Shade Me (19 page)

My fists slowed as he began to nuzzle my neck.

“Don't be mad,” he said into my hair. “I just wanted to have a little fun with you. You're so serious all the time. A mystery.” He pulled my earlobe with his teeth. “I love mysteries.”

I let my hands drop at my sides, let him glide closer and closer, the heat of his mouth against my skin leaving pulsing violet drops across my shoulders. Soon I was pushing my hands through his hair, kissing him back.

He straightened his arms, pulling up above me. I still couldn't see his face, but I could make out the angle of his silhouette.

“What?” I asked, impatient.

I saw his silhouette move, as if he were shaking his head. “You are something else, that's what,” he said. “Any man would want you.”

And as he leaned in to kiss me again, I knew what move I needed to make next.
Any man would want you.
Just as any man would have wanted Peyton.
Nik.

Must get to the bottom of things.

SOS.

I felt Dru tug at my shirt, but in my head I was already at Hollywood Dreams.

I was already following Rainbow's trail.

I was already going to find the john who'd hurt Peyton.

T
URNED OUT, THE
hardest part about getting a job at Hollywood Dreams was finding it. But once I located the nondescript glass front door and pulled it open, I knew I was in the right place, because I'd seen it before. This was the same door in the blurred photo I'd found in the suitcase at the bottom of Peyton's closet. Whoever the man was who had been in that photo, he'd been entering here. I got goose bumps following in his steps. What if that man had been Peyton's attacker?

The door opened onto a staircase—just as unremarkable as the door—and I climbed it slowly. I felt so uncomfortable in my hastily bought outfit—a stretch royal-blue dress a size too small, so tight and short it felt like I was wearing nothing
at all. I wobbled on six-inch sequined heels. I was all legs and boobs and pissed-off awkwardness. Whatever connection Peyton and I might have had, this was not it. I would have made the worst call girl ever.

I tried to imagine what Dru would think if he saw me dressed like this. Or even better, Jones. Jones would probably have a heart attack and die.

I tried not to imagine how on earth I would defend myself in something so uncomfortable. My only solace was that one of my heels would jab out an eyeball nicely. Gunner would have been proud of that line of thinking. That knowledge made me more comfortable.

At the top of the stairs was yet another ordinary door—this one wooden with mailbox number stickers adhered to the front. I tried the knob. It was locked. I knocked, wiped my sweaty palms along the (not long enough) length of my dress. I considered turning around and leaving, thinking of another way to get the information that I needed. I had to bite my lip hard and remind myself that nothing was ever going to get anywhere near an actual transaction just to get myself to stay there. I would bolt if anything weird happened. I would punch and then I would run. And this blue dress was as naked as I was going to get, period.

After some time, there were footsteps, and then the door opened. A statuesque girl with doll eyes and perfect skin stood on the other side. She wore a simple black tunic and
impossibly clingy jeans, the cuffs rolled to reveal a towering pair of cork wedges. Her long red hair swished over one eye seductively. When she moved, I could see a scar that had cut a line through her eyebrow.

“Can I help you?” she asked in a voice I recognized as the voice that had answered the phone when I'd called earlier that day.

“I think I talked to you,” I said. “I'm Nikki.”

She stepped aside, opening the door wider. “Yep, come on in. I'm Brigitte.” I followed her down a short hallway into a perfectly plain reception area—a pockmarked wooden desk, a basic computer, a printer, a coffeemaker on top of a scratched file cabinet. This was anything but Hollywood. Or dreamy. “Actually, I'm Sarah,” she said over her shoulder. She motioned toward a chair and I sat. “But the boss likes us to have special names. Something sexy or mysterious or playful, you know. Brigitte, Celestia, Cinnamon. The clients are in it for the fantasy—they don't want to be with a plain Jane girl, even if that's who we really are off the clock.” She flashed a smile that was anything but plain Jane. I pondered anyone accusing Peyton or Luna of being plain Janes. I couldn't get there. “So, Nikki Kill, is that what you said your name was?” She opened a file with one sheet of notebook paper in it. I nodded, she made a note. “Almost good enough on its own, right? Maybe Killgirl or something super tough-sounding. You look the type.”

“I'm a type?” I asked, pulling the front of my dress up over my cleavage for the millionth time.

Brigitte assessed me, biting on her lower lip. One of her front teeth was slightly crooked, a flaw that somehow managed to make her even more gorgeous. “Definitely. Black fringe, thigh-high boots, bustier, the whole nine. I could see some of our clients going for the bad-girl vibe. You could really play it up. You know, when you're alone. But I could see a lot of them wanting that innocent bad-girl thing. You know, the juxtaposition, like with a slutty librarian. That kind of thing.”

“Okay,” I said, although I had no idea what she was talking about. I could do the bad-girl vibe with no problem. But I had no intention of playing anything out while alone with a client. I still had yet to figure out how that was going to go.

Brigitte continued looking me over. She must have liked what she saw, because she finally gave a definitive nod. “Yeah, you'll be popular. We just lost an escort whose image was sort of a punk rocker type. The guys loved her. Constantly calling for her. More requests than she could possibly take.”

I sat forward. “She quit?”

Brigitte wrote a few notes in my file. “Yeah,” she said absentmindedly. “Was too bad. She was one of our best. The boss had been grooming her for a while.”

“The boss?”

“Don't worry, she's not as intimidating as she sounds. Come here, I'll show you her office. But she's out today. She's been out of town. And having some . . . family problems.”

She plucked a set of keys off a hook on the side of the file cabinet and I followed her down the hallway, past a modest kitchen and supply area, to a door at the other end. Brigitte opened it. It was like opening a portal to a whole other world. Thick pink carpet flowed across the floor, a shining ship of a desk taking up the back, flanked by bookcases filled with crystal figurines. A zebra-print chaise lounge took up one corner, next to a Tiffany floor lamp, which bathed the room in a comforting amber light. There was a night-and-day difference between this office and the one Brigitte occupied out front. Whoever this madam was, she definitely wanted to let the support staff know that she was in charge.

“Very nice,” I said.

“Yeah,” Brigitte said. “She doesn't like the front office to be flashy, just in case the cops decide to be curious or something, but she likes her expensive things. And you'll make money, too. Lots of it, so don't worry about that.” She closed the door and locked it. “Anyway, she keeps it locked unless she's here. She's had some problems with . . . things . . . getting stolen lately.” She winked at me. “Pharmaceutical enhancements,” she whispered. “Some of our clients figure if they're already tempting the law, they might as well get a good buzz off it.” We walked back to the front office and sat
down. “It's just me in here, anyway, and not very often. Only when someone like you is coming in. You probably won't really see any of the other girls. Not usually, anyway, unless someone books a double or something, which hardly ever happens. Most clients don't like anyone to know that they're having to pay for it. They want all their friends to think they can get girls like us all on their own.” She laughed. I laughed along with her, but the sound wanted to get stuck in my throat. The reality of the situation—that I was now officially an escort—had started to set in. “So,” Brigitte said brightly, closing the file. “Any questions?”

I shifted in my seat. I had so many questions. My mind was swirling with them. But I reminded myself that I was there for Peyton. “The punk rock girl. What was her name?” Brigitte paused. “It might help me choose one,” I said.

“Oh,” she said. “She called herself Rainbow.”

I already knew this, but it still felt like a victory to hear her say it. I didn't know if I wanted to jump up out of my seat in triumph or if I wanted to cry.

“Do you have any, like, bodyguards?” I asked.

Brigitte smiled a knowing smile. “We have one—Rigo—but we don't ever need him. Hollywood Dreams isn't a place to pick up a cheap hooker, Nikki. The kind of guys who can afford us are usually a little more elevated than that.”

“Usually,” I repeated. Score one for Detective Martinez. I was guessing Rigo was short for Arrigo Basile, but that was
one question I wasn't going to ask. Guess Dru wasn't the only one who was chummy with Arrigo. Peyton must have known him, too.

“There have been a couple of instances,” she said. She busied herself with gathering papers on her desk. “But let's be honest. Women could be attacked anywhere.”

“That's a pretty defeatist way of looking at it.”

Brigitte smiled at me again, but this time the smile had gone thin. “Realist,” she said. “Don't worry. We will only set you up with regulars for a while, anyway. You won't have any problems. In fact . . .” She thumbed through the papers she'd just gathered, pulled one out. “I have one for you tonight if you'd like to start right away. He was supposed to meet with Rainbow, but . . .” She handed me the slip of paper. “His name is Stefan. Of course, most of our clients use fake names, too. He's been one of our regulars for years. Owns a dot-com, has a wife and three kids in the valley, but loves his Hollywood whores.” She laughed out loud. “He's short, bald, kind of fat. You can imagine. Anyway, looks like this time he just wants some dinner and some company. Wouldn't surprise me if dinner is room service. But don't worry. Stefan is a real teddy bear. All our girls love him. You'll have a good time.” She winked.

All our girls love him.
“Perfect,” I said aloud. “I'm excited.”

“Great. Meet him tonight at eight in the hotel lobby. The address is right there on the paper. And what you're
wearing will be fine for tonight, but we will want to start thinking about getting you some other clothes. Unless you already own a lot of leather and stuff?”

I shook my head no.

“Well, after Stefan pays for tonight, you will definitely want to go shopping.”

Brigitte was all smiling teeth and encouragement now.

Little did she know, I had no intention of giving Stefan the opportunity to pay for anything, especially not anything I had to offer.

T
HE HOTEL LOBBY
was super classy. Marble and mahogany and crystal and brass so shiny it hurt your eyes. A doorman in full uniform opened the door for me. He seemed to have a knowing look in his eye, and I wanted to both die of embarrassment and punch his eyeballs right out of his head. But I couldn't blame him. I knew what I looked like. I didn't look like the kind of girl who could afford this hotel, that was for damn sure. I looked like the kind of girl who was getting paid to be here.

How could Peyton have done this? She had everything. How could she give herself up for money, and, more importantly,
why
would she? She could have had any boy in the school—hell, any man in the city. Her family was loaded. It
made no sense that she would choose the life of an escort.

I tried to walk as confidently as I could across the marble floor, weaving, wobbling, and praying that my heel didn't slip and send me sprawling. I picked out Stefan before I even began looking for him.

Brigitte had given the perfect description. The man was at least four inches shorter than I was, and that was before my heels. I towered over him, getting a bird's-eye view of his freckled scalp. He wore thick glasses with marbled plastic frames and a ratty polo shirt with frayed sleeves. His brown shoes curled up at the toes, giving him an elfin appearance. He was the kind of guy that no girl would look at twice. The way he beamed at me, I could tell he had spent plenty of lonely nights by himself. I would almost have felt sorry for him had Brigitte not told me that he had a wife and three kids at home. How lonely were they right now?

He closed the space across the lobby between us surprisingly fast.

“Prism?” he asked.

I nodded. Despite Brigitte's desire that I use a tough name with the word
Kill
in it, I had decided to go with the one thing that definitely tied Peyton and me together—color. It helped me stay focused on what I had to do.

He reached over and let his hand fall the length of my arm. Ordinarily, any man who dared touch me like that at our first meeting would be taking home his spleen in a
plastic bag, but I couldn't do that to Stefan. He was paying for the right to touch me however he wanted. The thought made my stomach turn, and I had to curl my toes inside my shoes to keep my feet grounded.
It's just an arm,
I reminded myself.
He gets no farther than an arm.

“Aren't you a fine addition?” he said. “Great skin.”

“Thank you,” I said.
Creep. Jerk. Disgusting, nasty, creepy jerk.

He stared me down until I was beyond icked out, and then finally—thankfully—swept his arm out to one side. “I thought we would have dinner here tonight, if that's okay with you.”

“Sure,” I said, stepping around him, glad to be out from under his unsettling gaze and clammy hands.

We were seated immediately, even though the hotel restaurant was packed, with people spilling over into the bar area. Stefan clearly had some clout. I was starting to learn that money could buy a lot of things.

“You take many of the girls here?” I asked as the waiter scooted me in and placed my napkin on my lap.

Stefan's face clouded over. “I've never been asked that question before,” he said.

“I was just curious. I'm new, so I don't know what the other girls have done.”

His cloud turned into a deep frown. “Since you're new, Prism, I will cut you some slack. But I must tell you it is
very poor form to inquire about other women while on a date.” His tone was clipped, displeased. He looked like a mild-mannered, meek little guy, but I could see a dangerous side underneath.
Or maybe you just want to see that, Nikki. Maybe you want the first guy you meet to be the one who hurt Peyton.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn't know.”

He softened, barely. “That's all right. Like I said, I'm willing to give you a break. Would you like an appetizer? How do you feel about shrimp cocktail? In truth, I don't like it. But there's something sexy about it, don't you think?”

I felt his foot brush the side of my leg when he said that. The dumbass hadn't even bothered to take his shoe off. I forced myself not to flinch under his touch. Instead, I wrapped my hand around the handle of the table knife, slid it off the table, and held it at my hip. It made me feel better to have it there, even if I would never use it.

“Shrimp cocktail is fine,” I said, trying to sound sweet.

He motioned for the waiter and ordered the shrimp, plus steaks for both of us. I wondered how I would ever gag down all this food, but reminded myself that I had to if I was going to get alone with him. I needed to be alone with him. Even if he wasn't the guy who'd hurt Peyton, he might know who was.

The waiter left, and it was just the two of us. I had no idea how to make small talk with a guy who grossed me out
and made me angry all at the same time, especially not with my mind in a totally different place.

What was Dru doing right now? Was he sitting by Peyton's bedside? Was he talking to his lawyer? Was he battling his father? Was he regretting being with me the night before? What would he have thought about me now, a call girl getting ready to eat something sexy for a married guy who was paying to be with me?

“So, Prism,” Stefan said, cutting into my thoughts. “If you don't mind my saying, your name doesn't suit you very well.”

“No?”

He picked up the bread basket, plunked a roll on my plate, and took another for himself. He bit directly into it, spilling crumbs down the front of his shirt.

“No. Not nearly as well as the others. Why do you call yourself Prism, anyway? Seems like you could come up with something a little more creative. Prisms are colorful and shiny. They evoke a certain image in the mind of the person choosing.”

“I see. I didn't think about that. I've never had to . . . choose.”

His eyebrows shot up, coming to a point beneath his nonexistent hairline. But then they relaxed into a devilish smile. “Snarky. You're a hateful little vixen, aren't you?”

I tore a piece off my bread, tried to act casual as I poked
it in my mouth. “I'm sorry,” I said, trying with all my might to sound repentant. “I don't mean to be. I guess I'm not very good at this yet.”

“Well, nobody said you had to be good at small talk.” He laughed, snorted, laughed some more. “I'm not paying to listen to you chitchat.” He took another large bite of his roll and leaned forward, laying his chest across the table.

My hand tightened around the knife handle. With little effort, I could drive it right into his leg under the table before he even realized it was missing.

He chuckled, chewing, looking way too much like a child. I imagined his short legs swinging back and forth under his chair. “Maybe I should rename you. Stormcloud. But I'm guessing you are a lot more than a little thunder, aren't you, you sexy thing, you?”

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Who talks to people like that? “You have no idea,” I said.

He swallowed, his face flushing a deep red, suddenly looking serious and swimmy. I'd seen that look before, on Jones. “You keep talking like that, and I'm going to skip dinner altogether,” he said.

Please do,
I thought. But instead, I smiled demurely, nibbling on more bread. “But the best things come to those who wait,” I said. “A good storm has to build up, and the clouds haven't even begun to roll in yet.”

“I think I like you after all,” Stefan said, just as our
shrimp arrived. He pushed the plate toward me. “You first.”

I tucked the knife under my thigh, leaving the handle poking out for easy retrieval if it should come down to that. I picked up a shrimp and brought it to my lips. I didn't care for them in any case, but especially after he'd called them sexy, my stomach clenched in on itself, trying to refuse entry.

Had Peyton done this? Had she felt her face burn as this disgusting little Stefan leered at her like she was only there for his pleasure? Had she gotten hateful and caused him to be gruff? Too gruff?

Dinner passed in a long, tormenting series of innuendos and waggling eyebrows. I pasted a smile on my face, acted like this was the best time I'd ever had, and prayed that the meal would get over with quickly so we could be alone, where I could get the information I needed and be on my way.

Finally, we were done. Stefan pushed away from the table, tossing his napkin onto his crème brûlée ramekin. “Bill my room,” he said curtly to the waiter, gazing at me instead of talking to him. It was different from the way Dru had dismissed the waiter at Lujo. When Dru had done it, it had been a powerful, sexy move. When Stefan did it, it was a rude display of inner powerlessness.

“Are you ready, my little dark rain cloud?” he asked.

“Of course.” I slid the knife into my purse and pushed my chair back.
More than you know.

“You are about to see some extreme atmospheric pressure,”
he said, coming up behind me. Sweat popped out on my forehead instantly, my body ready to hand this evil little jerk his ass in a doggie bag.

Instead, I played along, trying to flirt, which I didn't do well under any circumstance. “Forecast says to take shelter. The system that's moving in could be very dangerous.”

He laughed, a low, guilty laugh. “I like that,” he whispered. He pulled my chair out and stepped back so I could stand.

Don't hit him, Nikki. Not here. Not now.

He didn't even bother to hold the door open for me when we got to his room. He was too busy kicking off his shoes the moment the door opened. “Bathroom's in there if you have any special props or anything. I didn't request any, but you never know when someone's going to give you a freebie,” he said. He unbuckled his belt and untucked his shirt. I was still standing by the door, disbelieving what I was seeing.

Was this how it always was?

A part of me wondered if maybe I should just turn around and go right back out the door, before things got too serious for me to handle.

He gave me a sarcastic look. “Hello? Let's get on with this. I'm not paying for you to stand around looking stupid.”

“Sorry,” I said. I let the door snap closed behind me, a bumpy, silvery squiggle sound—a jolt of fear and a jolt of excitement all at once. It was do-or-die time. It wouldn't get too serious, because I wouldn't let it. This was my chance.
Just don't kill him, Nikki,
I could hear Gunner saying in my ear.
You can come close, though, if you want.
“Nervous, I guess.”

“Well, get over it,” Stefan said, stretching back—still fully clothed, thank God—on the bed. “I don't have time for first-timer jitters.” He closed his eyes, stretching his arms back behind his head. “You bring any Molly with you?”

“Sorry,” I said, stalking toward him, stepping out of my shoes as I approached him. I opened my purse and dropped it on the floor next to the bed.

“Should've requested it.” He let out a disappointed sigh. “What are you, seventeen?”

“Eighteen,” I corrected.

He shook his head slowly. “Girls these days. I hope my daughter has better morals than you.”

I tipped my head to one side, flirty, and gave him a patronizing smile. “I doubt that,” I said. “Not with a horrendous scumball like you for a dad.”

His head whipped up. “Hey, now,” he said, actually having the gall to sound offended. “Who the hell do you think you are, talking to me like that? Your boss is going to hear from me about this. I'm one of her best customers. I don't pay to listen—”

I lunged for my purse and grabbed the knife, but I wasn't quick enough. Stefan caught the movement and sprang into action.

“Hey, what do you . . . ,” he began, but he didn't finish because he had reached across the bed and grabbed a fistful of my hair.

I let a squeal escape, knife clunking to the floor as both of my hands clawed at his. He pulled me across the bed with much more force than I ever would have guessed a guy his size could muster. I rolled across his body and landed on my back next to him, still struggling to free my hair from his grip. The reality that I was under his control began to seep in, and I flashed back to the feel of Gibson Talley's hand over my mouth, arm around my neck, in the parking lot. Panic set in and wiped all my knowledge away in a haze of gray-black fear. I batted at his hands, legs pressed into the mattress, back arched, unsure how to move.

“Stupid bitch,” he wheezed, and before I could get my wits about me at all, he balled his fist and punched me below my right eye.

A flash of neon-green light, throbbing pain. A sting that suggested a cut of bone against thin skin. Nothing I hadn't felt before. Sparring could sometimes get pretty tough.

Something about the feeling brought me back to my senses. I saw Gunner in my mind, warning me to be careful, but also reminding me that I knew what to do.
Just do it.

With a grunt of rage, I backfisted Stefan right across the bridge of his nose, his glasses crunching into my knuckles, but I didn't care. He howled, and, fast, I backfisted him a
second time. This time the crunch was his nose itself, and my hand came back to me bloody.

I rolled, digging my forearm into his to force him to let go of my hair. He did, both hands flying to his gushing face, his words unintelligible as he shouted into his palms.

I didn't want to touch him. Just the sight of him nauseated me. But the knife was on the floor and he was between me and it. I rolled across his body, hit the floor, picked up the knife, and in one fluid movement brought it to the base of his throat.

Just to show him that I didn't appreciate having my hair pulled, I jammed my right knee down into his groin, putting all my weight on it and keeping it there. He coughed, long and throaty, and tried to grab at the knife, so I pinned his forearm to the bed with mine.