Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 290(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 290(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
I knew how he liked his tacos from the truck, where he went to meet his side piece, and when he took a shit.
I’d probably gone a little overboard, taking my time to get to know him from afar, but it would all pay off in the end. I was nothing if not thorough.
Just ask Harlowe.
After three weeks of scoping him out, everything about Richie was etched into my brain. And tonight would be the first time I put that information to good use.
Tonight, I was going to Parkston’s On the Hill.
CHAPTER TWO
Bennett
Over the past week, I’d followed Richard Dalton to Parkston’s seven nights in a row, usually late, around ten o’clock. I’d researched Parkston’s On the Hill after the first time he led me there, but so far, I hadn’t attempted to go inside. All I knew was that if Richie was hitting the place up every night, there was a good chance he didn’t just appreciate the caliber of bourbon they served.
No, it had to be something else. Something that smelled a lot like business.
Mob business. And I wanted in. I’d made a few phone calls after the third day in a row following him here and secured a guest pass from a member who owed me a favor.
At nine-thirty, I watched the club's entrance from my rented Ferrari on the other side of the street. I loved my truck, but it didn’t fit in at a fancy place like Parkston’s. As soon as Richie’s driver pulled up in front of the club, he rushed around the black town car to let him out of the backseat. After the pair exchanged a few words, Richie headed inside with his big-ass bodyguard, Jake, in tow. I knew the goon’s name because he followed Richie almost everywhere.
Although, I wasn’t sure if the two were friends or if Richie was just too oblivious to notice that his primary muscle was constantly checked out and too far away to make a difference if shit were to go down. I figured he was more like decoration, a giant, muscle-bound fuck off sign. His driver took off, and I took a long, slow breath and swung the car around.
I pulled up to the valet parking, gave myself one more glance over, and stepped out of the car. “All right, Eric, showtime.”
I’d fit right in inside the swanky club, but it didn’t feel right to me. A suit and tie weren’t my thing. Instead, I liked steel-toed boots, worn jeans, t-shirts, and my black leather jacket. Give me a ball cap and a pair of shades, and I was good to go.
However, for Parkston’s On the Hill, I couldn’t walk in looking like FBI agent Bennett Marshon. That look wouldn’t fly. I was undercover now and needed to go as unnoticed as possible. I wasn’t there to make a splash or a scene. My goal was simple. Contact Richie and strike up a relationship so I could shut his operation down.
I glanced down at my shiny wristwatch and smiled. “Just the ticket.” I was betting on this baby getting me entry into places where my badge would only get me shot.
With another long breath, I squared my shoulders and set off inside the club.
I wasn’t exactly sure what I expected. In my research, I hadn’t been able to find images on the web of what the club looked like inside. It was all very private—almost like they didn’t want you to know. But even pictures on the internet wouldn’t have prepared me for what I found on the other side of the iron gates.
Parkston’s On the Hill was a beautiful mansion sitting in the middle of seven perfectly manicured acres in the Hollywood Hills. The long driveway leading up to the cobblestone half-moon driveway made it clear that this place was not only upscale but very private. It took me fifteen minutes to check in, but it was a formality. But what I found on the other side of the door was far from formal.
The lights were low around the outskirts of the place, providing plenty of cover and alcoves for the guests. A dance floor filled the space, and lights flashed and popped over the people on the floor. The beats of the music—provided by an in-house DJ perched on a platform above—were sultry and seductive, practically piping sex into the room.
Surprisingly, every woman in the room was in a state of undress. I wasn’t sure if they came that way or got half-naked after arriving, but a bare-skin buffet was on full display, and no one batted an eye. Hell, I had a hard-on by the time I got three feet inside the door.
From my research, Parkston’s was a sex club with a swimming pool, a dance floor, and private rooms that could be used for whatever purposes a couple—or more—could dream up. I learned that at one point, a group of human traffickers ran girls through the place, but that had been cleaned up since then. Though looking around, it was still plenty dirty.