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The poke of spikes against her skin startled her enough to recoil and refocus her attention back on Lady Katrina, who gave a fiendish grin. “As I was saying, this fundraiser of ours should easily bring in a million dollars.”
As if by some magic trick, a seven-digit clock-style ticker illuminated above the camera. It read just under five hundred thousand.
“Once we have raised a million dollars for the cause, I will put you to death by whatever means the highest bidder chooses. Currently, our highest bidder has pledged one hundred thousand. It’s wonderful to see so many generous people donating to this very important organization. Do you know what they chose, Ariel?”
Lady Katrina twirled the sword in her hand like a baton until she pressed the handle to her crotch and thrust her hips forward. “Yes. It will be beautiful. I had this made for just this occasion. The thought of fucking you to death gets me so wet.”
With a pat on Ari’s foot, Lady Katrina softened the tone of her sadistic monologue, “Oh, don’t worry, my pet. We are only halfway there. It seems we need to entice the viewers to bid, so be a good little girl and masturbate for your fans. The more you do on your own, the less I have to force your performance. I’m sure you’d like your remaining time on this planet to be satisfying rather than painful. I’ll leave you to decide. Orgasms and parlor tricks, or torture until you stop breathing.”
The box under the bed roared to life, buzzing as it gathered an electrical charge. If she didn’t comply, the current’s pain would hurt worse than her shame. She spread her legs and pressed her hand between them just as Lady Katrina left the room.
Chapter 26
The Chancellor building downtown bustled with a revolving door of people coming and going from the twenty-story high-rise filled with a variety of businesses. One of those was the city’s fastest-growing newspaper, CityBeats. Not waiting to ride the merry-go-round of traffic, Dylan blasted through the double glass doors and barreled through the sea of frustrated corporate types to a bank of elevators in the middle of the ground floor. With a quick glance at the wall, she noted the suite number and slipped in between the closing doors.
The oppressive stench of cologne and perfume choked Dylan on the ride up. The malodorous chemicals in such tight quarters were one of the many reasons she hated the corporate world. At least in her line of work, the aroma of sex and sweat masked whatever floral scents women wore. When the door opened on the next floor, she prayed it would alleviate the claustrophobic pain in her chest. It didn’t, as even more people pressed together in this rising can of sardines.
At last, the automated voice called out, “fifth floor.”
Dylan slammed her way out, more so to ease the poisoning by chemical warfare disguised as beauty products. With a cough, her lungs opened and so did her eyes. The logo for CityBeats. Everything flooded back to her. Ari. The club. Her report. The lies. And her missing angel. She needed to have a word with this Terry Bradwell fellow.
Everything in the office sparkled with gold trim. Not a rich shade of gold, more like an ultra-neon gold that burned her eyes. It also hinted to those who knew better that CityBeats wanted to be high-end but just hadn’t made it yet. The three-dimensional letters behind the spunky receptionist called her forward. Dylan cast a wide survey of the news desks to the left, rows of grunt workers in front of computer screens with cell phones to their ears. Probably all looking for the next gossip story that held no relevance to actual news. She didn’t care about those people. Her hunt was for the man who hired and fired, and his face wasn’t among them.
“Hi. May I help you?” the little spunkster behind the desk said, offering a fake smile because if she didn’t, someone would complain, and they’d replace her with someone else. That was how corporate politics played.
Time was of the essence and if it had been any other day, Dylan would have flashed an egoistic grin of pearly whites that would have this woman questioning her sexuality. This was not one of those times. “I’m looking for Terry Bradwell.”
“Mr. Bradwell is in a meeting right now. Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but I’m sure he will see me. It’s important.”
“I’m sure it is. I’m afraid he’s not available for the rest of the day. Would you like to make an appointment?”
Dylan’s fist slammed on the counter, the volume of her voice high enough for a few worker ants to perk up at the commotion. “No! Call his ass up and tell him the security manager for Adytum wants to meet with him. Now!”
What do you get when you cross a pissed-off butch and a woman whose stature and build towered over most of the men in the office? Dylan with a temper. The woman scurried to grasp the phone, fumbling it in her hands. It hit the desk once before she clenched it and held it to her ear. “Mr. Bradwell. I’m sorry to interrupt. There is a ...” she tipped her head toward Dylan as if she wanted her to finish the sentence.
“Dylan.”
“There is a Dylan here from Adytum, the head of security, and she’d like to meet with you.” As soon as she dropped the phone, the woman rushed to her feet and motioned Dylan to the glass door on the right. “This way, please. Mr. Bradwell will see you now.”
She thought of an apology, but the woman dashed away in a hurry. Inside the room, the man Dylan recognized as Ari’s “uncle” rose to his feet with his hand extended. “Dylan. Nice to meet you again. Terry Bradwell. What can I do for you?”
She ignored the gesture. The time for pleasantries was long gone. “Why did you send Ari into my club?”
“Right to the point. I like it.” He pulled his arm back and motioned for Dylan to sit across from him on this weird avant-garde chair that looked straight out of a science fiction film. It matched nothing in the room, including the worn leather rolling chair Terry sat on behind the desk. He clasped his hands behind his head with a smug, twisted grin as he leaned back. She wanted to smack him for no reason other than him basking in his white male privilege. “Why do you think I sent her there?”
Dylan leaned over, pressed her hands into the glass top of his desk, looked down at him, and tried to contain the urge to rip out his throat. “I don’t have time for your condescending, holier-than-thou attitude. Ari’s in danger and your shitty exposé put her there.”
His chair swung forward, pushing his body toward the desk. The entitlement vacated his eyes as he stood. “Wait. What?”
“I’ve been trying to reach her for days, and so has her best friend. Let’s just say she’s missing and I’m pretty sure it has something to do with your little article, so start talking.”
He didn’t. Not at first. Terry swiped the phone from his desk and began punching the screen in a feverish race.
“What are you doing?” Dylan asked.
She expected him to confess his plan, yet he had a call to make? It made no sense. Terry put up his hand to put a pause to their conversation. Not one to be silenced, reflex kicked in and Dylan clenched her hand into a fist, then stopped when he questioned someone on the other end of the phone.
