Page 16 of The Devil’s Lair

“Yep.” I grin. “You’re going to miss me. Go on, admit it.”

“Like a boil on the bum.” The unmistakable twinkle in her eye gives her real feelings away. In the end, I win them all over. It’s my superpower.

“Is Benton here yet?”

She nods. “He’s outside.”

“Great.” I pick up my bag. “Well, Florence, it’s been a blast. No offense, but I hope I never see you again.”

“Likewise.” She opens the door. “Remember to take your meds. It’s important to finish the entire course of antibiotics.”

“Bossy to the end, huh?”

She rolls her eyes. “Get out of my sight.”

A chuckle rumbles through my chest. Benton takes my bag, and a minute later, I’m situated in the back of the car. Even that short walk took a lot out of me. I hide my exhaustion behind a smile for my driver.

“Good to see you, Caleb. The Lair, please.”

“Not Oakleigh?”

“Not yet.”

“Family’s expecting you,” Benton says.

“Which is why you’re going to message and tell them there’s a hold up with my discharge paperwork, meaning I’ll be a little late.”

Benton shakes his head, then taps on his phone. My bodyguard and my driver have been with me for years. They know me better than most people do—on the surface, anyway. They probably anticipated this move.

As the car approaches The Lair from the west, the sight of police tape over the customer entrance sends my heart plummeting. Will things ever be the same? All the memories I’ve made here have been sullied somehow. With time, I hope the salacious gossip vanishes and I can get back to running the club that’s saved me from despair more times than I can count.

Caleb drives around the back to the staff entrance. This, too, has police tape across the door.

Benton hands me a bunch of keys. I take them gratefully, then instruct him and Caleb to stay put.

I duck under the tape, slide the key into the lock, and enter. I’ve been here on many occasions when we’ve been closed, but there’s a different vibe today. An eerie silence that makes me uncomfortable. Halfway to my office, I make a snap decision and veer off to the right to cross the main part of the club and take the hallway that leads to a row of private rooms for hire. These are pretty basic, unlike the VIP rooms on the first floor.

The door to PR3 is closed, with the now-familiar police tape diagonally stuck to the frame. I tear it off, but when I reach for the door handle, I hesitate.

This could have been the place where I took my last breath. Another half inch and that would’ve been it. Lights out. My chest tightens, lungs flattening. I close my eyes and slow my breathing. My stitches itch. I somehow refrain from scratching. I can’t wait to have them removed. Another step on the road to recovery.

For someone as fit as I am, this has been a humbling experience.

Taking a deep breath through my nose, I brace myself and open the door, expecting the smell and sight of blood everywhere.

The room is spotless.

Who cleaned? The police or an employee of the club? Not that it should matter. Except it does. I take out my phone and fire off a voice note to Frank. By the time I’ve gathered the courage to enter the room, he’s replied.

Frank

I hired an outside cleaning crew. Didn’t want our staff dealing with that.

Good call.

Frank

You okay?