“Hey,” Playboy hisses in admonishment, “that’s not nice.”
“But fucking accurate,” I deadpan.
Playboy just shrugs and shoots me a look that tells me he won’t be changing any time soon. Not like I would want him to. We keep him around for a few reasons, not all of them have to do his ability to do his job.
He points to something that might have been a bus once upon a time, but it now looks like it’s more rust than anything else. I might have to think about a tetanus shot. And I haven’t even stepped inside yet.
Sidewinder eyes the structure, if you can even call it that, with a wariness which is completely warranted. “You’re saying he’s in there?”
“Yup,” Playboy confirms and I swear he’s about two seconds away from whistling.
“I’m not sure all three of us can even go in there safely,” Sidewinder muses.
“It does look a little suspect,” Playboy admits.
They share a look and then they’re trudging ahead. I stay in the shadows, and it doesn’t take more than a few minutes for them to come out with a man dangling between them. His eyes are wide and wild as he looks around, but he can’t make a sound with the duct tape covering his mouth.
Where the fuck did they even get duct tape?
Playboy winks at me as they pass. I keep an eye out, but don’t see anyone around, as we approach the van.
“Don’t wink at me, brother,” I tell him out of the corner of my mouth. “It’s fucking weird.”
“It’s not weird,” he counters. “It’s kind of funny. Maybe a little sexy.”
“I don’t find a damn thing about you sexy,” I grit out. “I don’t even know why you’re bringing that shit up.”
Sidewinder opens the back doors of the van when we reach it, and they throw the carnie in with a thud which has me glancing around. No lights flick on; no one seems to take any notice.
“Get him back to the clubhouse,” my voice is rough.
As I look at the man, I know he won’t be difficult to break. Call it a sixth sense. Call it intuition. Call it reading the fucking room.
He’ll break and it won’t take as much pressure as he hopes it will.
When I walk into the wet room, the man is tied to a chair in just his boxers. He looks terrified.
It makes sense. He should be afraid.
Nothing about this room indicates he’s going to make it out of here alive.
But he’s already babbling before I even have the chance to really look at him, “I don’t know what this is about. I haven’t done anything to the club,” there’s a plea in his voice.
My lip curls. Pathetic.
Playboy makes a tsking sound and shakes his head while pushing off the wall. This part of the warehouse is under lock and key. No one can get in if we don’t want to let them in.
It’s been retrofitted to be easily cleaned without leaving anything behind to find. Because if you’re going to dance with the devil, you need to understand what is at stake and how to protect yourself.
I learned from Jackal and then I made sure to do exactly what he did—surround myself with men who I knew I could count on to do their jobs well. And, if the look on Playboy’s face is anything to go by, enjoy them.
Playboy looks like he’s in his element. The only thing for me to do is take his place against the wall.
“Why were you following a woman the last night of the fair?” I ask the question, the only one that matters. The one that’ll get this party started.
He blinks a few times, like he’s cataloging my question against any number of things which could have led him here. “The blonde?”
My jaw clenches and I can feel the muscles of my neck straining. What I don’t do is say anything.
