“Yeah, well, keep dreaming. If you’re nice, I might strip for you, but I draw the line at feather boas.” She continued down the street.
“Now, that’s a damn shame,” he said as he caught up to her.
“Isn’t it, though?”
They walked a few more blocks in silence, smiling at the occasional tourist—or local—who wandered by. After a year and a half in New Orleans, he still found it fascinating that while Bourbon and its cross streets were alive with color and music and throngs of people, the other streets died down after dark, once the stores closed down. The quiet so close to the chaos was a dichotomy that never failed to interest him.
“You want to head toward Bourbon Street?” he asked, after they’d wandered past five or six cross streets. As they stood on the corner of Royal and St. Ann, he could hear the jazz and rock floating down from the club-lined street.
She paused, seeming to consider the question for an inordinately long time before finally answering, “All right.”
But the closer they got to Bourbon, the more tense she got. Finally, he had to ask, “What’s wrong, Lacey? If you don’t want to head this way, we can go back.”
“No, I’m sorry. It’s fine. I just started thinking about my book. I wouldn’t mind grabbing a jungle juice or something.”
“You sure?” He studied her closely, surprised at the pallor of her normally healthy-looking complexion. Maybe it was just a trick of the moonlight, but the longer he stared at her, the more obvious it became that something was wrong.
“Lacey, I’m serious. We don’t—”
“Come on, silly. Let’s go.” She grabbed his hand and started dragging him toward the bright street.
She smelled Bourbon Street about half a block before they actually got there—the mixture of sweat and alcohol, piss and puke that helped lend the street its ambience. By the time they actually turned left off St. Ann, Lacey was vaguely nauseous from the combination of the smell and her churning stomach.
It was stupid, she knew, to be this freaked-out about walking on Bourbon Street with Byron. But the last time she’d been here, she’d made the connection between the missing girls and New Orleans.
And while she was still anxious to dig deeper, she didn’t want to do it with Byron around. Starting a relationship—even one based purely on sex—was difficult at the best of times. Doing it while investigating the shady world of sexual slavery and human trafficking seemed a lot to ask of anyone.
But once she was there, on the street, a small jungle juice in her hand, she couldn’t help but look around and wonder. Was the teenage girl leaning against the outside of Cat’s Meow just an underage kid waiting for her friends, or was she a runaway? How about the little boy tap-dancing for tips, with bottle caps glued to the bottom of his shoes? What was his story?
As they walked slowly down the street—people-watching and drinking and occasionally boogying when they came across a song they liked—Lacey did her best to ignore the sex shops and clubs the city was known for. Even so, she found her gaze drawn to them time and again as she wondered which ones were involved with her story. Wondered which ones pimped out drugged, kidnapped girls and called it business.
Perspiration rolled down her back as they walked, pooled between her breasts and in the hollow of her throat, but she didn’t know whether it was the heat making her sweat or the complete train wreck of her thoughts. Forcing herself to uncurl the fists she hadn’t been aware of making, one slow finger at a time, she lifted a hand to her eyes and rubbed them tiredly.
How long was this going to go on? How long before she found the evidence she needed to write her book? How long before she found a way to help those poor girls—to save the living and find justice for the dead?
“Hey, Lacey, you okay?” Byron asked, stopping dead. “You’ve been walking in a stupor for two blocks now.”
It took a minute for her to focus on his concerned face, to bring her thoughts back from the nightmare they’d wandered into. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I was just looking at some of these places and thinking about my book.”
He glanced toward the curb uneasily, and for the first time, she realized they’d stopped in front of the strip club where she’s seen Anne Marie’s picture earlier in the week.
“You think some of these places are involved in that prostitution ring?” he asked incredulously. “I thought they shut that whole thing down last year.”
“They did, ostensibly.” She found herself walking toward the strip club, her feet moving of their own volition even as her mind warned her that she was wrecking their date. But now that she had fifteen dead girls staring at her from her breakfast table, she couldn’t just move past the club without at least looking at the pictures.
Stepping up to the window, she moved her fingers over the photos one by one, tempted to skim for expediency’s sake, but knowing she would probably miss something if she did.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Byron asked, bewildered, as he stopped beside her and began to study the pictures too. “What exactly are we looking for?”
She shook her head. “Pictures of the girls on my table.”
His eyes widened, but it only took him a second to catch on. “Those girls didn’t work for the Mardi Gras Madam. Those girls—”
“Were all reported missing from Vancouver, Toronto, Quebec and Calgary.” She finished his statement. “And they were all found dead in New Orleans over the past four years.”
“Jesus Christ.” It was Byron’s turn to look sick. “What the hell has been going on down here?”
But before she could answer his question, he handed her his cell phone and hissed, “Quick, take a picture.”
“What?” She stared at the black phone uncomprehendingly.
“Hurry up. I think someone’s taking exception to the interest we’re paying his girls.”
Lacey glanced around Byron’s shoulder and saw a gigantic guy baring down on them. Huge and heavily muscled, he was dressed in jeans and a leather vest and had tattoos covering every visible inch of skin on his body, including his bald head. And he was barreling toward her like a monster truck at a demolition derby.
“Oh, shit.” Panic raced through her at the thought of anyone finding out what they were looking at. The pictures would be gone in a heartbeat—and so would her proof. “What do we do?”
“Take the damn pictures—make sure to get the club’s name in if you can—or at least a bunch of distinguishing stuff from the building, so they can’t argue that you’re making things up.”
“Right.” She lifted the cell phone, clicked off a picture that took in the top of the window display and the neon sign that proclaimed its name, Seductions, and then continued taking panel shots of the window. There were hundreds and hundreds of shots up there and she tried to get them all. Who knew which other missing girls were up there, waiting to be found?
She was on the last section when Grave Digger asked, “Hey, what the hell are you two doing?”
Byron opened his mouth, but Lacey stepped around him with a smile. Pulling her innocent-little-me smile out of storage—the one she’d discovered four or five books ago worked wonders on the opposite sex—she said, “I was just taking a few photos for my scrapbook.”
Unfortunately, Grave Digger seemed immune to her charms. Maybe he wasn’t human after all. “Yeah, well, don’t.”
“Why not?” She added a slightly breathless, completely dim-witted voice to the look, and swore she could actually hear the guy gnashing his teeth. Of course, the sound might have been coming from Byron.
“Because they’re not meant for you.” He stopped less than a foot from them and looked her over with suspicious eyes. “Unless you and your date want to pay the cover charge and come sit through a set or two.”
At that moment, there was nothing she wanted more—even if it meant being watched by a bouncer with all the charm of a natural disaster. There could be evidence in that building—pictures of other missing girls or even the girls themselve
s. But her internal radar was going off, warning her to get as far from the club as she could, in the least amount of time possible. Warning her that walking into that strip joint, alone and without anyone knowing where she was, was akin to suicide.
Behind her, Byron radiated enough fury to light up a small state, and she knew there’d be hell to pay when they finally got out of the situation. But she’d been around the block enough to know that if she’d let him handle it, he and Grave Digger would have ended up in a pissing contest, or worse, a fight. And for a woman who wanted to be as unmemorable as possible, both of those possibilities were the kiss of death. Literally as well as figuratively.
“Another time?” She tried a more normal smile on the guy this time, but once again it fell short. Way short.
“I don’t think so.” He looked down his misshapen nose at both of them. “Now, what’s it going to be?”
“Okay.” Byron wrapped an arm around her and told Grave Digger, “I’d like to see the inside of a real, live strip club, wouldn’t you, sugar pie?”
“Uhh—”
“I know you would. Just think of what you’ll be able to tell the folks back home.” He reached for his wallet with a slightly vacuous smile of his own. “How much do I owe you?”
Grave Digger stared at him suspiciously for a minute, but finally said, “Ten bucks apiece. Plus there’s a two-drink minimum.”
“No problem. The little woman gets kind of frisky when she drinks, if you know what I mean.” Byron winked at him. “Maybe I’ll get lucky tonight.”
That proved to be the last straw for the guy, and he walked away shaking his head and muttering God only knew what.
“Come on, sugar pie, let’s go on in.” Byron’s hand was a too-tight manacle around her arm as he led her to the door.
She shot him a look promising that she’d be getting even, and soon, but he only grinned. Lacey shook her head as she followed him into the club. The poor man didn’t even know when to be afraid.
Chapter Fifteen
An hour later, Lacey stumbled onto the curb in front of the club and sucked in huge gulps of air. It said a lot for the atmosphere of the place that the stink of Bourbon Street felt positively pristine in comparison.
Byron coughed. “Jesus, my lungs may never be the same.”
“It was your brilliant idea to go in there, buddy. So don’t you start complaining. I’m the one who should be pissed off.”
“And are you?” He put his arm around her shoulders and started guiding her toward home.
“Yes. That was a waste of time I couldn’t afford.”
“I don’t know about that. You got pictures of most of the girls performing—which was why I wanted to get in there in the first place. You can compare the latest group that are dancing there to the photos you’ve got at home. Maybe something will pop.”
“You mean, maybe we can save some of the girls if we know where they came from.”
“Exactly. But you need to make sure they aren’t there voluntarily before you kick up a stink.” His mouth was grim, his eyes shadowed with disgust, and Lacey couldn’t help falling just a little deeper under his spell.
Not all men would understand what was going on here. Not all men would want to understand. Byron not only grasped the concept and was sickened by it, but he also wanted to do something to help. Needed to do something, if the anger and frustration radiating from him were any indication.
As they walked through the still-lively throng of tourists and locals alike, she cuddled closer to him and marveled at how different he was from Curtis. Curtis had thrown fits about her job, had tried to get her to quit or to pick a different occupation numerous times. And while she’d remained firm on her career choice, it was the only area of their life together where she hadn’t given in to him. The only area where she’d managed to keep a small part of her separate and untouched. Of course, that had only made him hate the whole thing more.
But she was ruining this moment thinking about him, and it wasn’t worth it. She didn’t have forever with Byron, probably didn’t have very long at all, and she didn’t want to spend the time she did have thinking about her bastard of an ex-boyfriend. Not now that she’d finally gotten away from him.
“Hey, Lacey, wait up!” Lacey turned, surprised to see Sandra barreling through the crowds toward them, her boyfriend, Tony, behind her.
“Hey, Sandra,” she said as her friend approached.
“I thought that was you. We’ve been trailing you two for three blocks.” Sandra turned her baby blues on Byron and batted them for all she was worth. “And who is this?”
“This is Byron Hawthorne—he’s my neighbor from across the courtyard.”
“How nice to meet you. I’ve been trying to set Lacey up with a guy for months, but she keeps refusing. Now I know why.”
“Come on, Sandra.” Tony weaved a hand through hers, pulling her closer to his side. “Leave the poor guy alone—he’s not used to you yet.”
Lacey shot him a grateful look before asking, “So, what have you been to?”
“We’re about to check out that new club Voodoo Heaven. It’s supposed to be fabulous.” Sandra paused. “Why don’t you two come along?”
“Oh, I don’t think so. We were just heading home.”
“Come on—we’ve still got a couple of hours before things slow down. Let’s go dance.”
She glanced questioningly at Byron, who nodded amiably. “Sure. If you want to dance, let’s go.”
It’s not that she wanted to dance so much as she wanted to wipe the feel of the strip club from her brain and body. Part of her wanted to head home, climb in the shower and have crazy, mad sex with Byron under the pounding spray. But another part of her didn’t want to bring the bone-deep stink of that club back to her apartment. She wanted to put a little time and distance between her home and the images she’d just seen.
As they slipped into the noisy club, Sandra grabbed her arm. “Why don’t you guys go get some drinks? Lacey and I are going to go dance.”
“Already?” she asked as Sandra pulled her toward the tightly packed dance floor.
“Is there a better time?”
The new Beyoncé mix started just as they hit the floor, and Sandra laughed. “Come on! I love this song!”
As they danced to the song and then another, Lacey found herself laughing right alongside her friend. But Sandra was like that—fun, happy, with an enthusiasm that was completely infectious.
By the time Byron caught up to her three songs later, Lacey was drenched with sweat and feeling much better about life in general. “Dance with me?” he murmured against her ear as his arms circled her waist from behind.
“Sure.” She started to turn toward him, but he held her in place—his chest against her back, his erect cock nestling against the curve of her ass.
As if on command, the music turned slow and dreamy, and Lacey let her body relax against the hardness of his. He splayed his right hand across her abdomen, to keep her hips flush against his, and cupped her right breast with his left hand. His thumb glanced over her nipple—once, twice, then again and again.
Her nipple pebbled tightly under his attentions, her pussy growing damp as he pulled her ass more firmly against his cock and began to move. She’d never danced this way before—her body pressed against his from shoulder to thigh, but facing outward.
She liked it. Liked the freedom it gave her to look out over everyone; liked even more the feeling of being trapped against him as people danced all around them. They were in a hugely public place, but completely shielded by the crush of bodies on the dance floor.
Relaxing her neck, she let her head loll on Byron’s shoulders as she arched her back so that her breast fit more completely in his hand. The music was loud, so she didn’t hear his groan, but she felt it in the vibration of his chest against her back and the whisper of his breath past her ear.
She felt her own breath catch, felt desire humming through her bloodstream as she rubbed her ass
against him. He was hot and hard and felt so good it was all she could do not to beg him to take her right there. To fuck her in the middle of the throbbing crowd, and to hell with public-decency laws.
His hand tightened on her breast, his fingers squeezing her nipple until she gasped—proof that he was as affected by what they were doing as she was. She whimpered at the pressure, and liquid pooled between her thighs.
“Byron.”
It was a whisper, but somehow he heard her. Pressing his mouth to her ear, he said, “Do you want to get out of here?”
She nodded, even as she prayed that her shaky legs would carry her that far. He must have read her mind—or maybe he was just as anxious as she was—because he said, “I’ll go flag down a cab.”
“I’ll go tell Sandra we’re cutting out, and meet you out front.”
He turned her around until she faced him, took her mouth in a brief but bruising kiss that had her fingers tangling in his shirt as her knees buckled. “We’ve got a table against the back wall. Don’t be long.”
“Believe me, I won’t.”
She watched him walk away, his broad shoulders cutting a swath through the gyrating bodies as he headed for the door. He was eventually swallowed by the crowd, so she started making her way in the direction he’d pointed. She’d made it off the dance floor and halfway across the room when she felt a hand grab her elbow.
Expecting it to be Sandra, she turned around with a smile—and found herself looking at a guy who made Grave Digger look like a friendly, neighborhood Smurf.
“Hey, let go!” She spoke loudly, but when he made no move to show he understood her, she tried to yank her arm away. His grip tightened to the point of pain.
A ripple of unease went through her, though she told herself she was being ridiculous. What could he do to her in such a crowded place? The thought might have comforted her more if she and Byron hadn’t just engaged in some heavy petting without drawing anyone’s notice.
“I mean it. Stop it.” She yanked harder, but his grip still didn’t budge.