Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Charlotte Mitchell

I n the dead of the night, I took a cab to East 116th Street and Lexington Avenue. The driver was a sleepy, overworked guy, and we rode in silence. The sounds of the slight traffic filled the quiet until we arrived here. He did look at me a little weird when I climbed out. I can’t say that I blame him. The way that I’m dressed is telling to what I might be up to at this hour and in this neighborhood.

That was ten minutes ago. Now, in front of a market, I wait under a street lamp like an idiot. I’m dressed in a skimpy black dress that shows more thigh than I care to admit with high black heels that I just may break my ankle in. I chose not to wear jewelry because, honestly, I don’t want to get robbed. East Harlem isn’t the place for girls dressed like me, girls waiting alone on a corner for someone to pick them up by someone they don’t know.

Across the street, men with baggy, dark clothes stride by, but thankfully, they only cat-call and don’t make their way over to harass me. With a clench of my jaw, I touch my curled hair and flatten it against the breeze that blows out of Lexington Avenue.

God, I probably look like a hooker right now.

If it weren’t for the tracker on my fake glasses, I’d be a little afraid. Can I handle myself? Yes, I was trained to. But there’s always that chance…

For a moment, I have second thoughts about doing this. Scratch that. Not for a moment – for the entire night a little voice in my head told me to rethink this.

Going to a porn house? Applying – if that’s even what it’s called – to be a porn star? I’ve never done anything like this. I’ve always been on a straight and narrow path, but to fuck random people and have it being recorded? Displayed for the world to see? It makes my stomach flip more than the idea of possibly getting caught and dying for the true reason I’m there. I could easily be that woman in the picture Miles showed Peyton. That could be me before I ever figure out who is on top of this ‘business’ as Peyton liked to call it.

“I can do this,” I whisper to myself as I pull my clutch out of my armpit and hold it in front of me with both hands. Because even though that woman died, the dead don’t die. She had a story to tell with her death, and I have every intention of dragging it into the light and bringing the bastard responsible to justice. For her. For them because I know for a fact that she’s not the only victim here.

I open my clutch and pull out my phone to check the time. He’s late by twenty minutes, and I breathe a heavy sigh at how annoying it is to be ditched. I swipe open my phone. Just as I open up the app for the cab company to get another ride back to my apartment, a rusted Chevy pulls off to the side of the road at the corner of Lexington Avenue, right across the street.

A chill runs down my spine as I freeze in place, phone still suspended in front of me. I stand there for a moment, finger poised on my screen, while I watch this truck with rapt concern. Either it’s him or . . .

The headlights flash a few times, and I release a quick breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. I swallow my fear, put my phone back into my clutch, and stride across the street as soon as a few cars pass by.

“You can do this,” I murmur to myself again as I reach the sidewalk on the other side. My heels clack loudly, and if I had any intention of being quiet, I would have failed by now. I stare at the person in the truck, and his gentle blue eyes stare back. We hold each other’s gaze for a heartbeat before I get the courage to cross Lexington Avenue, bravely walk around the front of the truck, and pivot to the passenger side.

The man’s gaze had followed me the entire time, assessing I’m sure, because he knows I’m a cop, and if he wants to keep his ass out of jail, he has to be on his best behavior.

The window rolls down, and as soon as it does, I ask, “You Ryan, Peyton’s friend?”

I nearly chuff at the idea that they’re friends. Both are runners for the necrophilia side of this business, transporting dead bodies so that they can be disposed of right under our noses. Friends? I doubt it. Who would be friends with someone in this business?

“Depends,” he asks, lifting a thick orange eyebrow.

I can tell he uses, but he’s not as ragged-looking as Peyton had been. He has a head of close-cropped, naturally orange hair, freckles across his stubby nose, and thin lips that flatten even further after his question. He’s thin, like Peyton, but not thin enough to where his black band t-shirt falls off of his shoulders.

He shuts off the engine so we can hear each other better, which means he has some kind of faith in me. I take a little pride in that; that not once but twice, I was easily able to convince a drug addict to tell me what I wanted to know.

“On what?” I ask, cocking my eyebrow right back at him.

“On if the deal still stands?”

It had been difficult for Peyton to give up his friend, but we needed Ryan to get me in. It’s an invite-only place, apparently. At first, Ryan was pissed at Peyton for giving him away, for getting caught in the first place. But then we offered Ryan a deal: When shit hits the fan, he’ll just . . . disappear from our radar.

As soon as the deal was made, we shipped Peyton off to the rehab center several states West. Only Miles knows the true location, and I’d prefer to keep it that way because, if I do get caught doing the shit I’m about to do, I don’t want to give away the man who told us everything. I know my limitations, and extended torture is one of them.

I have flaws. We all do.

“The deal still stands,” I say, nodding curtly and all business-like even though, on the inside, nervous butterflies bang against the lining of my stomach.

He stares at me for a moment, wondering if he can trust the word of a cop before he unlocks the truck’s doors.

I shakily exhale through my nose, open the squealing truck door, and carefully hop inside so that my dress doesn’t ride up my thighs and show my laced-black thong. As soon as I shut the door, the engine roars to life, and we pull off the side of the road and take a right.

The tension between us practically constricts the beats of my heart. We’re silent for a moment before I’m forced to break it. “Tell me what I need to know.”

He only spares me a glance. “Well, you dressed right, if that’s what you’re asking.”

I look down at my bare thighs and twitch my lips in a small smile because Rochelle had helped me pick this out. She was kind enough to even pay for it and worried enough to ask me to change my mind. I didn’t, of course, but it helped that she knows Miles will be watching my every move.

“Thanks,” I say clearly. “But tell me what happens when we get there?”

He clears his throat a little and grabs the steering wheel with the other hand so he can drum his fingers on his thigh. “If I get caught doing this, I’m dead.” He spares me another glance. “Do you care about that?”

“You won’t get caught,” I promise, even though I know I can’t keep that promise.

The thought of my lie causes him to look at me sidelong before he grumbles and his shoulders deflate. “I don’t know exactly what goes on once you get inside. I’ve only ever brought one woman there.”

“A willing woman?” I ask, the cop in me coming out.

He rolls his eyes. “Yes. She needed the money, which is exactly the same thing you’re going to tell them.”

Should be easy because that part definitely isn’t a lie. “Them?”

“Did you think there’d only be one person you’d talk to tonight?”

“Well . . .” I tuck a curl behind my ear. “Yeah.”

His laugh is almost a little dark and foreboding. “No,” he says matter-of-factly. “I hope you put on a good show because there definitely will be more than one person you have to impress. ”

Great, I grumble inside my head. I refuse to show any sort of weakness in front of Ryan. “What do I do?”

He shrugs and drums his fingers a little harder. I try not to let it annoy me. “I have no idea. I’m just your unwilling escort who has zero ambitions to die tonight.”

“What? Did you have plans?” I look out the window, knowing exactly what he’d rather be doing by all the twitching of his digits.

“Something like that,” he murmurs. “Look, when we get there, I’ll take you to the front door, and then you’re on your own.”

“Comforting,” I whisper to the window pane.

“You’re not going to use your real name, are you?” He has the decency to look a little afraid that I might.

I chuff. “I’m not an idiot.” It was the very first thing Miles did in preparation for this, this thing we are doing against Visser’s orders. It’s a very stupid thing that we may both regret. He reminded me repeatedly when he gave me my fake ID.

“Good, good,” he mutters as he pulls to the side of the road. “We’re here. I hope you’re ready for this.”

I get a good look around and see that we’re in a rich part of East Harlem where all the brownstones and condominiums stand nice and tall and completely uninviting to any visitors of the lower classes. “Oh,” I breathe out. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.

“Ready?” he asks, shutting off the engine once more and grasping his door’s handle.

No. No, I’m not, but I’m not going to tell him that. There’s no way I’d admit to feeling like I might vomit all over his cab.

Forcing my bile down with a discrete gulp, I proclaim, “Let’s get this over with.” I grab the handle and step out into the cool, brisk night .

The way my heels clack against the sidewalk as I reach it is almost rhythmic to my heartbeat that I can feel in my neck. The slight fear. The adrenaline. Both course through me as I ask, “Which one is it?”

He points to the one in front of us with a tip of his head while he stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets. “There’s no going back now; you realize that?”

I nod, and he shakes his head and leads me up the few steps to the front door. He knocks three times before stuffing his hand right back into his pocket. I get the feeling he’s doing that to keep them from shaking from withdrawal.

“Do they know we’re coming?” I whisper when I hear footsteps from inside.

“Yes,” he whispers back, and just as he finishes, the door swings open.

A plain, stocky man dressed in a black shirt and black pants touches his gaze on Ryan before moving to me. Slowly, he takes me in, and I work like hell not to fidget under the weight of them like the addict I’m standing next to.

“Will she do?” Ryan asks, growing more fidgety by the second. I keep my eyes on the man in front of me, but I have the urge to glare at Ryan for acting like a whipped puppy dog.

There’s a flash of heat in the man’s eyes as he lingers on my breasts before he digs into his pocket and pulls out a baggie. I keep my face neutral as the baggie is passed from the man to Ryan. I don’t have to look to know that whatever is in that baggie will have him high the moment he reaches home, if he has a home.

The man steps aside and ushers me in, and when I move forward to head inside, Ryan whispers, “Good luck,” to me so quietly that I doubt this man heard him .

I’m inside in the next second, and the door is shutting behind me. I try not to gape at what’s beyond the foyer, I try to keep my face neutral as if the rich life is nothing new to me, but it’s difficult not to take it all in. The sound of Ryan’s engine roaring to life again rumbles my immediate space and rattles a few windows within.

I’m alone.

Everything is white, gray, and black. To my right, marble staircases lead to another floor with a black ornate railing. To my immediate front, the foyer spills into what is definitely the kitchen, and to my left is a living room with furniture that neither Nathan nor my salary combined could ever afford.

All of it, the show and fanciness of it all, makes me wonder if this is actually someone’s home or if it’s where the sex is shot.

My question is immediately answered as soon as Ryan’s truck is out of earshot. I glance up to the second floor when I hear the deep moans of what is definitely a female.

I don’t get long to stare at the ceiling before the man grabs my elbow and leads me through the foyer and into the kitchen. The counters are white granite with black streaks throughout. I’m sure there’s a name for that, but I’ve never been wealthy enough to even shop for that kind of luxury.

The cabinets are light gray, and every light hanging from the ceiling is gold. For a second, I wonder if that’s real gold before a throat is cleared to my left and the man holding my elbow turns me in that direction.

“You must be Charlie,” the man seated at the table says. He has jet-black hair that doesn’t match his gray eyebrows and a slimy smile that makes me recoil a little, but the firm grip on my elbow keeps me exactly where I’m at. “I’m Andre. ”

He doesn’t stand. While he takes me in, he simply steeples his fingers in front of him. “This is Feenix,” he adds, and for a second, I don’t realize what he’s talking about until a man steps out from where he was hidden, having been leaning against the wall beside the large fireplace.

I can’t help it. No woman would be able to. He’s absolutely . . . the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen. And I hate it, I truly do, but my breath hitches when his deep and rumbly voice amends his introduction as, “Nix.”