One of the pictures provided by a customer leaving a glowing review gave a closer look at the spot by the door that caught my eye before. And there, plain as day, right beside the middle hinge on the door, was the painted expression with two exes for eyes and a stitched-up smile curving beneath them.
It was hard to tell if I was lucky or not, but it was enough to warrant a visit to the club tomorrow… or rather, tonight, as my bleary eyes checked the time at the corner of the screen. It was midnight now. I started this little project just after eight. Leaning back in the computer chair with a jaw-cracking yawn, my fingers snatched the glasses from where they perched on my nose and tossed them to the desk as I rubbed my face in exhaustion.
“What a pain in the ass,” I grouched and scowled at the ceiling. If this visit was a bust, I had nothing else to chase. And I did not want to go crawling back to Andrea to ask for help so soon. Or Frank, for that matter. With another yawn, I dragged myself from the chair and made my way down the hall to the master bedroom, starting an expedited version of my nightly routine in favor of scrounging a few extra minutes of sleep.
I was going to need all the help I could get hunting down the Riot and their elusive leader.
Masked Merrow Club
Lore
“Kent said there’s some guy at the door looking for you.”
My pink-lensed glasses had slipped down my nose, allowing me to peer over them at Jerel, who was my bodyguard in Taylor’s absence. His fingers were pressed to the earpiece in his left ear to mute the microphone, lounging on a black leather couch across from me and my entertainment for the night. I lifted an eyebrow in question, encouraging him to elaborate.
“You’re going to need to be a little more specific than that, Jer-bear. Guys are always looking for me.”
One of those guys was slouched at my side on a matching couch, his arm lying across the back as his fingers played with the spaghetti strap of my dress. He snorted at my dry response before draining his glass. I had dragged him off the dance floor an hour ago and brought him up to my private office—not that he knew it wasmyoffice, I’m sure he just assumed I was a piece of ass for Jerel—after getting patted down no less than three times by security. He was cute enough, mildly funny, and didn’t seem to mind me forgetting whatever name he gave despite yelling it in my ear twice. I wasn’t looking for a fucking soulmate. Especially not one that smelled like burnt licorice. I just wanted a drinking partner for the night, and possibly a nice dick ride later. It depended on my mood. This cutie in particular was going to feed another, darker appetite. One that wasn’t going to be as fun for him.
My head fell back to rest on the guy’s muscular biceps, and I heaved an annoyed sigh, trying not to breathe through my nose too much to avoid taking in more of his nasty scent. He took that as an invitation to lean in and nuzzle my neck before nipping it lightly. “Is my time up?”
This guy was a regular at clubs like the Masked Merrow. Ergo, clubs that were run by organized crime groups. If he knew to clear the room, he likely knew exactly what kind of establishment this was. I leaned over and pecked the tip of his nose with a light kiss, then pushed myself up from the cushycouch and bent to pick up my empty glass. “‘Fraid so, my dear. If you want to meet up later, write your number down on that napkin,” I gestured to the white square sitting at the edge of the low coffee table set between the couches. “If I have time tonight, I’ll call.”
A brilliant smile spread across his lips as he took a proffered pen from Jerel, showing a set of gleaming, unnaturally perfect teeth. Poor thing didn’t realize he was the prey tonight, and not the predator. After scribbling his information down, he reached over and wrapped a beefy arm around my waist to pull me in for a proper kiss. I managed to dodge his lips at the last second, turning my head at the last second for him to make contact with my cheek. He didn’t seem put out by the dodge.
“Sounds good to me. See you later.” With another tight squeeze, the man slipped out the door held open by Jerel.
“Says his name is Grant Black,” he reported, continuing the conversation once we had the office to ourselves. “It’s not a name I’m familiar with. Should I send him up?”
“Did he ask for me by name?”
He repeated my question to the bouncer at the front door and waited. “No. He just wanted to talk to the club owner.”
I jerked my head toward the far side of the soundproofed office to the desk that overlooked the club’s main floor. “Get Kent to send Mr. Black in. You can take my chair." Jerel’s face remained blank as he nodded and relayed my directions.
My back made a satisfying pop when I reached up to stretch it, before strolling to the back of the office to pull open the bottom right drawer. The matte black mask I used for situations like this stared back up at me, its X-shaped eyes and stitched mouth giving an overall playful-but-creepy expression. I had an emotional attachment to this mask design. After escaping from Elio’s captivity and running to America, I stole a mask similar to this from a Halloween store and wore it anytime I was inpublic for a whole year. Sure, I would get some weird looks, but back then, I was so paranoid that either Elio or my piece of shit father would find me that I would have full-blown panic attacks at the thought of being out in public. Since then, I upgraded the mask to a more durable carbon fiber and tricked it out with some pink backlighting in the eyes and mouth. Incorporating the expression into the Red Riot logo was my way of promising myself that I would never be that scared woman again.
I plucked the mask out and swapped it for the glasses, slipping the fitted straps over the back of my head before pushing the discreet little button on the right side by my chin to turn on the lights. The design was clever enough not to impair my vision, with three wide-view cameras placed along the forehead that projected onto a screen inside the mask. Jerel had just enough time to settle into the plush leather rolling chair when a soft knock rapped on the door. He looked to me for approval to let the guest in, and I nodded after perching myself on the edge of the desk to Jerel’s right. We had roles to play, after all.
The man Kent escorted in—Grant, I vaguely remembered his name—was interesting, to say the least. He certainly wasn’t dressed for clubbing, with a pair of pressed black slacks and a short-sleeved white button-up tucked into them. I was able to get my fill from behind the mask, taking his measure as he looked around the room behind black-framed glasses. Both his hands gripped the straps of a backpack on his broad shoulders until the knuckles turned white, his left wrist sporting a simple silver and black watch.
Something enticing and mouth-watering caught my nose on his arrival, even from all the way across the room. It was spicy, reminding me of a strong chai tea on a cold winter night. Compared to licorice asshole, whose raunchy smell still lingered a bit, this was tempting me to sink my teeth into whatever it came from. Then the visitor took a few hesitant steps furtherinto the office, disturbing the air and bringing that delicious scent with him.
That washisscent.
From the uneasy way he held himself, he probably wasn’t part of organized crime. If he was, then at the most, he was middle management. Grant seemed unbothered as Kent slipped a hand into the strap at the top of his backpack and gently pulled it from his person to hang on the nearby coat hooks mounted on the wall. It looked like it was made of leather, sturdy but definitely a high-dollar item. Whatever was in there didn’t alarm the security who searched it, or he wouldn’t have made it this far without being duct taped to a chair.
As he walked across the office, an expression of shock and amazement flickered across his stoic face. His steps stuttered for a moment, and his dark eyes flitted around the room as if looking for something, his nostrils flaring slightly with a deep breath. Then his gaze locked on me again, and his shock twisted into a full-on scowl, like I had personally offended him.
Jerel shifted in his chair as if he were about to stand and mess this guy up. Even though he couldn’t see my face, I tilted my head slightly toward Jerel in a silent gesture to stand down. Whatever this guy’s problem was with me, I could deal with it myself.
Grant casually slid his hands into his slacks’ pockets and moved toward one of the cushioned leather seats angled toward the desk. “Thank you for meeting me on short notice. I’m here on behalf of Frank DeNiro. He is interested in building some business connections. Are you the owner of this club?”
Those brown eyes seemed to see everything, narrowing slightly as he looked over Jerel lounging in my chair before glancing sideways at me. A frown pulled his lips down even further in displeasure. I folded my arms below my breasts—doing their best to reach for my chin in the push-up bra I wore—and crossed my ankles to mirror his laid-back pose as I perched on the desk’s corner. His nose wrinkled the slightest bit, the move so fast I would have missed it had I not been staring so intently at his blank face.
“I’m the only owner you should be concerned with,” Jerel answered tactfully. His meaty hands, adorned with several chunky rings, folded across the desk’s clean surface as he leaned forward. “How can I help you?”
“I was hoping to speak… privately,” Grant hedged, tossing another look my way. “Can you send away your prostitute?”
