Page 22 of Prey

I poked my head into the office where Mikky and Ronan were enthusiastically talking numbers. “I’m heading out now.”

“Where are you going?” Ronan asked suspiciously, narrowed eyes as if he could tell I was up to no good.

“Out,” I replied sharply, reconsidering my tone when Mikky shot me a bemused scowl. “Back to the frat house.”

“Are you coming back, cousin? We have some catching up to do,” Mikky stated evenly.

“You’ll be here all night?” I asked him.

His black eyebrows cocked, and he took a sip of his whiskey, then cringed at the taste, “I’ll be here until closing. Need to see how smoothly the place has been operating while I was gone and make sure the girls’ asses are still tight and our customers’ wallets are still loose.”

“Alright, I’ll come back later tonight,” I promised, unsure if I could follow through. If I found the keycard, then my plans would change. If I don’t, then I’ll come back.

***

I had a key into Mikky’s apartment because it was my second home in Gothenburg, my first home being my frat house, living with nine other guys. Mikky’s place was a vast, spacious luxury penthouse apartment, and there was enough room for all three of us, although it might feel different now that Mikky’s back.

I first went into Ronan’s bedroom and checked his drawers, under his pillows and mattress, in the home office, and in the fridge, where I found a plate of fried chicken and chewed on a leg. Once I came up empty, I landed on the black leather couch and thought it over. It had to be in his wallet or his SUV.

A message came through on my phone, and I hoped Riley would find some sense and answer me. But no, it was Ronan.

Ronan: If you’re looking for the keycard, it’s not there.

Me: Where is it?

Ronan: Give it a rest.

Ronan meant well, and he was worried I might do something stupid, but his resistance would not stop me from finding out if Riley Laws was Annika. Nothing will stop me.

Me: The conversation is not over until I say.

Riley:

12

She examined my fake ID, frowned, held it between two fingers and pressed, “You’re twenty-one?” She wasn’t stupid, and I bet she’s looked at a thousand IDs and references, many of which I’m sure were fake. Her name was Betty, and she was possibly the most intriguingly beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Sitting in the soft armchair, I felt intimidated by her beauty. Long jet-black hair pulled back into a ponytail, blood red lipstick, and high cheekbones and could’ve easily been a model with those striking features and sharp blue eyes and elongated limbs.

It was hard to gauge her age, but at a guess, she was in her mid-to-late thirties.

I nodded, knowing I looked younger, but 21 was the golden number to be considered for a job in the Savile Gentlemen’s Club.

They instructed me to enter through the main entrance, which was palatial enough without seeing the club itself. Twenty girls and two guys were waiting expectantly to be interviewed for one of four available positions – a kitchenhand, two wait positions, and a dealer. I’m sure they’d take one look at me and know which position I had applied for.

When my name was called, I was escorted down a ‘staff only’ hallway into a windowless room containing shelves of Savile uniforms and supplies – aprons, buttoned shirts, blazers, beermats, etc.

“Petra Black?” she didn’t believe me, and I felt like walking out, holding my head in shame. “You’re a student at Gotland?”

“Yes.” My cheeks burned, deciphering whether I should come clean and tell her my ID was fake and apologize or keep digging the hole. The chances of them hiring me were slowly dying before my eyes.

“And what are you studying?” she asked, running her critiquing eyes over my clothes, which included a pair of black dress pants and a blue buttoned shirt creased with wrinkles because I couldn’t find an iron and a pair of white sneakers with smears of dirt on my feet.

“Marine biology,” I replied honestly.

“Oh? That’s interesting, and you want to work here at Savile Gentleman’s Club because…?”

Swallowing over a lump in my throat and clasping my hands to stop them from shaking, nerves were pummeling throughout my body, “Money.” I couldn’t think of another reason why anyone would want to work as a kitchenhand.

She didn’t like that answer and passed my fake ID back, making the interview seem as if it had come to an end. All she had to do was contact Gotland to find out if there was a 21-year-old Marine Biology student named Petra Black.

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