“Back up a minute.” Zayde held his hand up in my face, silencing me. “Calm down, will ya? Don’t say anything you might regret. Who sent the video, and how do you know it happened today?”
“Don’t know who sent it. It came from an unknown number. It was date-stamped today.”
“Show me the video when we get out of here, but don’t jump to conclusions, mate. She’s really into you—fuck knows why.” He gave me a small smirk, then shook his head. “Remember why we’re here. Get your head in the game. We can sort this shit out later.”
I stared at him in silence.
He levelled me with a hard look—his serial killer stare, as Winter had called it once. No. Forget her.
“Okay. Fine. Let’s do this,” I said, moving past him and heading back to Cass and West.
“Ready?” Cass handed me a glass of whiskey.
Showtime.
Letting my mask drop into place, I pushed everything away. I needed to be emotionless, numb, focused on getting as much information as I could. I scanned the room, taking everything in. It was a proper old boys’ club in here, all mutual backslapping and self-congratulatory posturing. A group of men stood to our left, leering at a waitress in a tight skirt leaning over a table to take a drinks order. To our right a poker game was in play, chips piled high in the centre of the table. A polished mahogany bar ran down one wall, red velvet bar stools clustered in front of it. Cigar smoke filled the air, and a low hum of conversation and clinking glasses was a constant sound in my ears.
Two heavy wooden doors led from the room—one directing the way to the toilets, the other unmarked. “Split up and check both doors?” Cass suggested in a low tone.
There was no sign of my father, or any of our fathers, for that matter, so I nodded.
“Cade with me, Z, you go with West.” He headed through the unmarked door, and I followed, leaving Zayde and Weston to check the other. We found ourselves in a long corridor with several doors leading off it, most open. At the very end of the corridor, directly in front of us, was a closed door with a beefy security guy dressed in black in front of it, arms crossed and a hostile expression on his face.
“Just our fucking luck if Arlo went through there,” Cass muttered, discreetly nodding at the guy.
“We’ll try the other doors first.”
The first room we looked in was also wood-panelled and carpeted, muted light provided by sconces on the wall. In the centre stood a huge table, with neat lines of coke cut and laid out ready on the gleaming surface, and a pile of small, clear bags in the centre. A balding, suited man was leaning over the table, and a security guy stood against the wall, his sharp eyes scanning the room, missing nothing.
“Can I interest you gentlemen in something?” A woman in the shortest, tightest, skimpiest dress I’d seen outside of a strip club sidled up to me, placing her hand on my arm and batting her lashes at me. “We’ve got everything here—” She indicated to the table. “—or if you’re looking for a more…personal service, I can sort you out. I haven’t seen you around here before. I would have definitely remembered.” She moved closer, curling her fingers over my bicep, her fake tits brushing against my arm. I felt nothing.
“You’re wasting your time on him, babe. He’s got a girl already,” Cassius said in a bored tone.
“Most men here do.” She shrugged. “Doesn’t stop them.”
“I don’t have a girl,” I muttered under my breath. Cass glared at me. “Not interested, sorry,” I said more loudly, plucking her hand from my arm and stepping back. “Have you seen my father? Arlo Cavendish?”
She visibly paled, tottering backwards on her sky-high heels. “Oh, s-sir, I’m so sorry. I had no idea you were Mr Cavendish’s son. Please excuse my forward behaviour.”
“Uh. Sure.” Cass and I exchanged glances. “Have you seen him?”
She shook her head mutely, and I nodded towards the door. As we left the room, Zayde and Weston appeared in the corridor. “Any luck?” West asked in a low voice, and I shook my head. Next room. This one had a heavy, closed door, and as soon as I pushed it open, I was hit by the sound of Beyoncé’s “Partition” and a heavy smell of perfume, mixed with sweat and smoke.
“Fuck, yes,” Cass groaned under his breath, his gaze fixated on a woman in the corner of the large darkened room, a spotlight shining on her as she swung around a pole on a small stage, wearing nothing but a black G-string. A cluster of men sat around the stage, some watching, others talking in low tones, heads bent close together. Several women were gyrating on men in darkened booths, and three security guys stood on the edges of the room, watching the goings-on with bored expressions on their faces.
“What the fuck kind of members club is this? Strippers? Lap dancers? Best fucking place ever.” West stared around the room, a huge grin on his face, and I rolled my eyes. He had a point, though. This was…unexpected.
“Uh, Z, I think that’s your dad.” Cass had torn his eyes away from the stripper, and we followed his gaze to the middle booth, where Michael Lowry sat with a topless woman in his lap, smoking a cigar while his other hand disappeared under the table.
Zayde sighed heavily. “Let’s go.”
“You don’t wanna talk to him?” Cass smirked, but Z was already heading out of the room.
We ran straight into my father, coming down the corridor with Paul Drummond, Cassius’ father. Both tall and imposing, impeccably dressed as always.
“There you are,” he greeted us. “You boys having fun? Enjoying everything the club has to offer?” He gave me a smarmy wink, clapping me on the back.
“Yeah. It’s not what I expected,” I said honestly.
“In what way?” Paul eyed me.
“Strippers? Drugs?”
“Listen, boys. This is our world. We work hard for our money, and at the weekends we play the role of family men. Here…we can blow off steam. Relax. Have our whims catered to. Network. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“So you’re playing at being a father, are you?” Cass gave Paul a hard look.
“Son, you know I didn’t mean it like that. You, and Lena, and your mother…you’re important to me. We’re family. I can’t speak for everyone, though…” He trailed off with a shrug and a twist of his mouth.
“Okay. Good,” Cass muttered, looking down at the floor.
“Drinks.” My father clapped his hands. “Come into the bar—I’ve reserved us a table.”
We sat in a large booth for the next hour, making small talk. My father spoke briefly about a construction contract they were trying to win, and Paul discussed the troubles Alstone Holdings was having with one of their building suppliers. I filed away every bit of information, even if it didn’t seem important—as I knew my boys would, too.
Michael, Zayde’s dad, joined us after a while and asked if we wanted in on the next poker game. Just over an hour later, me and Cass had both folded, West and the two other guys we were playing with were out, and Z had a pile of chips in front of him and a triumphant gleam in his eye. Fuck knows why I bothered playing poker against him. He had the best poker face I’d ever seen, bar none, and no tells—none that I’d ever noticed, anyway.