Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Eleanor
Beauty is skin deep.
I rarely socialize in large groups, preferring cozy nights with movies, video games, and takeout. I have, however, mastered mimicking those around me to fit in, even if it leaves me feeling exhausted. I can look like I belong and act like I’ve been there a million times with barely any information.
Gail has a few choice things to say about that skill. Something about never showing my true self to the world and hiding behind fake personalities and false backstories. Apparently it’s called masking, but why would I show who I am when it invites vulnerability and pain? Nobody wants the real Eleanor. She’s for me and me alone.
Cloud is everything I expected and nothing I have experienced. It is dark, moody, and reeks of poor decisions and sin. It’s a playground for dark and depraved minds. Cloud is neither a sex club nor a strip joint, yet it’s full of shadowy corners, tinkling laughter, deep moans, and the sound of rustling fabric. A sleek bar spans one wall, manned by several classily dressed staff in a black and red uniform. Both men and women are on the payroll, which surprises me. What happened to sisterhood? I guess everyone has their price.
Black and red swaths of gauzy fabric cover the rest of the room, concealing velvet couches surrounding low tables lit with candles. It creates a false impression of romance when the men who frequent here are anything but Romeos.
Christopher’s hand sits on the dip of my spine, above my ass, his heated skin making mine break out in a cold sweat. I resist the urge to turn around and break his arm. Long game, Ellie. Keep your goals in sight. Find your target. Sink deeper into their world. They will never see you coming.
Speaking of deeper. I need to do something.
“Restroom?” I ask Christopher as we take the set of stairs to the middle floor.
His gaze flares. No, idiot, I don’t mean for us. He jerks his head to the left. “Down there. Last door on your left. Do you want a drink?”
My lips quirk. “I’ll have champagne, thanks.” As if I’m going to drink anything he orders.
“I’ll be over in that booth.”
He points at an opulent little nook. Wonderful. I’ll be up close and personal with this demon. Fighting to keep my face neutral, I nod in agreement before disappearing down the hallway. I glance over my shoulder to find Christopher watching me with his arms folded. I try to give off I need to pee vibes, not fuck me in the bathroom ones.
I push open the door, finding a classy restroom with a single toilet, small couch, and vanity with everything one might need to freshen up—perfume, brand new makeup, condoms… okay then. I lock the door behind me and lean my back against it with a sigh.
“Keep it together,” I mutter to myself before shoving off the door and doing a sweep in the small room, finding no obvious cameras. Doesn’t mean there aren’t any. But I’ve already spent one minute in here, and the clock is ticking. Christopher doesn’t strike me as a patient man.
I pull my phone out of my clutch and hit the app, switching the button to on. I stare at the pulsing dot signaling that it’s active and being received. Come on, come on.
Thirty seconds later, my phone lights up. Damn, that man is fast.
I swipe, accepting the call. “Fox,” I greet.
“Why did your tracking app light up my screen, Ghost?”
“Because I turned it on.”
“I didn’t even realize you still had this on your phone.”
“I don’t. The device is buried beneath my skin. Phones can be discarded, wiped, or trashed.”
He sighs, and I can picture his exasperated expression. “What’s happening?”
“I have a private matter I’m attending to.” Silence fills the line. “Fox?”
“Why would that involve you turning on a tracker?”
“It’s a precaution. These people are dangerous. If you don’t hear from me in two hours, come get me.”
“Who’s that?” a female voice asks in the background.
“Ghost.”
“Put it on speaker,” his wife commands.
“Done,” he mutters. “Damn women.” My lips twitch.
“What’s happening?” Honor asks.
“I have a lead.” I’ve told her some details of my quest. Not enough to endanger her, but an overview of my life before I escaped. If anyone can understand the terrifying control certain men hold, it is Honor.
“How dangerous is it?” Honor asks.
“She turned on her tracking device, and she’s in Miami,” Fox answers.
She swears, letting me know how serious the situation truly is. “Can you wait for backup? We have people who can help.”
“Not with this. I can’t involve anyone else.”
“Ghost.”
I shake my head and grip the edge of the vanity. “If I don’t check in within two hours, send help. I’m here with a man named Christopher Burnside.”
“The fashion mogul?” Fox snaps.
Of course he would know; his grandmother is in that circle.
“That’s the one.”
“He’s part of the ring?” Honor asks.
“He is.”
“You’re at a club called Cloud?” Fox checks.
I am not surprised he’s already tracking me.
“That’s hours away,” Honor grumbles. “We should leave now.”
“No. I’m not putting up the signal; it’s a heads up. If this goes south, they will take my phone, and I wouldn’t have been able to turn on the tracker.”
“I don’t like this,” Honor says. “Please leave. We can come up with a plan together.”
“I can’t.” I hate the emotion in her voice, the tremor of fear trying to weave its spell around my heart and tug me out of this building into the safety of the night. But I don’t run, not from this. Not anymore. I have to slay my own demons. No man is going to do it for me, and I won’t sit on the sidelines waiting for someone to dismantle and destroy Jonathan.
There’s a gentle rap against the door. “Grace?” Christopher’s voice calls through the door, using the false name I gave him. A heavy sigh leaves me. Sometimes, I hate being right. Damn it, I wanted to snoop a little on my way back.
“Tell him you informed a friend where you are,” Honor implores.
I squeeze my eyes closed. “I can’t I sold him a backstory of no friends or family. If he thinks I will be missed, I won’t get in as deep as I need to. Two hours, guys. If I don’t call, I’m in trouble.”
“Fuck,” Fox snarls.
I end the call before they try to persuade me against my course of action. Then I switch my phone off and place it in my bag. Unfamiliar brown eyes gaze back at me from the mirror. I’ve got this. The fact the monster stalking my nightmares is probably somewhere inside this building has a tremor running down my arms. I shake my hands like I can get rid of my nerves. I can’t, but the image of my mother’s body jerking under the moonlight and crumpling to the ground makes steel straighten my spine.
I grab my bag and let the false identity of Grace take over. Confident, capable, lone wolf, but also lost and needy, and eager for his attention. It’s complicated, but I can pull it off. I unlock the door and reveal Christopher. He smiles as he scans over the top of my head. I pull the door closed before he gets any smart ideas about taking this further right here, right now.
“Anticipation is good for us,” I say. “Good things shouldn’t be rushed. They should be savored.”
A frown forms between his gray eyes as he moves back and guides me toward the curved booth. I slide onto the supple leather with him following behind me. A gleaming silver ice bucket containing an open bottle of champagne sits on the table beside two empty crystal flutes. Well played, trying to lure me into thinking my drink could never be laced with something if the glass is empty. Unfortunately for him, I’m not stupid. He tops both glasses up, and we click them together, the sound of expensive crystal tinkling in the air as we toast the night and whatever comes of it. Death, preferably. His, not mine. Women dripped in sultry luxury move around the club, some serving the patrons, others under the spell of the men who hand-picked them to be here. I didn’t expect a stage with a neon light stating women for sale , but I am surprised how normal everything appears to be. Perhaps it’s happening on the top level? I need to make a plan to scout the place. I relax my limbs and encourage my heart rate to stay steady as my mind registers that somewhere in this building lurks the devil responsible for all my nightmares. I cannot panic. Panic gets you killed.
“What job did you do?” Christopher asks, like he’s remotely interested. Mentally I roll my eyes hard enough to see my ass.
“Vet assistant.”
“Really?”
“What? I don’t look like I care for animals?” Rude.
Surprise flickers in his gaze. “I pictured you in a tight little skirt being the secretary of a tyrant whose advances you rejected, and that’s why he sacked you.”
Of course he did. He’s already formed some sort of fantasy in his head about me. Best to lean into it. “Close enough, but switch the skirt for scrubs and you have yourself a close picture of my life.”
“Did you report him?”
A test. I shrug as I pretend to take a sip of the champagne. “What’s the point? Boys will be boys.” I swallow the need to vomit from those words. Boys will be boys is a fucking terrible excuse. It reinforces the narrative that society expects behavior based on their gender. That we as women should accept their domineering lecherous advances as something simply a part of life. It’s not. I don’t buy into the thought that men are predators, and we are suffocating their desires by not letting them hunt us. There is a movement becoming a little more known that has to do with primal play. But it’s consensual; there are rules, safe words, and an acceptance of boundaries. Consent is everything, no matter what your kink is.
But there’s a rotten core of society who believe men’s desires should take precedence, that their needs outweigh ours. Total bullshit, if you ask me. Even in the wake of the Me Too movement, their crimes still go unanswered, and the seedy underbelly continues to thrive. We claim to be an evolved species. I sometimes wonder how we can assert that in a world of depravity. Christopher is part of that problem. I could dispatch him quickly, but that won’t help me get closer to the head of the beast. I have to be right under Jonathan’s nose.
“I can see we have the same values, the same needs,” Christopher says as his warm hand skims my knee. He’s not sweating like the pig he is. No, he’s chilled, relaxed in his domain.
I push my lips up and glance at him. “What needs would those be?” My voice is breathy and warm. Inviting. Excited.
His fingers tense, his manicured nails digging into the sensitive flesh of my thigh and pulling them apart. I freeze, closing my knees together and trapping his hand there. Christopher wants a challenge. If I hand myself to him on a platter, it will be too easy, and I’ll be fucked, out on my ass before the hour is up.
Instead of asking about my needs, he falls into my trap and assumes I want whatever it is he wants. That my pleasure would be tied to his. Fucking idiot. Give me the unicorn of a man that asks what you want, then weaves in his own take on it to give you earth-shattering orgasms. Give me a man that cares. Alas, they seem to be hiding at the end of the rainbow along with the elusive pot of gold.
He tilts his head like he’s trying to get a read on me. “You want to be fucked hard,” he starts. Truth. But not by him. “You want to be dominated, controlled, held down as I take my pleasure and my wrath out on your body.” Wrong, wrong, sort of, and definitely not. He shouldn’t quit his day job. Psychic is not his forte.
“Really? And you think you are strong enough to control me?” I taunt.
He smirks as his fingers dig into my thigh, nudging my legs open. Okay, so he works out. Doesn’t mean he knows what he’s doing. He might have height and muscle on me, but I know sixteen places where hitting anyone, no matter their size, will incapacitate them, and I’m not afraid to use those moves. I might have been a data analyst for the military, but I’ve ensured I can defend myself against men like Christopher, knowing I will need those skills as I get closer to Jonathan. I’m also a fucking exceptional shot and practice at least once a week at a range. I can’t afford for my skills to get rusty.
“I know I am,” Christopher mutters as his gaze drops to my mouth. I run my tongue over my bottom lip, his eyes tracking the movement. He sucks in a breath, making me chuckle.
“Anticipation,” I remind him. A perfect excuse until I get my eyes on my true target. Perhaps we should dance. There’s a small area where couples are basically having sex with their clothes on under the guise of dancing. Then I remember I resemble a drunken newborn giraffe in stilettos, which is not exactly enticing.
“Later, Grace, I’m going to thoroughly enjoy unleashing my pent-up frustration on your body. You may regret making me wait.”
Oh, Christopher, the only one regretting anything will be you. If he tries putting his dick anywhere near me, I might not resist showing him my knife skills.
I skim my lips over his. It’s not a kiss. It’s a promise. For him, that promise is where else I’ll put my lips. For me, it’s a reminder of the very dangerous world I’m tiptoeing through.
“How much anticipation are we talking about?”
“An hour, maybe two,” I answer with a smile. Enough time for me to drop this tracker on someone close to Jonathan, but not too long that you lose interest.
“Are you waiting for me to carry you out of here on my shoulder?”
Oh, he’s really leaning into this caveman behavior. In a world between two consenting adults, I can understand the appeal. But, again, we’re back to that word men like Christopher find a turnoff. Consent. I have no doubt he will push me until I’m past my limits and ask him to stop. That’s where his genuine excitement begins.
He pulls away and takes another sip of champagne. I pretend to do the same, my gaze not leaving his. He, however, tears his hungry eyes away from me, and a wide genuine smile breaks free.
“Jonathan! You’re here, old friend.”
Fuck.