Page 85 of Oliver

My mind races with the implications. Killers. Is this the infamous Hunter’s Club?

“Are you part of their club?” I ask.

His brows flicker before he says, “Yes and no. It’s my job to keep the peace. Someone gets out of line…they meet my fist.”

“So, you don’t like, hunt or whatever but you referee the members?”

“Yes. There are rules. You don’t follow them, you’re out and it ain’t with a slap on the back. These fuckers could go to prison.”

“What does that mean for the, um, whores?” I hate the word, but Hate is a dude, he’s not going to pussyfoot around me.

“They don’t see anything important, and most don’t know exactly what they’re walking into. If you attract the attention of the wrong dick, there’s nothing I can do though.”

Shivering, I consider everything and slowly nod. I’ve come this far. There is no way out for me. I suspect I know too much and it’s a risk for Oliver and anyone else mixed up in this to let me live for much longer.

The proverbial clock is ticking.

“Okay, what do I need to do?”

Three hours later, I wobble on four-inch heels and cling to Hate’s arm as we approach a converted warehouse on the wrong side of town.

I’m so out of my comfort zone it’s not funny. And I don’t just mean the geographic location, where I could easily disappear with no one the wiser.

Nope. I’m dressed like a prostitute, and I can say with clarity, it is not freeing to do. The globes of my ass peek from the bottom of my dress. The thin stretchy material does nothing to hide my nipples.

My makeup is done up in shakes of black, accentuating my dark eyes, with my hair teased to mimic an 80s music video.

Where Hate got the goods, I have no clue and I didn’t ask. Now, I’m observing the lot and my heart sinks to my toes because there are more vehicles than I anticipated.

Just how big is this damn club?

“Relax,” Hate mutters. “If you look terrified, they’re gonna know something is off the minute we step through the door.”

“I’m trying,” I hiss, wrenching on the dress but Hate stops my movements as we step through the threshold, and I stifle a gasp when he grabs my ass cheek and squeezes.

“Don’t make a fucking scene. Keep your eyes down. In here you’re my property and you act like it.”

“You didn’t mention that before,” I mumble, glancing between my lashes when he chuckles.

“Guess not. Here.” He pushes me gently toward the bar. “Get me a whiskey.”

Although the outside of the building is nothing but fading siding and the appearance of broken windows, the inside was converted into a sleek space with polished concrete floors, sexy black couches and chairs arranged into various seating areas with low lighting.

Picking my way through the furniture, I glance around stealthily taking in the bespoke men in severe suits surrounded by their “whores”. Most of the women stand around with glazed expressions while the men speak in low tones, the din like a nest of bees prickling at my skin.

So far, I don’t recognize anyone and consider that I may not anyway. Presuming Oliver isn’t working alone, why would I? These men are killers, but beyond that they hide behind the persona of normal men with wives and careers. I’m a high school dropout essentially since I never took my exams.

At the bar, I panic because I don’t have any fucking cash hidden in this skintight ensemble but ease when it appears the drinks are free.

Casually, I take a seat and study the floor while I wait for someone to take my order. Although I’m desperately trying to see whatever I can without being obvious.

A man across the room laughs, his head tilting back, and I look away, especially when his side piece meets my stare with wide eyes. She slowly shakes her head and heeding her warning, I turn back to the bar, a bead of sweat trickling down my spine.

Why am I here? I know it was Oliver who warned me off. What purpose does being here serve? Willow seemed to think it was an opportunity but for what? Maybe some part of her still refuses to believe he’s a jerk. Or maybe there’s more to the story. It’s maddening. Why can’t someone just tell me the fucking truth without forcing me to play detective?

“You’re in so much fucking trouble.”

When I go to look up, he growls, “Don’t fucking move. Not even your damn lips. I can’t believe you would come here. I can’t believe you would risk…what the fuck were you thinking, little one? Never mind, don’t fucking answer. Stay by Hate’s side and hope like fuck you survive this, so I can spank your ass when we’re done.”

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