Once we’re alone, Desiree takes off her mask, and I do the same.
“What’s going on, Mags?”
Thankfully, this place is regularly swept for bugs and listening devices, so I’m able to answer honestly. “Feds.”
Desiree’s dark brown eyes go wide. “Where?”
“Watching the house. You gotta lay low for a while. Put the girls on hotel mode. No clients in or out.”
“Fuck.” She huffs out the word before lowering herself into the armchair. When she looks up at me, I read fear on her face. “Why? What’s going on?”
“Alberto Brandon apparently caught their notice, and they’ve been watching him. He led them right to you.”
“Fuck,” she repeats with a shake of her head. “That dirty old bastard barely tips, and now he brings the Feds down on us? As if it wasn’t bad enough that he fell head over heels for Naya and wouldn’t let her take any other clients.” Her jaw works from side to side. “Come to think of it, the timing’s real weird too. She told me she needed time off because she had to go out of town for a little bit. I haven’t seen her in a damn week.”
I tap a nail on the wood of the footboard. “They could have skipped town together if Brandon was worried he was in trouble. The Feds clearly don’t know shit if they’re watching the house.”
“So, what should I do?”
“Cover your own ass and your girls’. Keep the clients away. The Feds will get bored when they don’t see Brandon. Hopefully they’ll move along.”
She sips her vodka and lowers the glass. “What about your girls? You having them do anything different?”
I think about Taylor and the other girls who I’ve put through school so they could learn a trade and get out of the business. “They should be fine. All their appointments are off-site. There’s nothing the Feds could pick them up for. Living in the house while they save money to get their own apartments isn’t a crime.”
“What about you? The house is still technically in your name while I’m paying on it. You think the Feds will come knocking on your door?”
“I guess we’ll find out.”
Desiree shakes her head. “I’m so sorry, Mags. Fuck. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“No apologies necessary, honey. Shit happens.” I lean against the foot of the bed. “You didn’t bring them down on us. Brandon did. So now we run damage control.”
Desiree jams her hands into her hair. “Ugh. Men are fucking assholes. I could kick him in the balls right now.”
“Amen, honey,” I reply, thankful that my part in this mess is done. “You’ll be fine. Now, get in touch with your girls, give them orders, and then get on with your night. I’ll tell mine what’s what and let you know when the heat dies down.”
“You say it like it’s so easy.” Her tone is laced with frustration, and when she looks up at me, her expression resembles a lost little girl. “Then again, I’m sure for you it would be.”
She needs a hug, but coddling her won’t help. “Your house. Your call. You can handle it. Grow a pair and woman up. Besides, they don’t want you. They want Brandon.”
Desiree releases a long sigh. “True. Well, I guess I’d better get moving.”
“Good girl,” I tell her, and then slip my mask back on as I turn to leave the room.
“Mags?” Desiree’s questioning tone stops me with my hand on the knob.
“What?”
“How did you know it was time to get out of the game?”
What is it with the hard questions tonight?
I meet Desiree’s gaze and give it to her point-blank. “Baby, that’s a question only you can answer. And the fact that you’re asking it means you need to start thinking about a plan B.”
When I leave the private room, dozens of pairs of eyes follow me, but I don’t pay them any mind. I came here to do what I needed to do, and now I’m getting the fuck out.
“If you wanna play, kitten,” a man’s voice says from over my shoulder, “I’ll make you purr.”
I turn around to look at him. “Kitten? Boy, I’m a goddamned lioness. Back the fuck off.” A dark chuckle leaves my lips at the sight of his shocked face, and I exit the club with a smile.
Nine
Magnolia
“Thank you for the ride, Lionel. I’ll see you next time.”
“Have a nice night, Ms. Maison. Take care.”
I hand him a twenty as a tip and cross the sidewalk to the front entrance of my condo building.
One more week, and I’ll be going home to the French Quarter, I think as I punch the button for the elevator that will take me up to the sixth floor.
I remember how excited I was to move here, because I was moving up in the world. It meant that I had arrived. Now I’m thrilled to get the hell out, because this place doesn’t fit who I am anymore. And when I’m done with a person or a place, I’m done.
The elevator doors open, and I’ve only taken one step out when someone slams into me, ramming me back inside the car. Hot pain screams along my side.
“Hey!” I shriek out the protest and slam both palms into the guy who rushed me, pushing him off me and into the mirrored wall.
Fuck. He’s wearing a mask. Bad sign.
I commit him to memory—around six feet tall, black balaclava, brown eyes—as his head smashes into the glass behind him.
“You fucking whore!”
That’s when I see the knife. Glinting silver in the fluorescent lights of the elevator, dripping with my blood, it slashes out, no doubt aiming for my jugular as I jerk back into the corner, out of his reach. But that won’t help me for long if I’m unarmed and trapped in here with him. That can only mean death.
Not today, motherfucker. Not today.
I twist to the side, reaching for the stiletto blade hidden at the small of my back. Before he realizes what I’m doing, I palm the knife and aim for his groin. I miss my intended target, but my blade sinks into the flesh of his upper thigh, and I twist the knife before yanking it free. He roars and stumbles back into the opposite corner of the elevator. Blood stains his jeans red, and I move as fast as I can, backing out of the car as I punch the down button.
He drops to his knees, his black gloves reaching for me, but the doors close before he can stop them.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
My heart slams into my chest, but my brain shifts into survival mode.
I don’t know who he was, why he was here, or what he wanted, but I know one thing for sure—I don’t want anything to do with that knife-happy motherfucker, and I need to get the hell out of here.
The slice on my left side sears me with pain as it oozes blood. I cover it with my hand as I stop in front of my condo door and drop my clutch and the knife I didn’t even realize I was still holding on the floor, letting my keys spill out. Once I have them in my sticky red fingers, I open the door as quickly as possible. Kicking my purse and the knife inside, I lock the dead bolt behind me.
But I’m not staying.
I hit my closet first and grab a duffel bag. It’s already filled with everything I might need to make a run for it. Next stop is my office and the safe. I scoop up my book, cash, and weed and toss them inside the duffel. Finally, I rush into the bathroom and grab my first aid kit for special emergencies and a towel. I wrap the knife up and toss it into the bag too.