26. Gleb

Igrowl in frustration as the clock on my phone shifts to noon. I knew hours ago that she wasn't coming, but because we didn't set a time, I held out hope long past when my common sense and intuition told me Mel blew me off—again.

Let her go, man. If she didn't come, it means she doesn't want saving.Sascha's text glares up at me, rubbing salt in the wound.

I've put my brother off twice this morning, assuring him that we would hit the road as soon as I spoke to Mel. Maybe I should have listened to him from the start.

But then why can't I get this feeling to go away?It's a sense of foreboding, a dark cloud looming on the horizon that tells me if I leave now, without her, Mel will suffer for it.

My fist clenches as I scowl across the street at the darkened entrance to Pearl's. I've learned my lesson about ignoring my gut instinct. And with Mel, I won't take any chances. I'm seeing this through—even if she hates me for it.

A flash of dark hair catches my eye.

I turn my head just in time to catch the prominent sunglasses covering the eyes and a good portion of the face that belongs to the bartender at Pearl's. She looks like she's in desperate need of caffeine after a late night of drinking once the burlesque lounge closed.

Perfect.

If Mel won't come to me, I guess it's time I go to her.

Rising from my chair, I follow the bartender into the coffee shop and get in line behind her. "Looks like you could use a drink," I observe quietly, keeping my tone low and deep to avoid others eavesdropping.

"No kidding," she groans. "You buying?" she jokes, turning to face me with a pained expression. Then her fingers wrap around the frame of her glasses, and she slides them down her nose to peer at me over them. "Well, if it isn't Sascha's brother. You ever find him?"

Flashing her a smile, I give a curt nod. "Of course. I always get my man."

She snorts, then groans as she massages her temples. "Note to self, stop after the first bottle of tequila's done."

"What do you say I add an extra shot of espresso to that coffee I'm buying for you and we sit down and talk?" I offer.

Quirking an eyebrow, the bartender assesses me for a long moment, then shrugs. We step up to the counter, and she places her order—with the double shot. I flash my credit card, then we step to the far side of the counter to wait for her drink to be prepped.

"So, anything in particular you wanted to talk about? Or is this your new attempt at hitting on me?" she jokes.

"Actually, I was hoping you might get me a bit of information."

"Again? I would have thought you'd learned your lesson after the first time around." She accepts her to-go mug of coffee and raises it to thank the barista, then turns to go.

"Yeah, but that was before we became such good friends," I tempt. "And I bought you coffee."

"What kind of information are you looking for?" she asks.

"There's a girl working at Pearl's, an old friend of mine named Melody O'Mara. I was hoping you might give me her address."

The bartender stops dead in her tracks, her eyes flashing behind her oversized sunglasses. "You're joking, right?" she demands. Then it seems to click. "You're the asshole who jumped Vinny the other night over her, aren't you?"

Shit."Look?—"

"No, you look. I don't know who you think you are, but you've got a lot of nerve approaching me, asking for confidential information about the people who work for Mr. Kelly. I'm not about to put my job or my life on the line just because some pretty boy bought me a drink."

Her tongue lashing brings to mind Pyotr's old bodyguard, Efrem—someone I don't often think about anymore. He used to call me pretty boy, too, and just like Efrem, this woman wields the nickname like an insult.

"I think it's best if you just leave," she snaps. "Thanks for the coffee, asshole." The bartender storms across the street with such vitriol, I know better than to follow her.

Sighing, I comb my fingers through my hair and look back at my phone. From what I've gathered while communicating with Sascha, he doesn't know Mel because he hasn't actually been working as a bouncer at Pearl's. Keoghan was putting him to better use than that, or so it sounds, so he's rarely even at the club.

But if I'm going to find Mel before her shift starts tonight, I think he's my best source of information. Sighing because I know I'm going to get an earful for asking, I bring up his contact information and hit dial.

"Da," he answers on the second ring.

"I need Mel's address. Do you have it?"

"Gleb, what you need is to let this go," he insists. "You're risking enough dragging my ass back to New York. But taking one of the Kellys' dancers? When she clearly doesn't want to go? That's a good way to end up dead."

"Sascha, I'm not asking for your opinion. And I'm not going to kidnap her, for fuck's sake. Just give me an address." I pace slowly down Beacon Street, trying to keep my impatience in check. It's been like running into a brick wall at every turn with Mel.

"Well, it's not like I keep all the girls' addresses on file in my brain," he snarks. "But I know some of them board at a house called Madam Kieri's—at least that's what they call it." He lists off the address and follows it up with another warning. "I can't guarantee she's even there, but seriously, Gleb, one girl can't be worth all this trouble."

"You clearly don't know Mel," I state flatly, hanging up before he can respond.

The address was just a few blocks over—in the direction she was walking home that first night. I head that way, keeping my hands crammed in my jacket pockets and my head down to avoid notice.

It's a redbrick house, fairly indistinguishable from the ones that surround it, and I traipse up the steps to knock on the hunter-green front door. A short, curvy woman with dark hair that's graying at the temples opens the door. Dressed in comfortable, flowing clothes, she could almost pass for a madam, like the name Sascha gave me for the house. I wonder if that makes this the woman who runs the boarding facility.

"Madam Kieri?" I ask, considering a beat too late that she might not appreciate the name. I have no clue what kind of boarding house this truly is.

Her eyebrow quirks in an expression that would suggest she's none too fond of the title. "Who's asking?"

"I'm Gleb. I'm a friend of Mel's and was hoping I might catch her before her shift at Pearl's." The casual knowledge drop about Mel's schedule will hopefully put the woman at ease and get her to let down her guard.

"You know Mel?" she asks, her eyes scanning me up and down and seeming to assess me as a potential for trouble. She shifts the door closer to her voluptuous frame, giving a subtle sign that I'm not welcome.

And while I appreciate her instinct to protect Mel, I'm reaching my wit's end.

"Yeah. We're old friends," I confirm, flashing a smile.

"Oh, well, she's not home right?—"

The woman cuts her sentence short as a tiny human slips past her leg and toddles onto the front porch. The beautiful little girl can't be more than two years old. And she's so petite, her heart-shaped face so perfect and symmetrical that she could almost pass for a porcelain doll. Her raven curls and naturally tan complexion create a stunning contrast to her seafoam green eyes. And my heart skips a beat as she looks up at me with complete trust and innocence.

"Gabby, no—" the woman gasps, bending to try and collect the little girl before she can wander off the steps.

But her protest dies on her lips as Gabby stops in front of me and raises her arms in a silent request to be picked up. Usually at a loss when it comes to children, I reach down to scoop the little girl into my arms. A warmth floods my body as she continues to study me with those wide green eyes, somehow seeming perfectly at ease with me.

Her tiny hands press against my cheeks, and my heart—the one I've often questioned whether I even had—melts inside my chest. Leaning forward, she presses her forehead to mine, joining our noses in what might be the most tender and intimate display of affection I've ever experienced.

And though I have no clue who this little girl is, thick emotion clogs my throat. I swallow hard and close my eyes to ward off the unfamiliar stinging sensation as moisture floods them. She takes a big breath, and I mirror the behavior without thinking, taking in her sweet scent.

My heart breaks into a sprint as I detect the hint of lemon and vanilla beneath her baby shampoo. And suddenly, I know exactly who Gabby belongs to.

Why wouldn't Mel tell me she has a daughter?

Stomach in knots, I open my eyes as little Gabby leans away to level me with a devastating smile. And with every passing second, I know with more confidence that this is Mel's little girl. She's a mirror image of her mother.

"She's never so forward," the woman breathes from the doorway, and my attention snaps back to her.

I'd almost completely forgotten about her for a second there. And now she stands with her palm on her chest, like she's just witnessed nothing short of a miracle.

"Yeah, well…" I clear my throat, struggling to regain control of my emotions—another clear indicator that this little girl belongs to Mel.

"You see Mama?" Gabby asks, her tiny fingers wrapping around the zipper of my jacket.

"Oh, right," the woman's face flushes, as if Gabby's question has brought her back to my reason for knocking. "Um, Mel already left for work. Said she had a few errands to do before her shift started. I'm sorry you missed her."

I nod, frustration churning in my gut. But I keep my expression passive. "Thanks. I'll try and catch her another time."

Carefully, as if handling a fragile package, I pass Gabby to the woman, and she smiles with relief at having the little girl safely back in hand.

"We'll tell her you stopped by, though. Won't we, Gabby?"

The little girl nods, tucking her head into the curve of the woman's neck as she looks at me shyly now.

"Thanks for your time," I rasp, taking a step down from the porch.

"Of course." The woman's behavior toward me has taken a drastic shift in the last few moments, and I can only attribute it to my interaction with Gabby.

I wonder if it was as earth-shattering to watch as it was to experience. And as my feet carry me toward Pearl's once again, I feel as though I'm lost in a haze of emotion.

I checked out of my hotel room before coming down to meet Mel early this morning. My bike sits on the curb outside of the burlesque lounge, waiting for me. So, I have nowhere to go until I can slip back into the club to speak to Mel once more.

Instead, I walk through Boston Common, trying to sort through my tangle of emotions. I need to get to the bottom of Mel's flighty behavior. I suspect Gabby might be at the root of it, but as the hours pass, I'm less confident in my assessment of the little girl's connection to her.

She looks a lot like Mel, but she doesn't have those dark eyes. And the woman I assume is Kieri, never actually said she's Mel's daughter. Could she have been Kieri's, and I just jumped to conclusions?

I need to stop guessing and get answers, so as soon as the sun sets, I'm back at the red-carpeted stairs leading up to Pearl's. Despite the warnings Both Mel and Sascha have given me, I'm going back in once more.

Tonight, I find a group of single guys in line to make friends with. I chat them up, finding commonality in the fact that we're all in Boston, visiting from New York. By the time we reach the admission desk, they're calling me one of their bros and inviting me to sit with them at their table.

I agree, slipping past the man who's here to take my cover fee once again. We settle at a table near the back of the room—the only one left available for a party of our size. And when they buy a round of drinks, I join them at their insistence, though I don't intend to indulge.

We sit and watch the show, and I brush off their wolf whistles and lewd appraisal of the girls as they dance on stage. Thankfully, the music drowns out the sound of my knuckles cracking as my fingers curl into fists when more than one suggestive statement gets made about Mel directly. Finally, our server comes around to ask if any of us are looking for a private dance this evening.

Shelling out five hundred dollars—the listed price offered on the front page of the menu—I hold the money up for her to see. And when she comes over, I describe the girl I want an audience with. She nods, taking the cash and slipping it into an envelope in her server's folder before jotting down Mel's name. Then she scans her list of available rooms and marks me down for lucky number three.

"She'll be with you in five minutes if you'd like me to take you there now, Mr. Smith," she says, using the name I gave her.

Nodding, I rise from my chair, wish my companions a fun time, and follow the petite server through the dimly lit dining area of the lounge. She leads me to an entirely different door from the hidden one I found last night. The hallway on the other side must run along the back of the private rooms. That way, clients won't run into the girls before they're in their designated space.

Smart.

My server opens the door to room three and gestures me inside. "Would you like a drink?" she offers.

"No, this is fine. Thanks."

With a nod, she slips from the room, closing the door behind her.

In her absence, I scan the space. It's quite luxurious, with several chairs where I could sit, all plush and upholstered with soft cream-colored leather. Every surface looks pristine, as if someone cleans the room thoroughly between uses.

Probably a good thing.

God only knows what takes place in this space.

But what's most noticeable about the room is the glass window that runs the length of the wall the chairs are facing. On the other side is a second, smaller room. And at the center, a glass case large enough to fit a human body.

The lighting would suggest it's meant to showcase something—a dancer.

My mouth goes dry as I suddenly realize what it really is. What it must be to Mel. A cage.

The showroom door opens, and in steps Mel.

Dressed in the skimpiest slip of lingerie I've ever seen.