Sleepless in Las Vegas (30 page)

Goose bumps skittered over her skin as a horrible thought hit her.
What if Drake’s in trouble?
Or maybe she was being asked to monitor him as they pulled another monstrous stunt.

She hadn’t heard from him since they spoke a few hours ago. Now she was worried.

“What did your friend say Drake was doing there?” she asked, picking up her cell phone.

As Marta babbled something about Drake drinking vodka and tipping strippers, Val sent a text message to Drake.

Text me. Urgent.

She asked a few more questions, keeping Marta on the phone as she waited for a text message back from Drake. None came.

The Body Double was a public place. It was lunchtime. Not like anything could happen to Val by going inside, looking around. If she sensed Drake was in trouble, she could dial nine-one-one on her cell.

She couldn’t leave his well-being to chance, the way she had left her nanny.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

* * *

S
HE
MADE
IT
to Body Double in seventeen. Towering gray clouds rose in the distance. On the way over, she’d read the LED display on a local bank: “Monsoon Alert Later Today. Stay High and Stay Dry.”

Because Body Double was a “higher-class” strip club, there was valet parking only. So first she drove down Western Avenue and scanned the parking lot that was visible from the street. Didn’t see Drake’s pickup.

A few minutes later, she pulled her Toyota into the valet parking, grabbed her receipt and headed into the club.

As she approached the doorman, she paused and opened her purse to retrieve her wallet. He shook his head. “Baby, it’s always ladies’ night at Body Double, even when the sun’s out. Put your wallet away, no cover.” He handed her a free drink coupon. “Drink up, make new friends.”

Like that’s what she wanted to do. As he grabbed the brass handle on the carved oak door, she put away her wallet and headed into the gloom.

The air-conditioning smacked her in the face as she stepped inside—like walking into a meat locker. An irony that didn’t escape her. She paused, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. The air reeked of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne. Electronic music pulsed in the air.

She’d passed plenty of strip clubs in the French Quarter, had even been inside a few with pals on a lark, but a Las Vegas strip club was a whole different beast. Powered by more money, driven by more greed, selling broken promises as if they were silver linings.

Walking past displays of sex toys and Body Double T-shirts, Val checked out the stages at the back of the room, where women wriggled and danced around poles under colored lights. On one stage, flashing neon lights splashed red, blue and yellow on a stripper’s body.

Ringing the stages were chairs filled with men, and some women, waving bills at the dancers. Behind the chairs were dozens of small, round tables, at least half filled with customers, some getting lap dances.

She scanned the dimly lit room, looking for Drake. Like this was going to be easy. Except for the faces flanking the brightly lit stages, people resembled lumpy shadows. She’d have to get closer.

She walked past a long bar on her left where scantily clad cocktail waitresses lined up with their drink trays. A few customers sat at the bar, hunched over their drinks. No Drake. Moseying around the cocktail tables, she acted as though she was looking for someone.

“Hey, baby,” murmured a husky male voice, “I got a bottle of Beaujolais breathing here for you.”

I bet you do.

After touring the tables, and receiving several more enticing invitations—
not—
she angled back to the bar just as a door behind it opened, spilling light.

There stood Drake, dressed in a tailored suit, talking to a short, round-faced man with a Nero haircut whom she recognized after seeing his picture on the internet.

Yuri.

Panic seized her. She reached into her purse and snatched her phone, ready to dial nine-one-one.

Yuri slapped Drake on the back as they laughed about something.

Her panic dissolved into confusion. What was Drake doing, acting buddy-buddy with this slimeball? After another laugh, Yuri walked back into the office and shut the door.

She crossed to Drake, who leaned against the bar, chatting with a bartender.

“Drake, what’s going on?” she whispered, “Why didn’t you answer my text? I’ve been worried sick about you. Marta called, told me to come here and watch you—”

His powerful arms tugged her close, and he pressed her body full-length against his.

“Kiss me,” he growled, gripping the back of her neck as he lowered his lips to hers.

If she had a moment of lucidity, it shattered when his mouth met hers, the world spinning away, leaving the two of them in their own private world of heat and need.

Kissing him was everything she had imagined and more. He tasted like coffee and something sweetly decadent. His scent—a musky cologne she’d never smelled on him before—shot straight to her brain. As his tongue prodded her mouth, she opened wider for him, taking him in, tangling her tongue with his, wanting more, more…

When he pulled back his head, it was all she could do to lean against him and gaze up into his slitted eyes, glistening in the muted light. He held her in place, his fingers sinking into the flesh of her arms, his chest heaving breaths. Like a beast interrupted from his feasting.

With some effort, she rocked back onto her feet and steadied herself. The sounds of the room returned—the clinking of glasses, buzz of conversations, throbbing beat of music. Patting her hair, she darted a look around. She had never behaved this way in public. At least it was dark at this corner of the bar. The bartender had moved to the far end, making drinks. Nobody sat nearby. And who would care about two people kissing anyway, when women in G-strings were undulating around poles and performing scissor kicks?

“Tell me, Val,” he murmured huskily, “do I kiss better than my brother?”

She blinked. “Pardon?”

“I’m Braxton.”

It took a moment for the shock to hit.

Drake and Braxton were
identical
twins.

The realization left her numb all over, as though she’d been packed in ice cubes. No wonder he wore a different style of clothes, a different cologne, although it would have been damn helpful if they didn’t both wear buzz cuts.

Hot indignation started to thaw the numbness. Would it have been so difficult for Drake to say something, give her a freaking clue that he and his brother were mirror images? Of course, because of the cold war going on at his mother’s home, there hadn’t been any discussion of Braxton…or photos of the two brothers together. Still, it would have been nice to have been given a heads-up that a carbon copy of him was running around Vegas.

When he chuckled under his breath, giving her a sly, gotcha look, her response was immediate and instinctual.

She slapped him.

As he reared back, his hand on his cheek, she turned to leave.

He grabbed her arm. “Not so fast, Val,” he snarled. “Somebody wants to talk to you.”

* * *

A
FEW
MINUTES
later, she entered a back office, situated behind another office whose door opened into the bar. The room was chilly and smelled like aftershave and cigarettes. Mostly cigarettes.

Unlike the flashy interior of the adjacent strip club, the room was cheap, drab. A folding table sat in the middle of the room with a few unmatched folding chairs clustered around it. In the corner was a dented metal filing cabinet. The dingy yellow walls were marred with dirt marks, their only adornment a taped-up posted of a blonde, silicon-enhanced stripper, signed,
To Yuri, You’re the best, Cindy Sparxx.

The floor safe was the only expensive item in the room. Large, black, with a shiny spin dial and locking wheel. The top surface served as an informal bar with several bottles of Russian vodka and red plastic tumblers.

Yuri and another man, who was counting stacks of bills, sat at the table, a tumbler in front of each of them. A yellowish cigarette burned in an ashtray filled with ash and butts.

Yuri wore a silk shirt, the top button undone. Strands of gold chains hung around his neck. The other man wore a dark blue gym suit, a chunky gold bracelet and a butterfly bandage across the bridge of his nose. In the center of the table was a white device, the size of a paperback novel, with buttons and a speaker.

Yuri looked up and smiled, one of those smiles that had teeth but no warmth.

“Hello, Val, nice to meet you.” He extended his hand across the table.

She noticed a jagged cut on the back of his hand. From a nail on Drake’s back gate? Her throat was so tight she couldn’t speak, so she said nothing and shook his hand, trying not to cringe at the touch of his weak, moist fingers.

“Sit.” He gestured to a folding chair across from him. Braxton took the chair next to her. “This my friend Vadim,” he said, gesturing to the man next to him.

Vadim shot her a dark look, went back to counting money.

She sat absolutely still, trying to feign calm, but her insides had constricted to the size of a pea. On the negative side, she was sitting in a back room with the Russian Mafia, who knew she’d lied and conspired against them. On the positive side, the door had been left open, with men and women milling about in the next room, apparently employees, and she still had possession of her purse and phone. And her life.

Yuri gave a lazy wave at her hair. “Blue spots.”

Purple highlights, actually, but only a woman with a serious death wish would correct him. “Yes.”

He looked at Braxton’s head. “And you, today with stubble.”

“Told you it was a good idea to cut my hair short like Drake’s,” Braxton said. “She thought I was my brother, asked why I hadn’t returned her messages. Just as we thought, our little P.I. is tight with him.”

Our little P.I.
What an asshole.

“You try to get tight, too, Brax?” Yuri asked, patting his own cheek. Pointing at Braxton’s face, he said something in Russian to the bald man, and the two of them laughed.

She glanced at Braxton’s profile. The imprint of her hand could still be seen on his reddened cheek.

“Val, you seem like smart girl,” Yuri said, zeroing in on her with his beady dark eyes. The kind you looked into, but nothing looked back. “But…how you say…green as snoop.”

“Inexperienced,” Braxton offered.

“Yes,” Yuri said, nodding vigorously, “inexperienced. Which very good for me. You do honey trap. And you visit me today.” He tapped his stubby fingers on the tabletop. “I have very excellent offer for you. But before discussion, you want something to say?”

She was so scared, the back of her legs were sweating. For the girl who used to not think twice about charging into the mist, she wanted nothing more than to stand at these crossroads, center herself and not do anything foolish. If there was ever a time to stop and smell the reality, this was it.

She eased in a slow breath, ready to say what any rational woman would under these circumstances.

“I’d like a shot of vodka.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A
FTER
A
THIRD
shot, and repeating an enthusiastic
“Kahrs!”
which Val hoped meant “cheers!” in Russian, and not “to your short life,” it was fast becoming like old home week in the Russian mafia back office.

Yuri told stories about living in Russia, how his gold jewelry was worth “Zouzands of Ue-Es dolarz” and how Americans ruined chicken Kiev. “It too dry,” he bellowed, gesturing broadly with a cigarette in his hand. “Butter must splatter shirt when you stick in knife!”

She smiled and nodded, thinking it sounded more like a crime scene than a dish.

All the while the other Russian, his bald head shiny under the fluorescent lights, never stopped counting money, occasionally pausing to jot down a number. Braxton sat quietly next to her, passed on the vodka, suggesting American words when Yuri got stumped. In the next room, a staticky radio played “Waking Up in Vegas” by Katy Perry.

Yuri sloshed more vodka into his tumbler, then pressed a button on the white device, which emitted a sound like rushing air.

How handy, a white-noise machine. Its frequencies masked sounds in its vicinity, so apparently Yuri turned it on when he didn’t want people outside the office listening in on his conversations.

“Now, my Val, we get serious.” He lit another cigarette.

A jolt of horror surged through her. She clutched her trembling hands together in her lap, out of Yuri’s sight. Katy Perry wailed about putting your money where your mouth is.

“Where is Drake?” he asked, blowing out a stream of smoke.

She could lie, but what if he already knew the answer and this was a trick question? Then she remembered Drake’s comment.
He likes those in-your-face types.

She gave him her best tough-girl look. “What’s it worth to you?”

After an uncomfortable stare-down, during which Val decided she was on her way to being the next splattering chicken Kiev, he thumped his hand hard on the table, threw back his head and let go with a guffaw.

Braxton quietly sat next to her, fussing with a gold cuff link. The money counter kept flipping bills and taking notes. Katy Perry was almost finished waking up in Vegas.

Yuri, his face flushed, gave her an approving look. “I like your style.”

“Thank you.”

“Why spend months, years being snoop intern with bad pay, bad hours?” He gave a dramatic shrug, as though it was incomprehensible that anyone could be so dumb as to pursue such a dead-end career. “When instead, you work for me and I pay…” He held up three fingers. “
Three
times your salary.”

“But Yuri, it is advantageous for me to remain a private eye because I have access to databases and court records, which you don’t.”

Picking up the vodka bottle, he looked at Braxton. “Advan…”