Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Just as Richard opens his mouth to spew something else that’s no doubt going to make me gag, my phone rings. I take it from my pocket. It’s Dante.
“Excuse me.” I walk to the door. “I have to take this.”
I answer the call when I’m far enough down the hallway to be out of earshot. “You better have a good excuse for interrupting Anya’s baby shower.”
Dante’s voice is terse. “There’s been a raid at After Dark.”
What the fuck? “I thought we had an understanding with the cops on that beat.”
“DEA.”
Bristling, I gnash my teeth. “Who the fuck authorized it?”
“Luigi is looking into it.”
They wouldn’t find any drugs on my site. The only reason they’d search the club is to ruffle our feathers.
I hang up with, “I’m on my way.”
When I get back to the lounge, Richard is reading a newspaper.
He motions at the stack that’s neatly fanned out on the coffee table like a deck of cards. “Want one?”
He finally accepted conversation isn’t going to work between us.
Not bothering to answer, I lean a shoulder on the door frame and study my girl. She takes the gift that Livy hands her and smiles so beautifully my heart fucking aches. She shakes the parcel wrapped in white paper and tied with a yellow ribbon, presumably trying to guess what’s inside. She says something at which everyone laughs. It strikes me then how rarely I see her like this. Happy.
“Still like what you see?” Richard asks, his tone either teasing or mocking—I can’t be sure, and I don’t care.
“It’s going to be a boy,” I muse.
“Why do you say that?”
“I’ve read if a woman carries low, it’s a boy. Plus, I’ve got this feeling.”
“What does she think?” he asks.
“She thinks it’s a girl.”
“It’s a girl for us.”
“Yeah, Anya told me.”
“It makes the preparations easier. At least we know what colors to buy.”
See, there’s another gender tradition I don’t believe in. Who decided it’s blue for boys and pink for girls?
“When is Tersia’s baby shower?” I ask.
“She doesn’t want to have one. She’s happy to do this for Anya, but it’s not her cup of tea.”
My reply is a grunt.
I push off the door frame and walk to the sunroom. The women look up when I open the door. With the first wet snow coming down outside, the flower beds and the lawn are mucky, but the picture is still pretty. Despite the cold outside, the room is nice and cozy. Warm.
I go over to Anya and press a kiss on her forehead. The smile that tugs at my lips when I straighten feels a lot like the room—soft and warm. It’s a foreign sentiment for me, but I don’t show her how much that scares me.
“I’m going to meet with Dante, tesoro. I’ll pick you up later.”
“Take your time,” Tersia says. “We haven’t even started the tea party. We won’t be done before six or seven.”
Anya frowns. We’re too much in tune with one another. She senses that something is wrong. I didn’t want to worry her, but I wasn’t going to leave without telling her.
I cup her cheek with a reassuring caress before I walk from the room.
When I arrive at After Dark almost forty-five minutes later—thanks to traffic—destruction greets me. Broken bottles litter the floor, the spilled liquid lying in puddles between shards of glass. The bar shelves are empty save for a few bottles that are tipped onto their sides. Glasses are smashed to pieces on the counter. The space smells of coconut liquor and the smoky vanilla scent of whisky. The day manager stands to the side, observing the mess with his hands on his hips and his head hanging between his shoulders.
Rage rises inside me. I push it down, squeezing the manager’s shoulder in passing as I say in a level voice, “Get this cleaned up.”
He looks at me as if noticing me for the first time and nods.
I climb the stairs. Two portraits have been ripped from the wall. They lie face-down on the floor in the gallery. Tables and chairs are overturned. A few girls who were working the upstairs rooms huddle together in robes.
“Any arrests?” I ask.
“Tammy and Chucky,” the redhead says. “They were with clients.” She jerks her chin at her friends. “We were just hanging out.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
They nod, trusting me to do so because I always do what I say.
“Take the day off.” I tilt my head toward the dressing room. “Grab some clothes and get out of here. I’ll make sure you’re paid for your hours.”
They shuffle away, their gazes trained on the floor. The strippers and hookers like to work here because, up to now, we’ve had an infallible reputation. No raids. No arrests. No touching unless the girls authorize it. Whatever they earn is theirs. We don’t take a cut. It’s only fair, seeing that we profit from the business they bring in, and they bring in a lot of men who like to spend big money on drinks. Working hours are flexible and completely at their discretion. On top of that, we pay them a flat rate for the legal part of the business, which is dancing.