Foster Care: A Marketplace Tale, Part 6

{Foster Care is fanfiction based on Laura Antoniou’s Marketplace series, a fictional world in which there is a large and secret market for consensual slaves who serve their owners under contract. In Part 5 Kelly is kidnapped by people connected to her former owner — but no one knows exactly why. Here in Part 6, Bette and Chris Parker get to the root of the intrigue. }

It feels ten times harder to carry Kelly up the stairs than it did to run her out of the warehouse. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, I’m shaky and exhausted.

I lay Kelly on my own bed, collapsing on a stool beside it. I put my head in my hands and wipe the sweat out of my eyes.

When I look up, Kelly’s eyes are open, half-lidded. They widen when she sees my face.

“What happened to you!” Kelly tries to sit up and lists sideways, nearly rolling off the bed.

I stand up and put my hand on her chest, pushing her back down.

“Listen, you lie down. No getting up,” I say.

I feel like getting up wasn’t such a hot idea for me, either, so I do a controlled fall that lands my butt back on the stool I’d been sitting on.

“I’m fine,” I say. “I’ll be all right.”

“Let me call the doctor,” she says, struggling to sit up again.

“No,” I say, using That Voice. “You need to learn that I’m still in charge, even when things are bad, do you understand? If I’m out cold you can swing into action, but if I can still walk and talk, I’m in charge. You got it?”

Kelly nods. “Yes,” she says, then adding, “Boss.”

“But you do need a doctor,” she says meekly.

“You’re right, I do, but we can’t call Doctor Wallace. Do you know what happened to you?”

“No. I remember leaving the house, then…nothing.”

“You were drugged and kidnapped by Felipe, the doctor’s assistant, and an accomplice of his. Someone I don’t recognize. You still had your phone on you, and I installed tracking software on it before I gave it to you. I followed you and got into a fight with Felipe.”

“You fought…Felipe?”

“Don’t look so surprised. You should see how Felipe looks,” I say.

“We’re safe here, as long as we stay inside,” I say. “Nobody can get into the apartment unless we let them in. I’m going to call Chris for help, though. It’s time to call in reinforcements.”

I’m bluffing about our security in the apartment, but I really don’t know by how much. I wasn’t looking for a safe house when I rented this place. As I dial Chris, I wonder if I should rent a hotel room and move us there until things cool down.

Chris answers the phone. “You’re not gonna believe this shit. Are you sitting down?”

“No, but I can take it,” Chris says.

“You know Doctor Wallace, the Marketplace-friendly doctor up here?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Well, I just hit her assistant, this human refrigerator named Felipe, with a pipe wrench.”

“What?!”

“I had good reason — he snatched Kelly off the street in front of my apartment. He drugged her, probably using stuff he stole from the doctor, and drove her to a warehouse near the airport.”

“Holy fucking shit.”

“Yeah. I know. Listen, I need help. Who can you get over here? We need a doctor, and obviously we can’t call Wallace. And I need muscle.”

“What condition is Kelly in? Do you need transportation to the hospital?” Chris asks.

“No, I’ve checked her out and she’s fine — other than feeling a little nauseous from the drug they gave her she’s all right. But I need stitches. Felipe tossed me headfirst into a 55-gallon drum, and I’ve got a big cut on my head, and maybe one other cut that needs stitches. I can’t do them myself because I can’t see the cut on the back of my head.”

“You know you just said something out loud about giving yourself stitches, right?”

“Once a field medic, always a field medic. Hell, I used to practice on myself,” I say.

“Jesus, Bette, don’t say that. You know how I feel about that shit.”

“No needle play for you, huh, big guy? Even with all those tattoos?”

“I kept my eyes closed the whole time.”

I laugh, which hurts. “Can you call me back in a few minutes and let me know what you’ve got?”

“Sure. Hang in there, I’m on it.”

***********

I return to the bedroom. I can tell I’m a mess by the worried look on Kelly’s face.

“Listen, Chris is rounding up a doctor and some folks to do security for us. I’m going to clean up a little. You are not to get out of this bed until a doctor checks you out, understand? If you need to go to the bathroom, ask me and I’ll help you.”

The water from the shower stings the cut on my scalp, and the drumming water makes my head throb in time. I felt like I might barf, but there’s nothing I hate more than throwing up — I’ll do practically anything to avoid it. I definitely have a concussion, but that’s nothing I haven’t experienced before.

I get out of the shower and gingerly toweled myself off, inventorying my bruises and scrapes. As I slip on a clean robe and wrap a towel around my neck I look at myself in the mirror. Not too bad.

I take a deep breath. Just how much was Kelly insured for — and how far were people willing to go for the money?

**********

Fifteen minutes later my phone rings. “You’ve got a doc and two for security on the way. I’m sending you pictures so you can verify that they’re the right people, okay?”

“Thanks, Chris. This is great. I really need the help and I appreciate it.”

“Anytime.”

“Listen, I have one question: isn’t all this a little over the top? I mean, kidnapping? How much is Kelly insured for, anyway?”

“Good question. Hang on and I can find out.”

I hear the clicking of a keyboard.

“Holy shit,” Chris says.

“What?”

“She’s insured for three point two million dollars. And Negel sold MacFarlane the policy.

**************

The news of Negel selling insurance policies on the property of owners he’d represented spread through the network like wildfire. Not only would Negel get commissions on every dollar of premiums that owners paid, if owners got in trouble, Negel would actually benefit: the insurance company would pay him to “hold” property for owners in trouble.

It got even worse than that. A forensic accountant who was the personal property of a hedge fund manager looked over Negel’s dealings and found that Negel was “securitizing” the insurance bonds and selling them to other owners. Owners who invested in what came to be known as slave bonds would get paid when and if the insurance policies paid off – which meant that owners who bought slave bonds were essentially investing in, and betting on, the failure of other owners, and the forfeit of their human property.

It was the Marketplace’s very own Enron, AIG, and Goldman Sachs 360-degree surround-sound corruption clusterfuck rolled into one.

But the hearing of the disciplinary board wouldn’t be for 21 days. Never let it be said that people called before the board of the Marketplace don’t have recourse to due process.

I figured Negel — or anybody else after the money — wouldn’t try anything as stupid as making a move on Kelly again, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Two bodyguards, lent out by their Marketplace owners, were with us night and day, taking shifts; one sleeping in the guest room while the other was awake, alert, and out front looking menacing as hell.

Kelly bounced back sooner than I did, at least physically. The next day, she seemed fine, but I felt worse than I had the day before, like a cross between the world’s worst hangover and going three rounds in a cage match.

Kelly brought me broth in bed, the paper, saltine crackers and tea. I slept on and off throughout the day, glad to know that we were well-protected.

Lily Lloyd is the author of  Discipline: Adding Rules & Discipline To Your BDSM Relationship . You can find more of her writing at  The Black Leather Belt .