*As always, if you have violence or rape triggers, please don't read. As a matter of fact, you should probably be avoiding this category if you have such triggers.*
Marianne stops by the lobby in her block of flats, on her way in after work. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Armbrister."
"Well, Marianne! Don't you look trim and businesslike!"
"Thank you. Is there a package for me?"
"Oh yes." The older woman smooths down her twinset and turns to look in the cabinet where mail is kept. "A boy brought it by earlier. It's addressed to 'Mr. Robinson,' but since you told me–"
"Yes," Marianne cuts across the concierge's speech. "Yes, it's mine. I'll take it now, thank you."
"Not a word," Mrs. Armbrister says to her, with a significant look. "Won't say a word about it, dear, don't worry."
Mariann thanks her and heads for the staircase. The less said about this package – this series of packages, once a week or ten days – the better. She has responsibilities with regards to this package. She carries it upstairs as carefully as if it were a bomb, and unlocks the door. Blast these shoes, they make her feet hurt. And the girdle is a torture device. She sighs. The life of a single, working girl in London, not long after that handsome American president was killed, is both more drudging and more dangerous than she'd expected it to be. Good thing her mother has no idea what she's up to.
Of course, she'd been expecting danger of the wolfy sort, but there's been precious little of that. Granted, there are clerks at the office who'd like to take her out, but they're all timid sorts, none of them with the kind of manly confidence that she likes. And the older men tend to stare at her bosom and make bold remarks, but they never do anything about it.
Marianne sighs. Perhaps it's been the lack of excitement on her personal horizon that made her agree to take on this risky package service. Perhaps it doesn't matter. It certainly pays well; she couldn't afford a flat in this section of town without a roommate, otherwise.
And she likes her privacy. She likes being able to walk about the place en dishabille. She likes the freedom that would allow her to bring a date home. If she ever had a date she fancied, that is.
She allows herself to dream, just a minute, about what kind of man she'd fancy. Perhaps the kind of man she's holding this package for – not the spotty teenaged boy they usually send to pick it up, or the piggy-eyed brute they send when they don't send Spot, but the kind of man the package belongs to. Head of the organization, perhaps.
She's heard of the Krays. They're into the "protection" racket themselves, not the kind trafficking the contents of her packages, but she believes they may contract with the kind of organization selling the contents of her package. There are rumours of gangs in America who do this sort of thing: Sicilians, or Italians, something like that. And although Britain has had its share of brutal, violent gangs over the centuries (witness the devastation wrought by the Peaky Blinders gang, in the Twenties), it's all been rather secretive, the kind of thing that one doesn't find out about until well after it's over. The Krays themselves seem quite mad, one of them madder than the other but both of them unsavoury characters. All the same, though: they're the kind of men who have power, the kind of men who commit highway robbery in conservative suits. Bold men, men who take opportunities, who take risks.
Commanding men, who take women... Men who fill out their clothes nicely and look even better without them; men with hard hands, who know how to touch a girl gently sometimes and with power when it's right to do so.
She sighs yet again. She takes off her cardie and hangs it in the tiny hall closet. She takes the package into the kitchen and stores it in the customary place, on the bottom shelf of the tiny pantry, behind the potatoes. She thinks about dinner, but she's not very hungry. Perhaps an omelette, later. For now, she'll go and see if she can take off this dreadful girdle, perhaps change into some hostess pajamas or something similarly comfortable.
She starts down the tiny hall to her equally tiny bedroom, but a man suddenly steps out of it, blocking her way. He radiates menace like body heat. She gasps, stopping dead.
"Quiet now, luv," the man says smoothly, taking one step toward her. "Don't scream. If you scream I'll have to shoot you, and that's a lot of bother. Just go into the other room and sit down."
She's suddenly chilled. She shivers.
"In the other room," the man repeats, gesturing with his hand. The hall is dim, with only the light from the windows of the sitting room, and she can't see him well, but his silhouette is that of a well-built man of average height, broad-shouldered and narrow at the waist. She turns, with the brief idea that perhaps she can rush out of the flat and call for help, but she turns too quickly and nearly twists her ankle on her stiletto heels. In an instant, he's upon her from behind, his arms capturing and restraining her. He claps one hand over her mouth, while the other seizes her upper arm and frog-marches her into the sitting room.
"You know why'm here, don't you?" he says into her ear. It's a peculiar way of speaking, she decides, as if he were an East Ender with enough education to smooth out some of the more egregious bits of the traditional accent – or a better-educated person putting on the cockney. She's so distracted by his voice, though, that she doesn't answer quickly enough. He squeezes her arm. "Nod if you know."
She shakes her head, trying to breathe. It probably does have something to do with those packages she's been paid so well to merely store for a few days, but she can't let on that she suspects that. And if they find out she told? She'll regret it, she's sure.
"No?" he says, and the sound of his voice travels from her ear down inside her. She shakes her head again. He more or less shoves her across the room to the small desk where she practices her shorthand in the evenings, and pulls the chair out with one hand before dropping her unceremoniously into it.
He's still got one hand on her arm, almost punishingly tight, but he lets go her mouth.
"I don't know what you're talking about. And you're in my flat, and I don't know you. You'd better get out before I scream," she says, catching her breath and not looking at him. She doesn't want to look at him; his menace surrounds her and she is beginning to feel frightened.
"You won't scream," he says, and lets go of her to step around in front of her. "If you were going to scream you'd 've done it already." He leans down close to her face, ignoring the way she looks off to the side. "See this? This, my girl, is a gun. I know how to use it." She does look at the gun, which is blued metal and completely frightening. She's never seen a real one; guns are hard to come by here, unlike they say it is in America. "Where is he?" he says, growling it deep into the lower register of his voice. She can't stifle a shiver.
"Where – where is whom?" she stutters out.
"Mr. Robinson," the man – the gunman – says, with emphasis. "When's he get home, luv?"
"There is no Mr. Robinson," she says coldly. Did he see her bring that package in?
"Mmm. Well, if there's no Mr. Robinson, someone's been a naughty girl. Taking things that don't belong to her." His voice is now just as cold as hers.
"I told you, I've no idea what you're talking about. And I'd like you to go now."
"Don' think so," he says, careless. He stands up straight and begins prowling the flat, looking at things but keeping between her and the door.
The oddest thing is happening to her. She's terrified, her heart is pounding and she can't breathe properly, but the fear seems to be hitting her elsewhere too. Her nipples are tight and there's a ball of heat in her abdomen, rapidly moving south toward the juncture of her thighs. What is wrong with her? She could be injured, humiliated, raped. Killed, even.
Then why is she so aroused?
She doesn't know. She's too overwhelmed by him, the way he's moving around her flat like a big jungle cat. She's too overwhelmed by the smell of him – warm male skin, mostly, but a whiff of tobacco as well and maybe a bit of whisky. There's tonic on his hair too, she can smell the bay rum scent of it. A hint of masculine sweat. In short, he smells like a man. It makes her shiver.
He turns from where he's perusing her bookshelves and catches her doing it.
"Scared, luv?" he says, cocking an eyebrow at her. She really looks at him this time, and has to catch her breath. The evening light is beginning to go, but she can see him plain. He's a handsome one, all lean muscle under that fitted suit and a face meant for portraits. Handsome, ruthless, bold... a modern highway robber.
"Yes," she admits in a whisper. It makes her shiver again.
"I won't 'urt you." The corner of his lip quirks up, and she's not sure whether to believe him or not. "We're just waitin' for Mr. Robinson to show up, duckie."
"There's no Mr. Robinson," she protests again. "It's just me. You must have been given the wrong address." She wonders how much he knows already. How angry he'll be if he lets her go and his boss finds out the truth.
"It says 'Robinson' on the door," he points out, and the menace in his bearing gets stronger.
"I live alone. I'm not married," she explains, and her voice trembles.
"No Mr. Robinson, eh?" he muses out loud, pressing those sensuous lips together. "Hmm. Well now... I've a job to do, pet. Can't leave without doing it."
The words "doing it" coming out of that lush mouth make her shiver a third time, and in a trice he's by her side, leaning over her. "You are scared, luv," he says, his voice gone deeper in pitch.
She nods, unable to look away from his face, which is even-featured and as beautiful as one of those statues of fierce medieval angels. This terrifies her more: she's seen his face up close. She could identify him – to her friends, to the police. Maybe he's planning on leaving her dead. She shudders this time, even as more liquid heat flows from her belly to her sex.
"And maybe a bit something else, eh?" His voice is quiet, almost hoarse, and she can't look away from his eyes. They are a dark shade in the dim room, but they seem to gather the light to them. They reflect it, like a mirror. "You're a pretty li'l bird, you are. What's your name?"
"Marianne." Her own voice is huskier than usual.
He blinks, as an idea seems to strike him. "Well, Maid Marianne, you sit tight and be quiet as a mouse. I'm going to check something, be back in two ticks." He leaves the room for the kitchen.
She watches his haunches moving under his trousers, ashamed of her body's single-minded focus but not able to stop herself.
He will find it, she's afraid. The thought that she will be punished, that she's somehow got on the wrong side of the other bunch, floods her with more fear, and more desire. Maybe he won't kill her. Maybe he'll make her – do things.
It takes him three ticks, but he's back in the room, and something has changed in him. "Do you get parcels, Miss Robinson?"
She closes her eyes in terror. He knows. She nods, awkwardly.
"Parcels for a Mr. Robinson?"
