Page 69 of Kept

“This section’s closed,” the security guard grunts. Summoning a glare, I gesture around.

“Look, man, the rest of the club is a washout. I just wanna get to the good stuff, you know?”

Leaning in, I flick a piece of non-existent lint from his shoulder, clapping him on the back. The pig-faced guard squints at me, clearly not used to anyone being nice to him. “Uh. Sorry?”

Sighing dramatically, I lean against the wall. “All the good shit gets closed down. Why’d they close it, anyway?”

He leans in, clearly not used to any of the patrons talking to him as ruddy cheeks gleam in excitement. “One of the girls… she went missing. Reckon one of the punters got a little too excited. You know what I mean?”

I don’t have to force the grimace that appears on my face as my stomach begins to churn. “I don’t like playing with my food. What happened?”

The guard shrugs. “Dunno. But someone reckons the bosses were paid off not to say anythin’.”

Nodding, I slip a crisp, hundred-dollar bill into his hand under the guise of a handshake. His huge hand clamps over it greedily. “Fair enough. Guess I’ll give my club a try instead.”

Dropping Maverick a message to let him know, I decide to make good on my words and head to our club in the city. We don’t spend a huge amount of time there thanks to the overabundance of wealthy assholes, but we’ve picked up our fair share of jobs thanks to a little networking.

I ignore the nudge to go back home, to curl up next to Zella and watch her face as she sees her first ever movie in full fucking high-definition in our very own custom theatre. Those assholes better have picked a good one.

But my place is here, among the lowlifes and reprobates that make up the worst of city society. As I enter the club and push my hair back, I glance around. One hand up to the barman gets me a whiskey to curl my hand around as I wander, picking up the snippets of gossip that only tell me who’s fucking who and not much else.

A hand on my elbow stops me. “Croft.”

Fucking fabulous. My already sour mood takes a further nosedive. “Can I help you?”

The portly man in the insanely expensive suit smiles around the lit edges of the cigar. “Reckon you already are. John Martinez.”

Nodding slowly, I give him a once-over. So this is the man who started it all, who contacted Maverick to look into Ethan Moore and kick started this whole fucking chain of events. “Pleasure. How can I help?”

Martinez leans in. Man’s got a face like a rat, all beady dark eyes and narrow chin with a few whiskers hanging off. Not exactly an oil painting.

On second thoughts, I take it back. That’s a fucking insult to rats.

Even his voice is oily. “I’ve been waiting patiently for an update on our arrangement. I’m afraid that Maverick hasn’t been especially forthcoming.”

Bored, I flick at the end of my sleeves. “Well, these things do take time. I’m actually doing some research tonight.”

“Interesting,” Martinez almost purrs. “And I’m glad to hear it, given that the man of the hour is right over there.”

I force myself to turn slowly.

“He doesn’t look quite himself,” Martinez muses. He sounds delighted, and it’s true. Moore looks… untidy, to say the least. Maybe even a little dirty. Hunched over the end of the bar, he’s a far cry from the pristine man I saw at Club X. Gloves are still on, though, I note with disgust. Even his hair looks like it could do with a wash.

“No,” I murmur. “He doesn’t, does he? If you’ll excuse me, Martinez, I have work to do. I’ll ensure Maverick updates you tomorrow.”

I don’t hear what he says as I move closer, before sliding into an empty stool two along from where Moore sits, staring into his glass. His head turns slowly, taking me in with bleary eyes, but I ignore him as I pull the leather evening menu towards me.

“You,” he slurs. “I know you.”

I grace him with a disapproving flicker over his appearance, and my lip curls. “The pleasure isn’t mutual, I’m afraid.”

The lie rolls off my tongue like honey, and his face darkens. Stumbling off the stool, he makes his way towards me. The bartender glances over with a frown, and I unobtrusively hold up a hand, warning him off.

Ethan Moore slides into the stool next to me, nearly falling off the other side. Wrinkling my nose, I take a sip of my own drink. I can smell how many he’s had already, the fumes wafting off him in waves.

When he’s finally settled, he turns back to me. “You’re from that company. The one thatfindsthings.”

This close, I can see the little pock marks in his skin, the way he’s styled his hair to try and cover the increasing baldness, the sheen of sweat on his brow.

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