Rowan winks at me but no words are exchanged by anyone as we wait to climb in through the sliding door on the van. There's a static charge of excitement in the air. I feel like a kid about to get on a roller coaster ride, but I have no idea why. I'm more than surprised to see that half the seats in the fifteen person van are filled. All young women and at first glance, it seems all people who live either on the streets or in shelters. Those are the only two commonalities I spot.
The same giddy quiet fills the interior of the passenger van. We are heading toward something rewarding. There just can't be any other explanation for the charged anticipation of the passengers. Was it possible that Clark and the others had the Lace Underground completely wrong? Was it possible that the secret nefarious society was just a group of good Samaritans helping out the homeless population?
The door slides shut bathing us in complete darkness. The overhead lights twitter on. The windows are also tinted from the inside, so there is no way to see out. The occasional dim pulse of light from a headlight or passing streetlight is the only sign of life outside the van. The driver and Rowan are blocked and muted by a partition that has no windows. We are cargo being transported inside a box with no clues about the direction we're traveling. It's done purposefully, a quick conclusion that just as quickly wipes away the notion that these are just good Samaritans.
Yoli leans her head closer and whispers like we're in a theater. "People are extra excited because it's rumored he will be there. Someone might be chosen."
"Who's he?" I whisper back. Yoli has been a godsend for gathering information. At the same time, she keeps clarifying bits to herself, leaving some definite gaps. She peers up at the top corner of the ceiling, and for the first time, I notice a small security camera. A cold chill runs through me at the idea that we are all being watched. At the same time, I chastise myself for not noticing something so obvious. I glance around without moving my head too much. There are three more cameras, giving a view from every angle.
"Willy Wonka," Yoli whispers. She sits back quickly and faces the front. Whatever is about to go down, Yoli does not want to lose her place on the list.
The van rattles over train tracks, giving me a clue to our position in the city. The nose of the van is heading up so we are traveling north, and we just passed the Pacific Railway crossing. I close my eyes and decide to concentrate on the direction we are traveling. With any luck, I can map out some of the journey in my head. I'll be of no use to the investigation if I can't even relay where they took us.
My inner GPS tells me we are heading out of town and traveling closer toward the coast. The van is sealed tightly enough that I can't smell any of the outside air. But the inside air is most definitely fifteen people who have not had a good shower in days. Including myself. I think back to the day I sat in Clark's office, pleading with him to let me go undercover, all the while avoiding Olson's stench. That thought shoots me farther back to the moment when I got double slapped by my partner, Maddox. I wash away the heartbreaking memory to keep focused.
A slight right turn feels like an off-ramp. The van heads into a full circle. It's the Beach Boulevard exit. It's a long ramp that takes you off the freeway and then circles you all the way around toward the beach. I'm about to silently congratulate myself for figuring out our direction when the van takes a quick left turn and then a right. Another right before veering right again. I've lost my sense of direction, mostly because the only time I've ever used Beach Boulevard is to head straight to the coastal highway.
The van goes through another series of turns. The other passengers are getting antsy and sitting up like passengers anxious to get off a taxiing plane. A light wave of nausea passes through me, a result of sitting in an airless van with no way to predict the next turn.
"You all right?" Yoli asks.
"Just getting a little car sick. Wish we could open a window."
She laughs off the suggestion. An optimistic response considering she is stuck sitting right next to me. "We're almost there," she whispers.
I peer up at the camera again. It's like a big black eye, watching us, keeping a close focus on the cargo. The van stops unceremoniously. Seconds later and much to my relief, the door slides open filling the space with fresh night air. I catch a hint of ocean fragrance, but it seems we are still several miles from the coast.
We are parked inside an empty warehouse. The massive rolling door snaps shut before I catch a glimpse of the outside world. My fellow passengers seem to know the drill. Voices and laughter pick up along with their pace as they walk behind Rowan to a gray metal door. I peek back and by chance catch a glimpse of the driver as he climbs back behind the wheel. He's big and buff like a bouncer or wrestler. The bicep I see as he gets in the van is covered with black tribal patterns. He's wearing a blue cap, but I don't catch any other distinguishing features. I wonder if he's heading out to pick up another round of 'party' guests.
So far the secretive van ride, the spying cameras and the bleak, empty warehouse location are not screaming yay party in my head. Then Rowan opens the gray door, and glowing light pours into the shadowy warehouse. Music is thrumming through a narrow passage as we head toward more light and the rich aroma of food. My mouth waters and my stomach tightens to attention. There is such a variety of fragrances, I have a hard time untangling them. Cooked beef of some kind and something that smells like deep fried onions. Onion rings maybe. And there's even some sweet, cakey smells tucked in between the savory. My head spins with the idea of a hot meal. The aroma seems to give everyone a burst of adrenaline. We move like hungry cattle through the passage but instead of turning toward the yummy smells, we turn away from them. I'm shocked at how close I am to tearing up about the prospect of heading away from the food. It seems I'm a spoiled, pampered kid compared to the other women in the group.
My shock increases tenfold when I realize we are being led down another corridor to a massive bathroom. But it's not just any public bathroom. It is gleaming with clean white tile. Shiny chrome fixtures arc out from at least a dozen open shower stalls. Fluffy white, five star hotel style towels have been mounded near to the ceiling on dressing benches and vanities, vanities that are set with baskets of brand new cosmetics of every type and color. There is even perfume, expensive from the looks of it. Though I'm not much for smelling flowery.
Before I can take in all the surroundings the other women are shedding their clothes and hopping into the showers. Rowan has left the room and the door is closed, seemingly giving us all some privacy.
Yoli is already naked as she grabs my hand. "Isn't it wonderful. And the hot water never runs out like those crummy sinks at the park. You can pick out any shampoo and soap you like from the basket."
Fragrant steam is already clouding around me as I tentatively take off my clothes. The dirty clothes are left in piles on the floor. I heap mine in a corner to make sure I can find them again in the chaos. Laughter and excited conversations bounce off the wall. It seems the main topic is food.
I've lost my partner. Yoli is standing under a showerhead, with her eyes closed and smiling from ear to ear. I walk over to the basket at the end of the line of pretty vanities and search through the bottles for some nice smelling shampoo. I decide on something citrusy and lift my face to the mirror before turning away. Instantly, it's as if the frivolous ambience and lush steam in the room fall away and are suddenly replaced with a grim, harsh silence and painful spray of ice water. In my career I have stood in front of a one way mirror often enough to know when I'm looking into one. The thin porous metal backing of the mirror allows light through one direction but only provides reflection on the mirror side. The side I'm standing on. Hair stands up on the back of my neck when I can sense a pair of eyes looking straight at me. I'm now hyperaware of being stark naked. The opaque steam clouding the room isn't enough to provide cover. I regain my composure quickly. Only a cop would know a one way mirror. Hopefully, I stunted my reaction enough not to let on that I spotted the creepy invasio
n of privacy.
I turn away from the mirror and walk briskly along the other vanities. I spot only two more one way mirrors. I find an available showerhead at just the right angle away from the stationary mirrors. Voyeurism or not, it has been several days since I enjoyed something other than a sponge bath in the park restroom sinks, and I'm not going to pass up the opportunity.
Many of the other women have finished their showers and are standing naked and utterly exposed in front of the vanities as they brush their wet hair and try on new cosmetics. Yoli is standing directly in front of one of the peeping tom mirrors, but there is nothing I can do. Yoli has been so friendly and generous, I feel traitorous not mentioning it to her, but doing so would be dangerous. It would blow my cover. And considering I am unarmed and naked in a big public bathroom and unaware of my location, I am in no position to expose my identity. One thing is certain, this is no innocent party thrown by a group of do-gooders.
14
Kane
Her large brown eyes stare through the glass, locking with mine. Only that is impossible. "She sees me," I say.
"Just looks like it," Rowan says quickly. "She's new at the park. Told you I had something special this week."
Her gaze pulls away from the mirror. My eyes drop to the smooth skin of her shoulder, the seductive line that ducks in gently at her waist before rounding into the curve of her ass.
"What do you think?" Rowan asks anxiously.
"Let her eat with the others. Then bring her to me."
15
Angie
Aside from the creepy mirror incident, it is truly a party, and the fact that there are seemingly no boys allowed makes it that much more fun. Each of us were allowed to pick from an array of shimmery sundresses and sandals to wear for the event. Our clothes, underwear and all, had been swept up for cleaning. Yoli mentioned they would be returned at the end of the night 'smelling like sunshine'. That explained why she seemed to be wearing a ludicrous amount of layers. She knew her clothes would be fresh and washed by the end of the night. Yoli took street smart to a whole new level.
Luscious gravy covered meatballs are piled high in a silver chafing dish and there are baked potatoes with all the possible toppings a hungry girl could want. By the time I finish piling on the butter, sour cream and cheese, I have more toppings than potato. Aside from tea and ice water, a luxury I didn't even realize I missed until I saw the frosty glasses sitting on the table, there are flutes of champagne. And while I am no expert on the bubbly drink, it tastes like the good stuff.
Yoli and I pull up chairs at one of the tables and sit with our filled plates and champagne glasses. White linen tablecloths and bud vases of pink roses have been set up around the room. Music plays through overhead speakers, but it can hardly be heard over the conversations and laughter.
Yoli and I tap our glasses together. I take a good long drink. It tickles my nose. It's good and I finish half the glass. "I feel like I'm at a wedding." I smooth my hands over the silky fabric of the dress I'm wearing. It has spaghetti straps, a tight bodice with tiny buttons running down the front and a flirty short skirt. It's like nothing I have in my closet.
"Maybe it's the champagne, but I've decided I love this dress. It feels just like silk." I take another drink of champagne. It seems to be going straight to my head, which I blame more on lack of sustenance in my body than being a total lightweight. Which I am.
"You should slow down on that champagne," Yoli warns. I think it's a little unnecessary since I've only had three fourths of a glass.
"It's so good. I can't stop drinking it." I take another sip.
"That's the goal," she mutters cryptically before plowing a forkful of food into her mouth.
"What do you mean?"
She answers with a shrug and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand as she chews the food. She opted for some heavy blue eye makeup and mascara. It makes her look harsh, less friendly.
The first bite of potato is so good, I find myself mirroring her and plowing in a large bite so fast my eyes water. I drink it down with more champagne as I survey the room. "There's no one here but us women. No food servers or people watching that we don't steal the table linens."
Yoli breaks off a piece of roll. "They have the food catered. It's all set up before we get here. And as for making sure we don't steal the table linens—" She motions discretely to the heavy drapes that line the entire front of the room. Three black cameras are positioned on the brass rods holding the drapes.
I swing my face back toward her and grab the table edge as the room spins and twirls. "Whoa, that isn't good."
"Told you so about the champagne." Yoli reaches for my glass. "Eat the food and I'll get you some water.
Yoli gets up. I glance at her champagne flute. She's hardly taken a sip. I look around but realize the spins have only gotten stronger. It seems some of the women are pleasantly drunk and others are drinking only water or tea, avoiding the champagne altogether. I stare at the plate of food and decide it looks less appetizing than it did a few minutes ago. My potato goes out of focus for a second. I close my eyes and open them. It looks like a potato again.
Yoli returns with a glass of water. "You haven't eaten enough. It's the only thing that will counter the champagne."
I stare down at my plate. "I don't understand. I was starved when we walked in here. Maybe I'll just eat the roll." I pick up the bread and tear off a piece. It sticks in my dry throat. I gulp the cold water and put the glass down. "Yoli, this isn't regular champagne, is it? I don't drink much, but I've never had it affect me like this."
Yoli avoids looking at me by focusing on her plate. The blue eye makeup is creased across her lids.
"Yoli?"
She peers up at the cameras as if they can hear the conversation we're having. She leans closer. "No one knows for certain but most of us have had the same experience with the champagne. Some of us just pretend to drink it because we don't want to be taken off the list. And some girls like the heavy buzz it gives them. It also makes you feel like shit after it wears off."
"Like a lousy hangover?" I ask, not looking forward to suffering the headache and nausea inside a squalid sidewalk tent.
"Something like that," Yoli mutters quickly without making eye contact. She seems to brush off telling me something else and takes a quick breath to produce a smile. "Either way, I think it's supposed to help us forget about the night, so we don't blab about it all over the place."
I sit back hard and the jolt sends a new wave of dizziness through me.
Yoli reaches over and takes my hand. "I'm sorry. I should have told you earlier. It's just you were gulping it so fast, I didn't have time. You'll be fine if you just eat. It wears off much faster that way."
I put my fork into a meatball and push it reluctantly into my mouth as if it's a golf ball and not a moist piece of meat. Earlier, the fragrant aroma of the food had me close to tears, but even with a hollow stomach, I have no appetite.
"It does that to some people," Yoli assures me. "They don't want to eat. That's why most of us avoid the champagne. We're here for one thing. Food. And the shower and shampoo of course."
"That's why you don't want to be taken off the list," I say. "That's why this night is such a big deal. Food and showers and clean clothes." They were simple necessities for most people, but for the girls without a home or place to belong, they were exquisite luxuries. It was why no one questioned or balked at the unseemly ride in the dark, virtually windowless van.
"Keep eating," Yoli advises. "I'm going to go talk to some friends." I can't blame her for deserting me. I'm a hazy headed mess, barely able to keep my eyes from crossing. I am utterly disappointed with myself for falling for such an easy trick. I try to blame it on my weakened state from being hungry and tired, but I deserve a solid kick in the ass.
I stay safely sitting on the chair as the frivolities continue around me. Yoli has joined two girls at the dessert table. She is running her finger through some frosting on
a slice of cake. Her eyes flit my direction, and she points to the dessert table. Even though I have what Maddox refers to as an unholy sweet tooth, I can't even think about eating a piece of cake.
I relax back against the chair and try to assess just what it is that has me so lightheaded. It's some kind of drug, but it's different than the ones I know about. I'm not sleepy or close to passing out cold. While my head is dizzy and my appetite is diminished, I'm still having rational thoughts. And as much as I hate to admit it, I feel pretty fucking good, without worries or trepidation. It's a sort of serene, happy place I've landed in. I feel my face warm as it occurs to me I'm past serene and feeling more than just a little aroused. The silky fabric of the dress rubbing against my bare nipples has tightened them to hard buds, and the same smooth, cool fabric pressed against my naked pussy has it aching for some attention.
Yoli brings over a fudge brownie. "These are to die for. Just in case. How are you feeling?"
I look up at her. The room has slowed from a whirl to a slow spin. "Surprisingly, not too bad. Might even be able to take a bite of that brownie in a few minutes."
"I told you it wears off pretty fast." She moves on to huddle with another group of friends. I'm in no state of mind to count the girls who are scooting around, bouncing from table to table and making rounds to the food table, but it seems there are at least three van loads of young women at the party. What a crime that the city has so many homeless people dwelling in its borders. And these are just the young females. But for one glorious night a month they get to leave their sidewalk or shelter or park bench and have a hot shower, wear silky clean clothes and eat themselves silly. It seems that I'm not going to have much to bring back to Captain Clark other than recanting the details of a nice party put on by an invisible group or person along with the embarrassing story of me getting stupidly high on drugged champagne.