by Tess Oliver
The wooziness in my head makes it hard to estimate how much time has passed, but as the chafing dishes empty and the dessert table is reduced to an ordinary table covered with a chocolate and strawberry stained tablecloth, the party goers seem to be losing steam. Everyone is sitting around looking satisfied and full and ready for a good long sleep. The scene reminds me of my aunt's house after the turkey has been dismantled into a skeleton and the last dinner roll has left the basket. There's a touch of sadness in the air, which I attribute to the party coming to an end and the stark reality of returning to the streets.
I'm able to finish a portion of my food and half a brownie. Yoli was right. Some of the heady rush from the champagne has dissipated.
Yoli is deep in conversation with Becky on the other side of the room. I haven't been much fun tonight and I'm disappointed. If I'd had my wits about me I might have found out more about the people behind the generous supply of food and toiletries.
The room stretches on forever as I make my way across the floor to Yoli. Becky sees me first and makes some excuse to dash away before I reach Yoli's side.
"Wow, she really doesn't like me," I say.
"She's just upset about the news going around." Yoli looks at me. "You've probably noticed some cheer has been tamped down. It's hard because we don't want to let on that we know, especially with the cameras." For no apparent reason she feels the need to whisper the word camera. Her stunning proclamation helps clear my head more.
"What news?" For the hundredth time I want to kick myself for gulping the blasted champagne. Tonight might very well have been a gold mine for my undercover assignment, and I spent a good deal of it in a cloud.
Yoli leans closer. I can smell the expensive perfume she lavished on herself in the bathroom. "There's this girl Rachel. I didn't know her personally but I knew of her. She used to work a street corner near the strip club on the other side of town. She always came to these parties." Yoli waves her hand. "Before me. But people know her name because she was chosen. She got the golden ticket. Her best friend said she joined the Lace Underground and that was the last time anyone saw her." I know before she even continues how the story ends. "Until the cops found her body in a dumpster," Yoli adds with a dramatic flourish.
I cover my mouth to look shocked. "That's horrible. Does anyone know what happened to her?"
Before Yoli can answer a bell rings and the door opens. Rowan, who seems to be a jack of all trades, rolls in a large cart piled with freshly washed and folded clothes. Whoever is in charge of things seems to have a team of launderers working through the night.
The large man with the tribal tattoos enters next with a rolling bin like the kind used in a hotel laundry room. It is piled high with brown paper wrapped packages. The sight of the packages revives the somewhat somber mood with excited chatter.
Yoli takes off before answering. I decide it will be easier to pry information from her once we are back at the park and away from cameras and the other girls. I hang back and wait for the others to collect their clothes and their packages. Several girls, too excited to wait, open up the gifts and twitter with happiness like kids opening wrapped boxes at Christmas. The packages are filled with essential toiletries like toothpaste, shampoo and soap. There are even packages of new underwear. The inconsistencies of the night are as vast as they are perplexing. A delicious, endless supply of food but cameras are in place to watch over the diners. Hot showers complete with soaps, shampoos and cosmetics, but the unsuspecting bathers are being watched through one way mirrors. Tempting flutes of champagne that leave you feeling pleasantly vulnerable. It was like the ultimate mix of good and evil, like the nice stranger who offers you a bag of candy before yanking you into his van. And for one girl at least, for Rachel, the golden ticket Yoli likes to talk about landed her not in some fantastical place but in a city dumpster. That sobering thought helps remind me why I am undercover. My prime worry is that the night will end, we will go back to the park and I won't know much more than when I climbed into the black van.
I hang back, waiting for everyone else to get their things. The entire time, it seems Rowan is keeping an eye on me. It's not so much a distrustful eye as a proprietary eye. Like I'm some valuable possession that he doesn't want taken away. It's unsettling and unexpected.
I reach the cart with the freshly washed clothes. My ripped and torn jeans and t-shirt are the last items left. I reach for them, but Rowan takes hold of my wrist. My first instinct is to throw his grasp off of me. I quickly remind myself that I'm not Detective Tennyson but Tawny Smith, street kid with nothing to my name and little in the way of a future.
"Hold on there, Red. You need to stay in the dress."
I look past his shoulder down the corridor where the others, including Yoli, have shuffled toward the bathroom to change out of their fairy godmother gifts and back into their rags.
I look back at Rowan. He seems far too pleased with himself, like the cat who caught the big fat mouse.
"But everyone else is changing."
"Yes, but you're not everyone, are you sweet candy?" Rowan releases my wrist and waits politely as the last girls leave the main room.
The adrenaline in my veins has leapt into overdrive. It seems my body has figured things out before my head. I blame it on the residual drug in my brain.
"Make sure they all get to the van on time," Rowan mutters to the driver. The driver, an olive skinned man with piercing gray eyes, gives me a solid, unabashed once over before leaving.
Rowan walks around the cart to my side. He stares at me for a second and smiles. "I knew you were going to be worth a bounty the second you slinked into the park with those audacious curves and those amazing fucking lips. Follow me, Red. Things are about to get more interesting in your tragic little life."
There are just enough scary undertones in his words to make me consider running. I wouldn't even have to blow my cover. I could just as easily be a scared nineteen-year-old not wanting to be the kid who climbed into the van with the candy man.
But there's one big problem. I begged and pleaded with Clark to put me on the assignment. I assured him I wouldn't let him down. If I run at the first sign of danger, I will never be able to show my face at the precinct again. Maddox will never let me live it down and I can't stand the thought of him thinking I was a coward. Then, the emotions of that day when Maddox broke my heart, not once but twice, and in quick succession, come back to me. My chest aches with the thought of it. After several drugged hours of being inexplicably serene and happy, a strange, overwhelming sense of loss suddenly pulls at me, threatening to drop me to my knees with grief. It seems the chemical is wearing off completely and leaving behind a terrible void, exposing every raw feeling I have tamped down inside. It must be the aftereffects Yoli mentioned. It explains her elusive answer. This was no regular hangover.
Rowan motions me to move along. I push back the wave of emotion as best I can. My feet come unglued from the floor and I follow him, not as the wary detective but as the innocent, naive Tawny. Rowan unlocks a door at the opposite side of the party room. He leads me into a small room that has chairs, desks and computers. The monitors are connected to the cameras. I catch a glimpse of the first group of girls climbing into the black van before Rowan shuts off the screen.
I scan the wall and see the transparent side of the mirrors. Many of the women are still changing back into their street clothes. Rowan hits a button to darken the mirrors, making them opaque.
He walks over to me and looks into my face. "Looks like the champagne has worn off, Red. Don't worry, we'll get you more and have you feeling right as rain in two sips."
I shake my head lightly. "No," I say a little too emphatically. "No, I'm fine." The horrifying reality of my lie is that the notion of more champagne and whatever drug it contains sounds tempting.
Rowan pulls two strips of cloth from his pocket. I flinch as he nears me. All I can think is I'm about to be strangled. "Just a precaution, Red. Blindfold for your eyes
and I'll bind your hands to make sure you can't remove the blindfold."
My instincts and survival skills kick in and I'm ready to knee him directly in the balls if he reaches for my hands. Instead, I grit my teeth and allow him to secure my hands behind my back. The blindfold goes on next, blocking out the sordid little voyeur's room Rowan and whoever else he's working for have set up for themselves.
The room is cold. I have the urge to cross my arms to cover myself but am quickly reminded they are bound behind my back. I can hear Rowan shuffling around, then a beep and he's speaking into a phone. "All ready in here." His footsteps near me again and my fists clamp in defense. Only I'm virtually defenseless. My mind goes straight to a new strategy of swinging my leg around for a kick. I've dropped more than one combative suspect with a good kick to the head, but I'm at a disadvantage when I can't see my opponent. Again, I remind myself that guileless Tawny would not know how to knock someone out with a kick. I'm in no position to blow my cover now. I have to be compliant. I brace myself for whatever comes next.
"Good luck, Red. Win me that bounty, eh?" Rowan's footsteps retreat.
16
Angie
Cool air rushes in as a door opens. I can hear footsteps going both directions, then the door swings shut. Gooseflesh rises on my arms. No one has spoken or made a sound but I sense that I'm not alone. Suddenly, I feel near to naked in my flimsy dress. Considering my lack of bra and panties, I'm as close to the definition as one can get. But it's more than that. A shiver runs through me as a feeling of not just being watched but scrutinized from head to toe washes over me.
Then a sound, the slightest movement followed by the feel of warm breath on my shoulder. "Did you enjoy the food?" His voice is smooth, clean and hard, like a shot of strong whiskey. My mind dashes back to the picture Clark handed me in his office, the picture of the possible mastermind of the Lace Underground. I try to match the voice with the striking face and blue eyes in the picture. I can remember staring at the photo, thinking the man staring back at me sure as hell didn't look like a brainy chemist who concocts pharmaceuticals.
"It was delicious. Thank you," I say, and am shocked at how politely supplicant I sound.
"I noticed you were enjoying the champagne." His smooth hard liquor sound swirls around me. I want badly to find it harsh and unpleasant, but the sound of it is too soothing, too confident, too damn seductive.
"It was delicious too," I say.
"Good, I've brought you some more."
A glass presses against my lips, and the sweet smell of champagne tickles my nose. I lean my face back and pull in my lips but not before drawing my tongue across my bottom lip to lick the tiny droplets left behind by the effervescent liquid.
"I might drip the champagne on your lips just to watch you lick it off." There should be a joking, teasing laugh with the suggestion but none follows. A serious quiet falls over the room. I shuffle my sandals around on the cement floor.
"Don't you want another drink?"
I shake my head. "I think I've had enough."
A phone beeps, startling me. "Yes, we're through here, Rowan."
"No wait," I say, realizing I have blown my only chance of getting into the Lace Underground. Every other girl found in a dumpster with her neck slit would be my fault. "I hesitated only because it made me dizzy."
"One of the side effects but that goes away after awhile."
The door opens. "Out." He orders. I hear nothing but can only assume it's Rowan. The door shuts sharply. It seems I'm alone with him again.
He moves so quietly, I don't realize he's lifted the champagne to my lips until the glass touches them. I take a few good sips before he removes the glass. Instantly, the liquid buzz goes to my head. Whatever it is, it's some powerful shit.
I hear the glass clink lightly as it's put down somewhere in the room. His movements are so stealthily quiet, I have no idea where he is. I nearly jump out of my sandals when fingers touch the top button on the dress.
"I'm not here to hurt you, just to see if you fill all the qualifications." He's undone two buttons before he finishes. I should be tense with resistance since it seems he is undressing me, but the sip of the drink has softened that instinct to defend myself. I feel myself bending both mentally and physically to the notion of being stripped naked. He is an utter stranger, who is by all accounts a murderer, yet I stand perfectly still as he unbuttons my dress. I breathe in a hint of something pleasant, a cologne or aftershave. The masculine fragrance mixed with his own natural scent sends a surge of heat through me. At the same time cool air brushes across the skin between my breasts. The bodice of the dress is open.
A deep, quiet groan rolls through the room as his fingers part the dress. He takes care not to touch me. I suddenly grit my teeth for a different reason. I want to feel his hands on me. My pussy clenches at the thought of him rubbing his thumb over my erect nipples.
Without warning, his hands lift the skirt of my dress. All the while, I can do nothing except stand and submit to his visual examination. In the darkness of my blindfold, I imagine his eyes surveying my naked body. It makes my pussy surge with moisture.
"It seems you are cinnamon everywhere." His deep, seductive drawl laps at my senses. "Sweet, sweet cinnamon." The silky fabric of the dress slides back down my thighs. I falter forward slightly at the disappointment of not being touched. "And you react so quickly to the drink. That only adds to your perfection." His tone is tighter, less relaxed as if he is straining against his own wave of desire. It only serves to make me hotter.
I feel his finger drag over my shoulder, the heat of it leaves a trail on my skin. With my hands secure behind my back, the spaghetti strap slips down to my elbow. He does the same to the other side. In seconds, I'm standing naked from the waist up. I feel him circling behind me. Any earlier tension in my body is gone. I'm relaxed but at the same time desperate to be satisfied. The throbbing need between my legs only intensifies as his hot breath brushes along my shoulder. I gasp as his fingers barely touch my skin to push my hair aside. His mouth presses against the back of my neck, and his tongue leaves a hot, wet trail behind. I feel vulnerable yet not in danger. A warm, comforting sense of being wanted, being desired fills my chest. It's as if every invisible binding I have to keep me tethered to my real life is being cut and thrown away. I have no idea who I am, but my mind is telling me I want to be his. The rumor about Kane Freestone is true. He's a mad genius, a mad fucking genius.
He gently lifts the straps back up to my shoulders, and with the same patient care, buttons the dress. "Tell me yes or no, my sweet sin."
I'm in such a heightened state of arousal, I'm ready to say yes to anything he asks. The blindfold helps me refocus and find some shred of reality. "How do I say yes, when there's no question?"
"Yes or no," he repeats. "You can walk away from here, return to your life on the street and this will go no further. It's your choice."
The blindfold, the cryptic words, it's no wonder so little is known about the Lace Underground.
"If you wish, I will call Rowan in to untie you. He'll arrange a ride back to the drop off point. And you can put this behind you. Or you can say yes and your life will start afresh. No more sidewalk tents or grimy park bathrooms." He sweeps his finger alongside my cheek to brush the hair off my face. "I need an answer."
This was my assignment. Go undercover and find a way into the Lace Underground. It seemed an impossible task, a long shot and yet the opportunity is right in front of me. I could bring this whole thing down on my own, without men like Clark or Maddox to stand behind me. Or I could walk away and go back to the park and back to the precinct as Detective Tennyson. But then I would have failed.
His phone beeps. "Have my car brought around, Rowan. I think we're done here."
"Yes." The word blips off my lips in a quick succession of letters. "Yes," I say again.
"Good choice." The door opens and shuts. It seems the room is empty.
I take a deep breath and try
to process the intensity of the last few minutes but I can't.
17
Kane
Rowan is grinning. He knows he made a good choice. I only hope he's right.
"Bring her to the Underground," I tell him without stopping.
"The club members will be fighting over her, don't you think?" he calls.
"They won't get a chance," I answer without looking back. "This one is mine."
18
Maddox
The hot water running over my head does nothing to ease the tension. The bathroom door opens and shuts, bringing in a rush of cool air to temporarily erase the steam. Tiffany is still in her panties and bra as she combs her hair up into clips.
I smear the condensation from the glass to watch her.
She giggles. "Are you being a peeping tom?"
"Don't know. Is it creeping you out? Because if it is, then yes."
She turns around and throws a clip at the shower. "Stop, you know I like it when you watch me."
"Then join me," I suggest.
"I can't. I just dried my hair and I've got to meet my mom and sister for gown shopping in two hours."
"This won't take two hours. Hop in. You can dry your hair again."
"Says the man whose grooming routine is ten seconds with a comb." She continues with her hair brushing. Just once I would like her to do something as sexy and spontaneous as jumping into the shower with me.