The next two days pass in a blur of television sitcoms, sunbathing in the backyard, and ignoring Liam. He’s around during the day but keeps to his study and bedroom, with periodic trips to the kitchen. After delivering me dinner each night, he leaves. I have no idea what he does all night long, only that his car is back in the driveway come morning.

When I do see him, I can’t speak to him. Gone is the man I first met, with his easy smile and mood-ring eyes. In his place is a brooding stranger. He doesn’t shave. He spends hours beating the shit out of a punching bag in the garage. And when our eyes meet, I see nothing I recognize. Not desire, anger, or worry. Just a vast, frigid void.

Friday night, I watch from the living room window as he gets in his car and drives away. Black slacks. Black shoes. Black button-down. I wonder if he has his switchblade, or if there’s a gun in the car. I wonder if he’s going to hurt someone.

After all, it’s Friday night in Los Angeles.

Heading to my room, I take a quick shower and consider my wardrobe. Most of my clothes are now here, the rest of my belongings from my apartment sitting in a storage container somewhere.

I pull out the silver mini-dress, then put it back. Grab the red dress. Shove it back. After considering and discarding another few options, I finally choose a comfortable cotton dress. Black, with capped sleeves, a low neckline, and a flirty A-line skirt. Dressy enough that I can fit in at a club, casual enough that I can blend into crowds.

I have no idea where Liam goes each night, but tonight, I’m following him.

* * *

His first mistake was not changing the passcode on his phone. His second was giving me his iTunes password so I could rent movies. And his third mistake was assuming I was too scared to do anything besides hide in his house.

When the app I’m using to track his phone tells me he’s been in the same place over an hour, I call a cab. Twenty minutes later, I see headlights in the driveway and a yellow sedan pulling up.

After a moment’s hesitation, I leave my phone on the kitchen island. I don’t want to risk him using it to locate me; this way, if he does he’ll find me at home. Then I hurry outside and slip into the back seat.

“Where to, miss?”

I rattle off the address, and the driver’s eyes widen in the rearview.

“You sure that’s the right address?” he asks.

My pulse flutters. Before I ask why, or regret not doing more research, I say, “Yes, thanks.”

The location isn’t residential or industrial, and it’s nowhere near what qualifies as a ghetto. I tell myself I’ll be perfectly safe, even as the voice of reason reminds me I don’t have a phone.

I tell the voice of reason to shove it and concentrate on keeping my panic at bay. I’m still scared. Terrified. But I refuse to be Liam’s innocent little dove anymore.

As the cab draws to a stop outside an unmarked black awning in Beverly Hills, I look questioningly toward the driver. “This is it?”

He nods, turning to give me a grandfatherly frown. “Everyone knows this place.” He hesitates. “You do know what they do in there, right?”

No.

“Of course,” I say with confidence I don’t feel. “Someone’s waiting for me. Thanks.” I hand him two twenties and jump out.

Liam’s fourth mistake—showing me where he keeps rolls of backup cash.

“Be safe!” calls the cabbie, and drives away.

Alone on the curb, I look up and down the sidewalk. I’m on a side street just off Wilshire, and the building before me is sandwiched between a boutique hotel and a modern office building. Beyond its black awning and a stylized C on the black door, there are no distinguishing features telling me what kind of establishment this is.

What the hell is this place?

I’m seconds from bailing and asking the hotel to call me a cab when a car screeches to the curb right behind me. I spin and stumble back a few steps as all four doors open. At the same time, the black door opens, spilling red light onto the sidewalk.

I move back further, toward the hotel’s entrance, and watch the car’s passengers emerge. Three women and a man. The women are wearing leather corsets or vests, expensive and tailored, none of which do much to disguise their ample breasts and toned, flat stomachs. One wears a mini-skirt and buttery-soft boots; the other two have on tight pants and spiked heels. The man follows behind.

When I see him, I finally understand. He’s attractive and young, dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt, his head bowed as he walks behind the women. Around his neck is a thick black collar.

No wonder the cabbie looked at me like I was nuts.

A man—valet, I realize—comes through the red doorway, nods to the women, then gets in the car and drives away. The foursome disappear inside, the door left open behind them.

So many emotions flash through me as I stare at the wash of red light on the sidewalk.

Curiosity.

Dread.

Arousal.

But the last feeling is the most potent, wiping away all others before it.

Rage.