1. Blue
1
Blue
24 Hours Later
I sip cold, burnt coffee, and scan my phone, refreshing the screen. Waiting. Still waiting. I should have had the money by now. Actually, Ezekiel St. James should have made the deposit weeks ago. But nothing. I sent another message this morning telling him not to play hard to get. Mentioning going public with my information in an attempt to light a fire under his rich ass. It’s not like he doesn’t have the money. Hell, a man like him will hardly miss 100K. For me, that money could mean the difference between life and death.
Water hisses on the stove making me jump. I set the phone on the counter and turn off the burner. I don’t know why I’m boiling pasta. I’m running late as it is so I’m not going to have time to eat more than a few bites before my shift.
Using a kitchen towel so as not to burn my hands, I lift the pot and hold the lid in place while pouring the steaming water into the sink. I set the pot back on the stove and dig a fork out of the drawer. I stab some of the noodles, cramming them into my mouth straight out of the pot. I can’t have my stomach growling as I’m serving the good men of The Society who have come to get their dicks sucked at The Cat House, after all. Not a good look. I eat several more forkfuls as I check the bank account, refreshing my screen yet again. Still no money.
Once I’ve crammed most of the pasta into my mouth, I check the time and tuck the phone into the pocket of my baggy sweats, the only thing I’ve got on that’s warm and remotely comfortable. I’m wearing the uniform—if you can call it that—that’s required for the serving staff of The Cat House. I pulled on a pair of sweatpants over top because it’s basically a onesie that rides too far up my ass and is cut so low one wrong move and a boob will pop right out. There’s a skirt. Well, it’s more a flap of material that leaves about half my butt on display. And somehow, it’s supposed to send a message that we’re not to be touched. Ogling is okay though. And flipping the skirt up every freaking time I bend over to set a drink down. I swear, they act like a bunch of horny teenagers.
I drop the fork and pot into the sink of the grimy little kitchen in this minuscule apartment and remind myself it’s temporary. Besides, even here, I’m lucky. I got off mostly unscathed. I’m much better off than Wren is or will ever be again.
At the thought of my sister, I dig my phone out of my pocket and send a text to Rudy, her main nurse. He’ll get the message to her. It’s a knock-knock joke, a game we play. I smile as I type out the words but it’s bittersweet because that’s pretty much what the entirety of this chat is made of. Stupid knock-knock jokes a child of six would find funny, not a twenty-one-year-old woman.
Shit.
I draw a deep breath in and stare up at the popcorn ceiling to hold back the tears. I can’t redo my makeup. I don’t have time.
What would she think if she saw me now in this uniform? Or I should say what would the old Wren think? I know what I look like.
Once I’m sure I won’t cry, I cross over to the closet to pick up my raincoat. That is an irrelevant question anyway. She’ll never see me in this thing. My time at The Cat House is coming to an end, after all. As soon as Zeke pays up. Then I can go get Wren. Drive up to Canada eventually. There’s a really good facility there and with that money in my account, I can afford it.
Anyway, that part comes later. I need to get the money first and, in the meantime, I need to keep my job at The Cat House. The patrons do tip well, at least.
I slip my arms through my coat sleeves, grab my purse, and leave the apartment, locking the three locks behind me. The hallway smells, as usual, of fried food, rot and old shoes. It’s gross but I hold my breath, hearing the sounds I’ve become familiar with. A baby crying. Televisions on full blast. Someone yelling. I walk to the end of the hall, down the stairs and out the double glass doors of the crappy apartment building only to stop short when, at the bottom of the stairs, I see a Rolls Royce idling.
My heart leaps to my throat. I nearly throw up when the driver’s side door opens and a chauffeur in full uniform steps out. He nods what I guess is meant to be a greeting to me. I stare, eyebrows high as, without a word, he opens the backdoor of the car and gestures for me to get in.
I force a deep inhale. Rain is pouring off his hat, down the long black leather trench. His face is cast in shadow by that hat and his hands are gloved. He’s tall, well over six feet.
“Miss,” he says when I don’t move. “Mr. Craven sent me to make sure you arrive safe and sound.”
Well. That’s unusual.
“Craven sent you to pick me up?” I ask. Maybe I didn’t hear right. Craven, or Creepy Craven as we call him, is the handsy manager of the handful of female servers at The Cat House. It used to only be men who performed the task of bringing drinks to the rich and horny. The women who are employed by the establishment offer a different sort of service.
The driver nods.
Craven is an asshole. I can’t wait to tell him as much once Ezekiel St. James pays up and I can get the hell out of New Orleans. There’s no way he of all people would care about me getting anywhere safe and sound.
I cock my head and study the driver. “Why would he do that?” I ask. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last couple of years it’s that you can’t trust people.
“Miss, I’m sure Mr. Craven doesn’t want you arriving at work drenched.” He gestures to the car.
Well, that’s a more selfish reason so it makes sense.
I glance at the bus stop across the street just as a car speeds past it, splashing the two people waiting in the shelter. My car, which stands in the far corner of the parking lot, is temperamental at best these days. I’d most likely be standing there with them if it weren’t for this guy, so, with a sigh, I walk down the stairs and peer into the backseat. It’s empty.
“Okay,” I say, and get in. “Thanks, I guess.”
The driver closes the door and climbs casually into his seat as if unbothered by the weather. As soon as he puts the car into drive, the locks engage. The sound weirdly makes me jump. I meet the driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror and quickly look away, feeling embarrassed. I focus on putting on my seatbelt instead then settle into the comfortable leather chair. In front of me, on the back of the headrest is the IVI emblem engraved into the leather. I wonder if this is Craven’s personal car. No, it wouldn’t be. He wouldn’t get a company car. But maybe he has one at his disposal. He’s not a member of The Society, just staff. Like me. I’m guessing he signed the same NDA I did. But John Craven likes to put on airs and make sure we, the lowly female serving staff, know he’s a rung above us in the food chain. Did I mention he's an asshole? It bears repeating.
I shift my gaze to the road and try to relax even as something about this whole thing feels off. I look at the driver again and for a moment wonder if I’m being kidnapped. If I was stupid enough to walk right into some serial killer’s car. But we’re following the familiar road to the IVI compound. It’s fine. I’m fine.
My phone pings. I startle, then reach into my bag to get it. When I see it’s a notification about a deposit into my account, my stomach lurches. I’m not sure it’s excitement or anxiety, to be honest.
My heart thuds against my chest and I hold my breath as I log into the app to look at the account which up until yesterday had a whopping dollar in it.
Now, it has two.
“What the fuck?” I mutter. I bite my lip and feel the line between my brows deepen as I peer closer. It’s got to be some kind of mistake. But no, I’m right. A deposit of a dollar was made just seconds ago. And the reference accompanying it is a middle finger emoji.
“Asshole.”
Before I can even begin to think about what to do, how to respond to this, my first communication from Ezekiel St. James, the driver is pulling into the IVI compound.
I drop my phone back into my purse as the Rolls Royce comes to a stop. I push the button to unlock the seatbelt as the driver, not wasting any more of his breath on me, opens the door and waits for me to exit. At least we’re under the overhang which I’m grateful they have even at the staff entrance because somehow the rain is even worse now.
I climb out, rush into the building that houses The Cat House and slip into the lady’s locker rooms. A glance at the clock tells me I’m a few minutes late so I hurry to slip off the sweats and shove them into my locker, taking out the stiletto heels and swapping out my ancient sneakers for them. Once I’m in uniform, I dig my phone out again and check that deposit, sure it’s not right. But it’s right there. A whole dollar was deposited into my account.
Was it a mistake?
No. The emoji confirms that.
So, what now? What do I do? Go public? With what exactly? It’s not like I have solid evidence. No smoking gun. What I found on my dad’s laptop would definitely lead people to ask questions but for a man as wealthy as Ezekiel St. James, he could probably cover anything up.
This isn’t how this is supposed to go. He’s meant to think I can damage him, and he’s just supposed to pay.
The locker room door swings open, making me jump.
Ed walks in.
“Jesus, Ed. You almost gave me a heart attack!” I drop the phone back into my purse and close the locker.
Ed is one of the bouncers. Well, they prefer to be referred to as security guards. Eyeroll. The Society is too posh to call them bouncers. But men are men wherever you go, and where there is money, liquor and sex on offer, things inevitably get out of hand, so I get it. It’s just that more often than not, they seem to be on our ass rather than the men who step out of line.
“Blue, let’s go.”
“Coming.” I grab the choker from inside my purse and clasp it around my neck. Part of the ‘uniform’. A collar with a clasp at the front. Just for looks, or so they tell us. The courtesans wear them too, and I’ve seen the men make use of theirs.
I walk over to the mirror to make sure the ring is just above the hollow between my collarbones and remind myself no one can actually touch me. I serve drinks. That’s all.
Ed clears his throat. I ignore him and secure the few hairs that have fallen out of the bun at the nape of my neck. After checking my carefully applied makeup doesn’t need a touch-up, I hurry toward the club. Craven already has an issue with my hair, of which the topmost layer is sapphire blue, and underneath is my natural black. I dyed it when we got to New Orleans. Not sure why I did it, actually. It’s not as though it helps me to blend in. The opposite. But I needed to hold on to some part of myself. Have some control. Being on the run, you can forget who you are. You can give the people you’re running from power over you. Maybe it was just my fuck you to my father, Tommy, or as he likes to be called, Lucky Tommy. Fucking asshole. If he’d just stayed gone, if mom hadn’t taken him back when he came crawling, everything would be different.
As I slip under Ed’s arm, he whistles. I flip him off because I can. I hear the soft classical background noise and a woman’s giggle before I even enter the bar. Craven is standing at the opposite end ogling one of the courtesans who is kneeling at the feet of a member as he attaches a leash to her collar. He then leads her to a private room. She’s on her hands and knees, her ass on display. Craven will most likely jerk off to the sight of it as soon as he has a free moment. He earned the nickname Creepy after all. When he shifts his gaze to me, he narrows his eyes and makes a point of tapping his watch.
Yeah, I know I’m late, asshole. Can I blame his driver?
“Table six,” the bartender tells me, setting two whiskeys on a tray and pushing it toward me before turning to fill the next order.
I grab the tray and, keep my gaze on one point on the far wall in order not to fall over on my toothpick thin heels, another requirement of the uniform. I cross the room toward table six and try not to see what is happening in my periphery. Alcoves and rooms are offered to members for privacy, but I swear the men who frequent the place like to be watched. Sadly, most are pathetic to look at.
But as I approach my table, I paste on a smile, thinking of the tips, because based on that single dollar deposit and the middle finger emoji, Zeke won’t be paying up and I’m back to square one.
That’s one thing about members of The Society. They tip generously. If you lean deep while pouring their drinks and make sure to swing your ass when you walk away, even better. The two at my table don’t have women with them. I’m at least grateful for that. It’s always a little uncomfortable when they do. But they’re both wearing their masks and cloaks. It’s not unusual but by the time I get to my shift which starts at midnight, most men have shed both. Behind the closed doors and within the windowless rooms of the establishment, what happens at The Cat House stays at The Cat House.
The two stop their conversation as I approach, turning their gazes to me. Something about the action or the two sets of eyes on me, makes me hesitate.
I misstep.
The ringing in my ears starts, a warning.
An omen.
No. It’s not that. It’s the cloaks and masks. It’d make any woman nervous, but I remind myself it’s just grown men essentially wearing costumes, playing some stupid game.
I close my eyes and tell myself to relax. If I just breathe, I can get through it. It will pass. It always does.
When the high-pitched beep lessens, I tamp down the nausea that accompanies it and adjust my grip on the tray. My palms are sweaty. I return my gaze to the men, telling myself to calm down as my lips quiver in my attempt to smile. They both watch me and neither of them smiles. One, I realize, has one dark eye and one gray eye. It’s unusual but it’s the other man, the one whose head is slightly tilted, whose wolfish eyes burn a bright, almost unnatural silver-gray, who holds my attention. Who makes me aware of how loudly my heart beats against my chest.
A shiver runs down my spine, making all the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I reach the table and nod my greeting because I don’t think my voice will work. They still don’t return my smile. They just keep staring at me and that same feeling of earlier, of something being off, returns.
Bending down, I set their drinks before them. I take a minute to close my eyes and force another deep breath in. I’m fine. Everything is fine. It’s just been a weird night. I’m distracted and I need to figure out what I’m going to do next, that’s all, because Ezekiel St. James’s response tells me he’s not going to pay. What my dad had on him, it’s not as big a deal as he thought, maybe. Blackmail isn’t how my dad made his money, not his real money anyway. He’s more of a bully than anything else.
When I straighten and look up, my gaze collides with the silver-eyed man and that ringing starts again, causing me to lose my balance and stumble backward. The tray drops from my hand, hitting the table loudly on its way to the plush carpet at our feet.
The man is on his feet lightning fast, hands closing over my elbows searing my skin. His grip is just a little too tight as he rights me.
I look up at him, instinctively wrapping my hands around his forearms as the ground seems to tilt beneath my feet. It’s not real. I know that. It’s just my broken brain. So, I hold on until it passes, and I stare into those strange wolf-eyes that have stolen my voice. My breath. It’s the way he’s looking at me, like he sees right through me, that sends my heart catapulting against my ribs, blood thudding against my ears as the room spins around us.
Danger.
The word manifests as pure sensation, a visceral knowledge.
When I’d felt like something was off earlier, that wasn’t nothing. Don’t I know to trust my instincts yet? It was a premonition. Something coming. Something bad. And that sensation is amplified a thousand times in this stranger’s eyes.
“Gentlemen. Everything all right?” Craven’s voice comes from behind me. The man who has hold of me doesn’t break eye contact. I wish he would so I could breathe. Wish he’d loosen his hold so I could slip away.
“Craven,” the one who was seated, who is now standing, says. “Everything is fine.” He turns to the man who has me, sets his hand on his shoulder. I look at it and see the curving line of dark ink tattooed into his skin, the scaly tail of some creature inked on his arm? It disappears under the sleeve of his shirt.
“Blue can be clumsy.” Craven closes a meaty hand around my bare arm and nausea twists my gut. I hate when he touches me.
The silver-eyed man shifts his gaze from me to Craven’s hand to his face and a coldness, more icy than moments ago, settles into those storm-angry eyes. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t need to. Not a moment later, Craven removes his sweaty paw from my shoulder and the masked man who has hold of me releases me. The instant he does, I put space between us, bending to pick up my tray, pushing strands of hair that’s fallen out of my bun back behind my ears.
“She didn’t spill anything on you, did she, Mr. St. James?”
Mr. What ?
The world tilts and it takes all I have not to topple over.
“She’ll be reprimanded if she did,” Craven is saying. He mutters something about borrowing a cane and laughs like it’s the funniest thing anyone has ever said. He’s the only one laughing.
Get your shit together, Blue. Get it fucking together. Even if he’s him, he doesn’t know who I am. He has no idea. How could he?
“Excuse me,” I manage.
The man with the wolf eyes settles into the oversized leather armchair and picks up his tumbler of whiskey. When his sleeve draws back, I catch a glimpse of the expensive watch on his wrist and ink similar to the other man’s twisting around to the back of his hand. I wonder what it is. Why they both have it and what it means. And I’m reminded this is for real. Not a game.
Ezekiel St. James is a member of a secret society and I tried to blackmail him.
When my gaze flitters up to his, I find his locked on me, watching me. Not missing a single beat.
Fingers on my throat, I slip away as quickly as I can, hearing Craven make some apology offering to comp their drinks. I push through the swinging doors of the locker room and run into a bathroom stall where I lock the door behind me, drop to my knees and puke.