“It is.” Harrison reaches over and squeezes my hand. “And we’re the ones in charge of getting them—all of us—a happy ending.”
“Every story is a love story,” Chet says.
We ignore him.
No one speaks for the rest of the long drive back into town to Rouge’s neighborhood. Her building has a garage, but we’re not going to keep my car there. We park on the street a few blocks away and walk over.
Her complex is an imposing building lined with chrome accents in an Art Deco style. It’s lit by golden sconces surrounding the building, and a parking attendant cocks his head as we waltz through the glass revolving door. The building’s lobby is ornately decorated with angular patterns of gold leaf on the dark walls. The heels of my shoes clack against polished white tile as we approach a mahogany desk where the night attendant sits wearing a dark-green baseball cap.
I approach him with a smile. Time to turn on the same charm that got Harrison into the club last week. “Hello, sir.”
“Name?”
I come up with an explanation on the spot. “We’re a troupe of performers from”—I utter the first few syllables that pop into my brain—“Snicker-Snack. It’s a…private entertainment company. We’re here to visit the tenant in apartment six ten.”
The night attendant raises an eyebrow. “Private entertainment?”
I wink. “You know… The sort hired for bachelor parties and the like.”
He blinks. “You’re strippers?”
Vanya approaches the desk. “We prefer the term ‘dancers,’ sir.”
The attendant rolls his eyes. “Sure. Whatever.” He turns to his computer. “And you’re here for six ten?”
“Yes, sir. Romeo Sturgeon.”
The attendant widens his eyes but then nods slowly. “Right. Mr. Sturgeon occasionally does host…entertainers.”
“Good.”
He holds out his hand. “IDs?”
Time to think fast again. “Um, actually, we don’t carry ID when we’re on the job. We all operate under pseudonyms, sir.”
“Pseudonyms?”
“Fake names,” Vanya clarifies.
The attendant frowns. “I know what a pseudonym is.” He sighs, takes out a sheet of paper. “I don’t get paid enough to do this shit. What are your pseudonyms?”
“I’m Whitney Royale.” I gesture to Vanya. “This is my partner, Jack Corrington.” I point back to Harrison. “This is Harry March, and the tall gentleman is our procurer, Chad Tigre.”
“The tall gentleman?” The man asks.
I look over my shoulder. Chet has wandered off.
Damn it.
Problem for later.
The nightman writes down the names, and I can tell from the stiffness in his arm that he thinks they’re incredibly stupid. He looks up. “Do you have an employee ID from your organization? I can’t just let you up to the apartments on your word alone.”
I swallow. “Actually, sir, as I previously mentioned?—”
Chet pops up from behind the night attendant’s chair. He grabs a small statuette from behind his desk and smacks it against the back of his skull. His eyes roll back and his head comes down to his desk with a loud whack that reverberates through the lobby.
“Chet!” Harrison hisses. “What the fuck, man?”
