CHAPTER ONE
Brooke
This was it.
Leaning forward in the front seat of my battered VW, I watched the limousine I’d been following for the past hour slow to a stop in front of a graffiti-covered Save-All mini-mart.
Keeping my distance, I pulled into an empty five-dollar parking lot across the street, hoping the guy who took my money wouldn’t also take my hubcaps. Keeping the wipers going to ward off the rain, I watched through the windshield, waiting for something to happen.
No one stepped out of the limousine. At least, not at first. The lineup of assorted riffraff outside the market — there to conduct drug deals or turn tricks or whatever they did in broken neighborhoods like this — watched the limousine intently, because there was only one reason a limousine would be in downtown Camden after dark.
Obviously, someone was lost.
I heaved in a breath, then another before reaching over and unwrapping a piece of spearmint gum, feeding it into my mouth to calm my nerves. When I’d set out to track my billionaire out of his high-rise apartment in swanky Delancey Place at midnight, I’d hoped maybe he’d go to his lover, somewhere in the city. I’d hoped I’d be able to somehow capture them together on the street, get the damning evidence I needed, and be done with this gig by morning.
That was what I’d hoped, even knowing Mr. Harvard and Yale was much too smart for that.
What I’d expected, knowing my luck, was that he’d end up doing something ordinary and not at all newsworthy, like picking up fried chicken at KFC. Though nothing about his tall, athletically cut physique — obvious despite the fact that I’d never seen him in anything but a suit — signaled a penchant for greasy fast food.
Our little jaunt across the Ben Franklin Bridge at midnight? I had no idea what this was about. Surely his driver had to be lost. Looking around, all I knew was that this neighborhood was likely where dreams went to die.
I watched as a prostitute — she had to be a prostitute, wearing a skintight dress that barely covered her butt — approached the limo. Okay, this could be good dirt. Soliciting had brought down more than a few lusty politicians. The back window powered down. As she leaned forward to give her pitch, I fumbled around the passenger seat for my camera. When I found it, I lifted it to my eye, twisting the lens to focus.
But the prostitute just shrugged and stepped away from the car, a disappointed look on her face.
Damn. No dice. I lowered the camera.
Then she pointed across the street. Toward me.
Shit, shit, shit. I sank down in my seat, hoping they wouldn’t see me.
Huddled down, I sighed. So, he was just asking for directions. Snore.
I glanced at the clock on my dash. Twelve-thirty in the damn morning. I yawned. I could have been nestled all snug in my bed right then. Instead, my ambition getting the better of me, there I was, eagerly tracing Mr. Fast-Track to the White House across state lines, hoping to find the dirt that would bring his sterling political career down.
Even if he had seen me, I was sure he was used to it. People were always trying to get photographs of Cameron Brice, and the paparazzi followed him around 24/7, like an A-list movie star. Because he was that Cameron Brice, part of the powerful Brice family, the richest and most influential family in Philadelphia. His father was a vice president, a slacker compared to his great-great-grandfather, who had served as president… and not merely of any high-power corporation. No, of the entire freaking United States of America. His family made the Kennedys look positively ordinary.
And Cameron? He was only up for state Senate, but he was just thirty. The political pundits were constantly gossiping that he was a frontrunner for the 2024 Republican ticket. If that wasn’t enough, the man was genetically blessed. The camera loved him. He had a boyish face, and when he gave speeches, women had been known to faint at his feet, like he was a lost member of the Beatles. If he and Justin Trudeau ever got together, the general consensus was that ovaries everywhere would explode.
But of course, as a politician, he had enemies.
Enemies, like my best friend Kiera’s father, Owen Blakely.
My employer.
But that was only temporary. I was simply biding time until I got my ticket to the show. The FBI. My dream, the dream I’d been working toward ever since I was five and used to play cops and robbers with my three older brothers. It was virtually impossible to get a job in the FBI right out of college. You needed an in.
Blakely was my in. He used his connections to get me a position in Cameron’s office. My main purpose — other than filing papers, getting coffee, and being a complete peon — was to spy on him, to find dirt that would bring down Cameron’s career. Then, after the Brice Crash-and-Burn and Blakely emerged victorious, I’d get a personal invitation to join the FBI.
But I couldn’t wait. Call me an eager beaver, but I could just taste it. As I sat in that broken parking lot in the armpit of the United States, I wanted it more than anything. I wanted to make that high-and-mighty politician suffer, thinking his suffering would be my and all of America’s gain.
I started to yawn again when the limo’s door opened, and Cameron appeared. His thick, dark hair was perfectly coiffed and his three-piece suit without a wrinkle, like he was planning on delivering a speech to a bunch of dignitaries. I really didn’t think he owned another piece of clothing that wasn’t a suit. He looked around before jogging across the street toward me.
I slinked down again as he passed, glad I had tinted windows. Once he’d gotten a sufficient distance away from my car, I opened the door and climbed outside, shivering in the thin drizzle.
Pocketing the camera in my bag, I hurried after him, hoping I wouldn’t get myself mugged… or worse. This wasn’t my element, having been brought up in a middle-class suburb of northern New Jersey. Camden was the place we were taught to avoid at all costs. In fact, I’d only ever been there before to go to the aquarium, and that was on a field trip with a hundred other sixth-graders.
I crossed the parking lot as I saw him duck inside a hole in a chain-link fence, disappearing between two boarded-up brick buildings. All the while, he scanned his surroundings, as if he was afraid someone would see him.
It looked like exactly what I’d hoped… like he was up to no good.
Picking up my pace, I hurried after him as he rushed through the dark, narrow alley, strewn with and smelling of garbage. My heels — yes, I was wearing damned heels — were quickly being ruined by puddles of muddy water. When I’d devised this plan back at my apartment in Northeast Philly, I thought I should dress up like a politician’s wife. I’d rationalized that if I ended up in one of the places he frequented, I’d blend.
In a pale pink cashmere sweater, pencil skirt, and pearl necklace, I did anything but blend here. Mostly, I just silently screamed, Mug me!
When the alley opened up into a square courtyard, I looked around, confused. There was a rather odd assortment of people in the largish area — some young, some old, some dressed like they were ready for a night at the club, others wearing jeans. One woman strutted by in a business suit. Odd as it was, they did have one thing in common. When I burst into the open area and they all turned their faces to me, I realized that each and every one was wearing a mask. Not scary, Halloween masks, but masquerade ball-type masks.
Was this a masquerade ball?
I looked around, trying to spy Cameron, or at least someone matching his description. It was difficult to tell people apart with their faces obscured, but there wasn’t a single man in a three-piece suit anywhere.
Shit.
I whirled around and noticed a doorway with a sign above it — The Black Room.
Two husky bouncers in leather jackets flanked the aptly named glossy black door, arms crossed. A line of people stood outside, waiting to get in. It was odd to see so much life in the middle of this dead city. But where was Cameron? Had he gone inside?
I searched around for another way out of the courtyard, but aside from where I stood, it was a dead-end. The doorway was the only place he could have gone.
All right. Taking a deep breath, I meandered toward the line, feeling self-conscious about not having a mask since there must have been a costume thing going on inside. So, Cameron Brice liked to club-hop. Interesting. Mr. Conservative was living on the edge. Although I’d never heard of The Black Room, it seemed like the beating heart of the city. I wasn’t one for clubs, but I’d been around the block. I’d gone to college at Temple, after all, so I was no stranger to dark, after-hours basement parties.
I also knew that when alcohol started to flow and drugs came out, people did bad things.
Dirty things.
Things that could ruin their careers.
Patting the camera in my bag, I licked my lips and told myself that this was going to be easy, that the FBI badge was already mine.
“Hey, you.”
I looked up to see a small male form in a tight t-shirt coming toward me. His dark eyes were trained on me, but I couldn’t see any more because his face was obscured by a white Joker mask, complete with red lips and green hair. I pointed to my chest, sizing him up. I thought I could probably take him. “Are you talking to me?”
“Yeah. You need a mask?” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small, ornate gold one, the kind that only obscured a person’s eyes.
I lunged, trying to snatch it from his hand. “Yes.”
He pulled it away, dangling it in front of me like bait. His sly Joker smile taunted me. “One condition.”
Damn. I really wanted that mask. I knew he was going to ask me for a date, or something cheesy like wanting to buy me a drink once we got inside, and I really didn’t want that. I had work to do. Already annoyed, I muttered, “What?”
He bobbed his eyebrows. “You go in with me. There’s a discount on the cover if you bring a single girl.”
I relaxed a little bit. “Really? How much is the cover?”
“Nothing, for you.” He fidgeted, looking nervous. “One-twenty for me. Eighty if I bring a girl. And I like to get my fun on a budget.”
Whoa, that’s expensive. This must be some amazing club.
I couldn’t tell anything about my potential escort, other than that he was small and wiry and obviously rather pathetic since he couldn’t find a girl from his own life to bring here. I decided I could probably ditch him when we made it inside. “Deal.”
“Oh yeah.” I rolled my eyes when he pumped his fist but took the mask he handed me. I slipped it over my head, pulled my long blonde ponytail free of the elastic, and fastened it over my eyes. After I did, I realized he was studying me carefully. It was the pearls, I was sure. “Haven’t seen you here before. First time?”
I nodded. “Is it that obvious?”
He grinned. “Stick with me, then. I’ll show you all the good rooms.”
Not likely.
“Okay.” I was glad to hear the club had a lot of rooms though. I’d been to clubs like that, which were just floors and floors of rooms to dance and drink in. It made it easier to lose people.
Also, unfortunately, harder to find them.
I only hoped that when I got inside, I could find the particular person I was looking for.
“I’m Ocean,” he said to me, holding out a hand for me to shake. It was warm and clammy. He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Not my real name, obviously.”
Oh. So we need aliases here? How bizarre. I contemplated for a moment. “I’m Cassandra.”
The prophetess of doom. At least, I hoped to be. For Cameron Brice, anyway.
He dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocked back and forth on his toes. “So, tell me about yourself, Cassandra.”
I could have told him anything since we were using aliases. But I’d never been good at making up stories, so I stuck to the truth. Twenty-three, graduated from college a year earlier with a criminal justice degree, but the closest job I’d found to my major was working retail at New York & Company in the Philadelphia Mills Mall, where I’d occasionally catch the odd shoplifter. Not mentioning of course that I’d left that job for one that I hoped would be much more lucrative.
“Talk about living a double life,” he mused. “Crime-fighter by day… unless you’re here on a case?”
I smiled, the picture of innocence. “No. Just here to let loose and blow off some steam. Retail is hell.”
He smiled. “Cool. I’m an attorney by day, so yeah, I have a lot of steam to blow off too.”
We got to the door, and the bouncer collected money from Ocean. He grabbed my arm and pulled me into a room that was so dark and smoky, I could barely see. Music was pulsing so loudly that the walls shook. The room was crowded with people checking each other out. Before I could take another step to follow my escort, someone grabbed my ass. I whirled to see a bald head and a giant beer belly in a smiley face mask. “I want you, Jackie O. Upstairs?”
I blinked. “What?”
Ocean yanked me away. “She’s mine,” he yelled at the guy. “Fuck off.”
“What was that?” I shouted at my new best friend, hoping he really didn’t think I was his.
Ocean guided me into a corner. “You’re new meat, and you have to know you’re hot. You’d better get used to it.”
Great. He thinks I’m hot. It’s not like I hadn’t heard that before. I was blonde, tall, and people seemed to always mistake me for famous blonde actresses, most often Blake Lively, so I guess I had looks going for me. But I didn’t need or want a boyfriend. What I needed was a fucking real job. “I didn’t come here to find a man.” I crossed my arms over my chest to punctuate the point.
He laughed. “That won’t stop them from trying.”
I took a breath, reminding myself to relax so I didn’t blow my cover. “I think I need a drink.”
Ocean took my hand and led me through the throngs of people, ending up in front of a long bar. I leaned toward the bartender. “Corona Light.”
He stared at me, then at Ocean. I looked at him, confused. It wasn’t like Corona Light was an exotic brew.
Ocean leaned closer. “No liquor license. Want a Coke?”
A real Coke? Or was that code for something else? When I realized it wasn’t, I sighed. I could’ve killed for something stronger, but nodded, wondering what kind of lame club didn’t have a liquor license. Looking around, the lack of social lubricant didn’t seem to be stopping anyone. They were all giving each other eyes, looking for hookups. Giving me eyes too. No fewer than ten masked faces — male and female — were trained on me. “Coke would be fine.”
“So if you didn’t come here for a man, what did you come here for?” he asked me as I reached into my bag and pulled out my phone, checking for messages. Nothing.
I shrugged.
“A woman?” he suggested, bobbing his brows as I pocketed my phone. “Or are you into something kinkier?”
My new friend was already starting to annoy me. I rolled my eyes at him as the bartender slid the fizzy soft drink toward me. When Ocean paid, I thanked him, scanning the room, trying my best not to lock eyes with anyone.
No tall figure in a three-piece suit.
I sighed, feeling foolish. Of course I’d been wrong, he hadn’t come in here after all. This was a seedy club, not a place for a billionaire heir to the Brice dynasty.
When I put my glass down, I spotted two women sitting on a sofa in the corner of the bar. They were making out, openmouthed, and one clearly had her hand between the other woman’s thighs, stroking her clit. I tried to look away, but it was like my eyes were glued. There was something so raw, so beautiful, so arousing about it…
“That’s a thing of beauty,” Ocean said to me, following my gaze. “Is that what you want?”
I blinked and looked away. “No. I just wanted to…” My mind was blank. What did people do at clubs? Well, since drinking was out, and a relationship was definitely out, I shrugged. “Dance?”
“You got it,” he said, his smile taking up his entire face. “Let’s go.”
I was holding my drink in one hand, my phone in the other, so he linked his arm through mine and led me through a room that was bathed in a dim blue light, to one that was all done up in pink fluorescent. Truthfully, I was glad to have Ocean with me, because I could feel people’s eyes on me, heavy, sizing up the “new meat.”
Even though I’d thought I made it clear that I didn’t want to be with Ocean in “that way,” it quickly became obvious he didn’t care. The moment we reached the center of the dance floor, he pulled me toward him as the room pulsated to the beat of a song from The Weeknd. He started to gyrate his hips against mine so that I could feel his raging erection. I gently pushed him away as I scanned the room. But instead of seeing Cameron, my eyes caught on something else.
There was a man standing on the dance floor, not moving to the beat like the rest of the crowd. He was swaying slightly, a look of utter concentration on his face, and when I craned my neck to get a better view around Ocean, my jaw dropped.
A woman in a black halter was kneeling in front of him, giving him a blowjob.
He had his hands threaded in her red hair and was ardently fucking her face.
I tried to say something to Ocean, but nothing came out. He followed my line of vision and groaned. “They’re supposed to do that in the upstairs rooms. No one wants to slip on his jizz on the dance floor.”
I turned to stare at him. “Upstairs rooms? What do you mean?”
He tilted his masked face at me, like he was beholding a true moron. “You know…”
No, I didn’t. Unless…
I whirled around, scanning the room. Yes, people were watching the show. Some looked bored. Others looked interested. No one, absolutely no one, was shocked… except me. At that moment, it slowly began to dawn on me as the room started to spin.
I chewed desperately on the tasteless wad of gum in my mouth, trying to calm myself. I’d heard of places like this. I hadn’t actually thought they existed. But… holy shit.
I was in a sex club.
And all these people who were looking at me… wanted to have sex with me.
Holy, holy, shit.
What the hell did I just get myself into? I screamed in my head, knowing I definitely must’ve made a wrong turn. Of course Cameron Brice wouldn’t come in here. He was a Brice, for god’s sake. American Royalty. Sure, rumors of sex scandals had swirled around his family for ages, the way they swirl around all high-powered families. Cameron had often been seen with models and Hollywood A-list actresses on his arm, so I’d assumed he had a very healthy appetite for this sort of thing. But he did not need to come to a shithole club in Camden to get it. That, I had no doubt.
Hefting my bag onto my shoulder, I found the nearest ledge and set my soda down. “I made a mistake. I have to go,” I told Ocean, not waiting for his response before I tore off through the crowd in search of the door.
But I had no sense of direction. I ended up in a green room, then one that was bathed in white light. Everywhere I turned, people were making out or engaged in sex acts. The sound of moaning, sucking, flesh slapping against flesh assaulted my ears. I could even smell the sex mixed with cigarette smoke. And then, even more dangerous were the men and women who were looking at me. I pushed forward, desperately trying to avoid eye contact, to move, to get away.
My eyes landed on a stage in one of the rooms. There, a woman dressed like a tiger was kneeling on all fours while a burly man in a Tarzan loincloth plowed into her from behind. She moaned so loud I could hear her over the music.
I suppressed the gasp in my throat, imagining the story I’d have for Kiera. If I managed to get out of this place unscathed.
Finally, I spotted a bright red sign above the door that said EXIT. Its arrow was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Exhaling in relief, I beelined over to it, ready to burst out into the fresh air of night, when I noticed something that made me do a double take.
Sitting at the bar, looking directly at me, was a man in a Guy Fawkes mask.
And he was wearing a three-piece suit.