Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
I felt my anxiety shaking my internal foundations like the first rumbles of an earthquake. “You know I don’t do parties, Kenzie.”
That’s when she scooted closer to me and cupped my face in her hands. “I do. And I promise, all you have to do is show up. I’ll take care of the rest.”
The crunch of tires on loose concrete drags me back to the present, into the sticky summer-night heat of the dead mall’s parking lot.
Headlights cut through the dark. An engine grumbles.
The van we’ve been waiting for pulls around the building and comes to a high-pitched halt in front of us.
Kenzie takes my hand as a short, stocky man hops out of the driver’s seat and walks toward us.
“You McKenzie?” he shouts over the hum of the engine. It’s hard to tell exactly what he looks like in the dark, but the rasp in his voice suggests he’s old enough to have been smoking two packs a day for the past twenty years.
“I am,” Kenzie says. “This is my friend. I told Steph about her.”
He opens the van’s sliding door. The interior lights turn on, and I count three other girls squinting against the sudden brightness inside.
The light reflects off Kenzie’s silver half-heart BFF necklace. I’ve got the other half tucked inside my makeup case at the motel, but Kenzie wears hers constantly. It was a birthday present from me to her. I stole it off a clearance rack at a jewelry store in this mall, back when it was still open.
That was three years ago, right before we ran out on our foster family when we were fifteen years old.
Kenzie’s a few months older than I am, but I’m usually the one who looks after her. I don’t mind. She looks after me, too, in her own ways. When we go grocery shopping, she handles the check-out process so I don’t have to talk to the cashier. When Doreen calls to berate me for not doing something she forgot to mention, Kenzie answers and promises to pass along the message—which she promptly forgets.
She does these little favors for me. Things that come easily to her and so many others that feel insurmountable to me. Because she’s my best friend, and best friends look out for each other.
When she squeezes my hand and whispers, “You can do this, Hollywood,” I don’t tell her she’s wrong.
I just think of it as one more little favor. One small way of helping us in the long run.
“Phones and bags,” the driver says, snapping his fingers. Kenzie and I hand over our purses. He tosses them into a black garbage bag, presumably filled with the other girls’ belongings and croaks, “Get in.”
Steeling myself, I let Kenzie go on ahead and then climb into the van behind her.
The door slams shut, and off we rumble into the night.
Chapter Two
Caleb
I count three stone fountains on my way up the winding drive to Russell King’s mansion. Dolphins leaping. Horses spitting. Cherubs pissing into giant clamshells.
It never ceases to amaze me what the rich will waste their money on.
Granted, I’m one to talk. I rented a Porsche for the occasion—an out-of-pocket expense, since I’m technically far outside my jurisdiction as a Knoxville homicide detective.
Pulling up in front of the house on the outskirts of Morristown, I spot the valet at his podium. I leave the engine running, button my suit jacket, and make my way toward the pillared entrance. I recognize my partner Abby’s confidential informant, Russell King’s personal assistant, standing by the door with an iPad. He frowns at my approach.
“Good evening, Mr. Dawes,” he says, using my alias. It’s thanks to him that my name even found a spot on the guest list.
Abby’ll be pissed when she learns I reached out to her CI without informing her first, which is precisely why I haven’t told her yet.
“Is my dear friend, Mr. Wilkins, inside?” I ask. Membership to these secret events is highly regulated, but occasional guests are permitted with prior notice. I knew I couldn’t pretend to be a long-time member, so I had King’s assistant put me down as State Treasurer Harvey Wilkins’s plus one, on account of the man’s notorious lack of discretion.
“He arrived twenty minutes ago,” King’s assistant says. He waves to the doorman, who opens the way for me to enter.
I step into the foyer. Smooth jazz floats in the air, alongside the tang of cigar smoke. I scan the marble floors, crystal chandeliers, painted murals on the ceilings. It’s no secret that corporate law pays well, but it’s Russell King’s private business that I’m most interested in.
From what we’ve gathered, King’s the main coordinator behind these illicit gatherings, in which members pay handsomely for the opportunity to mingle with beautiful young things—teen girls, mostly, plus a handful of pool boys in spandex. They’ll pay even more to take said young things into what I’m certain are equally ostentatious guest rooms for a more private experience.