Chapter 21
LOTTIE
Leeds sits twenty minutes below Honey Hollow, and calling it seedy would be generous. It’s the kind of town where the gas stations have bars on the windows, and the bars have gas pumps.
We drive past three pawn shops, a tattoo parlor that’s definitely a front for something, and a gentlemen’s club called The Treasure Chest that makes me question humanity’s creative abilities.
And let’s not forget this is where Red Satin Gentlemen’s Club resides, although Noah, Everett, and even Carlotta and I are more than familiar with that establishment.
It happens to be crime boss central, and well, the place of employment for my sweet baby sis, Meg.
“Remind me why we’re here again?” I ask, nestled in Everett’s sedan.
“Because you got invited to a mysterious meeting by a woman who knows where bodies are buried,” Noah says from the back seat.
“Right. That.”
Percy materializes in the space between the front seats, his countenance glowing a faint shade of blue in the dashboard lights. “This town has terrible energy, Lottie Lemon. I can feel it in my ethereal feathers.”
“That’s just Leeds,” Carlotta says from the back.
Turns out there was no stopping her from tagging along.
I should have known. Leeds is her love language.
She’s reapplied her lipstick three times and looks like she’s heading to a cocktail party instead of a potentially dangerous information gathering. “It’s got character.”
Try as we might, we just can’t seem to shake her.
“It’s got crime statistics,” Everett mutters.
The Velvet Lounge is tucked into the top floor of a building that looks like it used to be a hotel in the 1970s and gave up somewhere around 1983. The exterior is all faded brick and flickering neon, with a sign that reads VE VET LO NGE because half the letters have burned out.
“This is either very exclusive or very illegal,” Noah observes as we park.
“Why not both?” Carlotta chirps.
We take the elevator to the penthouse—and I use the term penthouse loosely, because it’s really just the top floor, and the elevator smells like cigarettes and regret.
The walls are mirrored, reflecting our nervous faces back at us in infinite iterations.
And the numbers above the door climb slowly. Too slowly.
Mercifully, the doors slide open.
And the world shifts.
Loud, raucous music hits me first—a deep, pulsing bass that I feel in my chest, layered with a woman’s sultry voice singing something in French that I don’t understand but sounds like it should come with a warning label.
The beat is slow, hypnotic, a rhythm that makes you move without thinking about it.
Then there’s the sickly sweet smell. Candles—dozens of them, maybe hundreds—flicker throughout the space, casting shadows that dance across velvet-draped walls.
The scent is overwhelmingly full of vanilla, sandalwood, and something musky and expensive that clings to the air like a cloying perfume.
Underneath it all lies the faint sweetness of incense.
A part of me wonders if we’ve wandered into a séance.
The space itself is dark. Not dim—we’re talking someone-hand-me-a-flashlight dark.
And I get the feeling this kind of darkness is designed to hide as much as it reveals.
Purple and burgundy velvet curtains cover the windows, blocking out any trace of the outside world.
The furniture is all low-slung leather sofas and plush chairs arranged in intimate clusters.
More candles sit on every surface—the bar, the tables, clustered on the floor in groupings that look more like shrines than décor.
And then there are the people.
There are maybe twenty of them scattered throughout the space, dressed in cocktail attire that ranges from trying too hard to barely there.
A woman in a silver dress that’s basically strategic cutouts and a prayer is laughing near the bar while running her hands down some guy’s chest. Another woman drapes herself over a leather sofa with her legs crossed at an angle that seems mathematically impossible in those heels.
A man in a suit with his tie loosened and his shirt half-unbuttoned leans against the wall, a drink in each hand, talking to two women who are definitely not related to him.
Everywhere we look, people are touching, feeling, squeezing, and doing things I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t bear witness to.
Wandering hands abound, fingers trailing down spines, bodies pressed close in ways that make me suddenly very aware of personal space boundaries and maybe a few consent laws.
This is no séance. This crowd is obviously interested in people with a pulse—and making their hearts pound in a thousand lusty ways.
“Would you look at this?” Carlotta breathes, taking it all in with far too much delight. “These are my kind of people and my kind of party!”
“Good thing I brought handcuffs,” Noah mutters.
“I brought a gun,” Everett counters.
“Me, too,” I’m quick to confess. Fun fact: Everett and I have matching Glocks named Fred and Ethel. And I know for a fact that Noah has his weapon on him, too, because I can see the bulge at his waistband from under his coat.
Carlotta chuffs. “Well, aren’t you three a good time. I brought batteries.”
I don’t even want to know.
“Lottie Lemon!” Ronnie Crane materializes out of the shadows like a gorgeous, slightly intimidating vampire. She’s wearing a black slip dress that looks painted on and heels that could double as weapons. Her auburn hair is down, tumbling over her shoulders in waves that catch the candlelight.
“You made it!” She kisses me on both cheeks, very European, and her perfume wraps around me like a scarf. “And you brought the husbands.”
Her gaze slides over Noah and Everett with the slow, deliberate appreciation of someone appraising art in a gallery. Fine art.
“Both of them,” she purrs. “Delicious.”
A woman nearby, a brunette in a red dress with a martini in hand, glances over and does a double take at Noah. She elbows her friend, the blonde in a little black dress, and they both turn to stare.
“Merciful heavens,” the brunette whispers, loud enough for all to hear. “Look at those two.”
The blonde fans herself with her hand. “Which one can I take home?”
“Which one can I take a bite out of?” the brunette counters, and they both break out into cackles.
Everett gives me the side-eye. Noah’s jaw tightens, and he doesn’t look too impressed with our surroundings either.
“All right, friends,” Ronnie sings as she produces a large crystal fishbowl from a nearby table. It’s already brimming with keys and phones as the metal glints in the candlelight. “House rules—all phones and keys go in the bowl. What happens in the penthouse stays in the penthouse.”
I stare at the bowl for a second before exchanging glances with Noah and Everett.
And just like that, we know exactly what kind of party this is—a good old-fashioned key party.
But is this the key to solving the case?
There’s only one way to find out.