Page 39 of Cruel Dreams

Mel and Quinn trade glances and step into the elevator to give us some privacy. The doors bump shut.

“I’ll be okay. Quinn and Nathalie will be with me. They won’t let anything happen.”

“I know.” He brushes a kiss to my lips.

I only lightly reciprocate—I don’t want to smear the apricot lipstick Mel applied.

“I won’t be here when you get back,” he says, sighing. “Mel thinks it’s important that I spend as much time at the penthouse as I can, and I agree with her. Ash may be busy planning his gala but that doesn’t mean he’s not keeping an eye on me.”

“Yeah, I know. Spend some time with Zarah, okay? Maybe bring her and Ingrid back to the penthouse. I think with everything else going on, Ash will leave her alone and there’s no reason to keep hiding her.”

“Okay, I’ll ask, but I doubt she’ll leave Max and he said he wants to watch your camera’s feed. Stella—”

“I should go. I don’t want Quinn to have to wait for me.” I pull my arm out of his grasp. He wants to plan and talk about our future, but I don’t see how that would do much good until we’re free.

“I love you,” he says, pushing the lift’s Down button.

“I love you, too.” I squeeze his hand and step inside the elevator. The doors slide closed, hiding his unhappy frown.

Quinn and Mel are standing on the sidewalk, and just as I step outside, a sleek black sedan pulls up to the curb.

“If you need anything, I’ll be listening. What’s your code word?”

Mel insisted we have something to say if we need assistance as soon as possible. It will blow our cover if she sends the police there or Zane barrels into the club ready to be a hero, but it would be irresponsible not to at least consider we might walk into a situation we can’t get out of on our own.

“Chanel,” Quinn says obediently.

At first, I thought that was silly—why would we need a reason to say Chanel?—but then I realized it was perfect. The brand name could be slipped into conversation quite easily. “Is that a Chanel bag?” “Do you shop at Chanel?” “Are you wearing Chanel Number Five?” Uncommon but familiar, we wouldn’t need to say it for any other reason than to indicate to Mel we’re in trouble and need to get the hell out of there.

“Good. Good luck.”

Quinn and I sit in the back and the driver asks her to confirm the address to our destination, wrinkling his forehead in confusion as to why we want to go to a strip club. She does and snuggles into me. The driver gets the hint, decides to mind his own business, and focuses on the road. She smothers a laugh against my shoulder.

I’ve never been to Ladies and Gentleman before, but the line of menandwomen wrapping around the building waiting for the club to empty enough to admit them doesn’t surprise me. Ash owns the most popular, most lavish, strip club in the city, maybe the United States. A couple of burly bouncers stand at the door keeping an eye on the line.

“Fuck. How are we going to get in?” Quinn asks as the driver idles at the curb. She rummages in her purse, wiggles out her wallet, and slips him a hundred dollar bill. “Keep it.” She elbows me. “Get out. No one’s waiting to open your door, chickie.”

“Shut up,” I say, laughing, pulling on the handle. I push the door open and carefully step onto the sidewalk. To fit in, my heels are higher than what I’m used to wearing. Quinn follows me and the car melds into traffic.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I stare at the line. It could be a three hour wait, maybe more. We might not even get in before the club closes. Once people are admitted, they rarely leave, unwilling to give up their coveted spots. We stand uncertainly on the sidewalk. The pounding music the women are dancing to filters out to us, and I recognize “Lady Marmalade.”

A couple of men near the front of the line whistle, and one calls, “Hey, come over here! If you blow us, we’ll pay your cover.” Quinn scoffs over the sound of others farther back cackling, booing, and hissing in amusement, disgust, and displeasure.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a black limousine glide up to the curb, and it slows to a stop in front of the club. Quickly, Douglas climbs from behind the wheel and opens Nathalie’s door. She steps out of the limo.

“Is that what you were waiting for?” Quinn asks, teasing me, but I’m not in the mood to be teased. I’m watching Nathalie, like everyone else who’s close enough to see her.

Her legs look a million miles long, silver stilettos strapped to her feet, and a white sequined dress hugs her every curve. Her hair is a tumble of curls down her back, and her makeup is perfect. I look down at my plain black dress feeling like the poor homeless girl I am. Why in the hell would Zane want someone like me when he could have a goddess like Nathalie, a woman who would do anything for him? She looks like a movie star—I’m the extra that ends up on the cutting room floor.

“Hi,” she says, her heels clicking against the cement. She’s holding a small white clutch that matches her dress. “Problems?”

“Oh, the line,” Quinn says, jerking her thumb behind her.

The guys who were calling to us are really into it now that Nathalie joined us.

“Ah, I know the two at the door. They’ll let us by.” Nathalie ignores the hoots and hollers like she’s used to the attention. She probably is.

“Nat!” One of the bouncers yells as she catches his eye. She waves. “What are you doing out tonight? I hear you’re engaged to Zane Maddox. Lucky son of a bitch. He should be keeping you locked up.”

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