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I was assured by the manufacturer that it’s fail-proof. Always delivers. It also has a built in recorder.
Not that I’ve been able to make any use of that, but who cares? Main thing is to get my location to my friends and get the hell out of Dodge.
My time to make a difference, to gather info, is running out, though, which means I need to step up my efforts to pester Sandivar and get some answers before it’s too late.
And yeah, the thought of leaving cheers me up and makes me reckless.
Chuckling to myself—because, reckless, who me? That’s my middle name—I twist until I get to my knees. It’s slightly better than being on my ass, and I straighten my back.
I need names, goddammit.
“Now that we’re about to seal the deal, so to speak…” I roll my neck, roll my shoulders. “I was serious about the investment problem. I doubt your fuckboys here know what I’m talking about, so let me state this: we really should expand into toys.”
Silence greets my words.
“You want to expand our business into toys,” Sandivar says, the rise at the end of the phrase letting me know he’s equal parts amused and angry.
“Yeah. Toys.”
“What sort of toys?”
I smirk. “Sex toys.”
Footsteps approach me, and I keep myself very still to keep from flinching as he appears around a stack of boxes.
“If you don’t know that the sex industry is in the palm of our hand, boy,” Sandivar says, stopping a few feet away from me, “then what the hell do you know?”
Ah.
“I was hoping you’d say that.” Because I really was. I expected the Organization to have its filthy fingers dipping in that jar of money. So I press on, needing to get a name. “I have some ideas to pitch to the council. I’ve got a guy working on some designs. Old-fashioned, very Victorian. Real leather floggers and whips, leather manacles, leather everything. Masks and gags and corsets.” There, I’ve given my mouth free rein. “And caramel-flavored lube. Much better than the fruity ones, or even that Pina Colada one that’s going out of fashion now. And I have an idea about a kinky hotel chain, with pain rooms and—”
“We have the hotel chain.” Sandivar’s face has gone kinda red. “That’s enough. You’ll speak to the council after we get our insurance.”
I shut my mouth and let out a slow breath, hiding a grin.
Yeah, baby. I just got one more name for my l
ist: Ian Cronin, owner of the Cronin Scarlet Hotel chain—hotels famous for their dungeon-like rooms, mirrored ceilings, sex swings and cages. High-end luxury spa hotels with a kink.
Two council members so far ticked off.
And still a few more hours to go. I’m pretty sure I can get some more names out of Sandivar. Wanna bet?
I did tell you I’m a cocky asshole.
Chapter Eight
Layla
Getting out of the warehouse is a piece of cake for me. Squeezing out of the bathroom window, I look out for the sadistic thugs I encountered inside, but it seems there’s nobody posted on this side of the building. It’s its blind site, the only windows too small.
For the thugs. Or Hawk. Not for me.
I need a hideout where I sleep and rest, and hopefully charge my cell phone. The battery is on red, almost empty.
Still enough juice to call the police. Or Dorothy.
And if these gangsters smell something and kill Hawk? Would they? He’d looked so serious when he’d said that. Plus, the police didn’t believe me the first time, why would they now?
