Tight (31 page)

“Twelve.” My Master spoke too quickly and I wanted to scream. Twelve thousand??! I had twelve thousand in my savings account at home. Was fairly certain that Brett would pay a hundred times that amount without hesitation. This could
not
be my ending. I wouldn’t let it happen.

I raised my head and stared into the man’s eyes, the action unexpected, his eyes narrowing in response. Then I licked my Revlon Super Lustrous #680 Temptress lips and spoke.

“Get your fucking hands off of me or so help me God I will break every one of your fingers.”

Beside me, my keeper jerked into action, his hand clamping down on my arm harder than I’d ever felt it, the punishment in the bite of every single finger. I fought it, stared into the man’s eyes and let him see every ounce of hatred in my heart.

Behind us, a voice, so low and deep that it stopped us all, the casual authority a hundred levels above the three of us.

“Is there a problem here?”

Five words that gripped my heart and smashed it into place.

Five words spoken in a manner I’d never heard yet instantly recognized.

Five words that caused both men to turn but I stayed in place, a tremble starting from my feet and rocketing up, till I thought I’d drop, till I thought, right there on that floor, that I would burst into a hundred pieces.

Brett had found me
. I pressed my lips together and fought the breakage of my soul, my eyes squeezing together, a lump in my throat fighting to burst through every opening in my soul.

I had been saved.

The trio of black SUVs were ahead of us, my app verifying Brett’s location in the car.

“Very James Bond,” the driver called out cheerfully, lifting his chin and meeting my gaze in the rearview mirror.

“Uh-huh.” I gripped the front passenger headrest and stared at the cars. Watched as we wound through downtown. Brett’s ‘friends’, the men from the house, now here, with two extra SUVs, headed into the heart of the city. Not going on a boat sales call, that was for certain. They must work for him, be part of the drug operation. I wondered at his house, at all of the rooms that we had passed through, made love in. How many of those rooms had closets full of drugs? Or guns? Or both? How many nights had I sat in a hotel room while he had destroyed lives? Broken a hundred laws? Empowered terrorist and drug organizations?

I had seen enough. I should go back to the hotel. Book a flight home and be halfway to the airport by the time Brett returned.

“You getting out now?”

I raised my head, looked around, scrambling into action when I realized that the brigade before us had stopped, doors opening on all three vehicles, two men I didn’t recognize joining Brett’s foursome. I glanced at the meter and pulled out a twenty, holding it out. “Keep the change. What is this place?”

He twisted in his seat, taking the cash with an appreciative nod. “A salsa club. Real popular with the tourists. But it’s early, won’t be too crazy right now. It’ll heat up in an hour or so, be really crazy then. Want me to wait for you?”

I glanced around, Brett’s entourage entering through the front, the street quiet and relatively clean. “No, I think I’m okay. Taxis come through here often?”

“Oh yes, every few minutes. But here’s my card. If you can’t find one, just give me a call.” He smiled, half his grin void of teeth.

I took the card. “Thanks.”

I was slow to exit, a group of girls approaching the club, and I waited for them to pass before stepping out. I followed them closely, an attempt to hide, a barrage of Spanish bouncing between them as they pulled open the doors and shouted a chorus of welcomes to the doorman.

They were my shield, camouflaging my entrance, and my eyes darted around the dim interior quickly, worried that I would turn around and bump into Brett’s chest.

I had nothing and everything to worry about. The group of men wasn’t there.

I paid the doorman, and hugged the shadows, checking the room once, twice, three times. I visited the restrooms, put my ear to the men’s room door, wandered behind the bandstand and out to the patio. The cabby was right, the place wasn’t busy, nothing like the moshpit of the Jamaican club.

“Looking for someone?” The man’s voice made me jump, my nerves fried, and I spun around, gripping my elbow with a wince when it connected solidly with the edge of a table.

“No, not really.” I tried to smile, shook out the arm.

“You just look lost.” He stepped back, giving me space, and I relaxed a bit. Took in his dark polo and khakis.

“You work here?”

He shrugged. “You could call it that. I own the club. My name’s Mitchell.” He extended a hand.

“Riley.” I smiled. “Is there more to it? It seems bigger from the outside.”

He glanced left, in the direction of a door marked Private. “There’s an upstairs, but it’s closed to a private party.”

Closed to a private party
. I rubbed my elbow, my arm tingling from the hit. “You know what kind of party it is?” I should give up. Take a seat in the corner and wait for them to leave, or get out of here.

He grinned. “I could get you in if you are interested.”

Am I interested? No. Probably not. Chances are he’ll open the door and it’ll be a flashback to my experience at Brett’s home office, staring blankly at a group of men with no logical purpose for my presence. “No. I was just curious.”

“Why don’t you come up to VIP? It has a view of the upstairs, plus one of the city.”

VIP? I hadn’t seen a VIP in my cruise of the club. Then again, I hadn’t seen the stairway upstairs but Brett and his cronies had gone
somewhere
. “Are there other people in VIP?”

He laughed. “Where do you think everyone is? There’s a reason it’s a ghost town down here.”

I watched him laugh, the easy tilt of his head, the relaxed sag of his shoulders, the nod he gave to a waitress when she passed.

He was nice. Helpful. A little flirtatious, but that was fine. Trustworthy. Connected. And he could give me a glimpse of the upstairs party.

I smiled. “Sounds good.”

The five fingers of Him burned into my arm, the twist of his body to look at Brett causing a rug-burn effect, but I stayed in place, my back to him. I couldn’t turn, couldn’t look into Brett’s eyes because if I did... God, if I saw his face my barely controlled emotions would flood. I would sob his name, throw my arms out and fly into his chest. I would grip his shirt, smell his cologne and never let go - they’d have to cut out our chests and separate the beating of our hearts.

“No problem. Just a little negotiation over price. The slave stepped out of place.” He jerked with his hand on my arm and I stumbled around, into my keeper, my eyes glued to the floor, the wet brim of tears threatening to fall as I did everything to stop myself from looking up.

Brett’s shoes. Black dress shoes, the laces tight and neat. If I pulled up his dress pants, I’d see dark silk socks.

He watched me, a playful gleam in his eyes as he pulled his shoes, then his socks off, stretching the black fabric between his hands and standing. Walking to the foot of the bed, he grabbed my ankles and pulled me to the edge, winking at me before he pinned them together and secured them with the silk. “What are you going to do?” I breathed, testing the bind, his weight settling on the bed as he moved against me and propped my bound legs against his shoulder.

“Just wait,” he ordered, his hands busy unbuckling his belt.

“The negotiation is over.” Brett’s voice was quiet yet carried, and I counted the shoes around him. Three other pairs, all pointed this way. I wondered about the men attached to them, if they were ones I’d met before. Wondered how much of his life that I had misunderstood had revolved around this.

“Actually,” the fat man beside me spoke, stepped forward a bit. “It’s not. But you’re welcome to enter the deal. I might be persuaded to sell my option.”

In the silence that followed, I pictured Brett’s face, the way his jaw clenched when he held back anger, the way his eyes blazed with authority. When his words finally came, I heard the pent-up bite in their tones.

“Do you know who I am?”

It was an odd response and I stopped counting shoes and remembering and holding back tears, stopped everything to listen. My keeper spoke. “I’d guess, from the room’s sudden silence, that you’re Buyer 43.”

He was right, the room
was
quiet. The hum of masculinity, the laughs and murmurs and feminine chimes - all had stopped. There was nothing more interesting in this space than us. Buyer 43. I tried to remember what had been said.

“...I suggest you make Buyer 43’s acquaintance. He’s always looking for American girls to purchase, though he typically breaks them himself.”

“He’s here? I’ve heard his name before.”

“He rarely misses a sale.”

I shifted. Returned my gaze to Brett’s shoes. Waited for his response.
Always looking for American girls...
he has been looking for me.

“That is correct. This one... she’s American?”

“Yes, and well-trained.” My keeper practically chirped the response. I stared at my own feet, the cheap heels on them. The type of heels I wore when I met Brett. Not the kind he deserved.
I am well-trained.

“What price are you thinking?” The fat man put a hand on my shoulder, his fingers spreading and squeezing the skin, leaving a moist print I would probably never fully scrub off.
He almost bought me
.

“I’m thinking that you get your hand off of her and step a
fucking
way before I cut off that hand myself.”

The hand left, so did the man. I could almost feel the brush of air as he found his common sense and left.

My Master’s words practically jump out, a rush of run-on syllables that melded together into a string of pathetic. “I’m a big fan of yours. Heard about you for years. I’m glad we got the chance to meet, it was really more than I expected, you being here tonight—”

“What is it that you respect?” Brett said coolly. “My purchasing habits? My stable?”

“
Everything
. I’d love to see your facility. Watch you train. I heard you take all types.”

“My hobby is not a theme park. You can’t come and wander around, eat fucking popcorn and watch me work the girls.”