Page 23 of Hunt

“Oh, god, too long. I don’t know. I need to bathe. Get me out of here—that girl. Champagne. Did this. She tricked me,” he said, his anger evident.

“Champagne?” Ronan questioned, confused, and shot me a sharp look. “Champagne did this?”

“Yeah, she lured me in here, stole my…where’s my wallet? My wallet. Where’s my wallet?” he screamed. “Where’s my wallet? She stole my wallet?”

I spotted his trousers in a heap on the floor and picked them up, finding his wallet inside one of the pockets. “It’s fine, and your wallet is here. Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?” I reiterated that even though he looked fine on the outside, he might be hurting internally.

Ronan unfastened the handcuffs and freed Mr. Yarmouth’s wrists, and he was close to tears as I was sure he was thinking he was going to die in there. I opened the cupboard, found a folded blanket, and wrapped it around his shoulders. “Mr. Yarmouth, just let me know if there is anything I can do to make it up to you.”

I suspected he wouldn’t go to the police because that would incriminate himself as a cheating married man who owned a multi-million-dollar corporation that produced educational toys for children. I doubted he’d be stupid enough to make a fuss about this, but we still had a problem with a disobedient girl called Champagne who left this valuable member of the Savile Club to rot.

“She set me up,” Mr. Yarmouth seethed as we walked him down the hall to the secret door. “Her and that man.”

“What man?” I asked, trying to control the rising rage. “There was someone else?”

His silver head dropped in shame. “They set me up and screwed me over.” The shame vanished, replaced by anger, which placed the blame back on me. “I want her head. I want her gone, Mikky.”

“No problem, Mr. Yarmouth. I’m right on it,” I assured him.

10

Champagne. Bring her to me,” Mikky demanded after Mr. Yarmouth drove away in his white Cadillac. His temperature was rising, made worse because the exterminators still hadn’t shown up. “And email all our subscribed members that we will be closed today, put a sign on the door, inform the receptionists…”

“Will do, Mikky.” I hunted down Freddie discreetly and asked him to find Champagne’s number and give it to me discreetly. I needed to speak to her face to-face and find out what the fuck she was thinking.

I returned to the Red Velvet rooms and pulled the soiled sheets off the bed, almost retching from the stink. Unfortunately, the shit had seeped through onto the mattress, so I yanked that off onto the floor as well. My head was spinning trying to come up with reasons why any of our girls would handcuff a client, tease him, and then leave him bound to the bed for hours.

I was not concerned about what kinks our members preferred, but safety and hygiene were our top priorities. This was a massive failure, and Freddie or Betty should’ve had their eyes on the ball. We had rats in the kitchen and snakes in the Velvet rooms, and it felt like things were starting to unravel.

It had me scratching my head because Champagne was one of the good girls who kept her nose clean, didn’t dabble in drugs, and was a favorite of many of the gentlemen who frequented the club. It seemed out of character, so I needed to speak to her in person. Additionally, only four of us had the code to the Red Velvet Rooms, so how did they get up there?

It stinks so badly that the scent has permeated the hall and other rooms, so I was relieved that Mikky decided to keep the club closed for the day and night. When Betty and our reception staff turn up for work, we’d have to turn them away and give a false excuse. I trusted that Freddie knew what to do.

I dragged the mattress down the hall to the room closest to the stairs, which had a window looking out over the alleyway. There, I threw the mattress and sheets out. Once I’d done that, I checked the rooms to ensure everything was in place before opening the hall cupboard containing the cleaning products.

After spending an hour mopping the floor, cleaning the walls, and every other surface, I checked that the secret door was locked and secured as I left. The pest exterminators had arrived and were scanning the floor for droppings as I walked back to the stairs, almost falling over a girl in faux fur sitting on the bottom step.

“Jeez, why are you sitting there?” I growled, not in the mood for this.

“Freddie told me you wanted to see me,” she said sweetly, standing up so I could see her properly.

“Champagne? You got here fast,” I stated, relieved but annoyed. “Follow me.”

“What’s going on? Freddie said we’re closed tonight, but I have two bookings,” she sounded so innocent, as if she had nothing to do with the old man covered in shit left in the room upstairs.

Kneehigh boots tapped behind me as I pointed to my office and shut the door behind us. Having the working girls up here broke the rules, but this must be kept confidential.

“What’s happened?” she asked again, playing dumb.

“Sit,” I told her as I strode to my seat and opened the top drawer to check my phone for messages. A message was left on my work phone from an unknown number, but I didn’t open it. “Is Mr. Yarmouth one of your clients?” cutting to the chase.

“Yes,” she swallowed nervously before replying. “What’s happened to him?” The color ran from her already pale cheeks as she bit her bottom lip.

“What makes you think something happened to him?” I challenged her to see if she’d crack or at least spill some bullshit.

“Because Freddie called and said there was an emergency,” she furrowed her brow. “And now I’m sitting in your office, Mr. Byrne. He is an old man, too, so I didn’t know how long he could handle the things he liked.

I cringed, holding up my hand to stop her speaking. “Spare me the details. And he’s not dead.”

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