He shrugs and drums his fingers a little harder. I try not to let it annoy me. “I have no idea. I’m just your unwilling escort who has zero ambitions to die tonight.”
“What? Did you have plans?” I look out the window, knowing exactly what he’d rather be doing by all the twitching of his digits.
“Something like that,” he murmurs. “Look, when we get there, I’ll take you to the front door, and then you’re on your own.”
“Comforting,” I whisper to the window pane.
“You’re not going to use your real name, are you?” He has the decency to look a little afraid that I might.
I chuff. “I’m not an idiot.” It was the very first thing Miles did in preparation for this, this thing we are doing against Visser’s orders. It’s a very stupid thing that we may both regret. He reminded me repeatedly when he gave me my fake ID.
“Good, good,” he mutters as he pulls to the side of the road. “We’re here. I hope you’re ready for this.”
I get a good look around and see that we’re in a rich part of East Harlem where all the brownstones and condominiums stand nice and tall and completely uninviting to any visitors of the lower classes. “Oh,” I breathe out. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.
“Ready?” he asks, shutting off the engine once more and grasping his door’s handle.
No. No, I’m not, but I’m not going to tell him that. There’s no way I’d admit to feeling like I might vomit all over his cab.
Forcing my bile down with a discrete gulp, I proclaim, “Let’s get this over with.” I grab the handle and step out into the cool, brisk night.
The way my heels clack against the sidewalk as I reach it is almost rhythmic to my heartbeat that I can feel in my neck. The slight fear. The adrenaline. Both course through me as I ask, “Which one is it?”
He points to the one in front of us with a tip of his head while he stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets. “There’s no going back now; you realize that?”
I nod, and he shakes his head and leads me up the few steps to the front door. He knocks three times before stuffing his hand right back into his pocket. I get the feeling he’s doing that to keep them from shaking from withdrawal.
“Do they know we’re coming?” I whisper when I hear footsteps from inside.
“Yes,” he whispers back, and just as he finishes, the door swings open.
A plain, stocky man dressed in a black shirt and black pants touches his gaze on Ryan before moving to me. Slowly, he takes me in, and I work like hell not to fidget under the weight of them like the addict I’m standing next to.
“Will she do?” Ryan asks, growing more fidgety by the second. I keep my eyes on the man in front of me, but I have the urge to glare at Ryan for acting like a whipped puppy dog.
There’s a flash of heat in the man’s eyes as he lingers on my breasts before he digs into his pocket and pulls out a baggie. I keep my face neutral as the baggie is passed from the man to Ryan. I don’t have to look to know that whatever is in that baggie will have him high the moment he reaches home, if he has a home.
The man steps aside and ushers me in, and when I move forward to head inside, Ryan whispers, “Good luck,” to me so quietly that I doubt this man heard him.
I’m inside in the next second, and the door is shutting behind me. I try not to gape at what’s beyond the foyer, I try to keep my face neutral as if the rich life is nothing new to me, but it’s difficult not to take it all in. The sound of Ryan’s engine roaring to life again rumbles my immediate space and rattles a few windows within.
I’m alone.
Everything is white, gray, and black. To my right, marble staircases lead to another floor with a black ornate railing. To my immediate front, the foyer spills into what is definitely the kitchen, and to my left is a living room with furniture that neither Nathan nor my salary combined could ever afford.
All of it, the show and fanciness of it all, makes me wonder if this is actually someone’s home or if it’s where the sex is shot.
My question is immediately answered as soon as Ryan’s truck is out of earshot. I glance up to the second floor when I hear the deep moans of what is definitely a female.
I don’t get long to stare at the ceiling before the man grabs my elbow and leads me through the foyer and into the kitchen. The counters are white granite with black streaks throughout. I’m sure there’s a name for that, but I’ve never been wealthy enough to even shop for that kind of luxury.
The cabinets are light gray, and every light hanging from the ceiling is gold. For a second, I wonder if that’s real gold before a throat is cleared to my left and the man holding my elbow turns me in that direction.
“You must be Charlie,” the man seated at the table says. He has jet-black hair that doesn’t match his gray eyebrows and a slimy smile that makes me recoil a little, but the firm grip on my elbow keeps me exactly where I’m at. “I’m Andre.”
He doesn’t stand. While he takes me in, he simply steeples his fingers in front of him. “This is Feenix,” he adds, and for a second, I don’t realize what he’s talking about until a man steps out from where he was hidden, having been leaning against the wall beside the large fireplace.
I can’t help it. No woman would be able to. He’s absolutely . . . the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen. And I hate it, I truly do, but my breath hitches when his deep and rumbly voice amends his introduction as, “Nix.”
