I storm out of the bike shop with an ashen face—I see my reflection in my car window before I get behind the wheel and dig through the photos, fury burning in the back of my throat as I try to wrap my head around the maliciousness and audacity required to produce and then anonymously deliver each of these shots.
Whoever sent these is itching for war.
Though I’m not sure they understand who they’re itching to go to war with.
“What the hell?”Max’s angry reaction is understandable.
Vincent barely contains his rage bubbling under the surface as he stares at the photos, now spread across my desk in our joint office. The door is locked, and our guests and hosts are busy in the playrooms until dinner, which gives us enough privacy—especially since Raina is in the kitchen with Matty, prepping for the next meal service.
“My thoughts exactly,” I say.
My gaze wanders across the images, each more sickening than the next. Their content isn’t what turns my stomach insideout, but rather the shamelessness of the photographer. These are all of private moments, intimate passions of our treasured guest, William Bancroft, among others. It’s not just his privacy at risk here; it’s our entire business ethos and our reputation.
“If any of these get out, Haus of Sin is done,” Vincent says.
“Not to mention the lawsuit,” Max adds. “Imagine if Bancroft’s pasty ass shows up on the evening news. Bancroft & Associates will come gunning for us with everything they’ve got. And I’ll bet you dollars to donuts, Keller won’t even dare to represent us against his old friend and former partner, not when said old friend and former partner is the fucking victim.”
“This is Jeremy’s boss,” I say, trying to go over the possibilities. “Do any of you think he’d do this?”
“He’d need access, first and foremost,” Max replies. “And he was barred from the property a while back. Besides, I doubt he’s got the chops to pull something like this off.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Max exhales sharply and has another look at the photos. “These are high- resolution images, taken from quite a distance, judging by the zoom grain. Whoever took the photos used top-of-the-line photographic gear, the kind used to capture wildlife from afar. The photos could’ve been taken from a decent angle from as far away as the property fence. They wouldn’t even have had to set foot on the property.”
“This is fucking insane,” Vincent mutters. “And there was no ransom demand?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head as I check the envelope for the umpteenth time. “Nothing. Just the photos. There aren’t any notes on the back either. They’re all squeaky clean.”
“We could send everything down to our buddy in Portland PD and have him check for prints,” Max suggests.
“Privacy is key here, considering what’s in these photos,” I say. “Police are not an option. Besides, given the effort put into the anonymity of the whole gesture, I doubt they’d find anything.”
“Speaking of,” Max says and points at one of the photos of us with Raina. “These were also deliberate.”
The images captured us in this very office, in the middle of a nocturnal session during our first contract week. They show Raina on her knees, servicing each of us with great excitement. It was a beautiful moment, suddenly made ugly by the photographer. My heart aches as I imagine the look on her face when she hears about this.
“We can’t keep it from her,” Vincent says.
“Not for long, anyway,” I agree.
“What do you mean not for long?” Max asks, his brow furrowed with concern.
“Not until we figure out who’s behind this, or until some demands are made,” I say. “They didn’t send the photos without a reason. They’re building up to something.”
Vincent shakes his head as he moves to face the window. I know he’s looking for bloody revenge, but there’s no one to take it out on. “If they wanted to go public with them, they wouldn’t have bothered with any of this. It actually gives us an opportunity to close ranks and, at best, prepare a PR response.”
“Precisely; they’re working an angle,” I reply. “We can’t tracethe images back to the photographer, but we can at least be vigilant about it.”
“I’ll double security on the premises and do another upgrade on the camera and motion sensor system,” Vincent agrees. “I’ll add a few more cameras anywhere else where there might be a potential entry point, just in case.”
“And I’ll reach out to our Portland PD friend and have him come over,” Max says. “Privacy or not, if someone is attempting to blackmail us, it’ll be better if the cops are at least apprised of the situation. I trust the guy. He’ll fly under the radar and at least try to get us a workable lead.”
I nod slowly, scratching my beard in frustration. Hell, every inch of me itches with anxiety. This wasn’t supposed to happen. We pride ourselves on exclusivity and discretion. Our guests pay lugubrious amounts of money for these services.
“I’ll have to talk to Bancroft about this, though. He couldn’t have been targeted without a reason,” I say. “None of the other clients shows up in any of these photos, just Bancroft.”
“And us,” Max bitterly replies, “with Raina.”
