Wanted

by J. Kenner

  "I would," I admitted, because I could hardly deny it. But that didn't mean I was going to chase him.

  I leaned toward her, sliding into gossip mode, both to distract her and because I wanted her reaction. "Kevin says the FBI is watching Evan. Tyler and Cole, too."

  Kat shifted in her seat, obviously intrigued. "Really? Do you think it's true? I bet it is. They all have that bad boy look about them." The corner of her mouth curved up. "Especially Cole."

  "You are so not subtle, you know."

  "What? He's hot."

  "Can't argue with that. Hell, they all are."

  "But are they criminal masterminds?" Her voice was laced with intrigue.

  "Maybe. I don't know." I shrugged. "Probably not."

  "Oh, I bet they are," she said. "Most of the time, the cops get it right. They just don't always get the bad guys. Of course, that depends on how you define 'bad guy.'" She leaned back in her seat, looking almost smug.

  I frowned, the idea that Evan might end up behind bars was undeniably disturbing. But at the same time, the idea that he was cool enough and smart enough to avoid that net ... well, I couldn't deny that just thinking about it got my blood pumping. Like playing chicken on the train tracks or surfing on the roof of a car. Or even like snagging a pair of crappy earrings from Neiman Marcus.

  She laughed. "Oh, man, the look on your face. You are so busted."

  I grimaced, but I didn't deny.

  "At any rate," Kat continued, "all of this is beside the point."

  "I've completely forgotten what the point is."

  "The point is that you have to go for it. If you're really moving to Washington--and I know the way you are with your dad, so I'm not even going to try to talk you out of it--then you need to go for it."

  "Go for it, as in what?" I asked, even though I knew damn well what she meant--and was only a hairsbreadth away from agreeing.

  "Take a chance, Angie. You don't have to be in Washington for a few more weeks, right? So work your magic and get Evan in your bed. If you don't do it once, you're going to regret it forever."

  She was right. Not only would I regret it, but I wasn't sure that I could get through the next few weeks. That I could keep myself pulled together as I moved through the condo that had once been so full of Jahn's laughter and conversation. As I packed to move to a city I didn't want to live in for a job I wasn't sure I'd even like, but that I knew Gracie would have loved.

  The nightmares would return in full force. Hell, I could already feel them poking at me, like jabs from behind a dark curtain.

  Could I take three weeks of this without needing to break free?

  I could if I was in Evan's arms--I was certain of it.

  Without him, though ...

  Without him, I was terrified of simply crashing.

  But that wasn't the only reason that Kat's proposal enticed me. The truth was, I simply wanted the man. Wanted him, and was certain that he wanted me, too.

  I remembered the way I'd felt when he'd stood close to me in the elevator, the way the air had vibrated between us. The scent of him. The presence of him.

  And then I remembered the way he'd shut me down. The way he'd shut us both down.

  I shook my head. "I don't know ..."

  "What's not to know? It's not like you're going to get arrested--though you may end up on a surveillance tape."

  "Oh, like that's an enticement?"

  She ignored my half-assed protest. "And since he's already said no once, if he says it again, you're in the exact same place. And if he says yes, you're golden, right? I mean, honestly, Angie, what have you got to lose?"

  I remembered the feel of his hands upon me in the alley, the way my body had fired and opened to him.

  I remembered the smell of cocoa when he handed me the mug, and how the soft glow in his eyes had warmed me even more than the liquid. I remembered the way I'd come awake the next morning, clear and crisp and nightmare free.

  What did I have to lose?

  That was easy--nothing.

  Nothing, that is, except my heart.

  It turns out that the whole "go after Evan Black" plan was a little more complicated than I'd anticipated, primarily because I had no idea how to get in touch with him other than through his office. I'd done that, leaving a message with his assistant through the automated voicemail system. Since I didn't immediately get a call back--and I fully expected him to ignore the message--I decided to scour the entire condo in the hopes of finding his personal cell number. Then I'd cross my fingers and hope he'd answer.

  Too bad for me, I found diddly-squat. Not one single number for Evan, Cole, or Tyler. I did find the mother lode of family photo albums in the bottom drawer of Jahn's bedside table, and I spent two solid hours sitting on his bed and thumbing through them, soaking up the memories and feeling melancholy.

  Most of the pictures were of people I vaguely recognized but didn't know by name. Grandparents who'd passed away before I was born and third cousins I'd met only at various graduations, weddings, and funerals. But two of the albums focused on my little corner of the family. There were pictures of me and Gracie at the Kenilworth house. Me and Gracie on a sailboat in the middle of the lake. Me and Gracie at Disneyland.

  My mom and dad were in all of the pictures that featured me and Gracie, but there were earlier pictures, too. Pictures without either of us that looked old enough to be from before even Gracie was born. My mom was in all of those photos, my dad in very few. In some, Jahn stood beside my mother, his arm around her as she leaned against him, smiling and radiant.

  I wondered if my father was the one behind the camera, but I had a strange feeling that he wasn't. Instead, I had the feeling that I was a voyeur. That I'd stumbled on something I wasn't supposed to know about.

  Feeling melancholy, I closed the albums, put them back in the drawer, and made a mental note to mail them to my mom.

  I poked around a bit more in Jahn's bedroom and found a battered address book that included Evan's name, but when I dialed, I heard only the message that the number had been disconnected. I would have called the office and talked to Jahn's secretary, but it was Saturday, and this hardly seemed like the kind of thing I should bother her at home for.

  I was about to ditch the whole thing and give Flynn or Kat a call, when I realized there was one more place I could check. I reached for my phone, searched the Internet for Destiny, and dialed.

  "Destiny," a woman's voice crooned. "Where your fantasy is our pleasure."

  "Um, yeah. Hi."

  "How can I help you?" She sounded perfectly polished while I sounded like an idiot.

  "I'm looking for Evan Black. Could you tell me if he's there right now?"

  "I'm sorry, we don't expect Mr. Black for another hour. Can I have him return the call?"

  "Oh. Um, no. Thanks, but I'll just call back."

  I stabbed my thumb on the button to end the call feeling a bit like I'd just done espionage. I did, however, now have a plan.

  I glanced down at myself, and realized I was still wearing yoga pants and the Northwestern T-shirt I'd bought my freshman year. Not exactly appropriate attire for a strip club. Then again, I had no idea what one wore to a so-called gentleman's club, and though I'd had the chance to find out in college, I'd manage to completely blow that opportunity.

  My roommate sophomore year had thought it would be a hoot for a group of us to check out a strip club, and she'd set her sights on Destiny, which she'd heard was the biggest, nicest, least sleazy strip club in the area.

  I'd been desperately curious, not only because I knew the knights owned the place, but also because I was dying to know what went on inside a club like that. Were the women completely nude? How exactly did a lap dance work? And were there really private rooms where guys went for a three-martini lunch and a blow job?

  And, though I hadn't shared this little tidbit with my friends, I also wanted the kindling to fuel my imagination. Because even though I didn't really know what went on inside a ge
ntleman's club, I'd read enough and seen enough movies and TV to know that at the very least there would be girls doing sexy dances and getting guys hot. Teasing and titillating and being rewarded with bills in their G-strings and the high of adrenaline.

  I told myself I only wanted to go and watch and stoke my own fantasies. But it's not easy to lie to yourself, and the truth was I didn't want the fantasy, I wanted the rush, and I was afraid that with enough coaxing and enough liquor, I might give in if my friends pushed me up on that stage, expecting me to squeal and blush and rush away. I might surprise them with how much I enjoyed gyrating to the music. With how much it turned me on to know that all those men's eyes were on me, but they weren't allowed to touch.

  The whole idea got my juices flowing just a little too much, and in the end I backed out. I claimed that I had a paper to write. But really, I was simply determined not to do anything to risk my reputation as a girl who had her shit together and played by the rules.

  Tonight, though, I was tossing those rules aside. And that opened the door to a lot of interesting possibilities.

  I mean, if nothing else, it was time to have a little fun with my wardrobe.

  twelve

  I ended up dressing in a sheer, white short-sleeved blouse over a blood-red bra. I paired it with a black circle skirt that hit mid-thigh, sexy and flirty and--if I do say so myself--totally hot.

  I finished the outfit with strappy black sandals with four inch heels and a small red purse to tie the whole thing together. I'd spent more time than I liked to admit debating about my wild, thick hair--always my nemesis--and ended up piling it on top of my head and letting a few tendrils hang down in what I hoped was a provocative manner.

  Finally, I'd kept my makeup simple, highlighting my lips in red and my eyes in a smoky gray.

  I stood in front of the full-length mirror and assessed the result of my efforts. I needed to be prepared. Confident. Sexy.

  I wanted him to look at me and get hard. I wanted him to look at me and regret walking away.

  Most of all, I wanted him to look at me like he didn't even see the clothes I was wearing, and then I wanted this outfit that I'd so carefully selected to be wrinkled on the floor, tossed negligently there as Evan pulled me down into his bed.

  I drew in a breath, struck a pose, and decided that if this outfit didn't do the trick, nothing would.

  I considered having Peterson ring for Jahn's driver--as hard as it was for me to remember, those services were mine now--but decided that I needed to be more confident. A driver would wait for me, after all, but I didn't want to have any way home other than in Evan's car.

  I took a taxi, then settled back for the ride toward Midway airport and the club. I stayed lost in my thoughts for most of the trip, but when we turned off the Stevenson Expressway, I tuned in. We headed down the tollway for a while, passing various neighborhoods, before turning off into a light industrial area.

  I'm not sure what I was expecting--gaudy neon signs and naked women, maybe?--but when the driver finally stopped in front of the massive building, I had to admit I was impressed. It was the size of a large warehouse. There were no windows facing the street, and the entire building was surrounded by ample parking. Even at just past three on a Saturday, most of the parking slots were full.

  The sign was low-key and classy. A black monolith with the name--Destiny--written boldly in red so that it stood out against the black. Though the sign looked like stone, I could see immediately that it was not, because the lower portion was an LED screen flashing the various specials throughout the week. Today, I saw, was "Six Dollar Saturday," which I presumed referred to the cover charge.

  On the whole, the place looked low-key and fit in just fine with the area, which boasted a few office complexes, a delivery company, a fire station, and a convenience store.

  The driver pulled up in front of the door, then turned in his seat to face me. "This the place?"

  "Hell, yes," I said.

  I paid him, slid out of the car, and marched myself to the front door. I didn't pause, because that would be like showing weakness. Instead I just reached out for the brass handle and tugged the door open. And then, despite the fact that it was bright and sunny outside, I stepped into the dim, casino-like interior with the same awe as one might experience crossing over into a whole new dimension.

  It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the change in lighting. All I could see was the dark entry area and the bright lights filtering in through frosted glass doors, along with the twisting cords of colored neon that curved upon the black walls, subtly hinting at the lushness of the female form. To my right, there was a polished reception desk that looked almost like what you might see at a classy hotel. A woman with glistening blond hair stood behind it wearing a tight T-shirt that emphasized her braless breasts as well as the word plastered across her chest: Destiny.

  Two video cameras were displayed prominently in the area, their red lights glowing steadily as if to underscore the message printed neatly on a sign that hung on the door that led from this reception area to the main part of the club: For the safety of our employees, these premises are under 24-hour video surveillance.

  Muffled music filtered in from the main area, but for the most part, this little room served as a transition between the mundane world outside and the promise of what lay beyond those frosted doors.

  "Six dollar cover," the blonde said. "Unless you'd like to enter the wet T-shirt contest." She glanced at the clock. "It'll be in the champagne room in just under an hour."

  I glanced down at my barely B-cup boobs. "What's the champagne room?"

  "It's totally awesome. There's an additional cover, but you get all the champagne you want while you're in there. And, of course, for the wet T-shirt contest, we can't just spray the girls with water. Where's the fun in that?" She laughed, obviously delighted with the idea. I grinned, too, sucked in by her infectious attitude.

  "I think I'll pass," I said, even though it was a little tempting. "The truth is, I'm looking for someone."

  "Oh."

  The room seemed suddenly chilly and I hurried to explain. "No, no. I'm not an angry girlfriend trying to track down my guy. Nothing like that. I'm looking for Evan Black."

  She leaned down and pulled a sheath of papers from somewhere behind the counter. "Job application?"

  I laughed. "No."

  "Oh." Her brows lifted and she did a quick up-and-down scan, her eyes covering me from head to toe, and I could see the curiosity in her eyes. "Is he expecting you?" Her corporate-polite voice now held a hint of ice.

  "No," I said. "I just thought I'd drop by." I almost blurted out that I was a friend, but at the last second I clamped my mouth shut. Hadn't I come here with the intent of becoming exactly what she imagined me to be?

  I cleared my throat. "So, um, is he around?"

  Her plastic smile was so tight I thought her cheeks might crack. "He's not on the premises at the moment, but--"

  The frosted glass door burst open, cutting off her words, and Cole strode through, all power and poise, fire and energy. "You want to tell me what the hell you're doing here?"

  I bristled. "Excuse me?"

  He glanced sideways toward the blonde. "Take a break."

  She nodded, eyes wide, and slipped out through a door that was camouflaged in the velvety blackness of the wall behind her.

  "This isn't the place for you," Cole said, all of his attention on me.

  "No?" I crossed my arms over my chest and mentally dug in my heels. "Because I'm feeling right at home."

  He moved closer to me, emotions storming across his face. "Dammit, Angelina."

  I forced myself not to cower as he approached. Instead, I held my ground, telling myself that I knew this man well. That even though he'd grown up around gangs--that even though he could snap me in two without breaking a sweat--that he absolutely did not intimidate me. On the contrary, I knew that Cole would always watch out for me.

  "I mean it," I said. "I'm not
leaving until I get some answers."

  "Answers?" He cocked his head, his eyes narrowing as he examined me. "And what exactly is the question?"

  "Evan," I said simply.

  "What about him?"

  I sighed in exasperation. This felt a little bit too much like junior high. "I want to know how to find him for one thing. And since I don't have another address, this was my best option."

  "And why exactly do you want to find him?"

  I almost told him it was none of his damn business, but I was tired of being contentious. "Come on, Cole," I said wearily. "He owes me something. And I don't think that Evan's the kind of guy who squelches on his debts."

  "Something?" Cole said, and I was grateful for the dim light that kept my blush from showing.

  After a moment, I nodded and his grin grew wide. I had the feeling he knew exactly what kind of debt Evan owed me. "Well, look at little Dragonbait, all grown up. You win. Come on in." He cocked his head toward the frosted glass doors.

  I exhaled in relief and followed. Considering the understated entry, I'd expected the main room to be nice, but I wasn't expecting it to be so big or so shiny. The room was huge, with the same cavernous feel of the casinos I'd visited with college friends on jaunts to both Vegas and Atlantic City. Instead of blackjack tables, there were individually lit raised dance floors--I counted six--scattered around the room. Each featured a pole, and each pole featured a girl. There was a bar around the edge of the platform, and men lined the barstools, some standing long enough to tuck a bill into the sequined nothingness that the dancers wore. And nothingness was pretty much it. Though some wore bikinis and some wore G-strings, some were entirely naked but for a garter belt around a thigh, the purpose of which was clearly to serve as a tip collection device.

  For those guests who didn't want such an up close and personal view, there were round tables surrounded by four comfy chairs scattered throughout the room. A long bar with three scantily clad waitresses took up the far side of the room, and I saw the doors to private rooms as well. One must be the champagne room, and I couldn't help but wonder what the theme was for the others.

  The main area was primarily illuminated by the glow of the dancers' spotlights, which meant that the corners were much dimmer. I'm pretty sure that if I'd stood there peering into the dark, I would have seen one of those lap dances that I was so curious about.