“I know this is a very stressful time for you and your husband. I’m going to do everything I can to find your daughters.” Slash offered an encouraging smile. After thanking her for her time, Slash left.
After jumping in her SUV, she checked her phone. A text from Carrera sent a wave of excitement rushing through her.
Easy. It’s just a text about work. Work that involves sex.
Her phone rang with a call from Providence.
“Hey, boss,” Slash answered as she drove out of the parking lot.
“How’s the case?” Providence asked.
“Karen is a pain in the ass, but I learned the owner let’s her run the club.”
“Is the owner on site?” Providence asked.
“I don’t know. She’s pretty tight-lipped. I saw her escort a dancer and a member into a locked room. I’m thinking it’s the VIP rooms.”
“Hmm, any chance you can get back there without risking your own safety?”
A very sexy Carrera popped into her thoughts. “I’m working on that.”
“Let me know if you need anything.” Providence ended the call.
As Slash slogged through rush hour traffic, she thought about Terri and Kim Billiawitz. She now had the name of a man—Greg—though that was probably an alias. And she had a man with a possible M.O.
He invites them into a VIP room, doesn’t want sex, tells them he’s a spy. Instead of running his mouth, he gets them to talk, gains their trust… then bumps into them outside of the club and asks them out.
She hated that people were so gullible. That they believed others were good. She used to be like that, until her life went sideways and she found out that evil lurkseverywhere.
In her townhouse, Slash stripped out of her pantsuit and pulled on shorts, a running bra, and a tank top. On went her running shoes and her armband phone holder. Before inserting her phone, she remembered that she’dforgottento read Carrera’s text.
That made her smile.
There was a time when she lived for texts from the best boyfriend in the world, who ended up being the biggest shit on the planet.
Now, he was her partner, working a case neither had been assigned. Enemies going rogue together.
That’s a recipe for getting our asses sacked.
She tapped on his text and read it.
Looking forward to tonight. Dinner at 7?
It was almost five-thirty.
Just got home. Going for a run. 8 is better.
Her phone rang, and her heart did that annoying little flippy thing when she saw it was him.
“Talk dirty to me,” she answered.
“I can do a lot more than talk.” His deep voice rumbled through her like thunder.
“I’m not sure you can even do that,” she replied.
“I’ll go running with you.”
“Yeah, so that’s not happening?—”
