped Nyla, pulling her backwards, towards the door.
"Get her out of here, Abigail," Sol said quietly. Gabby pulled Nyla out of the room, as she continued to curse and shout at Biggs. The door shut.
"Mr. Sinclair, on the life of my wife, I never told them nothing they could have used to physically hurt you or the family. All of it was just business. Nobody cares about the sex stuff, that's this place's whole reason for existing. But yeah, I gave them that video. That boy's barely been here a week," he said, pointing it me. "He ain't family, and neither is she," Biggs said, then pointing at Mom. Mom looked like she'd been slapped in the face. I didn't know what to think. I mean, he was right, after all. I'd been here just over a week and a half. He had no loyalty to me, apparently none to Mom, either. Selling us out meant nothing to him. We were just an easy payday. Fuck the new guy.
