Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 102184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Sugar’s working tonight, and I really want to ask her more questions. She’s the only one who works here that doesn’t mind blabbing about the murders, so when she strolls to the bar, waiting on drinks, I seize my chance to talk to her.
“Hey, busy night,” I say, to kick things off.
“I know, but it’s been a fun one.” She pinches her cheeks to make the natural blush appear.
“Fun how?”
She leans closer and whispers, “When the boss is away, the mice will play.”
I blink. “Devereaux’s not here?”
She shakes her head.
Hm. That’s odd. He’s always here. So much that I have to stare at the picture of his home in the file just to believe he really has one. “Is that strange? Does he ever take a night off?”
She shrugs. “I guess, maybe? I can’t remember the last time.”
Before she flits away, I need to ask about the murdered girls, so I dive in headfirst. “I was wondering if you were friends with the girls who were murdered?”
“Ginger and I were close. She helped me with some issues a while back.”
“Issues?”
She drops her gaze to the bar. “I got a little obsessed over Brandon.”
I glance at the front entrance of the club, where Brandon stands with his muscles on display and an earpiece in his ear. “What happened?”
“She told me to go for it. And I did, but it didn’t work out. We fooled around a few times, but that’s all it ever was.”
“Did he ever fool around with anyone else from the club? Like Ginger?”
She shakes her head. “Ginger would never. She was totally infatuated, like scarily obsessed, with Dev.”
So I’ve heard.
Unwelcome jealousy zaps through my veins at her shortening Devereaux’s name like they’re besties. “Did they ever…” I let my implication hang in the air.
Sugar scoffs. “No, Dev would never.”
“And Brandon?”
She glances across the club where Brandon stands and gives him a long look, like there’s more to the story than she’s telling. The silence lengthens between us before she finally says, “No girl would dare sleep with him or else they’d have to endure my wrath.” There’s no humor in her venomous tone.
And I believe her.
But she can’t be everywhere all the time. Maybe Brandon makes it a habit of sleeping with the girls who work here. Could Brandon have something to do with all of this?
Or Sugar?
There’s only one way to find out.
Chapter 13
Devereaux
* * *
Cold rain falls in sheets across the windshield of my Bugatti as I pull up to Club Throwdown. I’d have been happier any other night than tonight to meet with Yuri Chekov, but I know he’s attending the big fight down at his club and I want to get the ball rolling on my investigation.
Yuri lives large, and Club Throwdown is about as flashy as any joint could get. Four spotlights spin near the entrance, and there’s a red carpet leading to the main door.
I park my car and cross the lot, holding an umbrella up to shield the chilly rain pouring down on me. When I step inside the club, a girl takes my name.
She leads me past the multitude of people screaming at the cage in the center of the club. Two men kick each other’s asses inside the ring, while the crowd cheers on the bloodshed. A soft lavender glow illuminates the space, and the bartenders move at lightning speed to keep up with the gobs of people spilling over the edge, trying to get a drink.
I follow the blonde up a winding staircase, past a VIP rope, until she stops at a horseshoe-shaped booth with Yuri sitting dead center, all his weight spilling over his belt. Yuri’s a big man, weighing well over three hundred pounds, reeking power behind his evil smile. The top of his balding head reflects the low lighting of the club, and he’s wearing a black suit with a white scarf draped over his shoulders, like some modern-day Marlon Brando.
He’s got two brunettes flanking each side and a few men standing nearby, obviously his bodyguards.
The blonde walks away, and Yuri’s dark eyes meet mine.
“Devereaux, have a seat.” His heavy Russian accent makes it hard to understand on a good day, but the fact he’s piss-ass drunk makes it even harder.
“Thanks, Yuri.” He tells the women to leave, and I slide into the plush white booth.
From this vantage point, you can see the entire club and have front-row seating to the fight happening down below.
“See the man in the yellow trunks?” Yuri slurs, bringing his fat finger to point at the two men in the cage.
I spot the man with dark hair and a mean right hook. “Yeah.”
“I’ve got fifty G’s riding on that motherfucker. If he loses”—he lets out a sickening laugh—“let’s just say he doesn’t win in life either.”
He doesn’t need to spell out that the man in yellow trunks is down there fighting for his life right now.