by Lake, Keri
My gaze skated over the crowd and landed on the bastard in the fedora, sitting in a booth with two girls. A glance to my left showed a small, empty booth, and I fell into it, yanking my cap down, as I kept my stare locked.
A bare torso that ended at a cut-off shirt blocked my view. “Can I getcha something, honey?”
Head low, I answered, “Whiskey.”
“Got it. You want some company, suga?” She popped gum and smiled in my periphery. “I can call a friend, or two, over.”
I wanted her to get the fuck out of my way. That’s what I wanted. “No. Thanks.”
As her ass sashayed from my line of view, a guitar riff hit the speakers, and the lights flashed, the strobe beam roaming the audience before landing on the stage.
The music quieted. “We’ve got a treat for you tonight!” The DJs voice slammed against my eardrums.
A guitar split the speaker, to the moody You’ve Seen The Butcher by Deftones, and I shifted my attention back to Peepshow, whose gaze was riveted toward the stage like the fucker was about to find out the flavor of the month at Dairy Queen.
Two minutes later, Peepshow gestured to the girl beside him to move, as if he suddenly had to take a piss, or something, and I slid to the edge of the booth, preparing to follow him.
Tugging my hoodie over the ball-cap, I stood and made my way across the club, careful not to let any of the lights hit my face.
“Shooter?” one of the girls called out as I passed her.
Ignoring her, I kept after Peepshow and rounded the wall that divided the main floor from a narrow, dark hallway. At the end of it, he had a different stripper cornered against the wall, while the other two chicks kept their distance.
I stayed back in the shadows and watched.
He released her and rolled his shoulders, then made his way farther down the hall, past the glowing VIP sign, both girls from the booth in tow.
I backed away into the alcove at the end of the hallway. Could’ve followed after him into the darkness and snapped his neck, but the chicks. The cameras. Better to wait. Instead of painting the walls with his blood, I returned to my seat.
Ten minutes passed, and Peepshow still hadn’t emerged from the rooms. Must’ve been going at it with both strippers, I guessed, in whatever shit went down in the VIP rooms of a seedy club like Sphinx.
I’d already pounded three shots, feeling pretty damn good, when the waitress brought me another.
Staring into the amber fluid, I imagined Peepshow’s face in a nice near-death red as my hands throttled his neck.
“Dance?” The voice broke my thoughts, and I looked up to see a brunette with long hair, in a tiny, pleated, black skirt and halter top getup that looked like it’d been made for her, as it clung to every merciless dip and peak of her body.
God. Damn. I’d seen strippers before—ones who looked like porn stars, or the frisky student types, the trashy chicks who probably fucked on the side. The blush of her cheeks, the constant fidgeting of her dress and the natural mess of her long hair told me she was different. Innocent. And fuck, if I didn’t get hard at the thought of corrupting innocence.
A cat mask covered her face, keeping me from seeing her eyes. I had a thing for eyes. My body hardened as she leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, and tipped her head. “Would you like a … a lap dance?” Her voice held a bit of uncertainty. Must’ve been a new girl the way she refused to look at me and couldn’t seem to keep from fidgeting.
I sat up in the booth, eye-fucking her for a minute, my gaze trailing down the smooth curve of her back, over her rounded ass, to her long and silky honey-toned legs. She was the sexiest thing I’d seen in a long time and a surge of heat rushed straight to my dick as I studied her figure—all plush curves and big tits, natural from what I could see. Her innocence drew me in like a magnet, and I imagined those locks spilling between my fingers while she sucked me off.
Focus. My teeth ground. “I’m all set.”
Her shoulders slumped, and she raised a hand to her temple, her mask sliding down a bit, where I noticed a scar at the corner of her eye. Nodding, she turned to walk away.
Giving a quick glance back toward the booth, where Larry still hadn’t emerged, I gripped her small wrist, feeling her muscles tense against my palm. “Changed my mind.” I released her arm and lifted the sleeve of my shirt, revealing the circle seven tattoo. Roman had said it was something of an all-access pass in the underground scene, and I was curious if she had any knowledge of it.
Her gaze flicked to mine, eyes wide enough that I could just make out big, beautiful, gray irises behind the holes in her mask. Gray eyes. No shit. I once knew a girl with gray eyes that I’d become so obsessed with, I had them tattooed on my chest. “You …” She nibbled her lip and glanced around, like I’d just asked her to rob a bank with me. “What do you want … with me?”
“VIP room.” At least I’d be closer to shithead, and maybe, with some privacy, she’d spill what she knew about the Seventh Circle.
More nibbling at her lip, and she nodded. “C’mon.”
She led me across the main floor, where I was careful not to look up at the cameras, until we reached the hallway Peepshow had taken the girls down fifteen minutes earlier. She never once looked back at me, didn’t spare me a single glance to see if I still followed. Past the bouncer, we disappeared into a maze of sectioned-off areas, divided by curtains. I took a moment to slide my Glock to the back of my jeans beneath my shirt.
Each compartment of the VIP section held a booth, with only a small pedestal table for drinks. The girl entered first, and as I stepped inside, she closed the curtain behind us.
Not bothering to look at me, she gestured toward the booth. “Wanna sit?”
Without a word I sat down, arms sprawled across the back of it, and stared at her.
“What would you like?”
I took her arm and tugged her to my lap, where she awkwardly fell, facing away from me.
“Just so you know, there’s … no touching the inner thighs or breasts,” she said over her shoulder. Her heat warmed my thighs as she straddled me.
“What’s your name?”
She shifted on my lap, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “Vixen.”
“Your real name.”
“I don’t … I don’t give out my real name.”
“Okay, Vixen. What’s this tattoo mean to you?”
A shadow slipped past beneath the curtain, and I sat forward, peeking out to see ‘Security’ across the back of a big guy’s T-shirt, before I settled back into the chair.
“Let’s stop with the games,” she said. “What do you want from me?”
“What do I want?” Dropping my gaze to her long, toned legs overhanging mine, I shifted in the chair, the movement sliding her ass closer. “I’d love to have my tongue buried in your pussy, but I’m guessing that goes against the guidelines of no touching the inner thighs.”
Her fingernails curled into my thigh as she released a breath, and I inwardly smiled. She twisted on my lap until she faced me and unfastened the three buttons on her halter top. Her breasts peeked from a lace bra-like contraption beneath, taunting me, and her tight abs told me she probably worked out a few times a week.
Grinding against my dick, she leaned in, eyes cast away from mine. She smelled like some kind of familiar flowery scent and vanilla, a welcomed contrast to the stench of sex and disappointment that’d hit me the moment I'd walked in the place.
My straining cock damn near burst through the zipper as she dry-fucked me, squirming against my lap. I wanted to touch her, tuck my hands up under that tiny skirt and feel that warm slick skin engulf my fingers while I pumped into her. My palms itched to grip tight to her ass, tear away her G-string, and go balls deep inside of her. I wanted to watch her eyes roll back, her teeth grind, while pleasure and pain battled inside her head.
Instead, I kept my hands planted on the seat, allowing her to go to town on my dick, while I tipped my head, trying to catc
h her eyes. “You’re not a stripper.”
She stilled, damn near planked in my lap. Sliding backward, she pushed off as if to stand up, but I pulled her against me. “Let go of me,” she growled, and I couldn’t help smile at the bite in her voice.
Her frosty exterior had my blood rushing and my body hardening in all the right places. Could’ve been that innocence buried somewhere below, calling out to the bastard inside of me. I’d have loved to fuck her hissing and spitting, smacking and biting, until she finally submitted to it. Something about the girl spiked my blood. I couldn’t put my finger on what exactly drew me to her, but as much as my mind told me to quit playing with her, my body refused to comply.
“Relax,” I commanded. “You recognize the tattoo, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“You see it on anybody else?”
A tight grip took hold of my nuts, sending a jolt of lust to strike the back of my head, and as I let out a grunt, her stare turned deadpan. “You don’t let go of me, I’m either going to scream, or twist your balls so fucking hard that you scream.”
Feisty fucking thing. She had me so hard, I didn’t know whether to take her up on it, or knock her back and rip her panties off with my teeth.
I released her, allowing her to slip off my lap. Standing, she buttoned up her top and spun around, before disappearing back through the curtain.
Instead of returning to my seat, I strode back through the club and out of the building. I didn’t need any more distractions. Better to wait in the car.
From inside the Camaro, I peered through the window, waiting for Peepshow to come to me.
Thinking of that girl.
* * *
Two hours passed before Larry, along with three other guys I didn’t recognize, exited the club.
I glanced down at my watch, noting that it was after one.
From a side entrance, two of the dancers exited. I recognized one of them as the woman who’d given me the lap dance hours before, still wearing her tiny skirt and halter getup. Both women slid into the same car, a white Kia Spectra, and pulled out of the club parking lot.
Driving a black Lincoln, Larry and his pals pulled out in the same direction, about a minute after, and I crept behind him, keeping my distance down Michigan Avenue.
Across Martin Luther King Boulevard, the Spectra led the way, and when we turned north on Woodward, it occurred to me that Peepshow seemed to be following the Spectra. Who was he after, and why?
I stayed back three car lengths, watching as the Spectra pulled into some campus apartments that immediately had my stomach bound in knots.
I recognized the building.
No. No fucking way.
My gaze trailed up the chipped brick exterior, to the third floor, last window on the left, where I’d once watched Black Sparrow, my fucking annoyance from Aperture, undress through the window after following her home.
Tesarik had imprisoned me long before I’d ever had the chance to get a good look at her face, but I had the curves of her silhouette damn near committed to memory.
The girl who’d given me the lap dance exited the Kia, shuffling into the building as the vehicle spun around and left.
Parked across the street, Larry's car sat long after the Spectra had taken off, and realization knocked me upside the head. They were after the girl.
My gaze swung back to the building as I tried to mentally track her movements.
Don’t go to the third floor.
Five minutes later, the last window on the third floor lit up.
You’ve got to be shitting me. I’d imagined the chick who'd liked to bust my balls as a student, not a stripper grinding on them all night.
Through the window, she lifted her shirt, tossing it somewhere behind her, and pulled all that hair up onto her head.
Over on the street, Larry and one other man exited the Lincoln and approached the apartments, leaving two more in the car.
With my gaze locked on their casual stroll into the building, I spun the silencer onto the end of my pistol. After shoving it into my coat beneath my arm, I brushed a hand across my holster, where Black Betty sat, thirsty for blood.
I’d only ever had to kill two men in my life. I wondered how many I’d end up killing before night’s end.
As both men disappeared into the apartment building, I slid out of my car, with my skull mask tucked inside my jacket, and keeping my head low, I entered the building a couple minutes behind them.
8
Lucy
I flipped on the shower, desperate to remove the lingering touch of the men who'd asked me for lap dances.
Never again.
I’d never do that again. Yeah the money was good, and Viktor had kept to his word, handing me an extra four-hundred dollars on top of the two-hundred I'd made in tips. Guaranteed interest, he’d called it, letting me know he’d hoped to see me working the crowd again. I’d made out better in one night than in three weeks of busting my ass between the Muckraker and side gigs. At the same time, I’d never felt so repulsed in my life.
My spine curled at the memory of one guy trying to kiss me, another trying to finger my ass. Oddly enough, the only one who didn’t try anything was the guy with the Seventh Circle tattoo.
From what Craig had told me about Seventh Circle, I'd expected him to roofie me, then drag me to his car and rape me. For the most part, he’d kept his hands to himself.
I set my folded knife on the countertop, a police model I’d purchased a while back, with an assist-open, which meant it’d pop at the slightest pressure of the thumb studs. A few years back, I’d gotten into the habit of sleeping with it tucked under my pillow, and that habit had eventually morphed into having it on hand any time I felt vulnerable.
Like standing naked in a shower.
The last few days, I’d taken the knife with me everywhere, not knowing if those men would bust through my door. Stepping into the shower, I melted into the warm spray as it beat against my worn muscles. My calves ached from the heels up, and I could barely keep myself upright. Nothing like doing squats all night, hovering over men’s bulging crotches, in six-inch stilettos. I needed to go to bed so bad, I risked passing out beneath the spray.
Thoughts of the tattooed guy drifted through my mind, though. He must’ve been about six-four and ripped, more ripped than any of the guys at the gym, where I worked out whenever I could afford it. I'd felt the power in his thigh muscles—perfect for trapping a defenseless victim. Tattoos had covered his arms and peeked from his collar. A square, chiseled jaw with a five o’clock shadow had emphasized deliciously full lips. His T-shirt bulged at the biceps, and those eyes, a devious shade of green, set beneath thick black lashes, had told me he’d ruin any woman stupid enough to land in his clutches.
I’d love to have my tongue buried in your pussy, but I’m guessing that goes against the guidelines of no touching the inner thighs.
Hot, but clearly dangerous.
His hooded face had reminded me of someone else. A mysterious masked man I’d once followed on Aperture, who'd gone by the name of Warhawk.
I slid my lip between my teeth, imagining a different scenario with the mysterious guy from the club, one where he wasn’t some sick cult member. Flashes of teeth, clothes ripped away, sweat-slicked flesh, and biting had my hand drifting down my stomach and between my thighs.
I probably needed to get laid. In fact, getting laid regularly probably would’ve kept me from venturing into abandoned buildings in hopes I’d run into the masked marauder.
A few months back, I’d covered a story that Craig had put me on, about some vigilante photographers, one of whom happened to be Warhawk. I’d never heard of him prior to that, but following him for research had had me developing a pretty strong attraction to the guy. His moody images had spoken to me in a way nothing else could at the time, and what'd started out as a simple curiosity into finding out who the masked man was had turned into a full-blown distraction from life. I'd loved scrolling through his ti
meline, on which he’d captured an almost gothic-looking Detroit from damn near every angle in the city. My favorites were the ones with smoke bombs that'd given them an almost ominous appearance. His profile, Shoot to thrill, had described him well, as most of his shots were taken from heights I’d never dream of climbing to—sickening shots that were often hard to look at, for someone who happened to have a fear of heights. He and his friends had represented a daredevil underground network in Detroit, linked to a website called The Infiltrator, where meet-ups were arranged. Warhawk never posted on the site, but often times, he’d show up at the same locations, and that was how I came to … well, stalk him, as shameful as it sounded.
No one had ever seen him outside of his mask, though just about every urban explorer recognized his name. I'd been determined to find out who he was. Unmask him. I wanted Craig’s publication to be the first to crack the identity of the mysterious Warhawk, so I'd followed him to a number of shoots, and, inadvertently, to a scene where he’d roughed up a neighborhood criminal.
Not long after that, he'd disappeared from social media and was never heard from again. Notorious for his black hoodie and skull mask, he'd carried a dark, dangerous vibe that reminded me of the guy in the club earlier.
I’d hoped that being alone with him in the back might’ve prompted him to say something. To give me some kind of warning, or indication, that the men who’d seen me at the slaughterhouse knew who I was.
He hadn't seemed to recognize me, at all. Maybe they had no clue. Maybe I was off the hook.
As I lathered soap into my hair, I tipped my head back, allowing the hot water to trickle down my chest.
A muffled crash stiffened my muscles, and I snapped my head forward. I quickly rinsed the soap from my hair, flipped the faucet off, and, creeping out of the shower, nabbed a towel from the sink. With a frantic sweep of the towel, I dried off while listening through the door, and picked up sounds of crinkling paper, and thumps like furniture moving across the floor.