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Perhaps he’s obsessed with me, as I’d once been with him. I’m just here to talk him off the ledge, since he couldn’t be reasoned with on the app. I had no other way to contact him.
This has to end. I can’t have him doing something like show up on my balcony, especially when Eoghan is there.
He’ll kill Johnny. I’m sure of it.
I grabbed an Uber from the office and went home for my car to meet Johnny. My boring silver Honda won’t stand out in The Candy Store parking lot. I’m not on anyone’s radar. No one cares about me.
Just Eoghan, who noticed me when everyone in this city looked past me.
I drive to the strip joint to explain in person to Johnny why we can’t continue. I’m… I’m in love Eoghan O’Rourke. And if Johnny hasn’t figured it out, I’ll explain who Eoghan is in blunt terms and that should end things.
What moron wants to fuck with a mob boss’s woman?
Johnny hasn’t committed a crime. Other than threatening to out me as a woman who uses a hook-up app. It’s a form of revenge porn, and the other division prosecuted a few cases but only after one party actually released damaging photos on social media.
Nothing happens to people who threaten such sick acts. Like most crimes against women, assholes have to actually physically assault a woman to face accountability and justice.
But outing me in some heinous public way will threaten my career, and more importantly, my relationship with Eoghan. Maybe no one in Vegas will care that a prosecutor has kinky sex needs. But if Johnny has pictures or audio?
I might lose Eoghan.
He accepted what I did with Johnny B. Goode. He won’t accept any visual or sound reminders. Or that I might come with baggage like a stalker.
A real one.
I get why Johnny is going over the edge. He played the role of a stalker as part of the fantasy I’d signed up for because apparently, he actually was one. My gut nags me that I should have told Eoghan about these messages. But he’ll kill Johnny, and I’d rather not have that on my conscience.
I don’t live in the gray. Murder isn’t a proper response to being threatened.
At the entrance to The Candy Store, they don’t frisk me, or check my purse, where my 9mm Ruger handgun sits tucked under my wallet.
The gun is just to make sure Johnny doesn’t touch me. Again. And that’s for his own good. Not mine.
The Candy Store isn’t a shady operation tucked somewhere down a dark alley. It’s right on the strip.
I reach the end of a tunnel-like hallway that leads to the main room of the club, a typical look for places like this, with a black mirrored floor, dark cherry tables, and wooden chairs. A U-shaped stage sits in the center and a few girls casually stroll in different sections, being playful, teasing early-bird customers.
It’s about noon, yet this room is half full of men in suits, some in leather jackets, and some who look like frat boys from UNLV.
The club smells of perfume. It’s pleasant, and I’m guessing it’s pheromone-based to get men in the mood. Dark pin lights line the mirrored floor, and a glow from the neon signs behind the bar shines brightly.
Johnny always wore a mask, so I’m flying blind.
When I feel a body behind me, I clutch my bag.
Warm breath fans my neck. “You’re wanted in the private lounge, Miss Diamond.”
I spin around to find a man in a dark suit with a burgundy shirt. I know he’s not Johnny, simply by his height and slender build.
“Private lounge?” I exhale and look around, testing him. “Who wants me in the private lounge?”
“Johnny.”
“And if I ask you to tell him to meet me out here?”
“Mr. Goode doesn’t mingle in the club.”
“And who are you?”
