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“You wouldn’t know what I want if it bit you on your fu— freaking ass.”
His laugh is nasty. “You hypocritical bitch.”
“What?” He measured out every syllable, and it feels like I’ve been slapped.
“Miss Goody Two-Shoes. Can’t say the word fuck? But you’re not so innocent now.” His voice drips with sarcasm, acid carving every word.
“What are youtalkingabout?”
“I take Crash,” he says. “I’m an addict. I fucked up my life, and I fucked up yours, and I fucked up a bunch of other people too. I admit it. All of it. But at least I’m not lying.”
“I’m not—”
“You fuck that gorilla like the two of you are going for gold in the Kinky Sex Olympics, but you still pretend you’re cleaner than the Virgin Mary.”
“Leave Trap out of this!”
“Why don’t we sit down and talk some more,” my brother sneers. “Wait. What? You can’t sit? Let me guess. He beat your ass tonight. He left you black and blue, and that’s why you’ve been squirming on that couch like the cushions are on fire.”
“You don’t know anything about—”
“He bit your fucking neck, Al! And you’redefendinghim! I may take Crash, but I don’t lie about it. And I don’t let a monster use me. I’m not whoring myself out for a new phone and a million-dollar—”
I slap him. My open hand crashes into his face with enough force to send him staggering back three full steps. A thousand bees sting themselves to death on my palm as I run out of Swallowtail Cottage.
28
TRAP
* * *
I’m gripping a tumbler in one hand, keeping the other in my pocket, wrapped around the syringes. My glass holds something that used to be Scotch on the rocks, but the ice melted over an hour ago, leaving me with muddy, charcoal-scented water. If I put it down, someone might try to shake my hand, and that would shove the Beast into hyperdrive. The animal in my skull is already rumbling like a volcano about to erupt, growling about how it wants to shred my brain into cat food.
Rider kept his word. The name Kent Clark got me past the front desk. I’ve already made three slow circuits around the club, lingering as long as I dare by the private room near the back. A small sign by the door saysReserved. Bottles of vintage champagne sink in their ice buckets. Molded chocolate truffles gleam under the dim lights, painted to look like raspberries and strawberries and honeybees.
There’s no sign of the fucking Herzogs.
A security guard gives me the stink eye, so I take another cruise around Kynk. Most of the costumes are far more elaborate than my own black mask.
I can’t figure out how that mermaid got to the couch where the minotaur is fucking her tits; her tail is too tight to let her take a single step, and she’s far too large for one man to carry. The body paint on the skeleton by the bar gives all new meaning to the word boner. I’m pretty sure the snake wrapped around the woman in the corner is real, but I don’t want to get close enough to know for sure.
A couple lingers by the table near the door. They’re both completely naked. He’s got a dog leash clipped to his Prince Albert, and she’s telling him to heel while she scans the room like she’s looking for a puppy playmate.
In this company, those assless chaps aren’t worth a second look, but the butt-plug dangling a floor-length rainbow tail gets some attention. Club rules say no one can ask the woman wearing the colossal strap-on for her autograph, even if she’s starring in that Broadway revival ofThe Sound of Music.
“Look like you could use a fresh drink.” I turn away from the circle jerk of guys wearing kilts to see Gage Rider’s wry smile. He’s wearing a plain black tuxedo, which stands out in this crowd like a buck-naked priest on Christmas Eve.
I let him order me a replacement, raising the glass after he tells the bartender to pour the MacAllan 18. “You’re not drinking?” I ask.
“I’m working. Keeping an eye on the crowd.” His grin is easy as he looks away from a pair of women dressed as sex dolls. If the heavy lipstick circling their mouths turns him off as much as it does me, he doesn’t give a sign.
“Speaking of crowd,” I say. “Any chance you’ve seen our friends?”
“Not yet,” he says. “They’re usually here by nine.”
There isn’t a clock in sight, but it has to be after midnight. “Any chance they’ve taken a different private room?”
Rider nods to a guy in a diaper. “They’d still have to come through the front door. I just talked to Felicia. They haven’t checked in.”
