“Wake up!”
It’s been a while since the three of us passed out in the same room, so it takes me a second to realize what’s waking me up.
Tristian’s frantic voice.
My eyes blink open heavily, taking in the dark fireplace, the pile of blankets. It eventually comes back to me that we’re in the cabin, all piled on a mattress on the floor. Last night was so much like a fucked up dream that it barely seems real. I take in the facts, struggling through the fog of sleep. We’re on the floor because we were wet and cold, and Killer was shot. Killer was shot because Ugly Nick tried to fucking rob us. Only Story killed him.
A lot of ‘kill’ happening here.
Bear with me, brain.
There was the gunshot, and then Story’s confession, and then an agreement that we were going to let her go and take care of this mysterious Ted motherfucker by ourselves. There was a blunt and a kiss, the feel of Story’s hands fisted into my sweater, and then there was this mattress again.
“Goodnight, Dimitri.”
I jolt upright, scrubbing a hand over my face. The first thing I see when I turn is Killer, grimacing against the pain in his side. He’s clammy and miserable looking, and we need to get this show on the road because I’m no Ray.
Tristian is looming above us, jabbing his foot into my hip. “Wake up! Story left.”
“Gone?” I ask, craning my neck to look around the room. That doesn’t sound right. We’re not done yet. “Story?” I call, rising slowly to my feet.
Tristian rolls his eyes. “You don’t think I’ve tried that? The car’s gone, too.”
I already know she’s gone—can feel it in the coldness of the spot beside me—but I still take a cursory check of the house. The bedroom and the bathroom are both empty, and when I trudge to the window, wincing against the bright sun, my stomach drops.
It really is gone.
“Fuck.” That’s when I see it. A note on the kitchen table. Killian’s blood smears have seeped into the wood, and the paper is right in the middle of it, like a bullseye.
Her wrist cuff is laying on top of it.
“What does it say?” Killian asks, craning his neck to watch.
“Uhhh.” I start to read the note too fast, the words jumbling together. “Goddamn it,” I growl, taking a deep breath, just like Story taught me, slowly sounding out the words. “I’m going to fix this. Please don’t come for me. I hope you find a new Lady.” There’s something scribbled out at the bottom, and then, “Tell Ms. Crane I said thanks for everything.”
“That’s all?” Tristian asks, coming up to read over my shoulder. “There’s nothing to fix. We came up with a plan. Story is leaving town and we’re taking care of this Ted guy!”
Grunting, Killian tries to lift himself to a sitting position, hand clutching his side. “Story has two M.O.s. She runs away, or she makes shit worse. At least this time she left a note.” He gestures for Tristian to come help him off the floor, and Jesus wept. His face crumples into a grimace for the ages and he’s panting, even though he’s barely up on his elbows. “She couldn’t have left that long ago. We can track her. Find her and stop her before she does anything stupid.”
“Let’s stop you from doing something stupid first,” Tristian says, shaking his head as he eases Killian back down. “We need to get you to a doctor. There’s a Jeep in the garage,” he explains, standing over him. “Let me get my shoes on and we can all go find—”
“No. You’re staying here,” I tell him, grabbing my jeans and pulling them on. “Both of you.”
“What?” He reaches for his own shirt. “You’re not going alone.”
“Fucking watch me,” I snap, stabbing my arms through my sweater. “We don’t know if whoever put that hit out on Killian is still looking for him—or for the two of us. Killian needs to rest and you need to be ready for the go signal.”
“Then you should stay here. I’ll go,” he argues, moving faster. Now we’re engaged in this fucking ridiculous rendition of competitive dressing, as if whoever gets there first has dibs.
I shove on my boots and grab his gun, tucking it in the back of my pants. “It makes more sense for me to—”
He shoves my shoulder, face going hard and stormy. “I’m the one who wanted the tracker!”
“She called me Dimitri!” My words bring Tristian up short, that fire in his eyes dimming.
“When?”
Giving my laces a hard yank, I answer, “Last night.”
He scrubs a palm roughly down his face, muttering, “Fuck.”
It’s no secret between the three of us what I’ve been waiting for. I know they don’t actually get it. It’s just a name to them. But if nothing else, they both understand that it means something between Story and me—something big.
I know I’ve won when his shoulders deflate, his fingers yanking his hair back in a tight, frustrated gesture. Tristian stalks over to the kitchen and opens a drawer, pulling out a set of keys. I catch them when he tosses them to me. “You find our girl, and you bring her back to us.”
Tristian wasn’t lying last night. He’s always had issues with letting things go. For Killian and me, this has never been a bad thing. It’s hard to find true loyalty, especially in the kinds of situations we find ourselves in. I don’t think either of us really expected Tristian to let Story go—not of his own volition. Chances are, she’s trading one stalker for another, and this one has the keys to her cage in the form of that tracker. Still.
For her, he’d try.
She doesn’t realize it yet, but that’s the biggest gesture he could ever make.
I think it’s the first I’m realizing it, too, snatching up my jacket and passing him on the way out the door. Because other than his sisters, Tristian has never cared for someone more than himself. Not Genevieve. Maybe not even Killian and me.
The hard truth is that Tristian probably loves her.
The harder truth is that maybe we all do.
It doesn’t take long for the tracker to reveal Story’s location.
As soon as I drive into town, glancing down at the phone, it becomes obvious she’s in South Side. A dozen worries card through my brain. She’s turned herself in for Ugly Nick’s murder. She’s gone back to the scene of the crime to look for clues. She’s hunted down this Ted guy and is bargaining herself.
The reality is almost anticlimactic.
Daniel’s office.
I swing the Jeep toward the avenue, feeling paranoid at every car that passes. The three of us are used to having enemies, but we usually know who they are. Intimately. This Ted guy is a complete unknown factor. If he can stalk Story across state lines, murder her roommate, and hire a born-and-bred South Side foot soldier to do his dirty work, then chances are this guy has access to some serious resources.
I’ve got nothing but a phone, a gun, and a score to settle.
He can fucking try me.
Annoyingly, as I enter South Side, I notice Story’s dot on the move, speeding down the surface streets. I shift away from the avenue, following my target. She’s got a good ten minutes on me, but it’s not long until the dot becomes fixed, a stationary objective.
I know where it’s leading me, and the certainty of it sits heavy in the pit of my stomach, but it’s not until I find myself parked in front of the Velvet Hideaway that I allow myself to ask the question that’s swimming inside my brain.
“What the fuck?”
What the fuck is Story doing at Daniel’s whorehouse?
The second I climb out of the Jeep, my muscles coil. I’ve only been here a couple times since the grand opening. Once was with Killian to intimidate a rowdy client, and the other was to collect the nightly take. Daniel’s always made it clear that the three of us have credit and are free to take a go at whoever we like, but none of us have bothered with that since the early days. Daniel and credit are two things you don’t want to mix.
As soon as I walk in the door, I know something is happening. The Velvet girls are comprised of the avenue’s best hustlers, finely curated by none other than Daniel himself. He’s got a real hard on for class, considering his roots. Never understood it myself. But there’s an energy in the air, a couple girls scurrying past me, in such a hurry that no one even spares me a glance. Usually when one of us walks into this place, someone’s all over us, eager to please any one of Daniel’s pampered little show dogs.
Now, I have to wander around the first floor searching for Augustine. I find her in a parlor in the back of the estate, pulling boxes from a closet.
“Auggy,” I greet, taking in her harried expression.
“Oh, Rath!” She dusts her hands off, and despite being busy, her eyes light up at the sight of me. She goes through the motions of kissing my cheek and rubbing up against me. “What brings you here?” Augustine is a few years older, but you wouldn’t know it to look at her. Daniel likes to keep his girls looking young and fresh, and I suspect she landed this gig because she exemplifies the brand he’s striving for. Killer and Tristian are dead sure she has a massive, throbbing crush on me, but they’re not true South Side. They don’t know any better. The truth is, that freshness of hers won’t last forever. Auggy’s a whore in search of some security. The best way of getting it is to find someone important to cozy up to.
I give her a bland look. “I’m looking for—”
“Daniel,” she guesses, dropping the pretense. I don’t miss the flash of disappointment in her eyes. “He’s out back in the pit.”
I do my best to keep my surprise from my face. She doesn’t need to know I didn’t come here looking for our boss. “Is there a show or something?”
The pit is Daniel’s newest pet project—emphasis on ‘pet’. He’s spent weeks renovating the twelve car garage out back into an amphitheater-style venue. Live sex shows aren’t quite what they used to be down on the avenue. People go online for porn these days. But that’s not a barrier for him—not anymore.
Daniel has an affinity for properties, but he’s also got a fixation with sex work. Always has, for as long as I’ve known him. It’s no secret where Killer gets his obsession for owning a girl. Most dudes who get a new stepsister don’t automatically assume she’s being given as a gift to welcome him into manhood. But with Killian, it made perfect sense. That’s exactly the kind of vibe I’d expect from the Payne household. The first time he called to tell Tristian and me about it, we didn’t even bat an eye. Just said congrats and asked about her tits.
When I get out to the large building, I can sense that things are already being put into place. Someone passes me with a ladder and some extension cords. A girl rushes by with a bundle of clothing. Stepping inside, I spot Daniel instantly down in ‘the pit’, speaking to none other than Pretty Nick.
Although, I guess he’s just ‘Nick’ now.
The reigning Nick is tall and hard-looking, a lot like Killer, but with none of the flair. His tattoos aren’t the kind that are well-planned and well-funded. A lot of them are crude, probably done in someone’s kitchen over a forty ounce and a blunt. Pretty Nick is another one of Daniel’s new pet projects.
Again.
Emphasis on ‘pet’.
The look on Daniel’s face when I approach them is hard to read, but he definitely doesn’t look happy about me being here. “Where’s Killian?” is his first question.
I shift uneasily, looking around the building. The pit is meant to be visible, and that’s exactly something I don’t want to be right now. I also can’t miss the enormous iron bed set up in the middle of it. Disgusting. “He’s taking a minute. Have you seen Story?”
“Taking a minute?” Daniel asks, eyebrows furling in a way that’s never been good. He turns to Nick. “Nicholas, go get yourself cleaned up for the show. Remember what we talked about?” Pretty Nick jerks his chin in acknowledgement and leaves. Guy hardly ever talks. Weirds me the fuck out. Daniel levels me with a look, hissing, “I want to know what happened and where my fucking son is. And don’t give me some bullshit runaround, Rathbone. I already know Ugly Nick is dead, and I already know Killian was injured in the process.”
Whatever I feel at him knowing everything runs second to the certainty that only one person could have told him. “Where is she?”
Daniel shoves his phone into his pocket and folds his arms. “The girl is none of your concern.”
“She’s my Lady,” I argue, feeling brittle and frayed. “She’s always my concern!”
“Then consider this about your Lady,” he sneers, lowering his voice so the passing staff can’t hear. “She owes me, and tonight she’s going to pay off her debts. You are going to tell me where the fuck my son—” I turn on my heel and walk away, his incensed voice calling out to me. “Rath! Get back here!”
I ignore him, my blood thrumming with thick, black vitriol as I storm through the building, throwing open the first door I see. “Story!” I bark, but the room is empty—just a storage closet. I slam it and go to the next, and then the next, but she isn’t here.
No one stops me as I march across the distance between buildings, bursting into the mansion. I’ve got no idea what my face is doing, but the girls give me a wide berth, jumping aside as I climb the stairs and start searching rooms. The first door I open reveals a businessman in his late forties absolutely railing this skinny little redhead. Uncaring, I slam the door and go to the next.
Augustine catches up with me halfway down the hall. “Rath!” she whispers frantically, struggling to keep up with my long strides. “You can’t just come in here and disrupt—”
I reach behind me and pull the gun from my waistband, whirling on her to press the barrel into her throat. “Tell me where she is,” I snarl.
Her words cut off with a yelp, hands flying up defensively. “Who?! Who are you looking for?”
“Story!” I roar. “The girl doing the show tonight!”
“Upstairs!” It’s a testament to Auggy’s experience in this industry that she looks more annoyed than scared.
I lower the gun. “Sorry for yelling.”
See? I can be fucking polite.
She doesn’t look appeased, eyes narrowed as I turn and stomp away toward the staircase. The third floor is all but deserted. I know from the initial tour that it’s the girls’ living space, bedrooms meant to house three or four at a time, crowding them up into little tornadoes of resentment and designer perfume.
I find Story in the third room I check.
Her head snaps up in alarm when I barge in, those doe eyes going big and round before shifting to a new sort of shock. “Dimitri! What are you—”
I storm inside and grab her arm, hauling her out of the armchair. I know my voice is too hard when I say, “We’re leaving,” but the sight of her in a plaid skirt and knee-highs has my teeth gnashing.
She doesn’t struggle until we reach the door, pulling up short and yanking her wrist back. “Wait! I can’t!”
“Is this what you want?” I snap, turning to shove her against the wall. “You want to be a whore, like your mom?”
The click of a gun being cocked is loud in the silence, but it’s not as jarring as the feel of a barrel pressing into the back of my head. Story’s face pales, but I just roll my eyes, assuring her, “That’s just karma coming back to bite me.”
It’s also sloppy.
With a duck and twist, I’ve got Pretty Nick up against the door, the barrel of my own gun digging into the space below his chin. “We’ve already killed one Nick,” I bite out, annoyed by the smirk he gives me. “Think that’s funny? I’ve been told once or twice that my trigger finger is twitchy. Might want to watch yourself, Nicholas.”
“I’m just doing what the bossman says,” he says, lifting a shoulder in a loose shrug. “Watch over the girl. Check to make sure she’s got a clean, smooth twat. Freak her out a bit so she’s resistant during the show.”
My trigger finger really does feel twitchy then, jaw clenching as I imagine this motherfucker peeking his way under Story’s skirt. Taking her down to the pit. Holding her down and fucking her. Making her resistant.
“Dimitri,” Story says, voice trembling. “Don’t. Please?”
I know she’s right. The last thing the three of us need is another dead body is this fucking mess. Still, it isn’t until I feel her hand on my shoulder that I shove away from Pretty Nick, spitting, “Get the fuck out of here. Tell Daniel I said he can find another twat.”
Nick wiggles the gun in his hand. “He won’t like that.”
“I don’t think I give a shit!” I swing the door open and show it to him, unbothered by the glance he gives me on the way out. “What the fuck are you doing?” I ask her, trying to shove down the furious, injured thing clawing inside my chest. “You want to fuck that caveman in front of everyone?!”
Her gaze turns flinty. “Of course I don’t!”
“Then why are you here?”
“For us!” she screams, and the way her eyes go shiny makes me want to pull this trigger on something. Anything. “He said if I don’t clear my debts, he’s not going to cover up what happened with Ugly Nick. He said…” Her chest hitches, and she looks away, eyes welling with unshed tears. “He said he’d let you take the fall with me.”
I take in this information in increments, but it all leads to the same place. “Story.” She doesn’t meet my gaze, even when I push my gun into my pants and frame her face, ducking to search her eyes. “Baby, he’s bluffing.”
“You don’t know that,” she replies, voice strained. “You don’t know him—not the way I do. This isn’t about the money, Dimitri.” A tear finally brims over, tracking down her cheek. “I thought—I said Tristian could—because he has money, and he’d…” But she shakes her head. “Daniel just wants to humiliate me. He wants to ruin me.”
I give her a gentle shake. “I won’t let that happen.”
She pulls in a sniffle, squaring her shoulders. “You have to.” Before I can argue, she looks me in the eye. “This is all connected, don’t you see? Ted, Daniel, Killian, all of it. If I do this, he’ll let me go. He’ll leave us alone. It’s only one time, and it’s not like—”
“Don’t,” I growl, unable to hear her rationalize this. I hold her gaze, willing her to see the truth in my next words. “If I have to watch that guy fuck you, then I won’t be able to stop myself. I’ll kill him.”
Her breath stalls in her chest at my words, but before she can respond, the door is flying open.
Daniel’s mouth is pressed into an unimpressed line. “You’re trying my patience, boy.”
I never knew my father. He was supposedly someone my mother loved, but he dipped out before I was old enough to form a memory of him. Daniel was the closest thing I ever had to one. When we were younger, he used to call us that. His boys. As if the three of us were brothers. Family. My mom never much liked it, because she knew the kind of shit Daniel had his hands in. But me? Oh, I ate that shit up with a spoon.
I let my hands fall from Story’s face, turning to him. “You’re really going to whore out your own stepdaughter.”
If I thought putting it into the bluntest terms imaginable would elicit even a morsel of shame, then I’m disappointed. Daniel doesn’t even blink. “Story’s been selling herself since she moved into my house. You know that as well as I do. What do you think she’s been doing in that house with you for the last month?”
The question hits me, and the answer isn’t as easy as a snappy comeback. Story has changed us since she came back. She’s brought out the worst in us, but she’s also managed to reveal the best in us.
“She’s ours,” I tell him. “You have no right to her.”
And he laughs. “Didn’t I teach you anything, Rath?” Raising an eyebrow, he looks around the room. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law. Just because I let the four of you entertain this arrangement of yours doesn’t change the fact that she’s my asset. Always has been.”
Clenching my fists, I chew out a terse, “We have money.”
“This isn’t a debt that can be paid off with Mercer money,” he snaps, confirming Story’s words. “Tonight, she’s going to be down in the pit taking someone’s cock. Come to terms with that however you like. I see you’ve formed some kind of,” his lip curls, “attachment. That’s not my problem. This is a business. You’re going to walk out this fucking door with me and mind your own.” To Story, he thrusts out a finger, voice full of threat. “If I see one hair on that cunt tonight, you’re going to be taking a second dick in a second hole.”
I feel her shudder against my back, fingers curled into my leather jacket.
I have to wade through an ocean of red-hot fury to find the word that jumped out at me in that tirade. Something important.
Something useful.
The idea forms in my head, and it’s complete crap. There’s no dressing it up, otherwise. It doesn’t include getting Story out of here before she’s forced to give away another part of herself. Daniel wouldn’t allow it—I see that now. He’s full of shit. This isn’t about business. This is something personal, and I know Daniel well enough to understand what that means. I’m not going to be able to stop her from going into that pit.
I press my phone into Story’s hands, pitching my voice to a whisper. “You call one of the others if something happens, you understand?”
She looks at the phone owlishly, something dark and haunted swimming in her eyes. “I-I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” I assure her, grabbing her chin to wrench her gaze to mine. “We’ve made you do some really fucked up shit, Cherry, and you’ve handled it. You’re not some trashy avenue skank. You’re a Lady. Don’t you fucking forget that.”
I don’t give her a chance to argue. I march out of the room, knowing Daniel is right behind me. As soon as I hear him close the door, I set my jaw and turn to him—this man I’ve seen as a father.
A mentor.
A King.
“I want to make a deal.”
