Chapter 3
JORDAN
The apartment door slams behind us.
I twist the deadbolt, then the chain, but that doesn't bring relief. My hands shake as I press them against the wood and look through the peephole. Empty.
I step back, staring at it like someone might kick it down any second.
"What the fuck, Jordan. Shit!"
Lindsey's voice cracks on the last word.
I turn to find her pacing the narrow strip of hardwood between our thrift-store couch and the kitchen counter, both hands buried in her hair.
Her makeup is destroyed, mascara tracking down her cheeks, foundation smeared across her jaw where she must have touched her face in the cab.
She looks like she's been crying, but I haven't seen her cry.
I haven't cried either.
My chest feels tight, constricted, like someone wrapped rope around my ribs and I can't get a good breath in.
"Lindsey."
She doesn't hear me. She just rushes me and snatches my purse.
"What the hell," I say.
She digs in my bag and pulls out a few small glass vials. It's that damn blue liquid I've seen her swallow dozens of times over the past few weeks.
"Lindsey, what the fuck?"
"Sorry, sorry," she says and downs the entire contents of one. "One of the guys there gave me some earlier in the night and I slipped them into your purse."
I snatch my purse back from her and she closes her eyes, tilting her head back.
"Don't do that again. I don't want to carry that stuff."
She just nods as her shoulders drop. The tension in her jaw releases. Her breathing slows from the rapid, panicked rhythm to something more controlled.
The tremor in her hands vanishes. She doesn't just calm down; she turns off.
My mind lets go of it because it's got more important things to think about.
"I don't know," I hear myself say, though I don't remember deciding to speak. "It's like it's not sinking in. Like my mind won't allow it to be real. It's like I was on a movie set or something."
The words sound stupid coming out of my mouth. Childish, but they're true.
My brain keeps trying to reframe what I saw, to turn it into something fictional, something that happens in films with fake blood and actors who stand up when the director yells cut.
I mean, this is LA after all.
Except there was no director, and those men aren't standing up.
Lindsey's eyes snap open. They look different now, like the drug scraped away whatever human warmth was left.
"Well, it's fucking real!" She's yelling now, her voice raw. "Those men are dead, Jordan. We watched them die. We were right there when it happened."
I nod because there's nothing else to do.
She's right.
She looks down at herself and grabs a piece of her dress.
"This is blood." Her voice drops. "Holy shit, it's blood. Take this off me."
She turns her back to me, already reaching behind herself to fumble with the zipper. Her fingers are shaking despite the drug, despite the eerie calm settling over her features.
I step forward and find the zipper and tug it down slowly. The metal teeth separate, revealing the pale skin of her back and the black bra underneath.
Lindsey doesn't wait. The second the zipper hits the bottom, she yanks the dress down her hips and kicks it across the room like it's contaminated. It lands near the kitchen, a crumpled heap of fabric and other people's blood.
We both stare at it. Neither of us moves to pick it up.
"Does that blood make us suspects?" Lindsey asks.
"What? No, of course not. We're innocent bystanders. We didn't know this was going to happen. Besides, who is going to want to talk about this to anyone?"
Lindsey shrugs and looks up at me. "I don't know. What if one of the girls tells someone or the police? Oh my God, I can't deal with this. What if we don't say anything and the police come asking why we didn't report this? We're screwed, Jordan. What the fuck do we do?"
"I don't... I don't know," I say and rub my forehead. "Look, we just need to calm down. We don't need to decide anything right now. At least I don't think we do."
I stare back at the dress and I can't stand to look at it anymore.
I turn and walk toward the bathroom, and I grip the edge of the counter, the cheap laminate feeling cool in my hands.
The mirror reflects someone I barely recognize.
My makeup is smudged but mostly intact. I must have been better at not touching my face than Lindsey was.
But there's a smear of something dark along my left cheekbone.
I lean closer, my pulse hammering in my ears.
There's still some blood left. Between the man who crouched beside me and tried to wipe my face with his thumb, and me rubbing it in the car, some remains. Like a reminder that this all happened. That he happened.
My hands move before my brain catches up, turning on the faucet and pumping soap into my palm. I scrub at my face with hot water, attacking the smear until the skin underneath turns red and raw.
The blood comes off, but I keep scrubbing, the memories of the night still imprinted into my mind.
I scrub until my cheek burns.
I bury my face in a towel and think, what the hell happened?
The question loops through my mind, refusing to form into anything coherent.
I saw it. I was there. But it's like I can't process it, won't accept that I just watched a bunch of men get executed in a VIP lounge while they sipped overpriced vodka.
I know our club isn't the most elite around town, but things like this don't happen there.
I finish drying my face on a towel that smells like cheap detergent and walk back into the living room.
Lindsey is on the couch now, curled up in a Lakers shirt that hangs past her knees. She's pulled her legs up to her chest, arms wrapped around her shins, staring at nothing.
I sit down on the opposite end of the couch and for a long moment neither of us speaks.
Then her phone buzzes.
Lindsey picks it up, squinting at the screen. "It's Alex. He said there's a bunch of people there and Taylor won't let anyone up to the VIP lounge."
"What are they doing there?" My voice sounds shallow.
She types, and then a few seconds later looks up at me.
"Alex says he doesn't know, but the downstairs area is status quo. No one knows anything. He's asking me what happened," she says and looks away. "Fuck if I'm going to tell him."
I process things slowly, trying to make sense of it. The club is still open. People are still dancing, still drinking, still grinding and flirting against each other like nothing happened.
Like people didn't just get murdered twenty feet above their heads.
"I don't know," I say again, rubbing my forehead because it's the only response I have.
Lindsey turns to look at me, her eyes glassy from the drug but sharp underneath. "Tell me what you saw. Tell me I'm not crazy."
"No. You're not." I swallow hard, forcing the words out. "All those Bulgarian men are dead."
She closes her eyes and nods, rocking slightly.
The silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating.
I want to say something comforting, something that will make this feel less real, but there's nothing. No words that can undo what we witnessed. No explanation that will make it okay.
The adrenaline that's been holding me upright since the first gunshot starts to drain away, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
My limbs feel heavy. My thoughts move like molasses.
"I can't sleep and I don't want to be alone," Lindsey whispers.
"Me neither," I say and move next to her. "We'll just stay right here."
We just stay put, leaning against one another, replaying things.
"You seem so calm," she says after some time. "I'm like freaking out inside."
I shrug. "I don't know. Shock. Denial. I'm not sure," I say, but it's not 100 percent honest.
In truth, I've moved on to thinking about the Romanian who crouched beside me.
Who took my license that has my address on it, this address.
I want to tell Lindsey, but I don't want to add to the stress.
I don't think he'll come, at least that's what I'm telling myself.
Maybe he just took it in case I go to the police or something, which even if he didn't take my ID, I wouldn't.
I know how this town works. Power and money rule above all else. The law's only here for us poor folks.
I take some deep breaths to calm myself. Four seconds in, six seconds out. Over and over, and at some point I close my eyes and just as the sun is coming up, I fall asleep.
The next thing I know, I'm groaning and turning away from the sunlight that's coming into our living room. My neck is stiff and every muscle in my body aches from sleeping curled up on the couch, and my mouth tastes like something died in it.
"Jordan," Lindsey moans. "Jordan, your phone."
"What?" I say, lifting my head and rubbing my face.
"It's ringing," she says.
I sit up, and then I hear it. It stops and I grab it. Three missed calls from Taylor.
My stomach drops.
"It's Taylor, Lins," I say, and her eyes shoot open. She grabs her phone, fumbling for it on the table.
"He called me too," she says and sits up. "Jesus, and it's almost 1 p.m."
Then my phone rings again in my hand.
The screen says Taylor again and I feel like I might throw up from nerves.
I stare at his name for two rings, three, trying to decide if answering is the right move or the worst mistake I could make.
Lindsey stares at me.
On the fourth ring, I swipe to accept and press the phone to my ear.
"Hello?"
"Jordan." Taylor's voice sounds anxious and higher-pitched than normal, like someone is standing behind him with a gun to his head while he makes this call.
After last night, maybe someone is.
"Hey," I say, leaning forward, my head pounding as I look at Lindsey.
"Listen." He clears his throat. "About last night."
My pulse kicks up and my eyes go wide.
"Don't worry about it," he continues, speaking fast like he's reading from a script. "Just leave it alone. Forget it. Never happened. You understand?"
I don't respond.
"Jordan. You understand?"
"Yeah." My voice comes out hoarse and I clear my throat. "I understand."
There's a pause, and I hear him exhale slowly on the other end of the line. "Good. That's good."
I wait for him to hang up, but he doesn't.
"There's something else," he says. "You've been booked out by a private client."
The words don't make sense at first.
I blink, trying to process them, trying to fit them into some kind of logical framework.
"What?"
"A private client. High-end. They requested you specifically and paid upfront for exclusive access." He pauses. "It's a lot of money."
My blood turns to ice. This is a setup.
At its best, it's some kind of hush money deal, but these people are dangerous, so it's probably some trafficking scheme or some kind of fucked-up arrangement where I disappear and no one asks questions because Taylor got paid and the club got cleaned and everyone walks away happy except me.
"I don't do private clients," I say carefully.
"Well, you do now." His tone hardens. "I told you this could happen at some point. This isn't optional, Jordan. The money's already been agreed upon. You're expected tonight."
"Expected where?" I say, scooting to the edge of the couch.
"Just be here by 6 p.m.," he says, already moving on, already ending the conversation. "A car will pick you up and take you."
"Taylor."
"Six o'clock, Jordan. Don't be late."
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone in my hand, my mind racing.
A private client.
Exclusive access.
Paid upfront.
Every instinct I have is screaming that this is wrong, that showing up tonight means stepping into something I won't be able to walk away from.
But I need the money.
Rent is due in four days. I'm a thousand dollars short and the landlord doesn't take excuses or sob stories or promises that I'll have it next week.
I check my bank account even though I already know what I'll find.
$47.23
I close my eyes and lean my head back against the couch.
"What did he say?" Lindsey asks, but I don't answer.
Forty-seven dollars to my name. No savings. No safety net. No one I can call who will wire me money without asking questions I can't answer.
Lindsey nudges me. "Hey, what did he want?"
"To tell me to forget about last night." I swallow hard. "And that I've been booked by a private client."
Lindsey's eyes widen. "Private client? Jordan, you don't."
"I know." I cut her off. "I know."
"So you're not going? Is the money good?" she asks.
I look at her and then stand up, my legs unsteady beneath me. I walk to the window and pull the blinds back, staring out at the courtyard below.
"My time at that club is over," I say. "I'm done."
Lindsey doesn't respond right away. When she does, her voice is soft. "Okay, then what are you going to do?"
"I don't know." I turn to face her. "I'll lose out on money I need, but don't worry. I'll get my share of the rent." I walk back toward the couch and sink down with a sigh. "I'll just do my little webcam show for cash while I figure things out."
Even if I swore I wouldn't do shows again, men can't touch you through a computer screen.
Lindsey nods again, brushing her hair behind her ear.
"Well, I've got to go back," she says and shrugs. "It's all I got and you know, those men won't come back for us. They wouldn't have let us live. It seems personal. If I ignore it, and Taylor says it's cool," she stops for a moment. "It's cool, I guess. I don't know."
I force a smile and turn to stare out the window, watching a neighbor's cat walk across the parking lot, and try to convince myself that I just made the right decision.
That walking away from the club means walking away from whatever happened last night.
That the man with the cold eyes and the tailored suit won't come looking for the girl with the butterfly tattoo.
I try to convince myself it's all over and I'm safe.
But I don't believe it.