Chapter Seventeen #2
“Is that all?” Al demanded, still upside down. “Don’t be shy, now; I was promised depravity.”
A masked woman took that as a personal challenge and climbed onto the stage to shove a fistful of cash down the front of his trousers.
Al caught her wrist, kissed the inside of it, and guided her hand down his stomach with an expression so obscene that even I had to admire the commitment.
The woman squeezed him through his jeans before another dancer lured her away, eager to separate her from more of her cash.
Al’s knees trembled as he slid off the pole and stood in front of the crowd, the abandoned microphone back in his hand. “What do you get,” Al called, dropping a wink at me across the room, “when you cross a man with a horse?”
A wave of frenzied voices called out answers and laughs; the crowd was growing drunk on Al’s madness, swept up into a bacchanalian frenzy.
“Disappointing guesses.” Al grinned as he slid one hand down the front of his trousers. “Allow me to demonstrate.”
I watched as one of the dancers sank to her knees in front of Al, knees splayed cutely, her ass offered to the audience, inviting them to tip as she helped Al free his almost erect cock.
Al was only too keen to show off his ten-inch monster; he motioned for the woman to open her mouth as he released his cock from its trappings and grabbed the magnum of champagne, pouring the fizzing elixir down his length and letting the stream collect on the woman’s tongue.
The crowd roared, hands reaching for him from the front row. Cash disappeared into Al’s waistband, his boots, the torn opening of his shirt, and anywhere else patrons could fit it. In return, Al selected one man by the tie, hauled him halfway onto the stage, and kissed him hard.
A dancer cracked a riding crop across Al’s back. He laughed.
The second strike left a red line over his tattoos.
The display was vulgar, theatrical. Every movement suggested an orgy seconds from beginning.
I didn’t turn away as the guards abandoned their posts at last, though grim satisfaction made my heart skip a beat. There was my opening.
I left just as Al’s trousers were flung off the stage. The show had only just begun; I almost felt sorry for missing it.
Almost.
◆◆◆
I walked without hurrying, one hand resting inside my coat beside the vial hidden there.
Moving quickly would draw attention, and I’d just managed to shake the guards.
They were relaxed, lazy sorts, spoiled by a club where there weren’t any rules to enforce, but I wasn’t about to risk my window of opportunity by rushing.
No one stopped me.
Two young dancers emerged from Haines’s booth as I approached. One adjusted the straps of her dress while the other counted folded notes; both looked at me suspiciously, wearing careful masks of open happiness.
“What kind of mood is he in?” I asked with a roll of my eyes; both women immediately relaxed, deciding I was one of them.
“Not bad tonight,” the one counting their cash assured. I winked at them, and both women left without asking me any questions. Smart girls.
I nudged the booth door open, taking in the interior. My club had velvet seating, back when I was entertaining; this one used leather. I felt a pang of envy; it would have been so much easier to clean blood and cum off of leather!
Judge Haines sat alone on a curved leather sofa, a bottle of champagne resting in ice beside him. He was thinner than in his official photographs, with sunken cheeks, damp skin, and small eyes that watched me with immediate suspicion. I closed the door behind me, the privacy lock engaging.
“Judge Haines, I presume?”
“Who’s asking?” He drawled as his gaze traveled over my face, hair, and clothes, his suspicion giving way to disgusting interest. Men like Haines always assumed beauty existed for their consumption, even when it had just disarmed them.
“Just the after-party, baby,” I purred as I placed one hand against his cheek and lifted the champagne bottle with the other.
“Oh.” He grinned a piggish grin, watching with interest as I poured a single flute of champagne. His eyebrows shot up in fresh caution as I held up the little glass vial and dripped the clear liquid into the champagne, but I smiled at him and lifted the glass to my own lips.
“Do you want some, too?” I asked coyly, smirking as I sipped; he nodded eagerly, and I kissed him, pressing the poison into his stupid, willing mouth, spitting every bitter drop into him as he swallowed greedily.
By the time I pulled away, his pupils had already begun to widen. Haines smiled, and then his expression faltered. His hand rose to his throat, fingers spasming against the skin.
“There it is,” I smirked, setting the champagne flute down.
Haines tried to stand; his legs failed, dropping him heavily back onto the sofa. The toxin worked quickly, blocking the communication between his nerves and the muscles required for voluntary movement. His heart would continue beating, and his mind would remain perfectly clear.
Breathing, however, would become increasingly difficult.
Haines dragged in a thin, rasping breath.
“You have about four minutes before your diaphragm stops responding,” I warned him. “Perhaps five. Significantly less if you struggle.”
Panic filled his eyes. His mouth moved, but only a weak clicking sound emerged.
I leaned closer, smoothing one hand over his rough, pockmarked cheek.
“All I require are names,” I assured him. “You give me names, I give you the antidote.”
His jaw strained as he tried to answer.
“Nod if you understand.”
He nodded desperately.
“Good boy.”
A tear slipped from the corner of his eye.
“I need the names of the people operating a car theft ring in west Houston; they specialize in classics, like the white 1970s Dodge Challenger that was stolen from John Bell’s property last year.”