Page 64 of Wicked Nightmare

And maybe, somewhere in the ashes, I'd find the girl with the pink curtains.

And maybe she'd be okay.

And maybe that would be enough to fill the space where the baby was supposed to go.

Maybe.

Chapter Twenty-One: Cam

Lakes wanted to work again tonight, and I couldn't refuse. The money she made per night was astronomical and it seemed to help level her, so here we were. Again. In this shitty strip club with men the pope's age, sitting around with their tiny dicks in their hands. I lounged in my usual spot, nursing a whiskey and watching the crowd. Lakey was in rare form tonight, her hot pink wig bright as fuck as she gyrated in the cage with another dancer. The nipple tassels were a nice touch. I smirked, knowing the poor schmucks drooling over her had no idea what she really was.

My gaze drifted, scanning faces the way I always did. That's when I spotted him. A guy in the back corner who stuck out like a sore thumb. Crisp suit, ramrod straight posture, eyes darting nervously. Everything about him screamed "I don't belong here."

I leaned forward. "Well, that’s new. What do we have here?"

Another man slid into the booth across from Mr. Out-of-Place. Something about him pulled at a thread in my brain, but I couldn't grab it. He was a big guy, bald. Filled out his suit to the point of the seams straining where they joined. Goddamn, I knew him. Why couldn't I place him? Fuck, that was gonna bug me all night.

The newcomer's body language was all wrong too. Tense, alert. These guys weren't here for the tits and ass. No, they were up to something.

I drained my glass. Where the hell did I know that second guy from? An old mark? Someone from juvie? The face was right there, but the name wouldn't come.

"Looks like we've got some party crashers," I said to myself. "Question is, what are they after?"

I checked on Lakey, still putting on one hell of a show, then stood and stretched, making my way towards their table. Walking by some dancers and ignoring the way they stared at me, I stopped just before hitting their booth, leaning against the wall, pretending to watch Lakey's performance.

"Hey. Scram, mutt." A large meathead materialized in front of me, sizing me up.

I yawned and pulled myself to full height. I had at least two inches on this prick, but he far outweighed me in the all-brawn club.

"I'm just standing here, watching my girl, you know how it is," I said.

"Yeah, well, watch her somewhere else." He crossed his arms, waiting.

As I scanned his body, I noticed a piece bulging under his jacket. Ah, yes. Rules for thee, but not for me. Must be something big happening here. I patted his face before breaking out in a smile at his responding scowl. The guy looked ready to combust, but he didn't swing. Interesting. Whoever his bosses were, they'd told him not to make a scene. Which meant they didn't want attention. Which meant they were hiding.

"Alright, chief. Have a good night."

Grabbing my phone, I carefully took a video of the club, lingering on the two assholes in their power suits and the guard who acted like a chihuahua on meth. Skeeter's laptop might have photos I could cross-reference. The thing was, I knew that one greasy fuck. But from where?

The bald one shifted in his seat and the light caught the side of his face. A scar. Running from his temple to his jaw, thick and old. And just like that, the thread pulled free.

Cloak.

Not "looked similar to." Not "reminded me of." That was Cloak, just without hair. The man who'd run the underground fighting ring. The man who'd paid me to destroy noobs in his basement arena. The man I'd walked away from when shit got sketchy, and who'd stolen thousands from me.

And the other one. The ramrod posture, the nervous eyes. Now that I had Cloak placed, the second face resolved too. That was the warden. Not from juvie. From Ashcroft. The man who'd signed my release papers. The man whose facility had a room with no cameras on the fourteenth month.

Two men who should have had zero reason to know each other, sitting in a strip club booth with an armed guard, watching my girl dance.

My blood went cold. Not the dramatic kind. The real kind. The kind where your body temperature actually drops and your fingers go numb and your brain starts running calculations it doesn't want to finish.

You were released.

Skeeter's words, and now here was Cloak, sitting with the warden of the prison where a guard had assaulted me in a room with no cameras, in a club where Lakey took her clothes off three nights a week.

They're always watching.

When Lakey came over after her set, I grabbed her arm and pulled her close.