by Kate Kessler
“I need to make it out alive.”
Story nodded. “We’ll take the Civic.”
Killian stared at her in disbelief. “A Honda?”
“Most popular car in the US. Tens of thousands of them sold every year.” Story smiled. “Were you expecting something flashier? A black-cherry Corvette, maybe?” She rolled her eyes at Dash as she spoke.
“I was expecting something, yeah.”
Folding her arms across her chest, the other woman sobered. “Look at me. Do you see anything special about me? Anything that would help you pick me out of a lineup or describe me to the cops?” When Killian shook her head, she continued. “I look this way for a reason, and my cars don’t stand out because that is detrimental to me being able to do my job—which is get my cargo and passengers where they need to be without being noticed.”
“Story’s not just a driver, and her Civic’s not just a Civic,” Dash assured her. “It looks like one, but that’s about it. Everything else has been customized.”
Killian turned her gaze to him. “By you?”
He nodded, and that was all the assurance she needed. She knew how good Dash’s work was, and she could only assume he’d gotten better while she was locked up. She nodded. “Okay, then.”
They returned to Dash’s shop, where Story traded in the SUV she was currently driving for a black Civic from one of the storage buildings out back.
“How many cars do you keep here?” Killian asked.
Story shrugged. “A couple at all times, though they alternate. I have places across the country where I keep cars in case I need them.”
Nine years in prison after years of running with an MC and Killian had never heard of a similar setup. Never knew anyone quite like this woman, or the “new” Dash. Whatever they were into, it was either incredibly big or incredibly small. Regardless, it was effective if she’d never heard of it, and she didn’t like it.
It made her feel small-time. Stupid. Slow. One thing she’d never been was slow.
Story popped the trunk. There was a blanket, a first-aid kit, and a jack. Then she opened the false bottom.
“Jesus,” Killian whispered. Guns. Lots of guns. All laid out nice and neat in custom-carved spaces in the dense foam. She immediately glanced up.
“No cameras back here,” Dash told her, apparently reading her mind.
Story smiled. “Privacy is part of the package.” And then: “Take what you want.”
Killian had never been a big fan of guns, preferring to do damage up close and personal. However, there were some people who only understood you when you spoke in semi-automatic. She reached in and withdrew a 9mm. It was a good weight and felt comfortable in her hand. It had been a long time since she’d carried, but it was like riding a bike, right?
The other woman offered her a couple clips of ammo. “I have knives, too.”
The weight of her own knife was reassuring against her leg, as were the brass knuckles in her pockets. “I’m good, thanks.”
“Ready?”
She nodded.
Dash stopped her before she got into the car. “I’ll be at the brothel tonight with the Crows. You need anything, you call me.”
Story opened the door for her and she climbed into the passenger seat of the Civic. What the fuck was she doing? Closing her eyes, she leaned back against the seat and took a deep breath.
Most of the drive to The Kitten Hole—which was in Hartford—was spent looking out the window at the fading daylight. Killian checked her phone. There was a text from Megan asking her if she’d heard anything. She quickly typed back, Following a lead. Will call later. Love you.
God, she hoped she found Shannon. She wanted to take her home. Wanted to see her safe with Megan and being a normal kid. Whatever else happened, whatever the consequences, she just needed to know Shannon was going to be okay.
“Everything all right?” Story asked.
Killian shoved the phone in her pocket. “Fine. So, how well do you really know Dash?”
Her gaze never left the road. “Are you asking me if I’ve slept with him?”
“I guess so, yeah.”
“Our relationship is purely professional. You?”
“Old friends.”
The other woman didn’t push, didn’t make any dubious noises or shoot her a mocking glance. She flicked the blinker for the off-ramp and steered the car off the highway. “He’s a good friend to have.”
Killian didn’t respond. There wasn’t a need.
Hartford hadn’t changed much since the last time she’d been there. There were a couple of new buildings downtown, and some that had been renovated. It looked pretty from a distance, especially with the river flanking it, but there were parts of the city that were in direct conflict with most of the country’s image of Connecticut. A lot of people thought of the Greenwich contingent when they thought of the state—rich and white. And old. What they missed was the poverty, the slums, and the forgotten industry of the mid-twentieth century. Connecticut was like a mansion with good bones but rotting carpet.
The Kitten Hole was in a part of town where the trendy gave way to run-down. The parking lot had been recently paved, and the exterior of the building had been slapped with a fresh coat of paint, but even the face-lift couldn’t mask the film of desperation that clung to the place. It was just something unique to strip clubs, Killian thought. The air was different. To be honest, they made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. Even if you weren’t on the stage, men in these places looked at you—and treated you—like you ought to be.
“I’ll be here the entire time,” came Story’s calm voice. “Take this. If you need backup, just ask.”
This was an earbud.
“Cute, huh?” the driver asked when Killian didn’t immediately take it. “We’ll be able to communicate while you’re in there. You call and I come running.”
More spy shit. Killian shook her head. “I’m not dragging you into this. If shit goes sideways, get the hell out of here.”
“Please take it.” Sigh. “Look, Dash asked me to back you up, so take the fucking earpiece and go do what you have to do.”
She was right. Arguing about it wasted time Shannon might not have. Killian jammed the small device into her ear and got out of the car. The only reason she didn’t slam the door was because she knew better than to take her frustration out on a vehicle.
The muted thud of heavy bass filled the air around the club like a force field. As she approached the front door, Killian could feel the pulse of it beneath her feet, like it was a living thing.
Two guys stood outside smoking. Their gazes scraped over her as she reached for the door. Assholes.
“You workin’ tonight, baby?” one of them asked, blowing smoke at her head with a smirk.
Killian ignored him and opened the door, letting the noise envelop her.
It was dark inside, lit only where girls worked shaking their asses or polishing metal poles with their thighs. Men—and women—tossed bills into the air over the backs of their favorite girls. Black, white, Hispanic…all brought together by the power of T and the almighty A.
She looked around, searching the crowd for a familiar face. She smiled when she found it.
On the center stage, a tall brick house of a woman wrapped her legs around a pole and threw her practically naked body around it with all the muscular grace of a cobra. Her long burgundy hair brushed the glossy floor as she spun. Bebe never lost her wig when she danced. That bitch was on tight.
Killian moved toward the stage, pushing her way through the crowd. When she reached the front, she shoved her hands in the pockets of her jacket and watched the show. She admired strength and grace whenever she could.
Bebe slid down the pole into the splits, then began lifting herself up and down, thrusting her ass toward the onlookers. Bills rained over Killian’s shoulders to glide to the stage like some kind of monetary snow. She knew better than to interrupt a girl when she was working. Everyone knew y
ou didn’t mess with a stripper’s money.
The song ended soon enough. Killian whistled as Bebe gathered up her bills. The dancer’s head turned in her direction.
“Well, fuck me!” Bebe cried.
“Fucking right I will!” a guy yelled.
Killian shook her head and offered her old friend her hand to help her down from the stage. In her monstrous heels, Bebe still wasn’t as tall as she was. That was the only advantage Killian had, as the smaller woman had the sort of body most had to pay thousands to achieve. Bebe had been born with it. Well…most of it.
Warm fingers gripped hers tightly, pulling her away from the stage, toward a door that led to the staff-only part of the club.
It was brighter back there. Cooler and quieter, too. In the green room, Bebe slipped her toned arms into a red satin kimono and tied the sash before turning to grab Killian in a hug.
“Girl, I didn’t know you were out!”
“Hasn’t been that long,” Killian replied, squeezing her back. Some of the other girls watched with curiosity while the rest ignored them, too absorbed in their own business to care what was going on five feet away. “You look good, Be.”
The other woman waved her hand, even though she obviously appreciated the compliment. “Bitch, please. I’m gettin’ too old for this game.”
“Seriously?” Killian eyed the wad of bills.
“Used to make twice this.” Bebe made a sound of disgust and pulled off her wig, revealing a tight skullcap and traces of latex adhesive. She put the hair on a Styrofoam head. “What brings you to the asshole of the world, sweet thang?”
“Any new girls come through the last couple of days?” Killian asked.
Her wide dark gaze rolled toward Killian as she reached for a blond wig on another stand. “Couple. Who you looking for?”
“Young. Curly hair, blue eyes. Mixed. Real pretty.”
“Nah.” Bebe’s expert fingers adjusted the wig on her head. Killian had never been able to wear wigs. She always felt like she was dressing up for Halloween. Women like Bebe, who could make synthetic hair look real, amazed her. “Got an Asian ho and a white girl.”
Was that relief or disappointment? Christ, she couldn’t tell the difference. “Have you heard anything about a girl matching that description?”
Their gazes locked in the mirror. Bebe sighed as she slipped on a rhinestone bra. “Sweetie, is this about your niece?”
Killian’s heart lurched. “You know?”
She nodded. “Word’s gettin’ around. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“For what it’s worth, not too many babies come through here anymore. Got a couple a few months back, but they were willing. Once management found out they was underage he canned their asses. Said young pussy wasn’t worth the price, y’know?”
Yeah, she did. The young ones always got the most attention in prison. They were usually the easiest to manipulate.
“I figured it was a long shot. I would rather find her here than Annie’s.”
“That skanky old ho still in business?” Bebe wrinkled her nose. “That shit’s nasty. I hope she ain’t there, either, hon.”
Killian nodded.
Bebe turned. “If I hear anything I’ll let you know. For real. Now I gotta get back out there. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I appreciate you keeping your ears open.”
“Walk me back out?”
They hadn’t made it far into the interior of the club before a guy made a grab for Bebe. She tried to pull her arm free but he refused to let go. It was against club rules to touch the girls without permission.
“Give me a dance,” he said. His speech wasn’t slurred and his gaze was focused. He couldn’t even blame being an ass on being drunk.
“Show me the money,” Bebe replied.
“I already gave you all I have,” he sneered. “You owe me. Shake those titties.” His other hand reached for her ass.
Killian grabbed his wrist. “Let her go, asshole.”
“Killy,” Bebe warned.
Killian kept her gaze locked on the guy oozing white-trash entitlement. “I said, let her go.”
His gaze narrowed. “Fuck you, bitch.”
She punched him in the throat. He staggered backward, gasping. Bebe slipped out of his grasp. “I’ll call you, babe,” she promised before rushing away. Killian began moving through the crowd once again. Didn’t these people have jobs? Families?
She barely made it five feet outside when a strong hand grabbed her shoulder. Of course it was the guy she’d just hit.
“What?” she demanded, shrugging out of his drunken grip and turning to face him.
“You embarrassed me in front of my friends,” he informed her. He was more sober than she originally thought—which made him even more of a dick.
“You embarrassed yourself,” she corrected him. “Get lost.”
“Not before you apologize.”
She stared at him. Were men just slow on the uptake? Women usually only had to be hit once, and then they knew better than to pursue violence with her. The ones who didn’t were the ones she met in the ring. Men always took a couple of jabs to get the message.
“Tell you what, you go apologize to Bebe and we’ll call it even.”
He frowned. “The skank?”
“Oh, you really are a piece of work. Just fuck off, all right. I’ve got more important things to do than deal with you, asshat.” She turned to walk away. He grabbed her arm again.
Killian probably could have just jerked her arm free, but this guy…this guy was a douche. And she’d really been hoping to find Shannon at the club, because she didn’t want to entertain the idea that she might be at Annie’s. She was scared and pissed and he was the perfect target.
She pivoted, pulling him toward her as she swung her fist. Her knuckles connected with his solar plexus hard just as he took a shot to her jaw. She barely felt it. Had she thrown him off?
“What the fuck was that?” she asked—stupidly. She could have just walked away, let him have his pride.
He roared—actually roared—in anger. She blocked another blow to her face, but he got her in the gut with his left. She managed to tighten her muscles to protect herself from the strike.
“You fucking cunt,” he snarled.
She didn’t hate the word, like a lot of women did. What annoyed Killian was the violence with which the word was too often used. Cunt was a female word, too often abused by men who were cruel and scared and had no real idea of what—or who—they were fucking dealing with. That’s what pissed her off.
She came back with a jab to his mouth, a left hook, and a shin to his torso. Then when he twisted away she nailed his kidneys as hard as she could—three times—before jerking his head down to meet her knee.
His nose exploded.
Blood soaked through her jeans. He fell to the pavement. Killian resisted the urge to kick him as he went down. She didn’t have time for this shit.
“You don’t demand that a woman perform for you, asshole. You don’t demand apologies for your own stupidity, and if you call a woman a cunt, you’d better be prepared for the consequences. Have fun explaining this to your friends.” She turned away. Not twenty feet away, Story sat on the trunk of the Honda eating an apple.
“Some backup you are,” Killian remarked as she approached.
“I said I’d come if you called. You never called.” She took a bite and nodded at the guy staggering back to the club. “Impressive, though.”
Killian shook her head. Her knuckles hurt in a way that was almost pleasurable. Made her want to hit someone else. “Thanks.”
Tossing the core, the other woman hopped off the car and offered her a package of wet wipes that she’d had behind her back. “You’ve got a little blood on your hands and cheek.”
As she cleaned herself up—and dabbed at the wet spot on her knee—Killian’s phone rang. It was Danny.
“She’s not here,” she said as a greeting.
“Come to Annie’s,” he said. “I think we’ve found your girl.”
Killian hung up and ran around the side of the car to jump into the passenger seat. “How fast will this thing go?”
Story slid behind the wheel. “As fast as I want it to.” Her gaze flickered over Killian. “Fasten your seat belt.”
Six
Annie’s was located in an old Victorian not far from The Kitten Hole. It didn’t look like a brothel from the outside—didn’t even have flashy curtains or a red light. It looked just like every other run-down house on the block, except there were more motorcycles parked out front and the music playing was rock, not rap.
Killian got out of the car two houses down.
“You sure you don’t need me?” Story asked, peering through the open door. “I feel I’ve been ineffectual so far.”
She shrugged. “You can come in if you want.” Truth be told, she kind of liked the other woman. Story was the kind of person she liked having her back. She was efficient and punctual and kept a level head. Killian trusted her, and the only other person she’d trusted as quickly had been Raven.
Story put the car in park and got out. “I’ve never been in a brothel before,” she confessed as she hit the fob to lock the Honda.
“Seriously?”
She nodded. “I’ve been outside a few, but never in.” She gave the house a wry glance. “I’ve got a feeling I’m going to be disappointed.”
“So much,” Killian replied. “Annie’s is pretty lowbrow.” Honestly, she didn’t want to find Shannon there. Annie’s was popular among the criminal element because no one asked questions. The guys—and the odd woman—were allowed to do whatever they wanted to the workers, who were paid in drugs. If a girl got used up, broke, or died, she was tossed aside and a new one was brought in. Didn’t matter how old they were, what they looked like. They were dehumanized, sold and exchanged like pennies.
“I assume the women who work here aren’t necessarily here by choice?”
“You’d be right.”
Story’s eyes narrowed as they approached the building. “So, we’re going to burn it down when we’re done, right?”
Killian grinned. “I’m game if you are.” Especially if Shannon was there. Burn it to the fucking ground.
