Page 13 of Dirty Grovel

Deshawn guffaws. “What’s so special about this little filly?”

“Why don’t you just host another one of your famous yacht parties and find a new blonde?” Kenneth suggests. “Preferably one forallof us.”

All three men descend into howls of laughter and my fists clench impatiently. I don’t mind putting up with the inane chatter if it means I get results at the end of it.

But none of these fuckers seem to understand just how serious I am about finding Sutton.

And fast.

I pull out my wallet and slap a couple of hundred dollar bills on the counter in front of us.

“This is just to get the search started. There will be a twenty-thousand-dollar reward for the man that manages to track her down for me.”

The three stooges stare at the cash fanned out in front of them.

Kenneth turns to me with his mouth hanging loose like a gaping goldfish. “Just to be clear, is this a bribe or a donation?”

“It’s whatever it needs to be to get the job done,” I snap. “You decide.”

Kenneth palms the money and slides it off the counter. “A donation it is,” he says cheerily. “Boys, let’s get to work. We have a blonde to find.”

5

SUTTON

Which is safer: frogs or clams?

It’s not a question I ever thought I’d have to contemplate. But here I am, smack dab in the middle of two loud, rowdy bars, trying to figure out where my best chance of hiding out is.

Señor Frog’s has a clientele made up exclusively of belligerently drunk and badly sunburned Americans. Mostly of frat boys and women with some truly heinous tramp stamps.

The Bearded Clam, on the other hand, is thumping with strange techno music, accompanied by strobe lights that are already giving me the headache of all headaches.

Hugging the shadows between both pubs, I check my freshly charged phone. But I can’t get a signal out here.

Sydney will have to wait a little bit longer.

I look up and notice a beefy cop strolling along the sidewalk. Nearly swallowing my tongue, I clutch my phone a little tighter and join a gaggle of giggling girls as they flock into Señor Frog’s.

I’m inside the pub only two minutes before I decide that, if this is what spring break looks like for most college students, I’m glad I never participated in it.

Trying not to be too judgmental, I skirt past the dance floor and towards the back of the bar, where the bathrooms are located.

The inside is relatively empty, thankfully, but it smells like piss and vomit. Which doesn’t exactly help my own gag reflex.

Trying as hard as I can not to breathe through my nose, I pull out my phone and drop Sydney my location.

She writes back almost immediately.

SYDNEY:Getting close to sending you the $$$. Hang in there.

Sighing, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Given how I feel, I actually look pretty decent. The bruise on my face has started to taper off a little. Under bad light, it looks more like I’ve overdone it with my makeup.

Although I have a feeling no one is gonna be looking at my face given the ridiculous “outfit” I’m wearing, courtesy of Oleg.

My curves are really curving in this string bikini. In a bar full of spring breakers, I don’t stand out too bad.

But I’m not interested in the type of attention those girls are clearly after.

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