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.

The wooziness in my head makes it hard to estimate how much time has passed, but as the chafing dishes empty and the dessert table is reduced to an ordinary table covered with a chocolate and strawberry stained tablecloth, the party goers seem to be losing steam. Everyone is sitting around looking satisfied and full and ready for a good long sleep. The scene reminds me of my aunt's house after the turkey has been dismantled into a skeleton and the last dinner roll has left the basket. There's a touch of sadness in the air, which I attribute to the party coming to an end and the stark reality of returning to the streets.

I'm able to finish a portion of my food and half a brownie. Yoli was right. Some of the heady rush from the champagne has dissipated.

Yoli is deep in conversation with Becky on the other side of the room. I haven't been much fun tonight and I'm disappointed. If I'd had my wits about me I might have found out more about the people behind the generous supply of food and toiletries.

The room stretches on forever as I make my way across the floor to Yoli. Becky sees me first and makes some excuse to dash away before I reach Yoli's side.

"Wow, she really doesn't like me," I say.

"She's just upset about the news going around." Yoli looks at me. "You've probably noticed some cheer has been tamped down. It's hard because we don't want to let on that we know, especially with the cameras." For no apparent reason she feels the need to whisper the word camera. Her stunning proclamation helps clear my head more.

"What news?" For the hundredth time I want to kick myself for gulping the blasted champagne. Tonight might very well have been a gold mine for my undercover assignment, and I spent a good deal of it in a cloud.

Yoli leans closer. I can smell the expensive perfume she lavished on herself in the bathroom. "There's this girl Rachel. I didn't know her personally but I knew of her. She used to work a street corner near the strip club on the other side of town. She always came to these parties." Yoli waves her hand. "Before me. But people know her name because she was chosen. She got the golden ticket. Her best friend said she joined the Lace Underground and that was the last time anyone saw her." I know before she even continues how the story ends. "Until the cops found her body in a dumpster," Yoli adds with a dramatic flourish.

I cover my mouth to look shocked. "That's horrible. Does anyone know what happened to her?"

Before Yoli can answer a bell rings and the door opens. Rowan, who seems to be a jack of all trades, rolls in a large cart piled with freshly washed and folded clothes. Whoever is in charge of things seems to have a team of launderers working through the night.

The large man with the tribal tattoos enters next with a rolling bin like the kind used in a hotel laundry room. It is piled high with brown paper wrapped packages. The sight of the packages revives the somewhat somber mood with excited chatter.

Yoli takes off before answering. I decide it will be easier to pry information from her once we are back at the park and away from cameras and the other girls. I hang back and wait for the others to collect their clothes and their packages. Several girls, too excited to wait, open up the gifts and twitter with happiness like kids opening wrapped boxes at Christmas. The packages are filled with essential toiletries like toothpaste, shampoo and soap. There are even packages of new underwear. The inconsistencies of the night are as vast as they are perplexing. A delicious, endless supply of food but cameras are in place to watch over the diners. Hot showers complete with soaps, shampoos and cosmetics, but the unsuspecting bathers are being watched through one way mirrors. Tempting flutes of champagne that leave you feeling pleasantly vulnerable. It was like the ultimate mix of good and evil, like the nice stranger who offers you a bag of candy before yanking you into his van. And for one girl at least, for Rachel, the golden ticket Yoli likes to talk about landed her not in some fantastical place but in a city dumpster. That sobering thought helps remind me why I am undercover. My prime worry is that the night will end, we will go back to the park and I won't know much more than when I climbed into the black van.

I hang back, waiting for everyone else to get their things. The entire time, it seems Rowan is keeping an eye on me. It's not so much a distrustful eye as a proprietary eye. Like I'm some valuable possession that he doesn't want taken away. It's unsettling and unexpected.

I reach the cart with the freshly washed clothes. My ripped and torn jeans and t-shirt are the last items left. I reach for them, but Rowan takes hold of my wrist. My first instinct is to throw his grasp off of me. I quickly remind myself that I'm not Detective Tennyson but Tawny Smith, street kid with nothing to my name and little in the way of a future.

"Hold on there, Red. You need to stay in the dress."

I look past his shoulder down the corridor where the others, including Yoli, have shuffled toward the bathroom to change out of their fairy godmother gifts and back into their rags.

I look back at Rowan. He seems far too pleased with himself, like the cat who caught the big fat mouse.

"But everyone else is changing."

"Yes, but you're not everyone, are you sweet candy?" Rowan releases my wrist and waits politely as the last girls leave the main room.

The adrenaline in my veins has leapt into overdrive. It seems my body has figured things out before my head. I blame it on the residual drug in my brain.

"Make sure they all get to the van on time," Rowan mutters to the driver. The driver, an olive skinned man with piercing gray eyes, gives me a solid, unabashed once over before leaving.

Rowan walks around the cart to my side. He stares at me for a second and smiles. "I knew you were going to be worth a bounty the second you slinked into the park with those audacious curves and those amazing fucking lips. Follow me, Red. Things are about to get more interesting in your tragic little life."

There are just enough scary undertones in his words to make me consider running. I wouldn't even have to blow my cover. I could just as easily be a scared nineteen-year-old not wanting to be the kid who climbed into the van with the candy man.

But there's one big problem. I begged and pleaded with Clark to put me on the assignment. I assured him I wouldn't let him down. If I run at the first sign of danger, I will never be able to show my face at the precinct again. Maddox will never let me live it down and I can't stand the thought of him thinking I was a coward. Then, the emotions of that day when Maddox broke my heart, not once but twice, and in quick succession, come back to me. My chest aches with the thought of it. After several drugged hours of being inexplicably serene and happy, a strange, overwhelming sense of loss suddenly pulls at me, threatening to drop me to my knees with grief. It seems the chemical is wearing off completely and leaving behind a terrible void, exposing every raw feeling I have tamped down inside. It must be the aftereffects Yoli mentioned. It explains her elusive answer. This was no regular hangover.

Rowan motions me to move along. I push back the wave of emotion as best I can. My feet come unglued from the floor and I follow him, not as the wary detective but as the innocent, naive Tawny. Rowan unlocks a door at the opposite side of the party room. He leads me into a small room that has chairs, desks and computers. The monitors are connected to the cameras. I catch a glimpse of the first group of girls climbing into the black van before Rowan shuts off the screen.

I scan the wall and see the transparent side of the mirrors. Many of the women are still changing back into their street clothes. Rowan hits a button to darken the mirrors, making them opaque.

He walks over to me and looks into my face. "Looks like the champagne has worn off, Red. Don't worry, we'll get you more and have you feeling right as rain in two sips."

I shake my head lightly. "No," I say a little too emphatically. "No, I'm fine." The horrifying reality of my lie is that the notion of more champagne and whatever drug it contains sounds tempting.

Rowan pulls two strips of cloth from his pocket. I flinch as he nears me. All I can think is I'm about to be strangled. "Just a precaution, Red. Blindfold for your eyes and I'll bind your hands to make sure you can't remove the blindfold."

My instincts and survival skills kick in and I'm ready to knee him directly in the balls if he reaches for my hands. Instead, I grit my teeth and allow him to secure my hands behind my back. The blindfold goes on next, blocking out the sordid little voyeur's room Rowan and whoever else he's working for have set up for themselves.

The room is cold. I have the urge to cross my arms to cover myself but am quickly reminded they are bound behind my back. I can hear Rowan shuffling around, then a beep and he's speaking into a phone. "All ready in here." His footsteps near me again and my fists clamp in defense. Only I'm virtually defenseless. My mind goes straight to a new strategy of swinging my leg around for a kick. I've dropped more than one combative suspect with a good kick to the head, but I'm at a disadvantage when I can't see my opponent. Again, I remind myself that guileless Tawny would not know how to knock someone out with a kick. I'm in no position to blow my cover now. I have to be compliant. I brace myself for whatever comes next.

"Good luck, Red. Win me that bounty, eh?" Rowan's footsteps retreat.