Even if I didn’t already have my bags packed, I wouldn’t accept her offer. Jet was right. The clients at Maison’s weren’t as welcoming of my clothed form as the ones at Vipers. Their requests for me to remove my outfit were louder than the applause that followed my thirty minute performance.
Thankfully, Maison’s security personnel didn’t hesitate to throw out offending members. Even one client whose suit was worth more than I’ll make in a year got thrown out after he attempted to slip a hundred dollar bill into my boyleg panties instead of on the stage.
I shouldn’t be shocked by their rudeness. I’ve never met anyone who has both money and integrity.
Keke coughs, wordlessly demanding my focus. “Thank you for the offer, but I’m leaving town first thing tomorrow.”
Keke looks as heartbroken as Ryan did when I fled his car last night. God, I really fucked things up coming back here. After years of hiding, I grew weary. I thought I’d be safe here. I was wrong. I just wish I had realized that before Ryan spotted me. He doesn’t deserve to be treated how I am going to treat him. I wish I could tell him my plans to leave, but I can’t, as he’ll try and coerce me into staying. That will make matters worse for both of us. That isn’t an assumption. It is a fact.
“Okay, well, my offers stands if you’re ever back this way,” Keke informs me, standing from her large leather chair.
The weight my chest has been carrying the past sixteen hours eases a little when she hands me the three thousand dollars we negotiated weeks ago. It won’t get me the car I was hoping for, but it will give me my umpteenth fresh start the past four years.
“Thanks for agreeing to cash. I don’t have the means to cash a check.” I bop down to stash my lifeline into my gym bag.
Keke smiles, seemingly well-rehearsed on cash-only transactions.
“Molten will see you out,” she advises, nudging her head to a large Maui man standing guard in the corner of her office. “With the clients being extra rowdy tonight, make sure she gets to her car untouched.” Her demand is for Molten, not me.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he replies, dipping his chin. “This way.” He gestures to the only door in the room.
I gather my gym bag off the floor before shadowing him to the door. We’ve barely crossed the threshold when shouted demands to get down rumble into Maison’s eighteen-room establishment. Men in riot gear storm into the main arena from all directions. They have assault rifles strapped to their chests and batons in their hands.
I watch the scene unfold like a horrifying action flick. Half-dressed men and women dash for viable exits, their ability to flee thwarted at every turn. There are more FBI agents than there are civilians.
I jump out of my skin when a roared, “Get on the ground,” shatters my eardrums. A man with a face shield and angry snarl stops in front of me. “Get on the ground before I place you there myself.”
“I. . . uh. . .I’m not a. . .prostitute? I was just here performing,” I stammer out, my nerves at an all-time high.
“Yeah, yeah, sweetheart. We’ve heard it all before.”
My cheek connects harshly with the polished wooden floor when he seizes my shoulder in a firm grip to drop me to the ground. His movements are so agile, I don’t have a chance to protest.
“Please, this isn’t what it seems. I’m not here illegally,” I plead as he zip-ties my hands behind my back.
After ensuring I’m adequately contained, he rolls me onto my back before digging his hands into the pockets of my shorts. A copy of the receipt I handed Pete earlier today when I resigned from Vipers falls onto the polished floor along with a dozen quarters I had planned to use for laundry last night.
Happy I’m missing any damning evidence, the agent rolls me back onto my stomach. My heart launches into my throat when my eyes scan the surroundings. The main foyer of Maison’s is covered with men and women of all shapes and sizes. They are bound with zip ties like me and also being extensively searched.
I stop peering at Keke’s apologetic face when the man arresting me drops a bundle of hundred dollar bills in front of my nose. “Not a prostitute, hey. You just carry around that much cash for fun.” Although you could assume he is asking questions, his tone doesn’t convey that.
Before I can deny his assumption, he crouches down in front of me, snags my index finger, then presses it onto a cool, smooth surface.
“What are you doing?” I ask, panicked.
“You don’t have any ID, so I’m scanning your fingerprint through our database,” he answers, not the least bit deterred by the worry in my tone.
“You’re what?!” The hammering of my heart chops up my words.
He positions a small handheld device into my line of sight. It is flicking through numerous matches, searching for me in a country-wide database.
Oh god. This is going to end badly.
Realizing a bullet is the least of my problems right now, I somehow rise to my feet and charge for the Balinese door I entered an hour ago. My pace is so out of control, I’m halfway out of Maison’s before the officer realizes I am fleeing. Not even my three inch heels can slow me down.
“Stop!” several voices shout before they follow it with a warning shot.
“No. No. Please, you have to let me go,” I scream at the top of my lungs when I’m wrestled to the ground. “If he finds me, he will kill me. Please, I’m begging you, please let me go.”
