Page 71 of The Truths that Deceive

When’s good?

Can you hang around until tomorrow?

A slow smile spreads and I send a message through to the driver about our change of location.

“This doesn’t look like a sex club,” Calista says in the red wig that’s fucking white-hot on her.

I slant her a look as I lead her in past the line of people, the bouncers letting us in without question or delay. “You’re a sex club frequent flyer?”

She trails a finger down my tie. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“Come on, kinkmeister, I’ll ply you with drinks and you can show me your tricks.”

The club is smoky, clandestine. It’s more underground dance club than anything else. And the beast inside me is stirring. A place like this is perfect to start a real-time chase. Over the beat of the music, I lower my mouth to her ear. “Drink?”

“Champagne.”

I go to the bar for a bottle. And when I get back, she’s gone.

Oh fuck, do I like a woman made of strong stuff, one who can and will run. Even if she is too young for me. I pull the phone from my pocket and open up the CCTV feed. There she is, running out of the place like a pro in the shoes. And I grin.

The chase is fuckingon.

Chapter 20

Calista

My feet are like hot coals and knives rolled into one, but high heels, though I don’t often wear them, are a superpower of mine. For some reason, I can walk and run in them. Though usually not this fast, not for so long, and definitely not ever in six-inch platform stripper heels.

But I don’t dare take them off. Not until I can get somewhere I can disappear. Somewhere I can get to a computer.

On my thigh is a garter, and secured in that is a credit card I pilfered from Smith. He has a few so he won’t miss it immediately.

And I know using it is like shooting fireworks up to announce my whereabouts, but I also don’t intend to be free for very long. I’m just hoping its long enough to check up on the Estonian connection.

Maybe send a message to Riley, if his old private number still works.

Smith didn’t take me to a sex club. He took me out, like hedoesn’t think I’m okay… no, like he doesn’t trust me. Which is fine by me, because that goes both ways.

The streets are crowded with partygoers and girls in bikinis and heels. There must be a nighttime pool party somewhere, but after a few people give me weird looks as I run past them, I dart around a corner, down another street, and force myself to slow to a brisk walk.

I turn onto another street, this one with colorful buildings. My senses are overwhelmed at the scents of cooking meat and the sounds of laughter and chatter while people play chess and checkers at tables on the sidewalks and in little cafés.

What I need is a place with a computer. There’s salsa music floating out of one place and it’s big, a café, yes, but also a place where people dance. I go in, intent on asking someone if there’s an old-fashioned internet café or something like that when I spy a little closed-off area at the back.

I look behind me, but I don’t see a man over six foot whatever in an expensive suit following, so I head back, taking note of the location of bathrooms and exits other than the door I came through.

Bathrooms are down a short hallway that probably leads to the kitchens and the manager’s office.

Good. Places to hide and run to if I need. But I don’t think Smith’s following me.

“Think” being the most troubling word in the mix.

“Excuse me,” I ask the waitress, “can I get a coffee and use the computers?” I point to the ancient-looking machines that probably fell off the back of a truck about ten years ago.

She nods. “Enter your credit card details on the screen.”

I find the one farthest from the noise. With a clear view of the entrance, I pull out the credit card.

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