Page 29 of Black Sheep

Until I have a firm commitment from the Bratva, I can’t confront Finnan. Compared to Petrosyan and the Albanians, the Russians hold the upper hand in New York and New Jersey. As long as Finnan has their loyalty, he has a fair amount of security. Until that security is taken away, I can’t make my move with Cleo. Anticipation has its right place in the right circumstances. My ultimate plans for Cleo, for example, keep my blood thrumming. Prolonged anticipation, however, shifts my mood in the wrong direction. As does silence from the source who should’ve delivered news by now.

I stop in a deserted hallway and pull my phone from my pocket. The email I’m expecting isn’t in my inbox.

Growling under my breath, I head to the bar. B is walking the floor, all-black getup in place, her game face on as she chats with clients. With unwanted time on my hands, I take a moment to wonder what her deal is. Finding out will be as easy as making a single phone call. So far I haven’t been tempted to.

She reaches me, sees my near-empty glass, and nods to the bartender. “Have another drink. And stop glowering. You’re agitating my customers. Those who like that sort of thing are getting a free show. Those who don’t might leave. Either way, it’s not good for business.”

I accept the drink without responding and take a sip. The liquor trails a fiery path down my throat but fails to warm me or come anywhere close to offering oblivion.

“Are you heading up?” she eventually asks.

“No.”

She nods, and her gaze falls to my wrists. I’m aware she’s brimming with more questions, but she remains silent.

After a few minutes, she leaves to make another circuit of the room, pausing to talk to a diminutive priest holding chains attached to a seven-foot giant’s steel collar. I watch them, idly wondering which one of them is seeking salvation. Whether they will find it.

“Walk with me.” B has returned to my side.

I swirl the golden liquid in my glass. “Why?”

One sleek eyebrow rises. “Because you need the exercise?”

“Is this another half-assed therapy session? Because I’ll be less receptive than I was last time,” I warn.

“It’s…something. Not sure yet. But I get the feeling you’ll be interested.”

The need to tell her not to waste her time or mine hovers on my lips. But it’s only eleven p.m. Sleep isn’t anywhere on my horizon and hasn’t been since the last time I saw Cleo. I could return to my apartment and spend the next twelve hours in my personal gym. Or I can burn five minutes pandering to whatever the fuck B has up her sleeve.

Time is an endlessly fucked-up labyrinth right now so I shrug.

She heads for the elevators at the far side of the reception area. The stunning black girl behind the desk eyes me with thinly veiled interest. She’s tall, shapely with a superbly toned body. I try to imagine her red-painted lips wrapped around my cock.

All I get is gray static.

“What is this all about?” I growl as I step into the elevator.

B presses the button for the second floor. The newbie floor. My barely awakened interest drops to zero.

“Our latest member has been here three nights in a row.”

I shove my hands into my pockets, admitting that postponing a session with my punching bag probably wasn’t my best idea. “That’s unusual because?”

She notes my disinterested tone and holds up a manicured hand. “Bear with me. You trust my radar to be pretty accurate. But this one…I’m not so sure about. She either has serious mental issues I didn’t pick up on or she’s paying a hell of a lot of money to use our suite as a hotel room.”

My jaw bunches. “We have clients who pay to sit in a white padded cell without food or water for twenty-four hours at a stretch. What’s different about this one?”

“You’ll see.”

The elevator pings open. I suppress my rising irritation and follow her down the hall. Unlike the Gothic-bent decor on the upper floors, the doors and hallway are painted in lighter colors, with some rooms offering viewing windows for those with exhibitionist tendencies.

She leads me to a door that has a TV screen attached to the wall next to it. It’s accessed by a special code known only to senior staff so newbies can be monitored. By definition, the Punishment Club is a place of extremes, but those new clients still need monitoring during the first three months after joining despite the waivers they’re required to sign.

She enters the code. The screen flickers to life.

The woman is sitting on the rumpled bed, her head on her drawn-up knees, arms wrapped around her legs. Her long, dark hair is obscuring her face but there are no visibly unsettling signs of distress. She’s either sleeping. Or meditating. Or crying. My gaze moves from her to the room.

The large picture of the lone surfer at sunrise on the wall above the bed is the first strum on my wary senses. The bed frame and headboard also look familiar. The gray and white sheets. The red headphones draped over the studded armchair. The chair itself.

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