Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 79253 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79253 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
My Queen—they are on their way.
35
BIANCA
“Should we call Alissa and Maddox?” I ask once we’re all piled up inside my car. “They’ll want to be updated. This is their fight as much as it is ours.”
I’m in the passenger seat of my Lexus, and Harrison is driving. Poor Jack is in the back with Chet, whose neck is bent at an awkward angle to fit.
I suppose I should have offered him the passenger seat for his long legs, but I still don’t trust the guy. The prolonged diatribe he offered us after killing the King of Hearts didn’t completely subdue my concerns.
Even if he’s truly, one hundred percent on our side, he’s still a creep. Nothing will change that. I’ve known him for five years and he’s never failed to put my nerves on edge.
“I’d rather surprise them with good news than keep them on edge,” Harrison answers after a pause. “They both need several more days of rest before they can exert themselves—Maddox especially—and I don’t want to stress them out.”
“That makes sense,” I say. “I just feel like this is their story, too.”
“It is.” Harrison reaches over and squeezes my hand. “And we’re the ones in charge of getting them—all of us—a happy ending.”
“Every story is a love story,” Chet says.
We ignore him.
No one speaks for the rest of the long drive back into town to Rouge’s neighborhood. Her building has a garage, but we’re not going to keep my car there. We park on the street a few blocks away and walk over.
Her complex is an imposing building lined with chrome accents in an Art Deco style. It’s lit by golden sconces surrounding the building, and a parking attendant cocks his head as we waltz through the glass revolving door. The building’s lobby is ornately decorated with angular patterns of gold leaf on the dark walls. The heels of my shoes clack against polished white tile as we approach a mahogany desk where the night attendant sits wearing a dark-green baseball cap.
I approach him with a smile. Time to turn on the same charm that got Harrison into the club last week. “Hello, sir.”
“Name?”
I come up with an explanation on the spot. “We’re a troupe of performers from”—I utter the first few syllables that pop into my brain—“Snicker-Snack. It’s a…private entertainment company. We’re here to visit the tenant in apartment six ten.”
The night attendant raises an eyebrow. “Private entertainment?”
I wink. “You know… The sort hired for bachelor parties and the like.”
He blinks. “You’re strippers?”
Vanya approaches the desk. “We prefer the term ‘dancers,’ sir.”
The attendant rolls his eyes. “Sure. Whatever.” He turns to his computer. “And you’re here for six ten?”
“Yes, sir. Romeo Sturgeon.”
The attendant widens his eyes but then nods slowly. “Right. Mr. Sturgeon occasionally does host…entertainers.”
“Good.”
He holds out his hand. “IDs?”
Time to think fast again. “Um, actually, we don’t carry ID when we’re on the job. We all operate under pseudonyms, sir.”
“Pseudonyms?”
“Fake names,” Vanya clarifies.
The attendant frowns. “I know what a pseudonym is.” He sighs, takes out a sheet of paper. “I don’t get paid enough to do this shit. What are your pseudonyms?”
“I’m Whitney Royale.” I gesture to Vanya. “This is my partner, Jack Corrington.” I point back to Harrison. “This is Harry March, and the tall gentleman is our procurer, Chad Tigre.”
“The tall gentleman?” The man asks.
I look over my shoulder. Chet has wandered off.
Damn it.
Problem for later.
The nightman writes down the names, and I can tell from the stiffness in his arm that he thinks they’re incredibly stupid. He looks up. “Do you have an employee ID from your organization? I can’t just let you up to the apartments on your word alone.”
I swallow. “Actually, sir, as I previously mentioned—”
Chet pops up from behind the night attendant’s chair. He grabs a small statuette from behind his desk and smacks it against the back of his skull. His eyes roll back and his head comes down to his desk with a loud whack that reverberates through the lobby.
“Chet!” Harrison hisses. “What the fuck, man?”
Chet dusts off the statuette and replaces it where he found it. “He wasn’t going to let us in.” He places two fingers against the attendant’s neck. “He’ll live, have no fear. It takes more than a few blows to the cranium to withdraw the spirit from the body. I could have snapped his neck instead, but I chose to restrain myself.” He scans the buttons behind the desk and pushes one. “That should buzz us up to Her Majesty’s apartment.”
“Her Majesty?”
He blinks. “Rouge. Rouge’s apartment.”
Sure enough, an elevator dings behind us. We all turn around but don’t move.
This elevator is brightly lit with vivid pink lights, similar in color to the Hearts section at Aces.
Normally this would be a welcoming color. The color of gentleness, love, even femininity.
But this elevator? It might as well be taking us into the bottomless bowels of hell.