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I start pacing my bedroom. There are two ways this can play out. One: He wants to rip me a new asshole for fucking up his sex club Masquerade. Two: He wants to pull his holdings out of the freeport, screw my business the way I screwed his. Either way, fuck him.
But the phone rings while I’m still staring at it, and his name fills the screen. Apparently, he’s not going to get the hint—I don’t want to talk. So I stab the green icon and say, “What?”
“Is Alix all right?”
The question knocks me back on my ass. She’s totally fucked up. And there isn’t a thing on earth I can do to save her.
But that’s not what Rider’s asking. He wants to know if she’ll be calling the cops. He wants to know if he needs to bring in his lawyer. Maybe his insurance adjuster. But he won’t. Not for Alix. “She’s fine,” I say. But the lie tastes like shit, so I change it. “She will be.”
I hear his exhale, long and slow, before he asks, “And you?”
What the fuck?“I’m fine.” Those gorillas he hires know how to apply a chokehold without putting a guy in the hospital. Or worse.
“I want to make sure we’re okay,” he says. “You and me. I had to throw you out for breaking the scene—club rules.”
“Fuck your club rules. They were killing her.”
“Isaw three consenting adults.”
“Thenyouneed to get your fucking eyes checked.”
“Trap—”
“Look. Grown-ups have the right to do whatever they want with their own bodies. I don’t give a shit if Rutherford T. Wellington wants to dress in diapers and let his sister Bunny shove diamond-tipped dildos up his ass while he sings the French national anthem. Keep your greenrooms and your kitten auctions and your fucking vintage champagne. But when you choose to drink with a pair of fucking rapists and makemewalk… That’s when we’renot okay.”
“You feel better now, getting that off your chest?” His tone reminds me that he’s used to fighting on a solid sheet of ice, holding a five-foot club with a carbon-fiber blade on one end.
“Fuck you,” I say, too tired to come up with anything better.
“For the record,” he says. “I wouldn’t drink with those two if you paid me a million dollars.”
“You’ll just take their million for the club.”
“For Wounded Heroes United, yeah. The club won’t keep a penny.”
“Just their membership dues, then. That’s all you put in your pocket. What’s that, fifty grand a year?”
“A hundred,” he says. “Each.” Before I can sneer a response, he adds, “And you should be damn glad I take it.”
“Why’s that?” I’m honestly curious about what bullshit he’ll feed me.
“Because members come back. Members RSVP to exclusive events. Members can be found in predictable places at predictable times.”
He’s telling me the door’s still open. He’ll let me take another shot at those fucking scumbags.
Maybe, just possibly, Rider was thinking more clearly than I was last night.
And just in case I’ve missed the fine print, he says, “You headed out in such a hurry last night you left a couple of things behind in security. I’m afraid they got lost in all the confusion.”
The syringes. He destroyed the fucking evidence his goons took off me.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Let me check the members list for our Halloween event. I’ll let you know if that’s a good one for you to check out.”
“I appreciate that,” I say. And I do.
“And let me know if you’ll be around the freeport next Wednesday,” he says. “I’m meeting a dealer to add a Flowing Hair Silver Dollar to my collection. Dinner’s on me, if you’re free.”
