I pull on my most forgettable outfit. Dark jeans, black hoodie, clothes that make you invisible in a city that only notices designer labels. The pink streaks in my hair are hidden under a baseball cap I stole from some frat boy's room last semester. Can't look like Eleanor Waterson.
Tonight? I need to benobody.
The address burned into my memory leads to the industrial district, where abandoned warehouses rot like broken teeth inthe city's mouth. It's places like this where my boys and I used to drink stolen beer and pretend we owned the world.
I tried to find them. That first year, when Todd's leash was still new and I was stupid enough to think I could slip it, I spent hours in the school library searching for any sign of my boys on computers he couldn't track.
I found nothing. It was like they'd never existed.
Once, I made it three blocks from the trailer park before the black SUV appeared in my rearview mirror. And I learned my first of manyhorriblefucking lessons that day.
Even now, I find myself jumping at every shadow. Every shadow could hide someone who'd slit my throat for the cash in my bag.
Or worse, another black SUV.
But that's paranoia. He's watching me, and so are his goons, but not that close. I haven't given him reason. Certainly no reason to think his wife's only daughter who can't even watch horror movies without emotional support is plotting his murder.
The building squats against the night sky with its broken windows and rust-bleeding walls. A few years ago, I would've walked into a place like this without thinking twice. Now my hand finds the pepper spray in my pocket like that would do fuck-all against the kinds of people I'm here to meet.
A man emerges from the shadows before I reach the door. Built like a refrigerator, face hidden under a ski mask that does nothing to hide the fact that he could snap me in half without breaking a sweat.
"You lost, little girl?"
"I have business with the Kings."
He barks a laugh. "Sure you do. And I'm dating the Princess of fucking Wales."
I pull out a burner phone to show him the message thread. The invitation that took weeks of encrypted conversations to earn. His demeanor shifts, suddenly all business.
"Spread 'em."
The pat-down is thorough, and humiliating. His hands linger just long enough to make my skin crawl but not long enough to justify the knee to the balls I'm considering. He takes my pepper spray, my phone, everything except the bag full of money.
"Follow me. Don't touch anything. Don't look at anyone. Don't fuckingbreathewrong."
The inside is a maze of shadows and urban decay. Water drips from exposed pipes, the sound echoing like a countdown. We pass shapes in the darkness. Other guards, maybe, or just the usual people who haunt places like this. My fingers tap against my leg.
One, two, three, four, five.
Stay calm. Stay focused. Stay alive.
The throne room is exactly as dramatic as it sounds. Someone's converted an old loading dock into something that looks like a cross between a medieval court and a BDSM club.
Four chairs face away from me, their backs to the entrance in a deliberate power move that forces anyone who wants an audience to walk the length of the room and circle around to face them. Althoughchairsmight be an understatement. Theseare elaborate jet black thrones that look stolen from some gothic horror movie set.
One-way glass stretches across the wall in front of them, giving the Kings a full view of the dance floor in the seedy club beyond while the sweaty, half-naked bodies grinding on the other side remain completely oblivious. The pulsing light from the club lights up the throne room in sickening red and violet and green neon that kicks off an instant migraine.
Or maybe it's just the stress.
"State your business." The voice comes from one of the center chairs, distorted through what sounds like a voice modulator. But underneath the electronic warping, something familiar scratches at my memory.
I really am losing it.
"I have a job for you." My practiced words come out steady, cold. The voice of someone who's already dead inside, just waiting for her body to catch up.
"A job?" He gives a vaguely mechanical laugh. Whichever assholes are in the two chairs left of him chuckle. Nothing from the chair on the right. "This isn't a career fair. You're gonna have to be a little more specific."
I clench my jaw, reminding myself I've already come this far. There's enough damning evidence between those messages and just walking into this place with a shit ton of stolen cash.
