Chapter 54
Ryder
So getting the keycard to unlock the room hadn’t been the problem, nor was slipping inside undetected.
The problem was the fact the room was entirely empty.
As in not a single piece of paper, desk, or fucking plug where a computer could be.
Christ, there wasn’t even a sodding coat hook.
Only four plain walls and an offensively ugly carpet.
This was what happens when you don’t plan. Unbelievable, no one took my profession seriously.
Unlocking the door again, I eased it open a fraction. All I could do now was wait and hope the greeter, assistant, or whatever-the-fuck-his-title-was, realised his keycard had vanished. And that he was competent enough to come looking for it.
Thankfully for me, and unfortunately for the greeter, it only took a few seconds before he walked inside, muttering to himself as he reached for the light.
“Sorry about this,” I whispered.
Before he could turn fully, I hooked my arm around his neck and pulled him into a tight hold. His breath hitched in surprise, hands scrambling at my forearm.
The full-body contact hit me like a shock, panic clawing at the edges of my throat, cold and sharp. But I forced it down, even as my skin crawled instantly.
I focused on the pressure, the angle, the count in my head, and not the feeling of someone pressed flush against me.
Just as my stomach heaved, the greeter passed out, and I gently placed him on the floor before slipping out the room and closing the door behind me. My eyes immediately scanned for Violet, not finding her where I’d left her.
Fucking hell… of course she’d moved.
We needed to get out of here, now, and she’d gone and wandered off because she had zero sense of danger where her mother was concerned.
I knew this was a bad idea. Should have listened to my instincts and not my cock.
Fuck this. I’d buy her flowers. Maybe learn to bake. Something easier to earn her forgiveness than whatever this shit was.
I shouldered through the crowd, each brush of an arm or accidental bump punching air from my lungs. My breathing caught, tightening with every unwanted touch.
Too many people. Too close. Too many—
“Sir.” Something settled on my shoulder, and I turned, gripping it hard enough to hear something crack.
The man hissed, stumbling back and clutching his hand.
Oops. We weren’t supposed to gain attention, and yet here I was, creating a commotion. Great.
“Sorry about that, mate,” I said, trying to ease the situation.
Something hard pressed against my back, and I froze.
Fuck. Me.
“One wrong move and I’ll pull the trigger,” the man behind me murmured, low enough that only I could hear.
Perfect. A gun. Because this night clearly wasn’t chaotic enough. I quickly glanced around, hoping to find Violet in the crowd, watching. But she was nowhere.
“Move.” A shove forced me forward, and the guy with the freshly fractured fingers took the lead.
“Do you treat all your guests like this?” I asked casually, moving slowly on purpose.
“Move,” the guy with the gun snarled, pushing harder against my spine.
“Alright, keep your knickers on.” My mind clawed for a plan that didn’t involve me:
A, getting shot, or B, getting out of here without Violet.
Both were equally unacceptable.
“So, you guys work for some weird underground sex ring?” I asked as they marched me outside, oblivious to the guests who carried on like this was normal. “Do you get free pussy?”
“Stand over there,” the gunman said, shoving me toward a brick wall. “Hands up.”
“Ah… no free pussy. Got it.” I lifted my hands slowly, eyes scanning the alley for anything I could use. “What about free dick? Employee discount? Loyalty card?”
“Shut up,” the broken-finger guy snapped, tugging off my mask. “You really think you’re funny, pretty boy?”
“Firstly, yes, I’m fucking hilarious,” I said. “And secondly, you think I’m pretty?”
“Face the wall,” the gunman barked.
Shit. “Boys, surely we can come to some kind of arrangement?”
The gunman stepped closer, swinging his weapon in my face. “I said face the—”
I ducked to the side, reaching out and grabbing the barrel in what surprisingly wasn’t the worst idea of the night. The gun went off, and heat scorched across my palm, but I held on, teeth gritted as the recoil jolted us both into the brick.
The gunman yelled, stumbling as I wrenched the weapon free and slammed my shoulder into his chest. He hit the pavement hard, and Broken-Fingers lunged.
I swung the gun toward him. “I wouldn’t,” I warned, ignoring the sting in my palm as I pressed my finger to the trigger.
He froze, eyes wide as I backed up a step, keeping the barrel trained on him. My lungs burned, adrenaline pounding so hard my vision pulsed.
“Now,” I began, “tell me where—”
“POLICE! DROP THE WEAPON!”
You have got to be shitting me.