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“Apparently, the brothel burned down last night,” he interrupts. “The whole fucking place went up in smoke.”
My eyes widen, the breath freezing in my lungs.Holy shit. That must’ve happened after I left. Maybe it was an accident, or…
No.
It wasn’t an accident. Those three men who killed the Russian guy did it. They must’ve burned the brothel to cover their tracks.
“Giselle died in the fire,” Carl continues, I can’t tell if he’s genuinely upset about that or not. I didn’t get the impression the two of them were close friends—more like reluctant business associates.
He raises his eyebrows at me, clearly demanding some kind of explanation.
“I didn’t know about any of that,” I say, my throat tight. “I-I wasn’t there long. The john who came in, he… he kicked me out before that happened. He wasn’t happy with me.”
It’s only a half lie. The Russian man really wasn’t happy with me. He made that clear enough before everything exploded into chaos and he was killed.
Carl sits back in his chair with a snort. He looks me up and down slowly and then shakes his head. “Guess I can’t be surprised about that.”
My stomach clenches. Of course that’s how Carl feels. He thinks I’m a freak, so why wouldn’t he believe that the Russian sent me packing instead of fucking me, even though he was willing to pay more for a virgin?
“Hey,” my boss says, snapping his knobby fingers. “Pay attention.”
“Iam,” I reply, biting back everything else I want to say to him.
“You keep your mouth shut about all this, you hear me? I don’t need the cops poking around and asking questions.”
He glances around the office as if a police officer might somehow be hidden behind a filing cabinet or something.
I know he just doesn’t want them to find out that he was funneling girls to a brothel if they decide to investigate, but he’s not the first person who’s told me to keep what went down last night a secret, so I nod.
“Of course. I won’t say anything. I promise.”
“Good.” Carl nods, looking satisfied. “Now get to work.”
It’s a relief to leave his office, even if it does mean putting on the work uniform I hate so much. After running through the streets half naked and barefoot last night, wearing this moderately revealing dress makes my skin tingle with discomfort, but I try to swallow it down and stay focused on my job.
Even with everything else going on, I can’t afford to get fired.
I’ve worked at Sapphire long enough that I can wait tables on autopilot, which is good. It might not be the best service I’ve ever given, but whatever. People get their drinks.
As the evening wears on, the club starts to get busier. A table of seven comes in at one point, and it sounds like they’re celebrating something—either a birthday or a promotion. It’s hard to tell, since it’s clear they’ve already been pre-gaming somewhere else. I lean in close to get their orders, and from behind me, I feel a hand on my ass.
I jerk in surprise, more jumpy than usual after being manhandled so much last night.
It’s not the first time someone has tried to cop a feel on me at work. Mostly, everyone’s focus stays on the stage, but sometimes the men here get so shit-faced or horny that they can’t tell the difference between the dancers and the waitresses.
“Sir, you—”
I start to tell the guy off, but before I can, someone grabs his hand in what looks like a crushing grip.
The man yelps in pain, and I look up and suck in a sharp breath when I realize I know the person who’s come to my rescue.
It’s Ransom.
His lips quirk up at the corners like he’s about to smile, but there’s ice in his eyes as he turns his attention to the drunk club patron.
“You wanna keep this hand?” he asks conversationally, squeezing it even tighter and making the guy contort to try to ease the pressure. “Then don’t put it on that girl. Ever. Got it?”
He releases the man’s hand as he finishes speaking, and all the guys’ friends stare at the two of them, probably wondering if there’s about to be a fight or something. The guy cradles his hand against his chest, puffing himself up a little with what’s probably a lot of liquid courage.
