I don’t know what she’s got up her sleeve or how she means to pull it off, but I want her to know that I’m ready.
I want her to know that I still have her back.No matter what.
Brooks
Ofcoursethe club is on Canal Street.And of course it’s big and glitzy and freshly painted, like it’s new construction rather than something that’s been here for years, standing up in the face of time and watching as parades of people walked through history on the sidewalk in front of it.
The last place I experienced on Canal Street was exactly the same.Bright new paint slapped on a building that should have brought joy and dancing, and was instead being used for the worst sort of trade known to man.
I blow quietly through my nose, trying to control the emotions that come rolling back with that memory, and then step out of the car into the afternoon sunshine.I do my best to look at the building with nothing more than casual interest, but I already know I’m probably failing.
That damn glass face again.
When I feel my father gazing at me, I fight to make my face as blank as possible, take another second to be sure I’ve succeeded, and then turn to him with one eyebrow lifted and my lips pressed together.
“What?”
The twitch of his mouth tells me that he doesn’t like my tone, but he can fuck right off over that.He kidnapped me, did something with my best ally–maybe–and has forced me into some sort of leadership position in his family.Now he’s brought me on a field trip to a night club on Canal Street without telling me what we’re actually doing here.
Honestly, he’s lucky I haven’t stabbed him yet.
I lift my eyebrows, indicating that it’s his turn to use words, and then wait until he finally gives in.
“La Petite Mort,” he says, gesturing grandly to the building.“Little Death.”
I nearly snort.Ofcourseit’s called Little Death.La Petite Mort, the French euphemism for orgasm, has run rampant through the city since its inception, as far as I know, and if I had a dollar for every place carrying that name I’d probably be rich enough to buy everything my father owns.
And if I did, I’d turn around and sell it all to the man he hated the most, just to watch my father’s face when I did it.
“Original,” I mutter, letting my eyes run over the place again.
God, it’s horrible.Painted black with dark purple trim, the place screams gothic luxury, all balustrades and columns and second-floor porches.All the fixtures are gold, all the floors some sort of very dark wood, and everything about it gives me the creeps.
Or maybe that’s the fact that ‘little death’ can mean something a lot more literal than just an orgasm, under the circumstances.
Sure, it might refer to the fact that girls are being sold to men who’ll use them for orgasm after orgasm.
Or it might refer to those same girls being killed in the process, and no one caring enough about their deaths to make them any more more than a small inconvenience.
“I thought it was fitting,” my father says, his voice suddenly too close to my ear, his breath brushing along my skin like he fucking owns it.
I nearly turn and bury my fist in his face, my instincts jumping at his proximity, but stop myself before I can.I’m supposed to be on his side, I remind myself.Or at least not his enemy.Right now, I’m playing a game that requires me to at least pretend to be nice.
Until I figure out how to take him down.
Until I know enough to destroy him.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t poke at him, at least a little bit.
“You did?”I ask, sliding my gaze sideways to watch his face.“Or was it the men who actually run this ring?”
I catch the flicker of hatred as it rushes across this face, the sneer of distaste on his lips, and allow myself one quick grin.There it is; the evidence that I’m right about that.My father is trying to play big man on campus here, like he’s the one running the show, but the truth is rather different.He’s never had enough power or money to pull something like this off, which means he must be working for someone who does–and that quick flash of disquiet on his face was all the proof I needed to know that for the truth.
He’s working for someone else.
And he hates it.
More importantly, that means I have two targets: my father, who I want to destroy, and whoever is actually running the ring.
