“Russians,” I say in a way of explanation with a slight chuckle that I don’t exactly feel.
He turns to face me once more. There’s mischief dancing in his eyes, and I know it’s because he’s about to get paid more than he’s worth. “There’s another shipment of them coming in tomorrow. The boss will be pleased.”
“Should be.” I twist my lips to the side for a second, contemplating whether or not I want to ask, but then I do anyway. “The boss coming to this one?”
He rolls his eyes. “Of course not. He’ll get the pictures like he always does, and then he’ll watch the bidding like he always does.” He points to the video camera set up at the back of the warehouse that’s angled toward the front.
“Watching his dollars roll in.”
Andre nods curtly. “Basically, yes.”
We focus our attention on the stage where another woman is being dragged to the front. This one doesn’t fight, and I know then that she’s not going to go for a high price. As soon as she gets up front, Andre’s men push back her hair and start stripping her clothes. But I freeze because her blonde head of hair, rosy cheeks, and trembling bottom lip remind me of someone. Someone I try to forget.
All the feelings I shoved deep inside come roaring back to life, and I grip my glass a little tighter. If she smiled, I’m sure she’d look exactly like the woman in my memories. It’s not her, I know this, but my mind...
The emotions threaten to smother me.
I drain the rest of my glass, give it back to the bartender, and whirl to leave.
“You’re leaving?” Andre calls after me as I stride toward the door.
I don’t bother answering him because anything I say will be used against me later.
“Pussy,” I hear him say, and I stop in my tracks and slowly turn to face him.
He’s wearing that smirk again, and my feet move before I tell them to.
From under my jacket, tucked into my jeans, I pull out my Glock and shove it under his chin as soon as I reach him. I’ll give him credit; he doesn’t move an inch.
I lean toward his ear as I deeply, quietly, say, “You may think you know who you’re dealing with, but you won’tfully know until I put a bullet through your head.” His mouth parts just a fraction, but he tries to remain outwardly unaffected. “On your last plea for your life, that’s when you know exactly who’s the pussy.” With my free hand, I sweep the room without backing away from him. “And then I’ll sell your body to be fucked in the ass by one of your groupies.”
I press the gun a little tighter under his jaw, hoping to leave an imprint as a reminder for when I’m gone, and then shove it back into my jeans before striding out the door.
No emotions. Not here. I tuck them down, down, down until I feel nothing but my shoes pressing against the floor and the cool fall breeze lick at my cheeks as soon as I’m outside.
Chapter Five
Charlotte Mitchell
In the dead of the night, I took a cab to East 116th Street and Lexington Avenue. The driver was a sleepy, overworked guy, and we rode in silence. The sounds of the slight traffic filled the quiet until we arrived here. He did look at me a little weird when I climbed out. I can’t say that I blame him. The way that I’m dressed is telling to what I might be up to at this hour and in this neighborhood.
That was ten minutes ago. Now, in front of a market, I wait under a street lamp like an idiot. I’m dressed in a skimpy black dress that shows more thigh than I care to admit with high black heels that I just may break my ankle in. I chose not to wear jewelry because, honestly, I don’t want to get robbed. East Harlem isn’t the place for girls dressed like me, girls waiting alone on a corner for someone to pick them up by someone they don’t know.
Across the street, men with baggy, dark clothes strideby, but thankfully, they only cat-call and don’t make their way over to harass me. With a clench of my jaw, I touch my curled hair and flatten it against the breeze that blows out of Lexington Avenue.
God, I probably look like a hooker right now.
If it weren’t for the tracker on my fake glasses, I’d be a little afraid. Can I handle myself? Yes, I was trained to. But there’s always that chance…
For a moment, I have second thoughts about doing this. Scratch that. Not for a moment – for the entire night a little voice in my head told me to rethink this.
Going to a porn house? Applying – if that’s even what it’s called – to be a porn star? I’ve never done anything like this. I’ve always been on a straight and narrow path, but to fuck random people and have it being recorded? Displayed for the world to see? It makes my stomach flip more than the idea of possibly getting caught and dying for the true reason I’m there. I could easily be that woman in the picture Miles showed Peyton. That could be me before I ever figure out who is on top of this ‘business’ as Peyton liked to call it.
“I can do this,” I whisper to myself as I pull my clutch out of my armpit and hold it in front of me with both hands. Because even though that woman died, the dead don’t die. She had a story to tell with her death, and I have every intention of dragging it into the light and bringing the bastard responsible to justice. For her. For them because I know for a fact that she’s not the only victim here.
I open my clutch and pull out my phone to check the time. He’s late by twenty minutes, and I breathe a heavy sigh at how annoying it is to be ditched. I swipe open my phone. Just as I open up the app for the cab company to get another ride back to my apartment, a rusted Chevypulls off to the side of the road at the corner of Lexington Avenue, right across the street.
A chill runs down my spine as I freeze in place, phone still suspended in front of me. I stand there for a moment, finger poised on my screen, while I watch this truck with rapt concern. Either it’s him or . . .
