Chapter 12
Jersey
I blow out a deep breath and feel bored which makes me frustrated, and I hate feeling frustrated, especially when I'm working. It has the ability to make me sloppy, and that's the last thing anyone needs especially if they need help and I manage to miss a cue.
The beat of the music threatens to change my heart rate because it's so loud. It's a wonder how any of the people sitting around in different little areas can even hear each other.
I tilt up my glass of whiskey, no longer feeling the burn of it in my throat since it's my fourth for the night. I've never been more grateful that a sex club doesn't have a drink limit. It's a red flag for sure, but it's also exactly what I need tonight.
I can't get her out of my head, and it's driving me insane.
Fucking someone isn't supposed to leave me feeling like I'm missing something. When my balls are empty, I'm supposed to be over whatever urge I felt that put me in that situation in the first place. That's how it has always been these last several years.
Emotions aren't something I ever worry about. Although I'm not one to go out and purposely hurt someone's feelings, I don't concern myself with their mental well-being after I leave. We're all adults making adult decisions, and I don't have time for regrets or concern in their aftermath.
I didn't force Caitlyn to do a damn thing. In fact, she controlled the entire situation, and maybe that's the rub, the thing that has left me feeling a little... off.
"First time at Ambrosia?"
I look up to see a stunning brunette standing right in front of me, and it says a lot about my state of mind that I didn't even register her approaching me. It doesn't bode well for my ability to work or keep myself or anyone else safe.
I let my eyes drift up her body, giving her the impression that I might be interested in what she has to offer.
She isn't leaving much to the imagination in her black-and-red lacy lingerie. I can see just how perky her nipples are, and the glint of metal at the apex of her thighs discloses that she's pierced there.
"First time," I lie, having been here four nights straight. I attempt to keep my tone level rather than disclosing just how irritated I am that she's standing in front of me, blocking my view of the rest of the club. "Why don't you kneel there and be quiet?"
She licks at her lips as if I've just made her night before she obeys and drops to her knees beside me.
I can't say her doing it makes me feel any sort of way because I only issued the command to get her out of my line of sight, but having her there makes my presence in this seedy-ass sex club a little more believable .
This club is much different from the one tucked away in the mountains back home. There aren't as many workers walking around, making sure people are obeying the rules.
People are having full-on sex in some of the nooks and crannies, which would be a violation at Catalyst. They expect all penetrative acts that aren't part of a scene on display to take place in the private rooms or in the dungeon. Nothing like that happens on the main floor.
This club in North Carolina is a hotbed for criminal activity. I can't count the number of times I've seen people snorting coke and making small drug deals in the shadows, but Cerberus requires a little more than petty crimes. We don't want to shut down a facility over a line of coke and ruin the chances of catching someone trafficking women or kids.
There's only an hour and a half distance between the two clubs, and it wouldn't surprise me to see people here at Ambrosia that I saw last week at Catalyst. Just the thought of possibly running into her here after what happened on her front porch threatens to make my cock hard.
I reach out, petting the woman's hair because it takes the edge off. Touching her sickens me, and it's just what I need to keep my shit under control.
If I saw Caitlyn walk out toward the St. Andrew's cross in this club, I'd be on my feet in a second, demanding that she leave in the next breath. She isn't really safe in any club, but she'd be less safe here with their lax rules.
"I like that," the woman says, her tone more of a purr.
I pull my hand back, letting her know that speaking violates the rules and that to get what she wants, she has to comply.
She immediately clamps her mouth closed, but I don't put my hand back on her head. Instead, I run my palm down the arm of the couch as if touching her in the first place left something unsavory behind on my skin .
Although she's silent, the music still blares out of the speakers, heightening my anxiety, but I figure this must be my punishment for the lines I crossed the other night.
I was grateful when Hemlock told me to take this job. Instead of driving back home every night, despite it only being a couple of hours away, I opted for a hotel room. It's the only thing keeping me from going to her house and waiting in the shadows like a creep.
Home.
I shake my head, trying to dispel that thought from my mind. It shouldn't be a big deal that I think of the place where all my belongings are as home, but I haven't considered any place home for a very long time. It has nothing to do with moving around and taking jobs all over the United States and never having the ability to settle down anywhere. It has more to do with the emotions and acceptance of what the word home means.
This is the very last place I need to have a crisis of conscience.
I drain my glass and lift it in the air, something I learned to do on the first night here. Despite not having many people walking around to enforce the lax rules, there is always a waitress in the shadows, waiting to ply patrons with more alcohol. I don't know if they're trying to get people drunk so they can be taken advantage of or what, but it's dangerous for me to take another drink.
"Make it a double," I tell the waitress when she approaches with a smile.
Her eyes dip to the woman at my feet before she looks back up at me.
"Have you discussed prices?"
"Excuse me?" I ask, needing her to think I'm confused.
I figured there was prostitution going on inside the club the first night I was here after witnessing an exchange of money more than once before people disappeared into some of the other rooms. Although illegal, we aren't in the business of shutting down places that have willing participants in their criminal activity unless the surveillance doesn't produce anything else, and we need to move on to the next location.
"She can't just sit there for free," the waitress explains. "If you aren't paying her, then she needs to move on."
"I see," I say as I look down at the woman kneeling by my side. "My mistake. You're free to go."
Her eyes narrow, and the submissive side she was pretending to have disappears with the blink of her eyes.
She stands, pulls her shoulders back, and wanders away.
"Are there any women here who aren't paid whores?" I ask the waitress, the words feeling like acid on my tongue.
"Not usually on a weeknight," she answers, unaffected by the tone and nature of my words. "The weekends usually bring in a couple."
"I see." I stare off into the distance, not really focusing on anything. "My tastes are... different."
"We cater to all tastes here, sir," she says.
I turn my eyes back to her, judging whether it is too soon to tempt something illegal out of her. We have a team waiting not far from here, but I don't know if now is the time to pull the trigger on the raid.
"I'll keep that in mind. My drink?"
She gives me a tight smile before walking away.
I could tell by the shrewd look in her eyes that she was growing suspicious, and it wasn't the best time to push the limits.
What started as a relief and an escape from how I've been feeling is quickly turning into something akin to torture .
The drink comes quicker, and when the waitress asks if there's anything else she can get me, I get the distinct feeling that she's urging me to request whatever it is I was considering earlier, but I simply wave her away and empty my glass in one gulp.
When I stand a few minutes later, I know the drinking was a mistake. I'm not tanked, but I'm also not in fighting form. My arms are heavy, and my steps are slow and uneven.
A quick glance down at my watch tells me that I've lost a little time while contemplating all the things in my life, and other than some prostitution, I haven't found much else. I hate the idea of wasting the team's time, but we need solid evidence that this place is hurting people before we mobilize.
I press my back to the wall when two husky guys drag a man toward me down a back hallway.
"She wanted it," the man spits as they pass. "Ask her."
"She said no," one of the security guys growls, making me wonder if this club isn't more on the up and up than I originally thought.
"You didn't pay for what you took," the other guy snaps. "And your card was declined when you tried to make it right."
Did she say no because he didn't pay or because she truly didn't want what was happening?
In my book, a no is a fucking no, regardless of the circumstances.
I walk further, opening doors as I go, only to find myself coming face-to-face over and over with couples and groups of people having sex. I've been to so many places like this over the last ten years that nothing surprises me anymore. I don't get turned on at the sight of naked people.
It's why seeing Caitlyn on that cross for the first time made me take notice .
Naked women are an everyday thing in my line of work, and as much as I can appreciate the naked form, my body usually no longer responds in a sexual way. I have no way of knowing if the women in front of me are there of their own free will or not, and that goes a long way in keeping my libido in check. Nothing makes me sicker to my stomach than a woman being forced to do something she doesn't want to do.
I turn the doorknob to the last room in the hallway right before the exit sign, but it doesn't turn. I could easily bust the door down. They aren't using anything more than doors you'd have in a cheap apartment, but the last thing I need is to make a scene by splintering the doorframe.
I pull my set of lock-pick tools from my pocket and make easy work of the lock, freezing in my tracks when I step into the room and find a crying girl tied to a bed.
She can't be more than fifteen or sixteen years old, and my first instinct is to pull a towel from a shelf on the wall and cover her naked body.
"Please don't," she whispers. "I won't tell anyone you took me. Just let me go."
Bingo. This is exactly what we needed to shut this fucking place down.
I pull out my phone and shoot off a text before unlacing the ties at her wrists and feet. Instead of leaving her for one of the other people to find, I wrap her in the towel and carry her right out the back of the facility, passing Hemlock as he raises his rifle and goes inside.
And fuck, don't I wish as I carry her to safety that prostitution was the only thing going on inside. I hate the victims these types of places create.