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Maybe after tonight, she’ll believe me, once and for all. She’ll understand that I’ll do anything for her. For us.
Of course, the Beast will have a fucking field day out there on the floor. It’s already prowling the edges of my mind, whispering oily threats like sewer gas bubbling out of cracked pipes.
I check the locker door, tugging five times—hard—on the handle. The Beast doesn’t go away, but the door stays shut. I square my shoulders. I resist the urge to mutter the words the guy on the bench was saying, the prayer against evil.
And I head out to hunt.
28
ALIX
* * *
Icount out the fare, plus the five extra twenties I promised the cabbie if he got me here without being detected by Charles and Trap. Before he takes my money, the guy says, “You sure you want to get out here, sweetheart? Looks like the neighborhood’s a little rough.”
I try to ignore the fact that I’m wearing a floor-length formal gown and heels that would make a beauty pageant contestant question her career choice. “I’ll be fine.”
“I can wait a few minutes,” he volunteers.
“Thanks. But my friend is waiting for me inside.”
I say that like I have a clue what Trap is doing here. I didn’t even see the door in the shadowy alcove the first time we drove by. My trusty driver took it upon himself to turn off his lights, staying almost a block back as Trap drove around the building. We barely caught those flashing high beams from where we were, back at the intersection. Whatever the code was, it spooked my cabbie enough that he went up an extra block, cutting back to the main road just in time for us to see Trap climb out of the Mercedes.
The more I’ve learned about the freeport, the more I’ve realized Trap needs to manage underhanded business deals. He’s told me about plenty of clients’ less-than-legal businesses, but I know he’s protecting me from the worst of what he sees. Is he meeting some crime boss here? Maybe a motorcycle club based on the dilapidated Brooklyn waterfront?
But that doesn’t make sense. What business meeting would happen close to midnight on a Saturday?
“I can take you somewhere else, sweetheart,” the driver says, and I realize he’s been waiting patiently while I try to figure out exactly what’s going on. “Don’t worry if you don’t have the fare. If you weremydaughter, I’d want to know someone was taking care of you.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Your daughter is lucky to have a father like you. But I’ll be fine.”
Before I can doubt myself, I open the car door. I have to concentrate while navigating the rough city street, asphalt covering cobblestones that have heaved into hills over time. I force myself to smile when I reach the curb, and I wave at my would-be knight in shining armor.
But my face falls when I see the brass plaque on the door: Kynk.
A sex club?
I don’t understand. For the first time since Trap walked out of the penthouse, my confusion is tinged with anger. What the hell is Trap doing at asex club?
My driver won’t leave until I find the nerve to go in. So I push on the door, half-expecting it to creak like something in a haunted house. I brace myself for cobwebs and the stench of rotting sewage.
Instead, I find myself in a foyer that looks like the front room of a prestigious museum—the Frick maybe, or the Morgan Library or one of the powerhouse galleries I’ve come to know in my self-guided education as an art auctioneer. The woman behind the Queen Anne table has the polished look of a seasoned curator.
But that doesn’t account for the two huge men standing guard on either side of the door. Their arms are crossed over their chests, muscles bulging like battleships.
And none of it explains the name on the door: Kynk. Is Trap a member of this private club? And what the hell is he getting here that I’m not giving him at home?
“Good evening,” says the woman. “May I help you?”
From her measured smile to the twitch of her hand over the tablet on her desk, I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to deliver some secret password. But password to what? And how long do I have to come up with something before the guards throw me out?
At least these three aren’t surprised that I’m dressed for opening night at the opera. They aren’t the least bit disturbed that I’ve arrived at this distant outpost alone. They don’t seem to see me as a threat; in fact, their relaxed stance clearly indicates Icouldbe the type of woman who belongs here.
Which makes me wonder even more: Why is Trap here? How can this place satisfy the animal that lives inside his head? What the hell am I missing?
Before I can lose the good will of the welcoming committee, I settle on a story I hope sounds believable. “A friend invited me to come here tonight. Promised I wouldn’t regret it. And he’s never steered me wrong before.” I offer my best game smile.
Behind me, one of the stone guardians presses the black loop in his ear. “Yes, Mr. Rider,” he says into the mouthpiece that barely makes it halfway around his jaw. His massive rumble is probably supposed to be a whisper. “Of course, Mr. Rider. I don’t know what happened. I’ll come set up the platform myself.”
