Made: A Bad Boy Romance (Bad Boy Games) (8 page)

My body aches in a sweet way, and there’s a thread of remembered ecstasy coiling through my veins I hope won’t go away for hours. Maybe ever. I want to hold on to the memory of Nathan’s touch as long as I can.

Because I can’t stay hiding here forever, I take a deep breath and open the door to the small office, peeking my head out and looking left and right. At the far end, next to the polished black door labeled VIP, there’s no one at the standing desk. The door on the opposite end stands slightly ajar. Thumping music from the club leaks through the opening and drifts toward me.

I slip into the hall thinking I’m going to do just what Nathan said and go home. That’s the sensible thing, right? My curiosity about what’s behind the black door won’t let go. I could take a look-see. What could it hurt?

Here’s the truth: I want to see Nathan again. Things ended too abruptly. I’m not ready to go home and crawl between the sheets and stare at the ceiling replaying every minute of our encounter.

I’m sorry if I hurt you
.

His voice was so soft and repentant; it took me a minute to realize this was the same man who only moments before had been so rough and commanding. This voice came from a different part of him, one that’s softer, younger, one that might have been hurt in the past, one that called to the dark places inside me.

I halt and lean against the corridor wall and take a deep, long breath to steady myself. Why do I think about him? Teasing nuance from every word he uttered? I’ll never see him again, and maybe that’s a good thing. Whatever else he is, whoever else this man I only know as Nathan is, he’s a predator. I’d stake my life on that truth. I don’t have to know anything else about Harley & Sweet to figure he works for people who probably have their hands in a lot of nasty, possibly illegal, crap they hide behind fancy clubs and sexy red shoes.

So you’re going to go home and hope things work out for the best for Caylee?

Yeah. What else can I do? It’s not like I’m a cop or even an investigator. I’m a secretary who processes the reports my boss writes about people who try to rip off insurance companies. Big whoop.

My head turns toward the right, and I stare again at the standing desk next to the polished black door. Maybe there’s a printout or a list showing the red shoe women who’ve passed through this evening. It might give me more information about Caylee.

Since I won’t get this chance again, I run down the hall quietly and slip behind the desk and search the lower shelves with my hand. My fingers touch on something smooth and silky. I pull it out, my eyes widening as I realize what I’ve retrieved.

It’s an evening clutch made of black satin, ruched along the top. I rub my thumb over a worn place on the bottom left seam. A large letter B decorates the snap closure. It’s encrusted with Swarovski crystal: B for
Barbara
, my mother.

Stunned, all I can do is stare and try not to cry.

I spent about thirty minutes this afternoon digging through my closet and every drawer in my tiny bedroom hunting for this bag. There’s no way I would have ever thrown it in a box destined for Goodwill, not even by accident. It’s one of the few things I have left from my mother. I remember her holding it against her body when she came in late at night to kiss me on the cheek. She always smelled of Chanel No. 9 and her lips were cool from the night air. Dad waited for her in the doorway, a tall silhouette I spied through slitted eyes. I pretended to be asleep but watched them kiss until Mom pulled my door closed.

This bag, her kiss, the scent of Chanel, made me feel safe and loved.

So what the hell is it doing here?

I open the clasp and look inside, finding a twenty-dollar bill, a tube of Sex on the Beach pink lip-gloss, and a cell phone. Slowly (because I know what I’m going to see and I really, really don’t want to see it), I pull the phone out and push the home button. The screen lights and then it resolves into a portrait: Samantha.

I can’t run from the truth. She’s the reason my mother’s old evening bag disappeared from my closet.

The world explodes and crumbles into tiny pieces and reforms into a picture I don’t recognize, don’t want to see. I pull out pieces from that picture—memories of the last few days—that put events into perspective.

Samantha watching me sit at my desk trying to figure out which bill to pay this week and which one to put off so we could still buy groceries. Samantha offering to delay college in the fall to get a job. Samantha picking up the Harley & Sweet business card and asking about it. I’d blown her off with a half-assed answer she must have understood immediately wasn’t the truth. At eighteen, her BS detector is turned on high all the time. Except, of course, when it comes to personal safety because, at eighteen, she thinks she is bulletproof and immortal.

I was seventeen when I learned the hard truth that no one and nothing lasts forever, not even the people and things you think you can’t live without. Since Samantha was eleven when our parents died, I shielded her from the hard truths of our situation the best I could. If that protection led to her putting on a pair of red shoes in a last ditch effort to save our failing finances, the fault is mine. Samantha was trying to save us when that was my job. That’s the only logical reason our mother’s evening bag would be stuffed on a shelf in this hallway of this club, right?

I pray I’m wrong.

I have to be wrong because I can’t let my brain go where the red shoes lead.

I push on the black VIP door and discover it’s locked. My balled-up fist hammers on the polished surface. I’m shaking all over, and my dress is ripped, and my mascara is probably smeared, but I don’t care. There’s one thing on my mind, and that’s to get my little sister out of here safely. I pound on the door again and shout. When there’s no response, I lean my face against it, willing myself not to cry. Then the door flies open.

A twenty-something guy in black uniform trousers and shirt stands in the doorway. His nametag reads
Davis
. He smiles as if he recognizes me. I don’t have time for this.

“Where’s my sister?”

He blinks and frowns. “Um, I’m not sure. Could you tell me her name?”

“Samantha. Samantha Lopez.”

“All right, let me take a look at the roster.”

Roster? A cold feeling stabs my gut. How many women waltz into this club wearing red shoes? I don’t even want to know.

Davis produces a small tablet and swipes his fingers across the surface. I watch his eyes flick left to right while he chews on his bottom lip. “No, I’m not seeing that name.” He looks up at me. “Might she be using a different name? Some of our girls do that.”

Our girls?
The cold feeling in my gut turns to nausea. As far as I know, Samantha’s dated a few times and never had a regular boyfriend. She’s always been too focused on her studies.

Or maybe I saw what I wanted to see? Heard what I wanted to hear?

“Yeah, Rachel and I are going to go over some scholarship programs tonight and see which ones we have the best shot at getting.”

Right.

Isn’t that what all eighteen-year-olds do on a Friday night? I’d believed her, and why not? She’d never given me any reason not to trust her.

Using her cell, I punched the button for Contacts and selected Rachel’s number. A teenage voice answers. “Hey,” she says in a hushed voice, “what’s up? Is everything all right? I thought you weren’t going to call. . .”

“Game over. It’s me, Rachel.”

“Oh shit, Brooke.”

“Oh shit is right, but we can talk about that later. Where’s Samantha?”

“She. . . um. . . well, I don’t exactly know.”

“The truth, Rachel, or I’m calling your mom.” I’m calling her mom anyway, but she doesn’t have to know that right now.

“Brooke, seriously, that’s the truth. It’s all I know.”

“What about the red shoes?”

“Oh, yeah, well, there’s that, too.”

It takes everything in my being to remain calm. “Was she wearing the red shoes this evening?”

“Yes.”

I punch the button to close out the call. I can’t say another word to Rachel without ripping her a new one, which will do no good for anyone.

From Davis, who has remained standing in the doorway this whole time, I grab the tablet and scan the list of names. It’s shorter than I thought. Out of all the Crystals and Tiffanys and Ambers, one name jumps out as even more obviously false: Deja Booty.

I point to it. “That one. That’s my sister.”

Davis pales. “Are you sure?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“No, ma’am, you don’t.”

“Where is she?”

“I. . . uh. . .I can’t really. . .”

I push through the opening, fueled by pure fury, and back Davis against the wall opposite and poke his chest with my finger. “You are going to take me to my sister and you are going to do it right now. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I stand with one hand on my hip, the other holding my mother’s clutch. “Well, let’s get going.”

“Yes, ma’am, it’s just that—”

“Are you going to do as I ask or do I have to call Nathan?” It’s only a bluff, but it works.

Davis’ face goes even whiter. Quickly, he turns and leads me to an elevator where he holds a card up to a scanner. When the doors open, he steps inside to scan his card again and punch a number. The doors close, and we’re gliding upward.

Davis looks like he wants to throw up.

When the elevator doors open again, I understand why.

Nathan’s head whips around, his gaze piercing me before moving on to Davis, who is attempting to shrink into himself, and failing.

“I’m sorry, sir, I tried—” Davis begins.

It’s a stocky, balding man who interrupts, walking forward as if wading through muddy water. “What the hell? I thought I made it clear this floor was off limits.”

Nathan steps between the balding man and the elevator. “I’ll take care of this, sir.”

“Oh no, you’re not.” I stalk out of the elevator and cross to my sister.

“What are you doing here?” she whispers when I’m standing next to her.

“Saving your ass,” I hiss back at her.

“Oh God, Brooke, I’m so sorry.” She buries her face in her hands.

An old man seated to my left whacks me on the leg with his cane. “What is the meaning of this intrusion.” I was always taught to respect my elders, but if he hits me again, I might have to rip that cane out of his liver-spotted hands.

“I don’t know what’s going on here, and I don’t care. I’m taking my sister home. Now. Come on, Samantha.”

“She’s your sister?” Nathan stares at me like he’s seeing me for the first time.

“Yes, Einstein. She’s my sister and not—” I glance at Samantha. “What were you thinking? Calling yourself
Deja Booty
?”

Samantha’s face reddens. “It was a joke. Rachel and I were just having fun.”

The balding guy’s head swivels from Nathan to me and back again. Then he shares a long look with a man I didn’t notice at first. He’s blond, tall and movie star handsome, and could have stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine.

Turning his attention back to me, the balding man inquires, “Miss. . .?”

“Lopez. I’m Brooke, and this is my sister, Samantha Lopez.”

“Thank you, Miss Lopez.” He introduces himself as Tucker Voss and then goes around the room, listing their names as if I should recognize them. Or bow or some such nonsense. The only thing that registers in my stunned brain is Nathan’s last name: Costa.

“Right now,” Tucker continues, “I can assure you of one thing: this situation in which you find yourself is no joke. While I appreciate your concern for you sister’s well-being, it is misplaced.”

I shake my head, confused.

“I promise she’ll be taken care of,” he insists. Which means he’s not going to let me take her home.

Fear bubbles up in my stomach like acid, threatening to burn holes in my body. I look over at Nathan. Whatever emotion I thought I’d glimpsed there a moment ago has vanished, replaced by the stone-faced predator I recognize. Only this time, his gaze is fixed on Tucker Voss.

“Let her go,” Nathan growls.

Tucker raises a brow. “The weapon has an opinion? What did I tell you earlier? Has it slipped your mind?”

An invisible battle plays out between them. I can’t tell who wins, only that it’s Nathan who speaks next, and his tone is more respectful. “She’s just a kid. M. de Hainault can find another.”

“This is an outrage,” the Frenchman bellows. “I will not stand for it.”

“You?” I round on the old man. “You’re going to. . .” I can’t bring myself to say what I suspect this old bastard wants to do to my sister. “You’re sick.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” The blond man emerges from the shadows—Ferrara. When he speaks, his voice is deep and soothing and all the while, his gaze never leaves Samantha. “But I must disagree, he’s not sick. M. de Hainault is massively rich, and because of that fact, he can have anyone and anything he wants. Tonight, he wants your sister. Tomorrow, it will be another girl or perhaps, a boy, I confess I don’t know that much about his predilections. Nothing you say and nothing you do will change matters.”

A long and virulent rush of French erupts from M. de Hainault.

“Even if you take your sister home, he will prey on another young thing,” Ferrara continues. “Is that what you want?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Even if I did, I can’t save the whole world. I just want to save my sister, so get out of my way. I’m taking her home.”

“No, you’re not.” Tucker Voss folds his arms over his chest and stands with his legs spread-eagled. “You sister signed a contract with Harley & Sweet, and we will enforce that contract.”

“Go ahead,” I shoot back. “It’s probably not even legal. I’d love to hear what a judge thinks of your so-called
contracts
.” I inject as much disdain as I possess into the last word.

“You’re thinking of the local circuit court? Maybe the nearest Federal court?” Tucker shrugs. “They’re of no concern. Because you may not be aware of this fact, I’ll give you the following advice for free: there are other
courts
in this world; courts that function much more efficiently than the ones you know; courts that operate on a somewhat different system but deliver justice all the same.” While Tucker has been speaking, his voice has lowered and become more intimate, as if we’re alone in the room. The image of the pudgy salesman vanishes and is replaced by a predator. It’s unlike the one I saw in Nathan, and in some ways, more deadly. This hunter wears the round face and hard, all-seeing eyes of an owl that swoops upon his prey without warning from an utterly black sky. For a silent moment, I feel like a mouse cowering in the grass.