Page 53 of Shadows of Justice

The Roost—1 AM. I have your earpieces, so listen in, and you’ll know I’m safe. Give me until 4 AM. If you don’t hear from me by then, call into PPD anonymously. Ditching the phone now.

I press send, and I’m about to toss the phone in the garbage can by the street, but something stops me. Chewing on my cheek, I type one more message.

I’m sorry, Leo. This was the only way.

I press send and breathe in a shaky breath. I toss the phone into the garbage and turn to Sugar, who’s twirling a small purse in a circle at her side and grinning at me.

“You ready for the hen house, chickie-pie?” she asks, a mischievous look in her eye.

I steel my spine and toss the cigarette butt on the concrete, snuffing it out with the toe of my boot like badasses do in the movies. I ignore the cost for the fee of the littering ticket that pops into my head.

That’s not who I am—not tonight.

Chapter Seventeen - The Roost

Saturday, July 25th

The Roost is a hole.

A hole with buzzing neon lights and blunt smoke. The rhythmic pulse of the music is slow and hypnotic, the only pace that the strung-out strippers can keep up to. Everything is dark, so much so that my eyes have to adjust just from being outside—at night. Seedy figures occupy the booths, the bar, and out on the floor where many are receiving lazy, unenthusiastic lap dances from girls that look too young and too asleep to be here.

I school my features into sultriness, eyeing the clientele with the confidence that oozes from Sugar. She, who was previously thought of to me as “just” any common prostitute, is now my only ally. My anxiety has me physically restraining myself from clinging to her.

She shines in this place, looking like a diamond in the very, very rough. Honestly, just the fact that she’s coherent makes her a solid ten in this joint.

I’ve got three hours. What could happen in just three hours that’s so terrible? I have no idea if Leo can hear what’s going on around me, or if I even activated the earpieces correctly. I’m just choosing to believe that he’s nearby—a safe distance away, but still close. Ready to raise hell if I need it.

That’s the only thought that is truly going to get me through this night.

Sugar takes me by the hand and leads me through the crowded space to find a spot at the bar. Two girls are on the stage, pink neon lights above the raised area, marking it as “The Perch.” They sway listlessly, one of them with hair so matted you’d probably have to cut it and start fresh to fix it, and the other drooling, eyes rolling in the back of her head. It’s a wonder that either of them are standing, let alone “performing.”

Others flock in and out of of the saloon-style swinging doors on the right side of the room. A yellow neon sign flickers above it, labeling it “The Hen House.” Every time the door opens the club gets a quick glimpse of a naked ass shimmying into a g-string or a skinny figure bent over a table, snorting drugs off a plate.

I try not to stare. I try not to appear as anyone other than someone that’s seen it all before. Who’s surprised by nothing that goes on between these walls.

We squeeze into a small space at the bar, the bartender slightly less asleep than the dancers. She brings us our order and our change while the men crowded into the stools eye us like hungry animals. Given the reactions of those that assess me, I look the part. I’m choosing to see that as a good thing.

Sugar hands me my shot of whiskey and winks at me, clinking her shot glass against mine and then shooting it back. I do the same, and relish the burn. A few more of those and I’ll not only fit in better as another female without all of her wits, but also hopefully feel more at ease.

We order a few more rounds, Sugar unabashedly waving and blowing kisses to those that are staring. All of the men ogle and whisper amongst themselves, probably wondering how cheap they can score a blow job from either of us. She points with her gaze to a partitioned-off section towards the back, and I spot what appears to be a VIP area filled with shadowy figures. Standing guard is a huge, tattooed behemoth that even Jason Statham would probably blink at. Behind him in the dark, I can see that two men are getting lap dances, one is getting sucked off, and two more in the middle are snorting lines of white powder off a mirror. I can’t identify them without staring too long, but I have a feeling that the men sitting over there would pop out my eyeballs for less, so instead I shoot another shot of whiskey.

As I set the glass down, I spy a low-lit hallway off the side of the VIP section that ends in a short set of stairs leading up to a heavy, closed door.

That’s got to be where they’re keeping the iron oxide. I need to find a way to get back there.

A gigantic man with a lip ring wearing a long white T-shirt, shorts, and white socks pulled up to his knees suddenly walks up behind Sugar. She turns around, and he flashes a diamond-encrusted smile at her with the sort of hungry malice that chills my blood. He smacks her ass and then grabs a handful of it, gripping his dick over his shorts with his other hand.

“Mami,” he croons, biting his lip and looking at her up and down. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.”

“Bull Doggie-Dog. Miss me, sexy?” she says, leaning into his hold and flashing him a coy smile. She goes up on her toes and kisses his cheek, leaving a bright red mark on his face.

“The boys expecting you?” Bull Dog asks her. She shakes her head.

“I’m here to party, but I’ll go say hi in a little bit,” Sugar replies, shrugging her bony shoulders.

Good girl.

Not appearing too eager, just like I told her.

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