Page 41 of The Masked King

“Sure.” His eyes suggest otherwise, and from the way he blinks, it occurs to me that he might be wearing an earpiece, that this entire conversation is being monitored, and his instructions are coming from above. “Time to leave.”

“I want it noted that the guest didn’t touch me.” I raise my voice, so the fuckers know I’m bypassing Michael Douglas and talking directly to them. “I made a mistake and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have encouraged the discussion about the red light, but I’m still learning, and without being briefed on that kind of situation, I had to improvise.”

“We’re done here.” Michael Douglas tries to grab my arm and I dodge him, landing awkwardly on my sprained ankle.

“You might be, but I’m not.” I raise my fists in a classic self-defense pose, and this time he smiles.

“Have it your way.”

He steps forward and blocks my punch to his jaw which wouldn’t have landed with any impact given the height difference. Picking me up again, he gives me a fireman’s lift through the building while I yell at him and try to get free.

“Let me go! I haven’t finished yet.”

He doesn’t speak. At the exit door, he opens it easily with one hand, and sets me down carefully outside, catching me when I try to duck around him and get back inside the building.

“I’ll be back for my shift tomorrow.” My hoarseness is as much from the emotions gurgling in my chest as from yelling. “I just want to know⁠—”

He slams the door in my face, and I’m left staring at it, the words still balancing on the tip of my tongue.

“Fuck!” I kick the door with my swollen foot and yelp in agony, tears filling my eyes.

Then I realize that, in his haste to get rid of me, Michael Douglas didn’t point me in the direction of the club’s entrance. He left me here in the alleyway. Unchaperoned. Pulse spiking in the hopes of finding Brian when they escort him from the building, I peer left and right, checking I’m alone.

My cell tells me that it’s 02:17. The sun won’t rise for several hours, and when it does, it won’t reach the gap between these two buildings, so I position myself in the shadows at the opposite end of the alleyway and wait.

Almost an hour passes before the visitor door opens and a man walks out.

I don’t have to see his face to know it isn’t Brian. This guy is well-dressed in dark-colored pants and a classic sweater, obviously expensive, but he shakes hands with the bodyguard and walks away, head held high. I wonder if he’s going home to his wife, and bile rises in my throat.

Forcing myself to watch his progress to the end of the alleyway, I don’t swallow until he’s out of sight. Then I return my attention to the door.

Over the next couple of hours, two more guests leave the same way. Both designer-clad, both with strong gaits that suggest they might whistle all the way home.

As soon as the gray light of dawn starts to permeate the shadows in the alleyway, I give up and make my way home. I can’t risk getting caught, not after my little outburst earlier, because I need this job now more than ever.

This isn’t just about forcing cracks in a trafficking ring led by billionaires and mafia families with untold power. This is about Brian too.

Pacing the sidewalks, I don’t put my earbuds in because I need clarity.

According to Brian, the reason I had no clients for three nights was because the light outside my door was red. But why? The bodyguard with the snake tattoo wanted me to believe that it was my fault, that no clients chose me because I was somehow less alluring than the other goddesses. Or was that simply miscommunication?

I dismiss that notion with a shake of my head; he knew what he was doing when he told me that, and I understood perfectly. So, why was Brian not permitted to wait for me? That’s easy: my green light wasn’t coming on. Which brings me back full circle to my original question: why?

Do they know who I am?

I shiver and bunch my shoulders up around my ears. They must have access to some of the world’s most advanced technology, so potentially, if they choose to deep-dive into my personal data, it will only be a matter of time before the warning flags start waving. But these people are not your regular career criminals with a backlist of petty thefts and substance abuse. If they had an inkling that I was working for the NYPD, my body would be rotting in the bottom of a river right now with a cement slab weighing me down.

Or… my throat clicks when I try to swallow.

They’re using me to get to Brian. It would explain the red light, withholding the one thing from Brian that he came for—Nyx—to make him want her more. Reverse psychology in its simplest form. Tell someone they can’t have something and their subconscious will automatically respond that they must have it.

No matter the cost.

In Brian’s case, I guess it would have cost him more than just money, if tonight was an indication of what’s been going on while I’ve been sitting in my room bored out of my skull. But still, he kept returning. Night after night, until he got what he wanted.

I find myself smiling at the thought that he’s as invested in me as I am in him, but it’s going to end badly. For both of us.

Because Brian must have something they want badly enough to keep him coming back; they’ll keep pulling his strings until he finally caves, and that’s what worries me most. JADED is only the bottom of the iceberg. Claw your way up to the top, and the prices will match the prizes. The more forbidden the fruit, the higher the fee.