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  Before Christy could continue the tour, Matt had a question. “So how does the money work?”

  “People pay us,” Christy’s expression was deadpan, “to have sex.”

  “Yeah, but there are lots of different types of sex. I’ve read books on it,” he assured her. “Picture books. Is there a menu or something?”

  She cocked her head slightly, as though she didn’t quite know what she was looking at. Then she shook her head and continued down the hall. “Our clients know what they want. Part of our job is to make them feel comfortable enough to ask for it. We’re not concubines. We don’t do tea ceremonies. We know what our clients like because they ask for it over and over again.” She opened the door to another room. “It can be intimidating. Usually we just start with a drink and then discuss business on a little tour.”

  He leaned in to take a look. The room was dominated by a large king-size bed with a silky-looking comforter. The comforter was partially folded down, revealing matching satin sheets beneath. One small end table displayed both a Tiffany lamp and a bowl full of condoms. On the other end table was a bottle of champagne and a couple of glasses. Mounted on the wall opposite the bed was a large flat screen TV with a small collection of pornographic DVDs fanned out beneath it.

  “Oooh . . . Uh, Champagne room?” Matt guessed.

  “Close,” Christy conceded. “Party room.”

  “Really? Seems a bit . . . dull.”

  “Most clients don’t think so.”

  Christy continued down the hallway to a door at the end. She stopped and gestured at it with a thumb.

  “And if you wanted something a little more adventurous, we’d take you here,” she said.

  “VIP room?” Matt asked halfheartedly.

  “Yes, actually.” She finally grinned.

  He returned the smile and opened the door. Christy didn’t stop him in time.

  “Whoa!” Matt actually jumped back. But he couldn’t take his eyes off the man in the black vinyl gimp suit. He was standing spread-eagle in the center of the room, his wrists and ankles chained to a large wooden X-shaped cross. His back was to Matt, but he was trying to turn around in his chains to see what was going on. His suit had a matching mask with zippers over the eyes and some kind of ring holding his mouth open. Only one eye was unzipped, and it made him look like he was frozen in an exaggerated wink. His ass was exposed through a zippered flap, the pale moon recently decorated with red welts. Matt couldn’t have said for sure he was a man, except that there was a clamp currently forcing him into an impossible erection.

  “Occupied! Didn’t you see the light?” It wasn’t the gimp. Someone else was in the room—a woman—but Matt’s eyes were still stuck in place.

  “I was just about to point out the light.” Christy was reaching for the door.

  A muffled voice came from the Gimp’s mask. “Who’s that?”

  “Did I say you could speak?”

  Matt moved his head to see who was talking, his eyeballs forced to follow. It was Erica. She looked furious, but half of that could have just been her outfit. It was vinyl, too, accented with pointy chrome bits, and ending in potentially deadly heeled boots. And there was that skull tattoo again, this time on full display. She wore a half jacket over her body suit, but somehow neither of them covered her breasts.

  Matt was trying to take it all in when his attention was suddenly focused on the riding crop pointing at his nose.

  “Out!” Erica seemed pretty insistent.

  Christy quickly pulled him back into the hallway and closed the door behind them, leaning against it as if she expected Erica to come bursting out.

  Matt looked up and saw a small, glowing, red lightbulb above the door. He had seen those in movies. Whenever a radio station was broadcasting live or on the air they had a red light turned on above the studio door. It seemed pretty obvious now.

  “I—” Matt started. There was a meaty slap from the room, followed by a muffled grunt. “I thought we were closed,” Matt managed.

  “We are.” Christy took a step away from the door, still keeping an eye on it. “Until you open up again, that is. But he’s a regular. And Erica doesn’t always follow the rules.” She turned toward the closed door and raised her voice. “Or lock the door.” She was answered by a metallic click—a bolt sliding into place.

  Christy started leading him down the hall again.

  “That seems kind of crazy. Locking yourself in with total strangers,” Matt said.

  “Trust me,” said Christy. “She’s in charge when that door closes. Besides, Uncle Quent had a master key in case he had to rescue anybody . . . from her.”

  Christy led him back to the foyer and stopped by the stairs. “You’ve already seen your office upstairs. That’s also where the real bedrooms are.”

  “So now I’m officially a madam? Madame?” Matt asked, then quickly added, “No, wait, a pimp.”

  “Manager,” she clarified.

  He rubbed his chin in thought. “I need to get a new hat.”

  “You really don’t,” she assured him.

  “So now what?” Matt asked, genuinely wondering.

  Christy took a couple of steps over to a window near the front door. She opened the blinds. Hanging against the glass was a neon sign. It was facing out toward the street, but Matt could tell that it was the same logo displayed on the receptionist’s podium.

  “Turn on the sign and wait . . .”

  8

  Dani rang the doorbell. She and her partner were still in their police uniforms. She pulled out her shirt collar and gave it a quick test sniff. Not good. Normally they would have changed out of their police blues before heading to the Golden Delicious, but today her partner was anxious. As anxious as he was, though, he still let her ring the bell. She knew the door was usually unlocked, but it felt weird just walking in unannounced. So they waited.

  When Dani had been assigned as Sergeant Dwayne Murdock’s partner, the first thing he’d done was buy her lunch and explain a few things about himself: his last partner hated him; his last partner was a racist, sexist asshole who now worked as a bouncer at a casino on the Strip; the sergeant hated casinos; he was generally left-handed but shot with his right; and he was a crap shot anyway so she should stay behind him if “shit got real.” The second thing he’d done was bring her to the brothel.

  They had been visiting regularly for the better part of a year. It had been a couple of weeks since their last visit. Normally, Dwayne liked to stop by about once a week, but with Quent suddenly dropping dead and then the funeral, it seemed like a good idea to let things cool down a bit.

  The truth was, she looked forward to the visits now. It was the highlight of her week. Most of her days were filled with people looking the other way when she got near, not wanting to meet her eyes. That or they would openly resent her for ruining their God given right to self-destruct. Nobody was happy to see her. Except here at the Golden Delicious. Here all that bullshit was checked at the door. It was illegal, of course. They knew that and she knew that, but the sergeant let it stay open and didn’t ask for anything in return. Not that she knew of anyway. So there was a mutual respect, and no reason to hide who they were anymore.

  “The sign’s turned on,” Dwayne pointed out.

  It was a pretty obvious statement, but Dani had been working with Dwayne long enough to know that he often pointed out the obvious. The sergeant looked like a blunt weapon in his uniform, square jawed and well muscled, and statements like that didn’t help inspire confidence. People who didn’t know him often dismissed him as a stereotypical beat down first, interrogate later cop. She did know him, though, and she knew that when he started pointing out glowing neon signs, it usually meant he was just taking in his surroundings and noting things that seemed out of place.

  When he was calm, Dwayne still cataloged everything he saw. He just didn’t talk to himself as much. That’s not to say he was some kind of supersleuth. Just because he was observant didn’t mean he made a
ll the connections. They worked well together because Dani could draw details out of him and then use him as a sounding board to try to piece things together.

  The guy who opened the door looked guilty . . . of everything. His cocky grin melted away when he saw the two of them. It was replaced with an Oh shit look that Dani had seen hundreds of times, right before she had to say something like, “Hold it right there” or “Put down the bong.” Usually the next thing they said was . . .

  “Uh,” said the guy at the door.

  “Your sign’s turned on,” said Dwayne.

  “You’re cops,” he replied.

  It was like reading a picture book. See Jane. See Jane run. See Jane pull out her service pistol and—

  Dani pushed past him into the foyer before she could finish the story. As she did, she said, “You must be the new guy.” Now she was doing it, too—pointing out the obvious.

  It took him a second to reply. “I’m not . . . a pimp.”

  She ignored him and looked around. The place seemed the same, but then why should anything be different?

  Dwayne got in the guy’s face and gave him the stare. “Christy here?”

  “What do you mean by ‘here’?” asked the guy.

  Dwayne’s stare narrowed into a scowl. That was never a good sign, and the guy must have picked up on it, because he took a step back.

  “Don’t you need a warrant or something? Because I can explain.” The guy seemed confident for about one second, then he caved. “No, I can’t.”

  Luckily for him, Christy came out into the foyer from the parlor. She was dressed for work. She looked nice—elegant, seductive, and confident. She pulled that off in an evening gown, while the other girls who worked here usually went straight for the skimpy lingerie. She made them all look cheap by comparison. Well, except for one.

  “Dwayne. What do you want?” Christy didn’t sound like she was going to waste any of that charm on the sergeant.

  Dwayne ignored the new guy now. “We need to talk. Where’s Adam?”

  “Kitchen. Doing his homework.”

  “Can we go upstairs?”

  Christy looked at the new guy, then back at the parlor, then at Dwayne again. “Fine,” she said and led the way up the stairs.

  The new guy started to follow them, but Dani put herself in front of him.

  Her mouth said, “Private conversation.” Her tone said, Fuck off.

  He seemed confused. “Should I be bribing you or something?”

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Matt.”

  “Matt, you got something I want?”

  “He doesn’t.” This time it was Erica coming to the rescue.

  She was dressed for work, too. Erica called that particular outfit Madam Lovefist. She had a couple dozen work getups, each with its own name. So far, Dani had been introduced to about ten of them. Normally Madam Lovefist’s boobs were on display, but she must have zipped up the half jacket to come out to the foyer. Maybe she was on a break.

  “Who is he?” Dani asked.

  “New owner. He’s a bit of a douche,” Erica explained.

  Matt turned to look at Erica. “Which means, technically, I’m your boss.”

  Erica stared him down. “I’m not gonna change my answer.”

  Matt seemed to take it personally. He deflated a bit and turned back to Dani. She guessed it was his first day. She had heard that ownership of the GD had changed hands, but she wasn’t expecting this. Especially after dealing with Quent. She’d never really gotten attached to Quent. He’d tolerated cops, but he hadn’t like them. At least he had seemed to know what he was doing and had generally been respected by the girls who worked here.

  This new guy had a long way to go before he was going to be respected. Erica wasn’t helping any. She pretty much treated everybody like that. Sometimes it was hard to know when she was being serious or just toying with somebody. Matt was obviously a toy, though. At least for now. Until she got bored.

  She and Dani had started out the same way. To Erica, Dani must have seemed like the sergeant’s faithful sidekick when they’d first met, complete with wide-eyed wonder and “Golly-gee” questions. Which was how she’d felt when she’d started working as the sergeant’s partner. It had taken a few months for the newbie stink to wear off. And a couple more before Erica had kissed her.

  Dani pointed a finger at Erica and used her cop voice, even but stern. “Ma’am, I’m gonna need you to answer a few questions. Is there someplace we can talk?”

  Erica responded by bowing her head slightly and biting her lower lip. She normally reserved that move for when she was wearing Miss Priss. It looked out of place on Madam Lovefist.

  Erica started walking down the hallway, Dani close behind, and they left Matt foundering in the foyer.

  Maybe Erica was still toying with her, too. Dani wasn’t sure, but there were times when she thought she was seeing the real Erica. When the flirting paid off and costumes were piled on the floor, the woman who remained was far more interesting than any of her personas. She was clever, challenging, and above all, honest. Dani had a feeling that Erica wouldn’t let that side of her show unless there was something real between them. She would see it as a weakness, and the Erica who worked here couldn’t afford to be weak.

  But today wasn’t about breaking down walls or sharing intimate secrets. Today was about forgetting the crappy week she’d had and reminding herself that sometimes people were actually happy to see her. Even if they just wanted to play.

  Erica led Dani to the VIP room. The red light was on, but that didn’t seem to concern Erica, who barely broke her stride to open the door. Before Dani could join her inside, a man covered in zippers and vinyl was shoved out of the room. She stepped aside to avoid him, and a hand grabbed her wrist to pull her in.

  The door closed, and Dani heard the gimp’s muffled voice on the other side. “So . . . we’re done?”

  Dani wrenched her hand free while using the other to push Erica up against a workbench. Mounted on the wall behind it was a pegboard covered with hooks and clamps, each holding a tool of the trade. Something medieval looking tumbled down from its place on the board as Dani spun Erica around and pressed her up against the edge of the table. She might have pushed a little too hard, and she heard Erica grunt as the table thumped into the wall. Erica didn’t seem to mind; she didn’t fight back at all. That would probably come later. She held Erica in place by jamming her hips against Erica’s ass, freeing up her hands to grab the handcuffs off her belt. There were cuffs on the pegboard, of course, but she like to go for authenticity.

  As the first cuff clicked into place around Erica’s wrist, she threw her head back to look at Dani. “Why don’t I ever get to be the cop?”

  Dani used the empty cuff as a handle to yank Erica’s arm behind her back. Then she secured her other wrist. “You make a better bad guy.”

  Erica started to stand, but Dani pulled the chain on the handcuffs straight up, forcing Erica to bend over again. Then her other hand reached out and held Erica’s head firmly down on the table. Her fingers threaded through Erica’s hair, and then she made a fist, pulling the hair tight. With Erica pinned in place, Dani turned her hip so the flashlight on her belt pressed against Erica’s tailbone. Then she rocked her hips, letting the bulge follow the natural lines of Erica’s body.

  “What did I do this time?” asked Erica with an exaggerated gasp.

  “Smuggling,” Dani said. Then she used one booted foot to kick Erica’s legs apart.

  Erica pushed back, grinding into Dani’s thighs. “Smuggling what?”

  Dani’s hand slowly slid along the small of Erica’s back down between her legs. The vinyl was warm and tight and hid nothing. She reached down to the snaps holding Erica’s bodysuit in place. There were two straining at her crotch. Dani hooked a finger between the snaps and pulled. The bodysuit sprung up toward Erica’s waist like a rubber band. Smooth black curves were replaced instantly by soft pink skin. Dani�
�s hand came away wet.

  “I’ll know it when I find it.”

  9

  There was yelling coming from Christy’s bedroom upstairs. It had started out as a loud, muffled conversation, but Matt missed most of that, thanks to the cop questioning Erica. He was pretty sure he was going to jail soon and didn’t know why he wasn’t heading out the door right now. He was working up the courage to leave when the muffles turned into shouts.

  “Look, I just need you to sit down and stay calm for a couple minutes!” It was a guy’s voice. Didn’t Christy call him Dwayne?

  “I don’t need this. Can’t you tell we’re going through a lot right now? He just died!” That was definitely Christy’s voice.

  Matt looked at the front door. All his stuff was upstairs. He hadn’t settled in yet, but he had thrown his duffel bag into Uncle Quent’s old bedroom. His laptop was in there, too, along with some of his “improvised” IDs. On top of that, he only had about twenty bucks in his pocket. That wasn’t much to start over with, and he would be on the run again. He needed that bag.

  Maybe he could just claim that he was a customer. They could book him if they wanted to, but they seemed more interested in the employees at the moment. No, that wouldn’t work. They’d probably point him out as the new owner if they thought it would help. He hadn’t exactly made any friends here yet.

  He started heading up the hardwood stairs. They weren’t quiet at all, despite his careful steps. Every other one seemed to squeak. He decided to go for it and sprinted to the top, hoping no one would notice over the shouting.

  “Isn’t this over?” The cop yelled the question, trying to force it into a statement.

  Christy held her own. “Well nobody told the hospital that the whorehouse was closed. Adam’s still sick, and they keep sending bills. So no. It ain’t over!”

  Christy’s room was to the right. Luckily Matt needed to go left where Uncle Quent’s old bedroom stood next to his office. In fact, Matt wasn’t sure how much his uncle had actually used that bedroom. The office looked more lived-in. It had pictures of his travels and misadventures, as well as some knickknacks that he must have picked up along the way. Food crumbs hid in the love seat cushions, and the throw rug had a threadbare path worn through the middle. Plus, it smelled like biker.