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“If we’re going to do this, then you’ll need my number,” I tell her.
I’ve destroyed the last burner phone and given the new number to only one person: Broderick Stevens.
Now two.
Layla wordlessly reaches into the pocket of her jeans and hands me her cell. I type in the number and hand it back to her when I’m done sending myself a message from her phone.
I’m in there as Big Daddy.
She’ll hate it when she sees it.
Once this business is handled, I pull away from the curb.
“A lead told us that one of the victims was scared and left one of the other sex dungeons, somewhere on the West Side. She never went back. Have you heard of a place called Whip?” she asks.
I go still, forcing my foot to go easy on the gas rather than gunning it. I’ve heard of Whip before, yes, and it’s not for the faint of heart. It makes the Velvet Underground look like a daycare center. Whip isn’t the type of place normal people go. It’s for people who like pain,reallylike pain, who lose themselves to drugs and care about nothing except chasing the high.
“So she went too hard with someone and got spooked?” I ask lightly.
It happens. Women—and men, for that matter—who think they want to explore something only to realize they’ve made a huge miscalculation. Stepped too far over the line and the water is deeper and colder and burns. More than they ever imagined.
“The guy thought she wanted a relationship with him, and when she didn’t get it, she disappeared.” Layla’s tone tells me exactly how ludicrous she finds the statement. “He deserves a kick in the face. Might happen, down the line, if he can’t stay out of trouble.”
“Typical wannabe,” I say under my breath.
“Not one of yours, then?”
I chuckle and reply, “Don’t be a bitch. You know he’s not part of the Syndicate.”
“It seems I don’t know anything,” she murmurs.
“Then trust me when I tell you. The organization is widespread but he’s not one of ours.”
“It tells me something is up at Whip, to my understanding. He made a reference that if there is something at the place that spooked her, it would be deep enough where whoever got the info had to be one of them to receive it.” Layla talks out loud, working through her theory and finessing it. “The answer is there. You understand?”
“I’m not stupid,” I reply. “I catch your meaning.”
She taps her fingers against her knee. “He also mentioned that a cop won’t be able to gain access to it. Not the way—”
“Your continued presence at the Underground is anathema,” I interrupt. “You do realize that.”
“Jade knows I won’t cause her trouble as long as she doesn’t drop it in my lap.” Layla seems content with her excuse. “I’m going to need someone to get me access to the inside at Whip. To see if I can scrounge up any more leads based on our new information.”
The pieces fall together and my stomach gives a hard jolt. “Ah. So you’d like me to takeyouup on stage and give you the same treatment you watched me give the night we met. Is that it? Because that’s the only way you’re going to get a foot through the door.”
Before Layla has a chance to answer, I reach out and run a finger down her arm. Electricity crackles between us and I circle her nipple with my finger. She pulls away. Not before I notice the way said nipple pebbles.
“I don’t think so,” she replies tightly. “I’m not comfortable in the spotlight.”
“Even if you go in and request a private room, the gatekeepers are going to peg you.” I reach out and flick the end of her dark ponytail.
She seems to have barely heard me. “What?” Her voices rises. “I’m in street clothes.”
“You have the same stick-up-your-ass posture as all cops.” I take a deep breath and look over at her.
Her dark eyes are wide and full of uncertainty.
“You won’t get in the door without being tossed out on your ass or worse. There are people in there who will no doubt want to make you pay for any trouble they’ve had with the law in the past.”
