by Amber Morgan
Freya took another sip of her rapidly disappearing margarita, stalling. He looked so sincere, so gentle, so goddamn hot. She hated his stupid handsome face.
But he had rescued her. She'd recognized Benedict's and Anthony's voices behind the fire door just before Slater spirited her away, and her stomach lurched at the thought of what those two would have done if they'd caught her.
And what would they do to him, now, for helping her? Her head spun. Slater worked at the Hot House. He was just as much an employee there as she was. Benedict must have his home address, his contact details...They could find Slater just as easily as her and Kayden.
The alcohol burned inside her, triggering a potent flare of guilt and panic. If she told Slater what was going on, she'd be putting him in real danger, and he didn't deserve that no matter what a cheapskate he was. Missing money would be the last of either of their concerns if Sammy came after them.
She had to lie, she decided, and give him an out. They might leave him alone if they thought he was just a dumb lump she'd conned into helping her.
She looked up at him again. He was still waiting, silently, for her to talk. His dark eyes were serious, his entirely too-kissable lips pulled into a frown. She swallowed the last of her drink and met his gaze squarely.
And realized she couldn't think of a lie that would account for her panic or her insistence on getting Kayden somewhere safe. She chewed her lip, wishing she hadn't had the cocktail.
“Whatever it is, it's not going to shock me,” Slater said, picking at the nachos. “I've been around the block. Dealt with a lot of weird shit. And I have three sisters, so I recognize a girl in distress when I see one. So don't sit there thinking you can fob me off.”
His tone took on a warning edge, irritating her. “Three sisters? You have three sisters? Wow. That's exactly the same as actually being a woman. Glad to know you've got us all figured out.”
His eyes danced, but he did her the courtesy of pretending to cough, covering his amused smile. “But you were going to lie to me, right? I could practically see you making shit up in your head.”
She fumbled over her answer, cheeks heating up. “No! I just... I wasn't... I'm trying to keep you safe,” she finished, realizing how stupid that sounded. He was six-foot-something, pure muscle, and a biker-security guard to boot. He was probably safe everywhere he went.
But he wouldn't be safe against a man like Sammy Alessi, she reminded herself, sobering.
“I'm touched, but I don't think I'm the one in trouble,” he said. “What happened in the club? Customer pushing his luck?”
For a second, she felt Anthony's hands on her again. Heard his voice. Smile. She pressed her hand to her mouth, afraid her cocktail would reappear. Eyes closed, she fought back the feeling. “Yeah,” she said, throat dry. “Something like that.”
When she opened her eyes again, Slater was watching her with an intensity that made her want to both shrink away and cling to him. There was something hot and protective in his eyes, something that chased away Anthony's phantom touch. It was magnetic and terrifying at the same time.
“You know there are rules against that,” he said. “But you didn't call for one of us or Benedict, so this wasn't just some jackass ignoring the rules, was it?”
She shook her head and caught Nidia's eye. “Can I get some water?”
“You're stalling,” Slater said.
His gentle persistence was wearing her down. From the very beginning of this shit storm, she'd had nobody to talk to. Her parents were out of the question, and she hadn't wanted to tell any of her friends, because how the fuck did you even start such a conversation? Besides, telling people could endanger them, and she couldn't live with that. Aside from Kayden, nobody knew what was going on. And Kayden ... Kayden was her twin. He'd been her friend and companion for their whole lives, and he was the epicenter of the shit storm.
Maybe that was why she didn't talk about it with him, either.
But Slater wanted to talk. This stranger, he wanted to help. That touched something inside Freya she couldn't put a name to.
On the other hand, he had stiffed her on that dance. She had no proof his intentions were noble.
She groaned, burying her head in her hands. She hadn't thought it was possible to add another layer of complication to her life, but here it was. Here he was.
“I don't know how to start,” she said finally, feeling Slater's gaze burning into her. “It's a mess, it's a whole twisted mess, and I just don't know how to explain it.”
“Is Benedict forcing the dancers into prostitution?” he asked.
She looked up, surprised. “No. At least, not that I know of.” She thought of Miki and the other girls who bent or broke the rules. She was pretty sure nobody was forcing Miki into anything. Fuck. Why couldn't Miki have been Anthony Bello's type?
“Drugs, then?”
She laughed, a sort of pained noise like an animal in a trap. “No,” she said, squirming on her seat. “I mean, I guess. I don't know.”
“Right.” He tapped his fingers on his knees, the first hint of impatience she'd seen. “So it's not drugs—”
“I didn't say that,” she said, unable to meet his eyes. She stared instead at his fingers, long and strong. “It's just not the girls in the club doing drugs.”
Her vision blurred suddenly, the bar vanishing, and she realized with mild surprise she was crying. Suddenly she wished Kayden wasn't coming here. She didn't want Slater to meet him. The realization came in a hot flood of shame and anger. Why the fuck should Slater's opinion of her brother, her twin, matter?
But it did, it really did. Maybe because the Kayden who'd be coming wasn't the twin she knew and loved. Wasn't the real Kayden. Slater said he'd seen some weird shit, but he hadn't seen any of her weird shit, and the part of her that was tied to Kayden, the part of her that wanted to go all honey badger on people who hurt her brother, the part of her that would go down swinging for him time and time again...That part of her wanted to protect him from Slater, and the judgment that would surely follow once he knew the truth.
So even though her entire toxic position was Kayden's fault, she still didn't want him here to face that judgment.
Slater pressed something into her hands. She blinked and saw it was a napkin with a cartoon cactus on. The stupid smiling picture dredged a weak smile from her, and she used it to wipe her eyes. It came away smeared with make-up as well as tears.
“I must look like a really sad clown,” she muttered.
“You're beautiful,” Slater said, off-hand, as if it was an entrenched scientific fact. “And you're still stalling.”
She balled up the napkin, scrunching it in her fist over and over. Where to start? How far back did she go? To the first time she suspected Kayden was doing drugs? The first time she actually caught him at it, and he begged her not to tell their parents? To the time she'd loaned him money from her pre-pharm fund to pay off a dealer, him crying and shaking and swearing it was over now? Or the time he crept into her bedroom one night, using the light of his cell phone as a torch, desperately searching for her wallet?
Or maybe she only needed to go back to the night just a few short weeks ago, when he'd staggered home bruised and bleeding, clutching his ribs and wheezing like an old man, when she'd been so scared he was dying right in front of her, she'd called an ambulance in a full-blown panic attack. The night he'd yelled and screamed at her not to get involved, then broken down crying and admitted he owed more, so much more than she could have guessed, a figure she couldn't even say out loud, and that there were men coming for him, and he had nothing, he had no fucking way of ever paying it back.
The night he'd drank a bottle of their dad's finest port and paced the kitchen endlessly, talking about leaving. Just getting in his car and driving away, to another state, another country, another continent.
The night Sammy Alessi came calling. The night Freya had foolishly, recklessly, said she'd do anything to make things right for her brother.
Chapter Thirteen
Slater knew he had to be patient with Freya, but the more she struggled to tell her story, the more his temper sizzled. Not at her. No fucking way. At whatever bastard had hurt her so badly.
Because she was hurting. Even if she hadn't been openly crying, he'd have seen it in her defeated posture, slumped over the bar like a puppet with her strings cut. He'd have heard it in the ache in her voice. Like he'd thought, this went deeper than whatever had happened at the Hot House.
Drugs, she'd said. She didn't look like she had any drug problems, but of course there were always invisible addictions. And if she was hooked on something, then losing his temper—even if it wasn't aimed at her—and pushing her too hard would simply push her away.
And he couldn't do that. Not when being close to her was so fucking good.
He shook his head. These were the worst possible circumstances under which to spend more time with Freya, but his body wasn't worried about social niceties. While she twisted her napkin and stared at the floor, he drank in the chai-like perfume she wore and soaked up the sight of her long legs crossing and uncrossing.
She sniffed and wiped her eyes again, then flung her hands up as if in surrender. “This is really hard to talk about,” she said. “People could get hurt—”
He didn't mean to, but he caught her hands in his own, rubbing her knuckles. “I can protect you,” he said, far more fiercely than he meant to. “I run a security company,” he added, trying to lighten his words. “So it's kind of my job.”
She smiled, making something clench down in Slater's gut. It wasn't a happy smile, not by a long shot, but there was something determined about it, something that said she may be down, but she wasn't out. He liked that.
“My brother—” she started.
The doors to the bar banged open and Punk barged in. “Nidia, line 'em up!” he called, pointing at her. “Slater's paying, so make it the top-shelf stuff.”
Nidia gave Punk what might pass as a smile and reached for a tequila bottle that was definitely not on the top shelf. Slater barely noted that. He was interested in the guy behind Punk, who didn't so much walk into the bar as slink in, like a beaten dog.
He was tall and skinny. The neon bar lights glowed off his jutting cheekbones. He wet his lips constantly, and rubbed his arms with quick, jerky motions, like he was brushing off mosquitoes. His fair hair looked greasy, his clothes too big. This was Freya's brother? He looked...
...Like a junkie, Slater thought, heart sinking as the puzzle pieces began clicking together. No invisible addictions here.
“Kayden!” Freya pulled free of Slater's grip and jumped up to greet him. “Are you okay?”
They hugged, briefly and awkwardly, before Kayden pulled away. “I'm fine,” he said, running his hands through his hair. “What's going on, Freya? This is all...” He trailed off, gesturing aimlessly around the bar. “Weird.”
Slater looked around. The Cactus was still quiet and more than half-empty, but he suddenly didn't want to sit right at the bar and have this out, whatever the hell it was. He picked up his still-untouched shot and Freya's water.
“Let's move,” he said, indicating a table in the corner, well away from the entrance. He ushered Freya over, putting himself between her and Kayden in an entirely petty act. The guy was her brother, for fuck's sake. He wasn't competition, but Slater still hated the thought of another man touching her.
But Freya waited until Kayden was seated before slipping into the booth next to him, leaving Slater with no choice but to grit his teeth and take the seat opposite the kid. Punk joined them, carrying more shots and the half-eaten nachos.
“I can see this isn't a party,” Punk said, giving everyone a shot. “But goddamn, you all look like you need tequila right now.”
Kayden slammed his back eagerly. Freya ignored hers, and Slater did the same. “It's definitely not a party,” he said, fixing his glare on Kayden. “It's a problem, and I don't think I need to ask questions to figure out why, not now you're here,” he told Freya's brother.
Kayden paled.
Freya looked torn between relief and mortification. “It's not his fault,” she said, far too quickly.
“No?” Slater pointed at Kayden, putting a good dose of steel into his voice. “Let me guess. You owe your dealer more than you can pay back. They say they know a good way for you to make some extra cash. Except it's not you out on stage every night shaking your ass and getting pawed over by drunk businessmen, is it? It's your sister. Your own goddamn flesh and blood.”
It took every ounce of self-control Slater had not to yell. Kayden flinched anyway, dropping his gaze and shaking his head violently. He didn't speak, and thank God he fucking didn't, because if he lied, Slater would knock him the fuck out. And that was nothing to do with Freya. Not entirely.
He was thinking of his own sisters. Trying to imagine becoming so depraved, so callous, that he would force one of them into this situation, and even just trying made him feel sick.
Now he needed the tequila. He knocked his shot back and slammed the glass down hard on the table, making Kayden jump. “You're a garbage human being,” he said, venom spiking his voice.
“That's out of line,” Freya said sharply. She glared at him, one hand on her brother's shoulder. “You don't know anything about this.”
Kayden gave a helpless shrug. “He's not wrong, though, is he? It's my fault you're stripping.”
“I volunteered—”
“You should never have had to!” Kayden snapped, wrenching away from her.
The hurt in her eyes stabbed at Slater, and he felt his temper fraying. “Don't talk to her like that.”
“Who the fuck are you anyway?” Kayden asked. “Who are either of you?” He pointed at Punk now, who was quietly demolishing the last of the nachos. “Are you Sammy's guys?”
“I'm just here for the drama, man,” Punk said unhelpfully. “I don't know who any of you are.”
“Who's Sammy?” Slater asked for what felt like the hundredth time. “Your dealer?”
They nodded in unison, wearing matching expressions of misery. Right. Now they were getting somewhere.
“What's his full name?”
“Sammy Alessi,” Freya said. “He's involved with the Hot House somehow. I don't really know how, but Benedict takes a cut of my earnings and passes it back to Sammy to pay off Kayden's debt.”
“Standard mob shit,” Punk said, surprising Slater. “Bet whatever you earn, he tells you it's not enough, right?”
“Right,” she said, shooting Slater an angry look he didn't understand. “Today...” She paused, voice wobbling. “He said this guy ... there was this guy, a friend of Sammy's. Benedict said I had to be extra nice to him.” She shuddered and grabbed her own tequila, grimacing as she swallowed.
“Jesus.” Kayden looked stricken. “Did he...”
She shook her head. “I bailed before he could really do anything, but now what?” She turned to her brother with the same stricken expression, raw fear plain on her face. “They'll come after us,” she whispered, grabbing Kayden's hand. “They'll come after you.”
That was enough for Slater. He slapped his palm down on the table, jerking everyone's attention to him. “We're going back to the clubhouse,” he said.
“Excuse me, prospect?” Punk raised an eyebrow at him.
Slater bristled, gesturing at Freya. “You heard what she said. You said it yourself—mob shit. Fuck, Punk, if the Hot House is a front for some mob operation, we need to pull out. Don't,” he added quickly, practically able to hear the pathetic dirty joke Punk's brain was forming.
Punk mimed zipping his lips shut, then spoke anyway. “Nash is not going to thank you for dragging the mob to his door, assuming that's what this is, and we don't know that. Drug dealers don't equal Mafia goons.”
“No,” Slater said, fighting to master his temper again. “But—”
“Besides, it's not like someone's gonna come whack the kid,” Punk cont
inued. “Drug dealers don't kill their customers. Bad for business. They'll just rough him up.”
Kayden whimpered, slumping down in his seat.
Freya looked daggers at Punk, one hand protectively on Kayden's shoulder. “You don't know what these men are capable of.”
“And it's not acceptable for anyone to be roughed up,” Slater said, although the idea of roughing Punk up was pretty appealing just then. “I have a responsibility here, Punk. I got Wild Blood involved with the Hot House, not to mention my own damn company. I've got a reputation on the line, and even if this isn't some mob shit—”
“Okay, okay.” Punk threw his hands up. “I'd hate for your professional reputation to take a knock.”
He sounded sardonic and looked pissed, but Slater knew he'd hit a nerve. Slater's dad had given Punk his first job at ArcLight, way back in the day when Punk had few choices and little hope. Punk's loyalty to both the company and the Slaters probably just about outweighed his loyalty to Wild Blood, when it came down to the wire.
Slater wasn't going to ask Punk to choose one over the other, but his own loyalties—to the club and his company—meant he couldn't ignore what was happening to Freya and Kayden. The repercussions for Wild Blood and ArcLight could be far-reaching if Benedict and the mysterious Sammy were operating a drugs-and-prostitution racket out of the Hot House.
And yeah, he wanted to help Freya for his own selfish reasons. No point denying that to himself. “We're heading to Warren's Mill then,” he said. “No way anyone will come looking for you two there.”
Freya looked grateful. Her brother looked anxious, scratching his arms through his long-sleeved t-shirt. “I don't know,” he said, voice strained. “I mean, I've got... I need...”
He trailed off, wilting under Freya's glare. “Kayden...” she started, both pleading and warning.
Punk cut in, leaning across the table toward Kayden. “What is it? Smack?”
Kayden said nothing, but his sudden pallor said enough.
Freya, in contrast, was beet-red.
“You're supposed to be getting clean! What the fuck is all this for if you can't—”