“How—my computer,” I drawl.
“Iron was impressed.”
“Did you go through it too?” Not like it matters, since Iron tells him everything, just like I thought.
“No, like I said, computers are not my strong suit.”
“What is?” I question before really thinking about it.
Winger takes so long to answer, I almost think he’s just going to ignore me, but eventually, he says, “Keeping people in line.”
I wish I would have just kept my mouth shut, because seconds later, he’s rising from the stool and heading back toward his room. I don’t know what, if anything, I should say to get him to stay, so I keep my mouth shut for once.
* * *
I gasp and sit up,disoriented. I must have fallen asleep on the couch while watching TV, and now someone is banging on the door like it’s the cops with a warrant.
Winger is already near the entrance when I look over, shaking his head. “I told you I was coming,” he snarls as he opens the door.
A big guy with tan skin and short dark hair stalks past him, searching the room. It’s the same man who was with Winger when he told me to close the door. The stranger’s eyes land on me, and he grins widely. “Stalker.” He greets me as if that’s my real name.
“Iron?” I look the guy up and down, noting the name is aptly fitting somehow, but more importantly, he has my laptop clutched in his hand, making it look small against his thigh. “You’re the computer nerd?”
Winger slams the door loudly and gives Iron a shoulder check before stomping into the kitchen.
“You’re the lucky little killer?” he retorts. I dart my eyes over to Winger. He’s said the same thing before. Did he tell him that too?
“Not lucky.” I rise from the couch and walk back toward the window to put some space between us as he enters the kitchen area. His eyes track me, seeing too much. He knows about my past, and I don’t know if he’s going to try to use it against me in some way.
“Have a seat.” Winger invites Iron by using his foot to shove out the stool and block his path into the living room. The newcomer bounces his gaze between the two of us, and his smile tips up even wider, but he pulls out the other stool and plops into it, as if he didn’t just want to listen to Winger.
My laptop gets placed on the island in front of him, and he flips open the top as if it’s his. “You put way too much faith in the onboard systems.” He makes sure to glance over so I know he’s talking to me.
I watch as his fingers fly over the keys, inputting a password into a new security system. “Even the cops could have gotten into this thing. It would have been a done deal, sneaky boots. You like the idea of being locked up?” He glances at me again briefly like some weird disapproving teacher, even though he looks nothing like any teacher I ever had.
“No,” I scoff. “I was just confident I wouldn’t get caught.”
“That was dumb.” He shakes his head.
“Why are you here?” Winger asks, as if he were the one who was just insulted.
“Because I live to piss you off,” Iron responds without even looking up from his task.
“You love to piss everyone off.”
“Agreed, I also wanted to chat with sneaky boots and show her this.” Iron shifts the computer to the side so I can see the screen.
I take a hesitant step closer to see what looks like a colorful flyer on the screen. “Cocktails and Carnivals” is scrolled above an illustrated strong man, and printed in a large star to the right it says, “Get your tickets today.” I don’t understand why he’s showing me this until I get to the bottom and see it’s a charity event for Mickey’s House and Dean Nichols is one of the major sponsors.
When I lean back, Iron knows that I’m done reading. “Pretty fucking bold, don’t you think?”
“Not really. I’ve found that they like to think they are untouchable,” I answer truthfully. They live in a different world, a privileged world, where money can buy them anything, including the souls of little girls.
I’m not remotely surprised Dylan-slash-Dean has his hand in the honey pot. It’s the perfect place to find victims. Desperate women who have already accepted the worst life has to offer will think they are going to get help in a place like that, only to find out there’s someone there to use them. It doesn’t excuse Shelby or anyone else for selling us out, but it could be an explanation as to how this began, at least for me.
He could have found Shelby in a place just like Mickey’s House. It does make me wonder if he’s the one who orchestrated all of this. He could easily be providing information to the rest of the assholes, curating victims that don’t touch their beautiful lives, the kind of easy marks that no one listens to, disposable fodder.
When I pull myself out of my thoughts, I find Winger watching me. His blue eyes, which still somehow seem dark, pierce me, making me feel exposed. Knowing that he knows what happened to me, that he put the pieces together when no one else did or cared to, is heartbreaking.
