"I'm always interested in special opportunities," I say, letting my gaze drift meaningfully around the club. "Assuming the quality is commensurate with the price."
Scarlett’s smile widens. "Oh, I think you'll find this particular opportunity...unspoiled. A real collector's item."
I’m not exactly sure what she means. I have a suspicion, though, and the implication sours my stomach, but I maintain my composure.
I take another small sip to hide my reaction. "I'm intrigued. When would this...opportunity...be available?"
"Soon," Scarlett says, reaching into her cleavage and retrieving a gold-embossed card, which she places on the table, then slides across to me. "Very exclusive guest list. For our most valued clients only." She trails a finger down my arm. "I'll make sure you're on it."
"I appreciate that." I give her my sleaziest grin. Then, without breaking eye contact, I pick up the card and tuck it into the breast pocket of my suit.
As she walks away, swaying her hips for my benefit, I resist the urge to put my fist through the table. Los Cuervos aren't just selling drugs. They're selling girls, operating a slave trade. I could be wrong, but I don’t think so.
Chapter 2
Kayla
The fingers crawling up my thigh feel like fat, greedy spiders. My muscles tense beneath his touch, but I force a smile that feels like cracked porcelain on my face.
"Need anything else, sir?" My voice comes out higher than I intend, a frightened bird's chirp.
The balding man with sweat beading on his forehead grins up at me. "I can think of a few things, sweetheart."
Ugh. So gross. And he’s wearing a wedding ring. I wonder if his wife has any clue where he goes at night, or what he does while he’s here. Maybe she doesn’t care. Maybe she’s glad he’s not at home pawing at her.
Pretending to trip, I step back just enough for his hand to fall away, and adjust my tray so I’m hugging it to my chest. The move is calculated—not abrupt enough to seem like rejection, but clear enough to break contact. It's an avoidance technique I've learned over the past week, how to slither away without seeming to refuse.
Because refusal isn't an option here.
It's been exactly seven days since my brother’s fatal drug overdose. Seven days since the thugs with the tattoos and deadeyes invaded my apartment and upended my life. Seven days since they took me as payment for my brother's debt.
After that first morning, they moved me out of my apartment into a place that’s even smaller and dingier near the club with three other girls. My phone was confiscated. My ID locked away. They let me keep my clothes, most of them anyway, but I'm not allowed to wear them while working. Instead, I'm poured into this scrap of fabric they call a uniform that barely covers anything. The underwire of the corseted top digs into my ribs with every breath.
"You'll work here until the auction," the man named Alonso told me in English laced with a thick Spanish accent. "Learn to be pleasing. Learn to obey. The higher you sell for, the better your life will be."
Three of the girls working here are in the same situation—paying debts that aren't theirs. Maria's husband gambled away their savings. Tiffany's father borrowed money for his failing business. And my brother...well, Jason's addiction finally caught up to him. And now I'm paying the price.
As I make my way back to the bar, I notice Scarlett standing at one end watching the floor like a hawk. She’s the floor manager and she’s as cold and cruel as the men who run this place. But she cozies up to every patron like they’re the best thing since sliced bread. It’s her job, I guess.
I try to avoid her, if possible. I’ve been warned not to get on her bad side.
As I approach, I notice her eyes fixed on something—or someone—across the room. I follow her gaze, and my heart does a little leap in my chest.
He's here tonight.
The man with the intense eyes sits at his usual corner table, the one with the perfect view of everything. He's in a suit that fits him like it was sculpted onto his broad shoulders. His jawis strong, defined by the precise edge of his closely-trimmed beard. Dark hair swept back from his forehead reveals high cheekbones and eyes that seem to burn through whatever they focus on.
I've caught him watching me every night he's been here, and it does things to my body that I don't understand. It's confusing and frightening and thrilling all at once.
My skin usually crawls when men in this establishment look at me. I want to disappear. But not with him. When his dark eyes find mine across the club, I feel butterflies in my stomach…and lower down.
My mind tells me he’s not a good man. He can't be. No decent man comes to a place like this. He’s just like all the others—entitled, grabby, thinking his money gives him the right to put his hands wherever he wants. So why does my body respond to him this way? Why do my eyes scan for him every night when I should be planning my escape?
Because my body’s a traitor, that’s why.
I’ve never had a boyfriend before. Jason made sure of that. No boys were allowed to call the house. No dates. No school dances. My knowledge of men comes from books and movies and the brief interactions with boys at school.
Now I'm surrounded by older men, their hungry eyes following my every move, their hands reach, touch, take liberties with my body as if they own it.
