Hating Beauty (The Vegas Titans Series Book 6)

by Loren, Celia

  “Damn, girl, you’re flexible,” I chuckle. “I like that. We’re gonna have some fun, you and I.”

  She smiles up at me, and though I can feel her wetness and see that she’s breathless with desire, her face is inscrutable. “Yes,” she whispers. “Flexibility is pretty useful. For lots of things.”

  I feel her slide something out of her boot and, lightning-fast, there’s an odd pricking sensation in my neck—like a mosquito bite.

  “What the –”

  But my tongue can’t finish the sentence. It’s gone suddenly heavy, and thick, and numb. I stare at Katja, uncomprehending, as a cold tingly sensation sweeps from my head to my toes. Now my legs are wobbly. The room spins and flickers darker.

  “Kat-”

  I’m losing my balance, and stumble.

  “Sorry, handsome,” I hear Katja whisper, her accent lengthening the words and filling them with extra breath even as my own breathing speeds up. “But kissing is as far as I go on a first date.”

  “You –”

  Bitch.

  She drugged me. I’m passing out. Or dying. I feel her arms guiding me gently to the floor as I collapse, and her hands brushing my hair tenderly out of my face. Like a lullaby.

  The last thing I see before the room goes black are her eyes shimmering in the dark, luminous and puzzling. I feel her uncurling my fingers from the key-ring.

  “Goodnight, handsome. Thank you for the keys.”

  Chapter Two

  Knox Cole

  Even before I can open my eyes, I’m aware of a pounding headache and a burning, aching sensation all over my skin, as if all my body hair was set on fire and then extinguished with piss. Whatever that demon bitch gave me, I don’t want seconds.

  “Ow,” I groan. When my eyelids finally flutter open, the room is dark and quiet. It takes me a long bumbling moment to peel my body off the floor and feel my way onto all fours. And then I promptly bang my head on the desk.

  “Ow, ow.”

  Rubbing the spot of impact doesn’t really help—that just makes me dizzy and queasy. Resting my head on the ground, I take a few deep breaths.

  This would be the time to shake it off, Knox. Look alive. Assess the situation. You were an Army Ranger, for Christ’s sake. Get it together. Be a security guard. Secure!

  The lights flip on overhead, which makes my eyes sting and my head throb.

  “Ow!” I shout angrily, objecting. “Light, bad!”

  “What the hell happened here?”

  Oh, crap, I know that voice.

  It’s Breslin, and judging by his tone he’s not at all happy. Since I haven’t fully opened my eyes yet, I don’t know why. My moment to assess and plan an explanation is gone, a delicate butterfly vaporized by a nuclear fucking bomb. Goodbye, little butterfly of hope. Guess I’ll have to save my own ass now.

  Bleary-eyed and somewhat stunned by the light, it takes me a few minutes to locate Breslin’s shape in the doorway behind me, and a few more seconds to focus my eyes enough to see his face twisted in a cold, livid mask.

  Yup, he’s definitely not happy. Still don’t know why.

  “Hey boss,” I groan. Squinting up at the desk, I see the digital clock blinking. It’s 6am. I’ve been conked out for hours. “Good morning.”

  He’s not amused.

  “Shit,” Breslin curses. Then his shape disappears only to be replaced an instant later by Goddard, his valet, and Marta, the maid.

  “Get him up,” Breslin commands from somewhere behind them.

  I’ve probably got fifty pounds on Marta and Goddard combined, but after a few uncomfortable minutes and only one accidental boob graze, we manage between us to heave my unwieldy, uncooperative body into a chair. Cold sweat is standing out on my forehead and my head is throbbing, but at this point I don’t think it’s only because of Katja’s drugs.

  It’s also because of the dread.

  “Oh shit,” I groan.

  From my new perch in the chair, I finally know why Breslin is so pissed. The room has been pretty thoroughly ransacked: papers are strewn all over the floor, the trash can has been up-ended, the cigarette tray has been dumped onto the white carpet and ground into the fibers with someone’s heel. The glass bookcase has been shattered, pointlessly—there was nothing valuable in it, just books and knickknacks. Even the whiskey decanters have been broken, the amber liquid still visible as crusty puddles scarring the carpet. There doesn’t seem to be much point to the wanton mess, just an act of malice.

  “Shit,” I say again.

  But then I notice the desk in front of me has been thoroughly despoiled. The usually pristine surface is littered with paper and ink, the desktop computer and printer have been smashed. But worst of all Breslin’s top drawer, the one usually locked and secret, is open.

  And empty.

  “Shit,” I repeat. It’s all I got.

  Breslin regards me with icy eyes. “Goddard, Marta, thank you. You may kindly leave Mr. Cole and I to ourselves for a moment. Marta, bring us that pot of coffee. You can clean up this mess later.”

  Goddard and Marta glance at me, clearly glad they’re not in my shoes, and scurry past Breslin. We both wait, the silence taut, until Marta returns with the tray of coffee, sets it on the desk in front of me, and curtsies herself out of the room.

  “Sober yourself up,” Breslin orders.

  Mechanically, I reach out and pour myself a cup of coffee. It’s strong and black and I guzzle it like its medicine. Finally the door clicks closed behind the Marta and we’re alone.

  “I’m not drunk, sir.”

  “Fascinating. Then what is your excuse? I’m curious.”

  What am I gonna tell him, that some kid stripper stabbed me in the neck with a roofie? That my dick got me outsmarted?

  There’s nothing to say, so I don’t bother. I just stare at my hands around the coffee cup, waiting to hear the rest of Breslin’s reaction. I know he’s not done with me yet.

  “What the fuck do I pay you for? Retired Army Ranger, ex-UFC champ. You’re supposed to be the best of the best. I resurrected you, gave you a new career when no one else would touch you, and this is how you repay me? A six-figure salary I pay you, and you can’t safely lock up after a party. I ought to shoot you right now. Do you at least know who is responsible for this?”

  Of course he would need me to identify the thief. Breslin doesn’t use security cameras. It’s in his best interest to have no footage, no proof of what goes on in his apartment behind closed doors.

  Wincing, I nod. “Yes, sir. I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

  “Wonderful. Enlighten me.”

  “I don’t have a name, just a face and a needle-bruise.”

  “I hope she was a good lay, Cole. She might be your last.”

  Again, I have nothing to say. I pour another cup of coffee and drain it dry, then refill it.

  Breslin exhales violently and shoves his hands into his trouser pockets. He’s still wearing the same suit as the night before, somewhat disheveled, the smell of sex and alcohol wafting from him in waves. Great. A lack of sleep sure won’t incline him to leniency or reason.

  Then again, nothing would. Not with a serious fuck-up like this. I close my eyes, briefly cursing myself. This would be the second career I’ve ruined. Possibly the last career I’d have any chance to ruin.

  Breslin crosses the room, picking up a lighter and uncrushed cigarette from the floor, and leans against the window as he lights and puffs, staring out over the darkened city.

  “That desk drawer in front of you…” Breslin says, trailing off.

  Swallowing, I imagine all the ways that Breslin might have me killed. The guy doesn’t do empty threats. He’s got a lot of contacts, money, and power. But there’s no sense showing my fear, so I muster every nonchalant bone in my body and sip my coffee as if my life depended on it.

  “Yeah, it’s empty.”

  Breslin slams his palm against the window, his back muscles tensing, and then takes a deep drag on his ci
garette. His voice is inordinately soft.

  “You will rectify that,” Breslin states. “Within twenty-four hours.”

  Yeah, that’s not impossible. Not in a city of eight million.

  “Yes sir.”

  He doesn’t need to explain to me why he can’t just file a claim with his insurance. Whatever is missing was uninsured, officially off the record, and very important. Like most of Breslin’s true business assets, it was probably linked to something black-market and illegal. Something he wouldn’t want leaked into the wrong hands. Something incendiary.

  As long as I’ve worked for him, there are still some secrets of his I don’t know, and don’t want to find out.

  Breslin turns, fixing his piercing black eyes on me. “And you will see to it that the person behind this burglary is brought back to me personally, Cole. Alive. Intact.”

  “Yes sir.”

  He doesn’t need to tell me twice, or fill in the subtext: bring in the thief alive, so that Breslin can personally and permanently make sure that their status changes from intact to in pieces in the most excruciating, vengeful way possible. Bring them in alive, so word can spread that no one crosses Breslin and survives. Bring them in alive, or you won’t be alive yourself.

  “Have I made myself inescapably clear?”

  I nod. Twenty-four hours. That’s not much time.

  “Sir,” I say, “What was in the drawer? So that I know what I’m looking for.”

  A puff of smoke flares out of his nostrils, giving me the impression that his intestines are on fire. They just might be. That’s how pissed he is.

  “My private laptop.”

  It’s a long, hard moment as that sinks in. His private laptop, locked in a drawer. Is he stupid enough to save his illegal info in a laptop? Is he that cocky?

  I know the answer to that.

  “Let’s just say, if the information contained in that laptop is compromised, don’t bother coming back.”

  My stomach sinks. How the hell am I going to recover and contain a laptop? Everything in it could be all over the internet already. It could be up for sale to his enemies. It could be anywhere.

  “Don’t bother coming back without the laptop and the thief. If the information in that laptop is compromised, Cole, I’m coming for you.”

  As calmly as I can, I finish my coffee, stand, salute, and exit. My mission is obvious: kill or be killed.

  Damn you, Katja. I don’t care how young or hot you are. You can’t do this to me. I’m getting you back for this. I won’t let my life fall to pieces again. I’m coming out on top this time.

  Chapter Three

  Knox Cole

  The little piggy man, with the pit-stains, lifts easily out of his chair and slams against the wall of the dingy office of Flash Dancers with a satisfying smack. It feels real good to take out my frustration on something slimy. It feels real good to pummel someone, even if that someone barely qualifies as human.

  “What do you mean, there’s no Katja?” I roar. “I heard the other dancers call her Katja. Katja, with the short black hair and amazing ass, Katja. Katja, one of the three girls from your agency who worked at Breslin’s penthouse last night, Katja. Katja, with the sweet little accent, Katja. Don’t play dumb with me.”

  I give him a shake that makes him sweat a little more and squeal in fear. If I wasn’t so disgusted by him, I’d almost feel sorry for the bastard. The red strobing lights leaking in the windows from the adult video store below us make him look even more like a scared, pink, sweaty pig.

  “I told you, mister, I got no girls on the roster that go by that name. Last night I only ever sent two girls over to Mr. Breslin, not three. I don’t know no Katja. I swear! What we sent over was Tricia and Coco, that’s all. They had been prescreened and personally preapproved by Breslin’s assistant. I can show you the records. Honest to god.”

  Something stinks, but it’s clear that I’m not going to get anything more useful out of this pathetic bundle of nerves. I think back, distinctly remembering the other dancers chatting with Katja, splitting their tip money with her. They wouldn’t just do that with some rando they didn’t know. Clearly the dancers had something going on their boss isn’t privy to, some under-the-table deal.

  “Bring me Tricia and Coco, then. Bring them in here. Now.”

  “It’s their day off, both of them.”

  Annoyed, I throw him across the room and send him crashing over his desk into the filing cabinet. Then I throw a file at him. Then another. With each fluttering piece of paper, piggy man twitches and cries. Pathetic. Paper can’t hurt you.

  “What part was unclear? You’ll bring them in. There’s no other option.”

  With a sigh, I ease myself to sit in his chair and take my bowie knife out of my boot and begin to methodically pick my nails with it. You know, for show. It’s effective. The piggy man curls into a squealing, screaming ball, covering his face with his hands. Let him think I’d carve him to pieces. I shake my head, amused for the trillionth time at the gullibility and cowardice of the human race.

  “How the hell you stay in business is beyond me. Call them in. Get them here. I don’t care how. Just do it. Now.”

  It eats up forty-five precious minutes, but slime-ball finally tracks down Tricia on her cell and convinces her that she has to come in the office to sign and submit an important, time-sensitive tax paper. Another precious hour later, she’s standing in the doorway giving me a sidelong look that’s anything but trusting. She’s got to be six feet tall, blonde, freckled, and gorgeous: exactly the type I’d like to bend over a desk and kill an hour with.

  Not that I have the time to think about that right now, not with a pissed-off, homicidal Jasper Breslin to answer to. I don’t have an hour to kill. Glancing at the clock, I see that it’s already one o’clock.

  I’ve only got fifteen hours left to fulfill Breslin’s ultimatum.

  “Come in, Tricia, honey,” I say. “I’ve got some questions for you.”

  “What the hell is this,” she drawls with a Texan twang, furious eyes snapping from me to her boss and back. “Wait, he’s the security guard from last night. What’s this really about, Walter? Why is he here? I didn’t take anything! Why you bringing me in for this? There’s no tax paper is there?”

  Walter. Of course piggy’s name is Walter. He looks like a Walter.

  “Relax Tricia. I just need your help with something.”

  Walter just trembles in the corner, adding nothing to the conversation. It smells like maybe he’s pissed himself.

  Tricia snaps her gum loudly and crosses her arms, giving me a half-flirty, half-defiant leer. “Alright baby. What do you need that was so god-damn urgent I had to reschedule my Brazilian? It better be important. Because you’re one wasted second of my life away from crazy-bitch-mode.”

  I don’t rise to the bait. All business, that’s today’s Knox Cole. I smile professionally, calmly taking my time.

  “See, Tricia, last night at my boss’ party there was a third dancer. Katja, I remember you calling her.”

  As soon as I say the name Tricia stiffens, glancing guiltily at her boss. Jackpot.

  “My boss really liked Katja, and wants to hire her back. So I came here looking for her. Only, Walter and I are confused. There’s no Katja on the roster, Tricia. Now, what does that mean, I wonder? Who is Katja, and where did she come from? We know she was there. The only question is, who got her in? And why?”

  I pause, letting her sweat.

  “Your boss Wally here doesn’t know anything about her. She doesn’t work for him, it turns out. Apparently somebody else invited her along for the ride. Isn’t that against Flash Dancers’ company policy? Couldn’t you lose your job over that? Hiring someone on your own?”

  Tricia licks her lips. “Look –”

  “Your boss and I were both wondering who the hell Katja was, and how she came to be dancing at a private party last night. A private party at a secured location, that trusted Flash Dancers enough to prov
ide entertainers with cleared background checks.”

  “I can explain.”

  “You’d better, because it just so happened that there was a burglary last night after the party. Ain’t that an amazing coincidence: the same night a random stripper gets pulled in off the street, there’s a burglary.”

  No Walter rallies enough to pipe in.

  “Look, Tricia, honey, these are important, powerful guys, these clients. If you know anything, you gotta tell them.”

  I silence Walter with a look, then fix my eyes back on Tricia, who is visibly trembling.

  “By the way, Tricia, my boss can hold Flash Dancers and their employees criminally responsible for last night’s theft. We have your names on file. If you want to keep your job here, or keep this ramshackle operation afloat, I think you’ll want to tell us all about Katja.”

  As I finish my spiel, the smug flirty look falls off Tricia’s face and she looks appropriately panicked. I can almost see the wheels turning in her mind, as she scrambles to figure out how to claw her way out of the corner.

  “Look, I swear, I don’t know anything that can help you with Katja. I just met her last night at the party. I thought Walter sent her, really. Maybe Coco knows something, I don’t. And I sure as hell don’t know anything about a burglary. At the end of the night we split our tips and I hauled ass out. That’s all. Swear.”

  I frown and nod. “That’s right, you left right away. Had to send the babysitter home didn’t you? Those motherfuckers charge a mint for all-nighters.”

  My change of subject drains the last color from her face.

  “Your son, he’s what, three?” I squint up at her, letting my eyes go cold and dead the way I used to do to psych out opponents in the ring. “Just about done submitting all those early-admission high-performance preschool applications, aren’t you? Denton. Carlsberg. Montserrat.”

  “H-h-how do you know about that?”

  Walter and Tricia are both staring at me in terror. Tricia’s stammer of fear is almost cute. I just smile. Mercenary rule number one is, always do your homework. It’s the only way to keep your head above water.