by Zoey Parker
“But what I was meaning to get clear to you, is that Ronn’s got this on me. He knows that I’m under his thumb as long as he’s got intel on my girl, and he’s holding it over my head. That’s why I couldn’t shoot him at that scene with Manny and the girl. The fucker made me dig a fucking grave that day, for the two of ’em. So now I’m implicated, too, in that sick fucking scene. I’m fucked. But I still gotta get my girl back. And that can be my only priority. You got me? You understand now?”
“Yeah, man, I got you. Loud and clear. And I’m with you on that. Completely.” I raised my arm to him, and we clasped hands, full eye contact. It was a grave trust, and one I would never back down on.
“How are you sure, first off, that Fielding has her, Pres?”
“I got word back then, sent to me from her phone, a text from Ronn that said she’d been taken. Resulting from her ʽdrug debt’ to him, as he put it. And that he’d sold her off to a special business partner to make good on it. I pieced together from a lot of shit since then, that that guy is Fielding. No question.
“I’m pretty sure that Fielding doesn’t know who I am, though. She only had me in there as ʽDad.’ And the text was from Ronn, not Fielding.”
“Okay. Why haven’t you shared this with the rest of Storm, though? Why keep us in the dark? Seems like the more ears you got, the sooner this can all go down, we get her back, and take Fielding and Ronn down?”
“The knives, Dom. As soon as I learned of Fielding’s sick thing for knives, I knew I couldn’t risk my baby girl like that. The more people who know, the more chance of something slipping. I need this to go one way, and one way only. I can’t think…” And he shook his head.
I could see that. I had to give him that. I’d be lost and confused with gargantuan worry, too.
“Dom, here’s the only way I can figure it: I need us to appear to be under Ronn’s thumb. All of us. Like you thought—hell, like everybody thinks—that we’re all just security for the ass king of porn. I trust all our brothers in Storm, Dom, but there ain’t no way that all of us can act. So as real as I could keep it was the way it had to be. That’s why I couldn’t talk about it. If they don’t know they’re pulling the wool, then they can’t misstep and blow the cover, right? It’s the only way to play it, for now.”
“Yeah, I get that. You’re right about that.” I took a moment. “Thinking this through, though, Ronn knows you’re Zoe’s dad, now, right? That’s what he’s got on you.”
“Yeah. He does. He put two and two together when he saw that the phone number is the same. So he’s holding that knowledge over me, but I’m pretty sure Fielding doesn’t know, ’cause he don’t look at me differently, with any special knowledge or anything. So Ronn’s got me on two counts: Zoe, and now Manny and the girl.”
I stood up, “All right, Pres. All right. But you gotta know, you got me, and I’m all in with you. We do whatever we can to get into Fielding’s sick fucking world, we find her, and we get her out.” I headed to the office door, getting ready to ride home to think and plan how best to sort this shit out. As soon as fucking possible. I needed space to think.
But first, I needed to get my ass back to Hardcore to get Sienna out of there. Immediately.
“We keep the silence for now, then. Ears open, eyes open. Opportunity is gonna happen, Pres. You gotta know that. We will sort this. And we’ll get your girl back. And then we shut the fuckers down.”
He nodded. And I was off.
Chapter Nine
Sienna
When Dom had returned to the club, I had just gotten out of a little “meeting” that Mr. Ronn had called in the dressing room with myself and three other featured dancers, in which he basically told us we would be appearing as “featured guests” at an upcoming party that Mr. F was hosting.
Finally, I thought, I might have a chance to get some inside information about Mr. F and his widely discussed but little-known deviancies. I mean, how deviant could the man be? I needed more info, and this seemed like it might be the perfect way to get it.
I had asked who else was going to be there, and Mr. Ronn told me that wasn’t any of my business, that we were to show up and do our job and forget everything the moment we left the party, including faces and any names we might pick up during the night. Okey-dokey, then. It sounded super aboveboard.
The one thing I was fairly certain of was that Mr. Ronn didn’t go anywhere without his protective guard, the men of Storm MC. If we played our cards right, Dom could be there, too.
Unfortunately, this brilliant plan didn’t go over so well with Dom.
Standing up to his full height, hands on his hips, he declared, “No way, Sienna. Nuh-uh. You are not going near that fucker’s party. I don’t like it. Fuck, I don’t even want you stepping foot in the club anymore, let alone headlining at the sick fucker’s party. No. I gotta draw the line, babe, and say you are pulling out of this gig and cutting all ties to those two fuckwads.”
Oh, really? “Dom, you did not just tell me how to live my life. I know you didn’t. I just grievously misheard you, right? You want to rethink what you just said to me?”
He leaned in, his eyes narrowed, his jaw tight. “No, babe, I don’t. I’m serious. Those fuckers are dangerous men, babe, and I do not want you near them. No more.”
“Uh-huh. Dom, you need to understand something about me. I might like it when you get all domineering and controlling in the bedroom—I’m not saying I don’t—but when it comes to my life, I call the shots. Not you. I agreed to letting you drive the car for a while, but this is a stellar opportunity to dig, and I do not intend to fuck it up.”
I stepped right up to him, locking my hands on the nape of his neck, and softened my tone. “Look, you can be there. You can be there the whole time. Mr. Ronn’s going to bring some of you guys with him—you know he always does—so you just make sure you’re one of those guys. It’ll be fine. We’ll be there together. And you have my back, and I’ll have yours, too. We’ll be a team. Just do not tell me no. Because I am going, whether you like it or not.”
He did not like it. But he also did not attempt to tell me no again.
So I kissed him, super sweet.
# # #
I shouldn’t have been surprised. I mean, when Mr. Ronn “invited” us to this little shindig, he had told us we’d be provided with “proper attire,” and darkly warned us that we’d better be damn good as the actual guests had high standards and expectations. But he didn’t exactly explain what that meant.
Apparently, that meant that it turned out to be, effectively, an orgy for the extremely rich.
It was a fucking Mr. F event, hosted by him at his suburban monstrosity of a gated McMansion, on a huge estate that was beautifully landscaped so that not a single neighboring residence was in sight. Mr. Ronn had had me and the other girls picked up from Hardcore and brought together in a rented limo. I didn’t know the other girls well, but they were familiar enough faces and bodies. There was some comfort in that.
My main comfort, however, was that Dom had made sure that he would be here too, assigned by his Pres to be on duty for Mr. Ronn. I hadn’t spotted either of them here yet, but I was keeping an eye out. My breath was a little tight in anticipation of his arrival, both because that had just become a norm for me in the past couple of weeks, and because I really didn’t love being at this party without him. There was a shady vibe, and I was on my guard.
All of the men—there were maybe twenty of them—wore tuxedos, black tie. The only other women here looked to be call girls. High-end, no doubt. But none of them had that wife vibe going on, all made up perfectly, in super sexy dresses that scantily clad their rocking bodies. I’d have put my money on their all being professionals of the first kind.
Champagne and high-end drinks were being served, and there were mirrored trays in certain corners that provided alternative lines of party favors. I knew enough to stay away from those.
Since our usual club uniform was limited to costumes for our f
eature dances—nipple pasties and G-strings—someone (it had to have been either Mr. F or the Boss) had provided dresses for us in the club dressing room, which we donned before getting into our ride. Mine turned out to be little more than a gauzy gold baby-doll-type slip that didn’t even cover my ass and barely covered my nipples. Six-inch golden stilettos and full-on smoky eyes completed the look. I brought my little black jetted clutch along, figuring I’d at least make some giant tips to validate the extra working hours.
Plus, I hoped it would be a way to find out something more—maybe even get evidence—on Ronn and Mr. F. I couldn’t have asked for a better party location, right in the heart of the lion’s den.
Someone pinched my ass. “I love a bitch with some cheek.” An older guy in a tux leaned in to fake-whisper in my ear, “You have a lovely ass, my dear.” Then he palmed it and squeezed.
In the split second before I responded, another tux pulled up to my other side and gave my other cheek a hard slap. “Naughty girl, showing off her ass like this. I think this dirty girl needs punishing, don’t you think, Jack?”
Fuck. It was Mr. F.
He brought his other hand up to flip the top edge of the baby doll down below one of my nipples, and chuckled, “Now look at that. We have a wardrobe malfunction. I like it.” Both men laughed.
I quickly recovered myself and took a step back from the two gentlemen. Smiling tightly, I attempted a gracious exit with, “Hands off, please. Gentlemen, have a good evening.” I turned on a heel and skedaddled away. Yeesh.
Mr. Ronn, now arrived, had obviously caught the little interaction, because he soon sidled up to me. “Sienna, you’re drawing attention well, I see. Good. You should know, Mr. Fielding requested your presence here tonight specifically. Consider his satisfaction your… security.”
“You know I’ll dance my best to entertain the boys, Boss. That’s why I’m here, right?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, your dancing. Might be you’ll be called on to do a little more tonight than your normal. Special event, honey. You’ll find it would behoove you to make it good.”
At that moment, I felt a hand on my hip and an arm around my back. “I see you’ve found my girl, Joey. I have a very special plan for her.” Mr. F was eyeballing my breasts, and his hand tightened on my hip. He leaned into my ear. “How’d you like to star in a little movie?”
I pulled my torso away from him, trying to get as much space as I could.
“What kind of movie you have in mind, Mr. F? You gonna make me a Hollywood star?” I struggled to keep my face clear of my inflaming repulsion. Act, act, act. This was all an act.
He laughed. “Yeah, right, Hollywood. You got the second half right.” He winked. “I have something very… exciting in mind for you. Don’t wander too far away tonight. I want you within reach.”
He wandered away to talk to another tuxedo, oozing smarmy charm. Mr. Ronn leaned in to my ear. “You should do the movie. It’s the best move you could make, given your situation. Balance needs restoring.”
Well, that was ambiguous. I wasn’t sure what he meant but saw his eyes had moved away from me and were targeting someone behind me.
I turned to look and found Dom watching us with eyes narrowed and jaw clenched. I knew he wasn’t thrilled about my being called in for this gig, and it had taken me some effort to convince him it was a good idea for me to do it.
I figured he had seen the whole exchange, seeing as he was there ostensibly to be watching over the precious Mr. Ronn. I also figured Dom had hated the sight of Mr. F’s hand on me; he was possessive and protective, and that would generally not fly with him. But we were playing a game with the Boss and VIP host here, and we had both known coming in that he had to play it cool. This must have been super difficult for my man, forcing himself to watch and not react. I smiled at him reassuringly.
I saw his jaw release, and he was done holding back. When he reached my side, he placed his hand over my hip in just the same spot that Mr. F had held on to, and he pulled me into him. Mr. Ronn looked on with spite. “How sweet. And fucking inappropriate. Get your hands off her, Dom. She’s not here as your date. You’re both the fucking help. Act like it.”
He looked at me. “Now, go do your job. Schmooze with the money. And be ready to dance in about a half hour. Down to nothing tonight.” And he walked.
Dom fumed beside me, and I just breathed for a moment, steeling myself for the explosion I was sure was about to occur. But he was so good; he contained himself, only dropping his arm from behind me to snag my hand and give me a squeeze, letting me know he’d be watching, making sure I was okay. God, I was so glad he was there. This night sucked already.
I schmoozed as ordered and performed my feature as required. When I went to redress in the miniscule baby doll and G-string, they were not to be found. I ended up walking through the living room for the next couple of hours in my stilettos alone, fielding grabby hands and coked-up, drunken, overly stimulated men who thought they were entitled to handle my ass.
At some point, Mr. Ronn and Dom both disappeared from the room. I had no idea if they had left the house altogether or if they were just out of the party scene for a break of some sort. I kept an eye out for them, but the minutes passed and Dom’s absence felt too close to abandonment, though I knew in my mind that he could not have been happy with the separation, either. We were here to do jobs. I kept that going in my mind like a mantra.
There had to be something—anything—here at the house that would prove a tie between Mr. F and the porno lot, Joey Ronn’s porno empire, and the death of my sister. I had no idea what I was looking for, but there had to be something here.
Find an in. Find something. Find anything. Find it. Find it. Find it.
Finally begging out of the party rooms to use the washroom to “freshen up,” I escaped more wandering hands and slipped out.
All of my previous attempts to explore the house had been doused by the watchful eyes of Mr. F and by unwelcome attentions from random tuxes. It was past midnight now, and the general atmosphere had shifted somewhat. Those who were only here to schmooze and snicker had mostly left the scene, and it was only the serious partiers who maintained the space. By this time, they were all so seriously fucked-up on coke and booze that I was able to slip past notice; I didn’t see Mr. F among them. I went up the ginormous main stairwell, fake stumbling as if I was fucked-up, too.
God, there had to have been at least eight rooms up there. I went down the gallery wall to the left, figuring I’d start on one end and work my way through.
Not surprisingly, the bedroom I started in was occupied by one of my fellow dancers and an older (gray-haired and rather flabby) man without a tux, going at it like monkeys on the bed. All righty, then. I had barely taken in the room, my only impressions being the large open space and the heaving and grunting on the queen-sized bed. Without even having entered the room, I shut the door and moved on.
The door across the hall revealed a bathroom as big as my bedroom, and I took the opportunity to finally get some self-coverage. In a moment of what I considered brilliant scheming, I turned on the shower, gratefully unfettered my feet from the evil stilettos, and slipped in. I quickly rinsed my body and hair, luxuriating for a few moments in the hot water, but forced myself to turn it off and keep to my plan. I grabbed a fluffy white bath towel and wrapped myself in it. Another to towel-dry my hair, and ta-da—the shower would justify the towel cover-up, and I felt a whole lot better about wandering around naked. The towel was way better than nothing.
Continuing my explorations with stiletto straps in hand, the next door down the hall revealed another bedroom, also occupied, this time by two men. The fourth door was just a linen closet; the fifth, another bedroom. This one was not occupied and held the basics you’d expect in a guest room. I skittled inside, shut the door quietly behind me, and hurriedly poked into the huge wardrobe, which featured a large flat-screen and some assorted technology, in addition to spaces for hanging and folded clothes. T
here were also a few interior drawers, hiding nothing of much interest. Giving up on the wardrobe, I turned to the desk under a window. It featured only one slim central drawer, hiding pens and paperclips and your typical desk refuse. Another dud room.
Moving on, I cracked open the door to scan the hallway for bodies and saw no one. I made it to the next room in line: another bedroom. Jeez, they were all copies of one another. I was getting the gist of the decorating genius behind this house. Rich and uninspired. Central bed, bare-bones bedside tables, and lamps. Central large wardrobe, each featuring the flat-screen and miscellaneous tech. This room had no desk but offered a low chest of drawers in its place.
One drawer offered an assortment of dildos and sex toys of the sort Christian Grey might approve. I fumbled through the stuff, not really wanting to touch it, not having known where the stuff had been, but knowing that I must be thorough in my search if I intended to find anything useful. This drawer was the most incriminating thing I’d found so far; I’d have been derelict had I shut it without a thorough search. But I did feel weird searching somebody else’s sex drawer. It was a little distasteful. My face was probably a bit scrunched up as I looked.
