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  Gill would come to heel.

  I wondered if I should monitor the rats in the warehouse since, if they abandoned a sinking ship, perhaps, even in a warehouse, they’d do the same and this would provide forewarning when the house that Clive Shade built was going to come crashing down.

  I again knew it served no purpose to say what I was next going to say considering I’d mentioned this to my sister repeatedly and she’d ignored it repeatedly.

  I didn’t give up.

  “We need to focus on the legitimate businesses, Georgia.”

  “Facilitating the export of dart guns is not going to keep you in your house, Olivia,” she retorted.

  “Perhaps not, but that’s not all we have and we don’t pay enough attention to any of it, including the man Dad has handling it.”

  Now it was me saying something she knew, mostly because I’d been sharing my concerns about this now for years.

  But David Littleton was Dad’s man. A friend from back in the day. They’d met in grade school.

  So David got to do what he wanted.

  “David is good,” Georgia decreed.

  “David has too much power and not enough oversight.”

  “Then oversee him.”

  My back shot straight. “Is that permission?”

  “Fuck yeah,” Georgia said. “What do I care?”

  Georgia was my big sister.

  Georgia was also heir to the throne.

  Therefore, Georgia was higher up on the hierarchy. I had autonomy to manage our soldiers and keep the books, but I deferred to her in all other matters.

  “You didn’t want me interfering before,” I pointed out.

  “My baby sister wasn’t selling her house so we could inject that cash into our operation before. Deal with David. I don’t get what you get from him so you don’t have to bother telling me I’m right if you find out I am. But I also don’t do our books. Goes without saying, if I’m wrong, I want to know.”

  “Okay, Georgie.”

  “And I’ve got some stuff I’ve been working on for a while. Things are looking good with it. Once I know it’s solid, we’ll make a meet. Okay?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  I wanted this to be promising.

  As hard as my sister worked and had done it for years, with the results of that so far I was not holding too much hope.

  “Great, sis. Go out tonight. Have fun,” she ordered. “See you tomorrow.”

  “All right. See you.”

  She disconnected.

  I dropped my phone hand to the counter but just stared at it.

  I looked behind me to the fridge.

  There wasn’t much in it.

  I should go to the grocery store. Or I should call Bistro Vendôme and see if they had an opening. Or perhaps even find a nice, trendy bar with good lighting and expensive cocktails and go there, people watch, find someone to fuck then come home.

  I looked from the fridge to my house which needed to be sold. I only had a few hundred thousand dollars-worth of equity in it, but with Dad shooting soldiers and ten thousand dollars in cash going out to doctors, not to mention other bills, salaries to pay—we needed every penny we could get.

  I had a dinner appointment with my mother in a week.

  I had a father who was out of his mind and no matter how much Georgie worked and I schemed and scrimped, he was going to bury us. I knew it.

  I’d never see Green again and I’d miss him. He’d always been sweet and respectful to me. Also, I worried there was a good possibility I wouldn’t see Green again because Dad or Georgia would make it so no one would see him again…ever.

  And I knew the last load of product Georgia had managed to get her hands on was of inferior quality, but more importantly, it was running out. If Georgia didn’t get the boys something, Green wouldn’t be the only one to go in one way or another.

  I just knew the only two who couldn’t go were Georgia and me and I was probably the one who wanted to go most of all.

  With all this on my mind, I didn’t go to the grocery store or call Bistro Vendôme. I also didn’t go for a drink at a nice bar.

  I went to the closet in my bedroom and direct to the wall safe installed there. I opened it and grabbed one of the four burner phones I kept in it.

  I engaged the phone, went to contacts, scrolled down to B. Ross and hit her number.

  I put the phone to my ear.

  “Ms. Lincoln,” a woman answered. “It’s been some time.”

  Now even Ross was telling me something I knew.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “I know it’s late notice but do you have any openings tonight?” I asked.

  “In the private salons, I’m afraid not.”

  I drew breath in my nose.

  That was disappointing.

  “However, we’ve had no one book in the social viewing chamber,” she went on. “And it’s late in the day and quite rare for anyone to call at this time. Although if another booking comes in, I must accept, at this moment, you would have the social chamber to yourself.”

  I looked to my watch. It was well after six. Normally when I went to the club I would call days in advance to be certain to have a private salon.

  But what did it matter? I’d go. I’d enjoy a drink. I’d enjoy the performances, perhaps in the company of someone else, but who cared?

  After that, I’d come home and take care of myself, making myself come hard. And maybe I’d sleep without everything weighing down on me, making that sleep restless and inadequate, which meant I’d wake up exhausted with puffy eyes and no motivation to take on the day. But rather, I’d sleep well and get up with some infinitesimal motivation to take on the day.

  “I’ll book the social chamber,” I told her.

  “We’ll see to that,” she replied. “When can we have your drink waiting for you?”

  “I’ll be arriving at ten thirty.”

  “We’ll see you then, Ms. Lincoln.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Ross.”

  “My pleasure,” she said then disconnected.

  I took the phone from my ear, called Harry and set him up to pick me up to take me to the club.

  That settled, I moved to my fridge in order to make a salad.

  * * * * *

  Alias B. Ross

  B. Ross put the phone down on Ms. Lincoln and moved to her purse in the back room. She took out her personal cell and scrolled down the contacts. She found his name and engaged.

  She felt her heart beating hard. Since she first saw him, he’d always made her heart beat hard. He also made her pussy get wet. Not to mention a variety of other things.

  “In the middle of something, babe,” he said as greeting, sounding distracted.

  She hated it when he was busy (or distracted), which was often. Before she’d had him, when she made excuses to contact him, and especially after she’d had him.

  “She’s coming,” B. replied on a whisper, head bowed.

  She didn’t want any staff to hear. When at work, they were banned from making personal calls.

  Though, since this was an order from her boss, it wasn’t exactly personal.

  Still, he’d made it clear he wanted this matter treated with the utmost confidentiality.

  And she was a girl who lived to serve.

  “What?” he asked, now sounding a lot less distracted.

  “She’s coming. Tonight. Ten thirty. I told her all the salons were booked. She’s in social, where you asked me to put her.”

  “Do not put anyone else in there,” he ordered. “And cameras off the minute you leave her in there.”

  “Okay,” she agreed. “Does that mean you’re coming?”

  “Yeah.”

  Her heart skipped.

  “Just so you know, I’d tell another client who shows that someone else is expected in the chamber,” she told him. “She’s never gone social as far as I know but she’ll know to expect that. You can’t just show. She’ll know that’s fishy.”

&
nbsp; “Then share she’ll have company,” he allowed.

  “Okay. See you later, Nick.”

  “Later,” he grunted perfunctorily then disengaged.

  But she was going to see him later so she didn’t mind his abruptness.

  She smiled, stowed her cell and walked back to reception, anticipating Nick Sebring’s arrival and hoping, after he did whatever he did with Olivia Shade, a.k.a. Ms. Lincoln, he’d have time for her.

  Chapter Three

  Dawn Coming

  Olivia

  I leaned toward the front seat of the car, the folded bills between my fingers, my eyes on Harry’s profile.

  “As usual, I’ll probably be a few hours, Harry,” I told him, extending my hand over the seat.

  He turned to catch my eyes. “Walk you to the door.”

  I allowed my lips to curl up and my eyes to get moderately soft.

  Harry was a leftover from a different time. A time long ago when I’d slept easier. When I believed my daydreams could come true. When a look or a stolen touch was a promise. When plans were whispered and my stomach flip-flopped or my heart skipped with excitement at the mere thought of carrying them out. When I faced the dawn every day joyful because one day I knew it would be over. I would be free. We would be free. We’d be normal. We’d be together. We’d make babies. We’d grow old together. We’d be happy.

  We’d die clean.

  He’d helped us, Harry had. He’d helped me and Tommy.

  Because my sister loved me and because Harry was a leftover from my grandfather, out of respect for me (from Georgia) and for my dead grandfather (from Dad), they’d let Harry live. They’d made him unemployable and taken nearly everything he had so he lived in a tiny house in a terrible neighborhood taking jobs at odd hours, all of them for casharry

  , all of them, except mine, for a lot less cash than he should considering many of them were dangerous.

  Sixty-eight-years-old, scrimping, saving and destined to work until the day he died or was killed because he was at the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people.

  This was why the bill in my hand was a hundred dollars and the bill I’d hand him when he took me home in a few hours would be the same.

  This was also why he had no choice but to accept it.

  I used him only for the club.

  My car had a tracker on it and my home randomly had someone watching it.

  Dad had a long memory.

  Harry knew how to spot surveillance. He also knew how to avoid it. He’d taught me both and utilized both for me.

  We were good at our game. We’d had practice.

  In the end, when it mattered most, not good enough.

  But good enough to get me to the club.

  “Harry,” I said in my soft voice. “They have cameras in this alley and Mr. Revere is right there to open the door for me.” I didn’t move my head to indicate the big man standing under the lone light in the alley, his eyes on Harry’s shiny, well-kept but not-near-new black Lincoln Town Car. I didn’t have to. Harry knew he was there. “You don’t have to walk me to the door.”

  Harry continued to look at me for half a second before he turned and opened his door.

  I sat back on a sigh.

  He came around and opened my door. He shut it after I climbed out.

  His hand to my elbow, his head turning this way and that to scan the empty alley, he walked me to Mr. Revere.

  “Ms. Lincoln,” Mr. Revere greeted as we got close.

  I nodded to him.

  Mr. Revere jerked his chin up to Harry and moved to open the door of the club.

  I turned to Harry, his hand dropped from my arm and I grabbed it. Pressing the bill into his palm, I gave him a squeeze and let him go.

  “I’ll text you when I’m ready for a pickup,” I told him what I always told him.

  Like much of what I said, these were wasted words.

  Harry jerked his head to the side. “I’ll be parked down the way.”

  He didn’t need to be close. He didn’t need to have my back. No one was going to charge into the building with tommy guns and shoot the place up, whereupon Harry had to be close in order to rescue me and/or provide a quick getaway.

  “You can go have a drink,” I said. “Something to eat. Go home and catch a program. You don’t have to—”

  He interrupted me. “I’ll be down the way, Olivia.”

  Wasted words.

  I didn’t know why I bothered.

  I needed to learn to stop doing that.

  I nodded. “Thank you, Harry.”

  He nodded back, jerked his chin to Mr. Revere and didn’t move until I was through the door Mr. Revere was holding open for me.

  I walked through the narrow, dark vestibule of the private VIP entrance to the club where Mr. Paine was lurking in the shadows.

  They were very good at security here.

  Security and, for VIPs, anonymity.

  Everyone’s name was an alias, including staff.

  I tipped my head to the side as I passed Mr. Paine and moved into the reception area which was lined with deep-seated, comfortable, curved couches with plenty of tables around for easy access to lay drinks, although it was infrequent people lingered in reception. That said, the club was available for private parties and this area was used for that when the club was closed down to accommodate such an event.

  There were large and small bouquets of extraordinarily arranged, fresh-cut flowers, the air heavy with the aroma of them, the biggest at the reception desk behind which Ms. Ross was standing.

  Her thick, dark hair was swept back in an artful messy bun. Her eyes were expertly and dramatically made up. Her dress fit perfectly. And I would find, when she walked around the reception desk to lead me up the stairs, her shoes cost twelve hundred dollars.

  “Ms. Lincoln,” she greeted with a small smile, already on the move. “Welcome. We’re ready for you.”

  “Thank you,” I murmured.

  Ms. Ross’s eyes went beyond me. “Can Mr. Arthur take your coat?”

  I shrugged off my coat and handed it to a man that had moved out of the shadows of the cloakroom just off from the reception desk.

  He said nothing. Just disappeared from whence he came.

  I moved silently up the thick-carpeted steps behind Ms. Ross.

  “I hope you enjoy our program tonight. It’s already begun, as you know.”

  I was still murmuring when I replied, “I’m sure I will.”

  “Midori, vodka and Fresca, correct?” she asked when she reached the top.

  I cleared the last step behind her. “Yes.”

  “Excellent,” she replied.

  We moved down the hall that was handsomely appointed, intimately lit and it had a number of doors leading off of it, all to the right side.

  She led me to the middle one, the only one with double doors.

  She opened one side and stood out of my way for me to precede her.

  I walked into the social viewing chamber and heard it immediately, the hall and reception being soundproofed, but the viewing rooms absolutely not.

  I looked to the floor to ceiling one-way window and felt my mouth tighten.

  Ms. Ross got close, read my look and gave her expert opinion. “It looks like this scene won’t last much longer.”

  I stared at the women through the window. Considering the cost of membership…hell, considering I was even there, I did not judge what people did, what they liked.

  But a woman performing cunnilingus on another woman didn’t do anything for me.

  Man on man, absolutely.

  I just was not turned on by same-sex play if they were my sex.

  I looked from the window to the chamber, which I’d been in only once, when I’d taken a tour after being cleared for VIP membership two and a half years ago.

  Again intimately lit, there were five segmented seating sections with low walls separating them, the flooring theater-style. The front four sections on two rises having
two comfortable chairs in each section for relaxed viewing and a table for drinks and snacks. The seating section at the top rise sat six.

  My drink was at the bottom level, closest to the window and the right wall.

  “We surprisingly had another booking come in after yours,” Ms. Ross informed me.

  I looked her way, not thrilled at this news.

  “A new member, I’m afraid,” she carried on. “He’s been notified of the rules, of course. He’s also been here more than once and behaved accordingly so you both should be able to enjoy your viewings without concern and with minimal interruption.”

  “When is he due to arrive?” I asked.

  “Sometime between now and midnight,” she answered.

  A vague arrival. Something else I didn’t like.

  “He orders his drinks when he’s here,” she continued. “So I’m afraid unless you want us to interrupt you to inform you of his arrival, you’ll have no warning prior.”

  I nodded, offering no reply, and made a move to the steps that led down to my seat.

  “Enjoy,” she murmured to my back.

  “Thank you,” I returned, not glancing at her when I did.

  I moved to my seat, stowed my clutch, took a sip of my drink and then pulled out my phone to check email and otherwise kill time while the women finished their scene.

  The club, obviously, was a sex club. Intensely private and relatively secret (“relatively” because they had to be known to attract members), it was independently owned.

  All players in all scenes were freelance, auditioned and paid well.

  There was a member section which had an entry from the street, but, like VIPs, all members needed to pass a vetting process, pay a yearly membership fee but also pay an hourly or nightly viewing fee. Non-VIPs could show when they wished without a booking, paid for their drinks at the bar and sat in a common viewing area with their brethren.

  The scenes were played out on the upper floor. The lower floor for non-VIPs was simply a nightclub. There was music, liquor, dancing and men and women behind screens performing dances that hinted at the real thing, that real thing being something that could be found beyond security up a set of hidden stairs.

  Obviously, there was also the VIP section, which had its own entry and a higher level of service, providing much more discretion and vastly superior accommodation.