Chapter 19
KIR
“Fucking grump.”
Despite the sour feeling that’s persisted for days, I allow myself a small smirk.
“Uh-oh,” Freya snickers into the phone, thirteen hours ahead of me in Kyoto. “That sounded dangerously like a smile, Kir.”
I sigh, still smiling a little as I shake my head.
“You know, Dad might work, too.”
She snorts. “I dunno. I’ve given it a spin a few times. It feels fucking weird.”
She’s not wrong.
Before we discovered that she was the daughter I quite literally never knew I had, Freya, together with her best friend Annika, worked for me as a world-class hacker and a world-class thief, respectively.
It actually got to the point that I thought of them as daughters.
So when that revelation came, it was both a strange and yet natural transition.
Still, the “dad” thing is…tricky.
“Let’s go back to why you're being such a grump,” she sighs.
I make a face as I take a sip of my coffee. It’s eight in the morning here in New York, and nine at night in Kyoto.
Interestingly, we’re both just starting our days.
Freya has a rare skin condition called xeroderma pigmentosum , which essentially means she’s allergic to sunlight. Obviously, this means she’s been a night owl her whole life, but luckily, Mal, her husband, had no issue switching to a mostly nocturnal schedule himself.
“Just work,” I lie. “You know…the usual shit.”
“Gotcha. Oh, by the way, Isaak says hi and wanted to know if you saw his email about the Leginov deal.”
I chuckle. “Tell Isaak that if he contacts me again while he’s on holiday in Japan, I’ll stop giving him those holidays.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Freya shrieks. “It would break Kai’s heart, which would break my heart, and I’d never speak to you again, so there, Pops .”
I roll my eyes as she giggles.
Isaak, my number two, is in a serious relationship with Kai, the head of security for the Mori-kai Yakuza family—which is Freya’s family now. Obviously, him working in Tokyo and Kyoto, and Isaak working here in New York, creates a logistical issue, but they make it work.
Okay, I help make it work, either by giving Isaak time off or inventing bullshit "business" in Japan and insisting he go deal with it. Other times, since the Mori-kai does have some dealings here in New York, Kai comes here, and Isaak disappears for a week.
But I’m happy for him.
“I’m curious,” I frown. “What exactly do two of the biggest, toughest, most heavily muscled men I’ve ever met do when they go out on dates?”
“I’m gonna go with taking turns railing the fuck out of each other.
” She snorts a laugh. “No, actually…” She sighs.
“They’re fucking adorable. Kai goes all out on date night.
He hired a master sushi chef to come give them a cooking class at the house the last time Isaak was here.
I think they’re going to the imperial rose gardens in Tokyo tomorrow. ”
I let out a long, dramatic yawn.
“Oh, fuck you,” Freya laughs. “They’re very happy and totally in love. You should try it sometime.”
“Eh,” I grunt. “Pass.”
“You’re not getting any younger, Kir.”
Tell me about it .
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number nine thousand and seventy-two why I should not be involved with Brooklyn.
“On that insulting note, I have shit I need to do, Frey.”
“Same.” She exhales. “I hope whatever’s bugging you works itself out.”
“Actually, I sorted it last night. Talk to you soon?”
“For sure. Goodbye, Father ,” she says with sarcastic, dramatic flair.
But as I park the car down the street from The Mirage later that afternoon, I realize that I have not , in fact, “sorted it”.
Otherwise I wouldn't be here, still looking for answers.
I gather that Brooklyn only works here evenings: I've checked and there’s no cocktail waitresses in the afternoons, plus, she has rehearsals earlier.
Which is why I’ve picked this time of day to come.
There’s a new bouncer out front, and a sign promising “early bird specials” on wings. For some reason, getting wings at a strip club at five in the afternoon sounds profoundly depressing.
I walk in looking nothing like I normally do: jeans, a Knicks hoodie, a fucking Yankees cap pulled low over my eyes.
I despise watching most professional sports unless they involve combat. They’re all so… boring .
Inside, I grab a beer at the bar and take a seat a little way back from the stage. A redhead on the pole is dancing to a Nine Inch Nails song. I love the tune, but I’ve never been able to get into the whole strip club scene.
Again, boring, and so fucking fake.
But I do admire the women who work at places like this.
I sit there sipping my shitty beer, watching the game unfold with amused interest: the pathetic, sad men who eagerly hand over their money, clinging desperately to the illusion that any of these women might fuck them if they just gave them one more twenty, or bought one more stupidly overpriced drink.
“You look lonely over here, handsome.”
An Asian girl with blonde streaks in her hair and a substantial amount of silicone in her tits stops in front of me with a grin. She’s wearing a mint green G-string and a mesh triangle top that shows off her impressive, surgically enhanced assets.
She’s pretty. I bet away from the neon lights of this place, without all the heavy makeup, the outfit, and the hint of boredom in her eyes, she’s beautiful.
But that’s not why I’m here.
“I am actually looking for some company.” I smile at her and gesture to the chair next to me. “Why don’t you join me.”
She smiles suggestively, her eyes dropping to my lap. “How about I sit somewhere else , and we can?—”
“No. Right there is fine.”
Her brow furrows a little. But then she shrugs and sits next to me.
“So, baby,” she purrs, stroking my forearm, “what did you want to talk about?”
“Are you close with the other girls who work here?”
She bats her eyes. “You want me to bring a friend into this? That's cool?—”
I shake my head. “That’s not what I meant. Are you friendly with them.”
She smiles a completely fake smile. “Oh, I love girls, baby.”
I exhale slowly, pull out my money clip, and peel off five hundreds.
“That,” I sigh, pressing the money into her palm, “is for you to drop the act.”
She smiles coyly. “What act, baby?”
I roll my eyes. “Fair enough.”
I hand her another three hundred and arch a brow. “I appreciate shrewd negotiating, but that's as high as I'm prepared to go.”
She flashes a much more genuine smile, takes the cash, and tucks it into her top.
“So,” she says, her voice instantly losing the overly porny huskiness. “What are we talking about?”
“How about we start with your name.”
“Jade.”
I hold out another hundred.
“Your real name.”
“Stacy—”
She frowns when I yank the bill back, giving her a look.
“…Caroline,” she finally mumbles.
That actually sounds like the truth. I hand her the money.
“Are you friendly with the other girls who work here, Caroline?”
She shrugs. “Friendly enough, I guess.”
“So friendly that you’ll keep it to yourself if I ask you about a specific girl?”
She smirks and glances significantly at my pocket with the money clip. Fuck, she’s good at this.
I hand her another two hundred and arch my brow. “How are we feeling about keeping secrets now ?”
“Pretty fucking great!” She smiles widely at me. “But I’m not putting any of the girls in danger. If I get creep vibes?—”
“Do I give creep vibes?”
She eyes me judiciously. “Not yet . But you could be a murderer, for all I know.”
And you could be righter than you want to know.
“I’m curious about one of the cocktail waitresses who works here. Goes by the name Cherry.”
Caroline smiles. “Oh, Cherry Pie.” She shrugs. “I don’t care what some of the girls say, I like her.”
I stiffen. “What do some of the girls say?”
She sighs. “They’re just jealous because the girl can actually dance. Like, I think she does ballet or something, too?” She shrugs again. “I don’t know, but she’s a sweetie.” She makes a face. “Honestly, a little too sweet for this place.”
Something she just said makes me go still.
“What do you mean, the other girls are jealous because she can dance?”
She shrugs. “I mean, the girl has serious moves . It makes her a ton of?—”
“I was under the impression that she was a cocktail waitress here.”
Caroline smiles wryly. “You’re not the first guy to get that line, baby.” She shakes her head. “She’s doesn’t serve drinks. She’s one of our top dancers.”
I. See. Fucking. Red .
Pure, unadulterated savagery roars through my veins as I picture Brooklyn seductively peeling off her clothes as jeering men whistle and leer. Swinging around one of those fucking poles. Bending over. Showing them everything.
Wriggling in their goddamn laps, grinding on their fucking dicks, letting them touch her …
“Hey…”
I blink back to reality when I feel a hand on mine. I glance down and see Caroline touching the back of my tightly clenched fist, my fingers digging viciously into the cheap “leather” upholstery.
“You okay, baby?”
“ Fine ,” I hiss before I clear my throat, trying to collect myself. “I’m fine.”
I’m about to ask her which of the men currently in this fucking place are regulars, have seen Brooklyn dance, or have put their filthy hands on her, so I can summarily execute them here and now. But before I can, she takes a deep breath.
“I worry about her, you know.”
I lean closer. “Because she doesn’t belong in a place like this?”
Caroline nods. “Well, that and…” She trails off, glancing at my pocket again.
“I’m not paying you any more money,” I growl.
She grins. “You sure ?”
Fuck, she’s good.
I peel off another hundred and hand it over. Caroline grins, tucking it between her tits, then makes a face, sighs, and leans a little closer.
“Look, this isn’t like, public knowledge or anything. But…well… She says she lives with Maya, this other girl who works here, but I know Maya pretty well and I’ve been to her place a hundred times. She lives alone.”
My frown deepens. “So where do you think Cherry lives?”
Caroline eyes me. “Why do you care? You her dad or something?”
Dad . I grimace. “Just a concerned friend.”
“Uh-huh.”
I cock a brow. “Do I look like a sexual predator?”
Her lips thin. “They rarely do, baby.”
Touché.
“ Look ,” I growl. “I know her through her other job, at the ballet. I’m worried about her. She’s incredibly talented, but she’s clearly in trouble, and she’s slipping. I want to be there to catch her when—not if—she falls.”
Caroline slides her eyes over me, nodding.
“Okay, that was good. A little practiced, but good.”
“Good enough for you to trust me?”
“Another two hundred would definitely make me trust you.”
Jesus.
I scowl as I hand it over. “Where does she live?”
Caroline glances around and leans closer. “Again, this isn’t like, public knowledge. But I have eyes, and…well, I’ve been there myself,” she says hollowly. She takes a breath. “Pretty sure she’s living out of her car.”
I go still.
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, come on. Carries toiletries around with her in her bag? Usually has extra changes of clothes? Never has anyone over, never shares a cab with anyone after work?” She gives me a look.
“And when she takes the subway home, it’s to wildly different neighborhoods all over the city.
” She sighs. “That’s not a girl who moves house a lot.
That’s a girl who has to move her car a lot to avoid tickets, suspicion, creeps…
that sort of thing. Like I said…” She looks right at me, her face stony.
“ I’ve been there . And that girl?” She shakes her head.
“She's way too sweet for the streets. I’m amazed she’s lasted as long as she has. ”
Cold numbness throbs inside me. It’s partly rage—fury at the cards Brooklyn has been dealt: poverty, the fact that she fucking works here , taking her clothes off for money and all the fucking shit that comes with that.
But there's something else I feel, which is foreign to me.
The need to protect. To shield her from the darkness of a world that keeps trying to drag her down.
To save her from it.
And also, a burning desire to destroy that darkness, as well as anyone who tries to come near what’s mine .