by Meghan March
His lips snap shut, and he busies himself with a towel, wiping down the surface of the bar.
With a quiet chuckle, I follow Desiree across the room. A current madam and a former madam heading to a private room at a sex club draw the eyes of everyone in the bar. No doubt the men are picturing us naked and grinding on each other already. I can’t help but roll my eyes.
Less than three minutes later, I shut the door of the elegantly appointed room behind me. Inside is a four-poster bed with red silk cords tied to each corner post. A dark brown leather chair flanks the wall, next to an armoire that I know from experience is filled with a treasure trove of sex toys and implements.
Once we’re alone, Desiree takes off her mask, and I do the same.
“What’s going on, Mags?”
Thankfully, this place is regularly swept for bugs and listening devices, so I’m able to answer honestly. “Feds.”
Desiree’s dark brown eyes go wide. “Where?”
“Watching the house. You gotta lay low for a while. Put the girls on hotel mode. No clients in or out.”
“Fuck.” She huffs out the word before lowering herself into the armchair. When she looks up at me, I read fear on her face. “Why? What’s going on?”
“Alberto Brandon apparently caught their notice, and they’ve been watching him. He led them right to you.”
“Fuck,” she repeats with a shake of her head. “That dirty old bastard barely tips, and now he brings the Feds down on us? As if it wasn’t bad enough that he fell head over heels for Naya and wouldn’t let her take any other clients.” Her jaw works from side to side. “Come to think of it, the timing’s real weird too. She told me she needed time off because she had to go out of town for a little bit. I haven’t seen her in a damn week.”
I tap a nail on the wood of the footboard. “They could have skipped town together if Brandon was worried he was in trouble. The Feds clearly don’t know shit if they’re watching the house.”
“So, what should I do?”
“Cover your own ass and your girls’. Keep the clients away. The Feds will get bored when they don’t see Brandon. Hopefully they’ll move along.”
She sips her vodka and lowers the glass. “What about your girls? You having them do anything different?”
I think about Taylor and the other girls who I’ve put through school so they could learn a trade and get out of the business. “They should be fine. All their appointments are off-site. There’s nothing the Feds could pick them up for. Living in the house while they save money to get their own apartments isn’t a crime.”
“What about you? The house is still technically in your name while I’m paying on it. You think the Feds will come knocking on your door?”
“I guess we’ll find out.”
Desiree shakes her head. “I’m so sorry, Mags. Fuck. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“No apologies necessary, honey. Shit happens.” I lean against the foot of the bed. “You didn’t bring them down on us. Brandon did. So now we run damage control.”
Desiree jams her hands into her hair. “Ugh. Men are fucking assholes. I could kick him in the balls right now.”
“Amen, honey,” I reply, thankful that my part in this mess is done. “You’ll be fine. Now, get in touch with your girls, give them orders, and then get on with your night. I’ll tell mine what’s what and let you know when the heat dies down.”
“You say it like it’s so easy.” Her tone is laced with frustration, and when she looks up at me, her expression resembles a lost little girl. “Then again, I’m sure for you it would be.”
She needs a hug, but coddling her won’t help. “Your house. Your call. You can handle it. Grow a pair and woman up. Besides, they don’t want you. They want Brandon.”
Desiree releases a long sigh. “True. Well, I guess I’d better get moving.”
“Good girl,” I tell her, and then slip my mask back on as I turn to leave the room.
“Mags?” Desiree’s questioning tone stops me with my hand on the knob.
“What?”
“How did you know it was time to get out of the game?”
What is it with the hard questions tonight?
I meet Desiree’s gaze and give it to her point-blank. “Baby, that’s a question only you can answer. And the fact that you’re asking it means you need to start thinking about a plan B.”
When I leave the private room, dozens of pairs of eyes follow me, but I don’t pay them any mind. I came here to do what I needed to do, and now I’m getting the fuck out.
“If you wanna play, kitten,” a man’s voice says from over my shoulder, “I’ll make you purr.”
I turn around to look at him. “Kitten? Boy, I’m a goddamned lioness. Back the fuck off.” A dark chuckle leaves my lips at the sight of his shocked face, and I exit the club with a smile.
Nine
Magnolia
“Thank you for the ride, Lionel. I’ll see you next time.”
“Have a nice night, Ms. Maison. Take care.”
I hand him a twenty as a tip and cross the sidewalk to the front entrance of my condo building.
One more week, and I’ll be going home to the French Quarter, I think as I punch the button for the elevator that will take me up to the sixth floor.
I remember how excited I was to move here, because I was moving up in the world. It meant that I had arrived. Now I’m thrilled to get the hell out, because this place doesn’t fit who I am anymore. And when I’m done with a person or a place, I’m done.
The elevator doors open, and I’ve only taken one step out when someone slams into me, ramming me back inside the car. Hot pain screams along my side.
“Hey!” I shriek out the protest and slam both palms into the guy who rushed me, pushing him off me and into the mirrored wall.
Fuck. He’s wearing a mask. Bad sign.
I commit him to memory—around six feet tall, black balaclava, brown eyes—as his head smashes into the glass behind him.
“You fucking whore!”
That’s when I see the knife. Glinting silver in the fluorescent lights of the elevator, dripping with my blood, it slashes out, no doubt aiming for my jugular as I jerk back into the corner, out of his reach. But that won’t help me for long if I’m unarmed and trapped in here with him. That can only mean death.
Not today, motherfucker. Not today.
I twist to the side, reaching for the stiletto blade hidden at the small of my back. Before he realizes what I’m doing, I palm the knife and aim for his groin. I miss my intended target, but my blade sinks into the flesh of his upper thigh, and I twist the knife before yanking it free. He roars and stumbles back into the opposite corner of the elevator. Blood stains his jeans red, and I move as fast as I can, backing out of the car as I punch the down button.
He drops to his knees, his black gloves reaching for me, but the doors close before he can stop them.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
My heart slams into my chest, but my brain shifts into survival mode.
I don’t know who he was, why he was here, or what he wanted, but I know one thing for sure—I don’t want anything to do with that knife-happy motherfucker, and I need to get the hell out of here.
The slice on my left side sears me with pain as it oozes blood. I cover it with my hand as I stop in front of my condo door and drop my clutch and the knife I didn’t even realize I was still holding on the floor, letting my keys spill out. Once I have them in my sticky red fingers, I open the door as quickly as possible. Kicking my purse and the knife inside, I lock the dead bolt behind me.
But I’m not staying.
I hit my closet first and grab a duffel bag. It’s already filled with everything I might need to make a run for it. Next stop is my office and the safe. I scoop up my book, cash, and weed and toss them inside the duffel. Finally, I rush into the bathroom and grab my first aid kit for special emergencies and a towel. I wrap the knife up and toss it into the bag too.
&
nbsp; My side burns like a motherfucker, but I force the pain out of my mind as I wash my hands, slip on a black caftan over my clothes that swirls around my ankles, and snag a floppy hat.
I’m out of my condo in less than three minutes. On the way to the stairwell, I yank the fire alarm.
Chaos is good.
Moments later, I’m hustling down the stairs to the parking garage amid a crowd of frantic residents rushing outside.
My heels click against the pavement as I breathe in exhaust and gasoline fumes, but I don’t go for my Lexus.
It’s a gut feeling. Something I can’t explain. But until I know if that dude in the elevator was coming for me or just anyone who happened to be riding up, I’m not taking any chances. My Lexus is too flashy and noticeable, and I’m feeling paranoid as shit right now. Instead, I trek to a corner spot and slide a key into the door of a black Honda Accord I keep for emergencies, complete with a car seat in the back to blend in.
I toss my duffel in the front seat and get the fuck out of Dodge before I can even hear the sirens that’ll be coming next.
Ten
Moses
People pour out every door of Magnolia’s condo building as an alarm blares, and my unease hits new heights.
“Something isn’t right,” I tell Jules, who sits in the driver’s seat.
“It’s just a fire alarm. You want me to go in and check her place? She’s probably outside already.”
I shake my head. We hadn’t seen Magnolia leave—sneaky woman—so it surprised us both when she got out of a car in front of the condo building a few minutes ago.
“No . . . timing is off. Something’s wrong. We’re both going in.”
I’m out of the car before Jules can even get his door open. I don’t ignore gut instincts, ever. That’s how people get dead.
We catch the open front door as people stream out, and the first thing I notice in the lobby is a blood smear on the elevator door and a trail leading toward a door marked Service, right beside it.
“What the fuck?” I point at it. “You follow the blood. I’m going to get her out if she isn’t already.”
Jules doesn’t hesitate and goes into tracking mode. “Got it. On it.”
We separate as I dash up five flights of stairs, dodging the people still coming down.
When I reach Magnolia’s end of the hall, the first thing I notice is blood on her knob and door, and another smear on the floor.
“Fuck.” Now my instincts are going wild. Doors are slamming around me as people run to get out of the building, but I know there’s no fire. Whatever happened tonight, Magnolia’s involved, and I gotta find her.
I pound on the door, but there’s no answer. “Magnolia! Open the fucking door.”
Still no answer.
I whip out a credit card, and a few seconds later, I’m inside. I should have known that she wasn’t here, because the chain and dead bolt weren’t set. And for her not to lock the dead bolt as she left? That tells me she hauled ass out of here as fast as she could.
The condo is loaded with boxes. It hasn’t been tossed. No furniture is broken or lamps shattered. So, no sign of a struggle. What the fuck happened then?
I clear the rooms and then get the fuck out as fast as I came in, wiping the knob, door, and floor clean of blood and my prints.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I grab it. The display tells me it’s Jules.
“Boss, we got a fucking problem.”
“You find her?”
“No, but I got a dead body in the service hallway. Fucker got stabbed in the leg. Bled out.”
“Femoral artery. Fuck. Get his prints and a picture of his face, then get the fuck out. We’re going to find Magnolia.”
Eleven
Magnolia
It takes me over half an hour to get to my house in the Quarter, because I can’t take the chance that anyone followed me. More than ever, I’m so fucking glad I never told anyone other than Mount and Keira that I bought this place.
But Moses knows.
I push the thought of him out of my mind. Ain’t got time for that. I’ve got bigger things to worry about.
I park a block down and walk to my gate with my caftan swirling around my feet, my floppy hat fixed on my head, and my duffel bag over my shoulder. Once inside, I finally take a deep breath.
“Fuck, that hurts.” My side is on fire where he cut me. But this ain’t my first rodeo getting knifed, unfortunately. Hopefully, it’s my last time, though. I’m thoroughly sick of this shit.
Carefully, I pick my way over drop cloths and head upstairs to my all-white bathroom. The bathroom that was never supposed to be stained with blood.
Too bad wishes don’t all come true.
Once I’m inside, I drop the duffel on the floor and bend to unzip it, unleashing a sharp, burning sensation.
I grit my teeth as I dig in the bag. The first aid kit, whiskey, weed, and shotgun come out first. I lay the gun on the white marble countertop within reach, just in case that motherfucker manages to find me. Then I tug off the caftan, carefully peel up the hem of my crop top, and glance down at the wound. He sliced me right through the fucking band of my high-waisted black skirt.
Fucking asshole. I liked this skirt.
As I suspected from the pain, my inspection tells me the wound needs stitches. But that comes after the hefty swig of whiskey I take before slipping off my skirt.
Jesus, shit, that burns.
But it doesn’t hurt as much as it’s going to. I splash some of Keira’s best whiskey on the cut and grit my teeth against the fiery pain.
“I’m getting too old for this bullshit,” I murmur to the empty room with a shake of my head and a long sigh.
After digging into the first aid kit, I grab gauze and press it against the cut. The blood is clotting, so there’s no chance I’ll bleed out. Which means I have time to get my priorities in order and roll a nice fat blunt. Because I’m gonna need it.
Once I’m done, I light it and take a long hit, puffing hard to get it burning right. Smoke fills my lungs, and I wait a beat before blowing it out. I glance down at the suture kit, but reach for the whiskey again instead.
“This is gonna fucking suck,” I murmur, then freeze.
Before he even speaks, I feel his presence. I jerk my head up to see Moses Buford Gaspard standing in the doorway of my goddamned bathroom.
“Your stitches are gonna be crooked as fuck if you drink that whole bottle before you start,” he says with a lazy grin.
Twelve
Moses
Magnolia grabs the shotgun on the bathroom counter, racks it, and has the barrel pointed at me in less time than it would take most people to scream. But not Mags. She’s one of a fucking kind.
I came here expecting the worst, but what I found was straight out of a twisted fantasy. With the shotgun cradled in her arms, a blunt hanging from her lips, and a bottle of whiskey by her side, Magnolia Maison is the goddamned woman of my dreams. Gorgeous. Capable. And so fucking sexy, even with the bleeding wound on her side.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Mob—Moses?” she spits out, almost calling me by that silly, long-lost nickname she gave me.
I forgot how her voice could sound with my name on her lips. God, I missed that. And then I damn near forget to breathe, but force myself to focus—on Mags and her injury.
“You need a real doctor for that?”
Her tiger eyes narrow, and I’m pretty fucking sure she’ll pull the trigger if I say the wrong thing. “If I did, I would’ve gone to one. Now, get the fuck out of my house before I put in a hole in you that I can’t sew up.”
“Mags—”
“No,” she says unequivocally. As usual, she doesn’t take any shit from me. “I’ve already threatened one man’s life and maimed another tonight. I’m not fucking afraid to hollow you out right here. So choose your words wisely, Moses, as you back the fuck out of this room.”
I decide to test her. Probably because I’m a twisted s
on of a bitch. “Killed. Not maimed. You killed a man tonight.”
A shadow ghosts across her face, and her lips press together around the blunt for a beat. Then, with that incredible self-control I’ve always found sexy as fuck, she relaxes and blows a cloud of smoke directly at my face.
“Get the fuck out.”
“Who was he, Mags? You in trouble?”
Her tawny throat works as she swallows, and it’s the sole sign that what happened tonight unsettled her. She’s the strongest woman I’ve ever met, so it’s no surprise she’s not dissolving into tears.
She releases the shotgun with her right hand and flings her arm out. “Do I look like a damsel in distress to you? No one has ever mistaken me for Snow fucking White.”
In her tight black crop top that shows off her tits and her skirt rolled down to her hips, she looks like temptation incarnate. But, still, I’ve gotta know she’s safe. I didn’t come back to claim her just to let someone else fuck up my plans.
“Was it random?”
Her glare carries enough heat that I feel the burn. “He called me a whore, so who the fuck knows.”
My gaze drops to the cut again. “You need a hand? I’ve got two steady ones. At your service.”
“I don’t know what the fuck your game is,” she says, shaking her head and gripping the shotgun tightly again. “But try to touch me, and I will fucking shoot you. I haven’t needed your help in fifteen years, and I don’t plan to ever need it again. So, despite whatever brought you here, you might as well drift right on back out of town.”
Her finger caresses the trigger, and part of me is willing to bet that she hasn’t shot me only because she doesn’t want to mess up her new house. Not because she doesn’t have the balls.
