Vigilante 01 - Who Knows the Storm (4 page)

Now to go home and deal with Sam.

Chapter Three

C
ADE
DIDN
’
T
have time to go back to his apartment and shower the fucking terror off his body, so he stomped and bitched under his breath until he reached the service entrance of the Iron Butterfly. There was a staff meeting this evening, and so what if he was a little bit early? It was just him being a gold-star employee.

Courteous Cade. Workaholic Cade. Cade, who was almost entirely booked up for the next six weeks with clients who couldn’t get enough.

Cade, who just got tackled by a lunatic and menaced by some adolescents who thought they were Bloods or Crips.

Jesus Christ.

At least he delivered the letter. He would tell Mr. White things had gone perfectly well—the rest of it didn’t matter, right?—and that lie might get him a few more hours a week of easy money.

He tried not to think too hard about what he’d just done, ducking around the puddles of melting snow, dirty from the wheels of hand trucks and the boots of workmen. Unlike the front of the casino, which boasted daily shining of the brass fixtures and glass front, no one bothered with the underbelly of day-to-day operations. A double door—black, battered, and bulletproof—kept out everyone not doing business with the Iron Butterfly.

After pulling off one leather glove, Cade lifted the cover off the keypad and pressed the eleven-digit code to get the security guard’s attention. Two beeps answered him, and he keyed in another fifteen numbers.

The heavy door rumbled and buzzed, shaking slightly before creaking open a crack.

One dark eye and a bushy eyebrow appeared.

“Hey, Billy,” Cade said, the epitome of laid-back casual, even as his heart thumped triple time. He didn’t say why he was there early, didn’t mention his dressed-down look in older clothing, didn’t explain away the scrapes on his cheek.

Why start a lie when attitude would work just as easily?

“Mr. Creel.” The door rattled open and the wide girth of their security guard greeted him. The black uniform—top to bottom, from cap to steel-toe boots—stretched out over Billy’s pro-wrestling form. “You here for the meeting?”

An hour early
went unspoken.

“Yeah. And I have some paperwork to fill out.” He sighed dramatically. “Damian’s on me about getting everything done before the Anniversary Gala.” When in doubt, blame his bosses’ attack poodle/money guy.

Billy nodded. His muscles bunched under the tight black fabric but then relaxed. And the door slid open entirely so Cade could get through.

“Go on up. I’ll let Mr. Z know you’re here.”

Cade smiled thinly; of course Zed was up already. Of course. Hopefully he’d be busy with tonight’s event and not in the mood for a… naked chat.

They didn’t keep normal hours around here—you slept all day, woke up when the sun set, and then worked until dawn. Vampire hours here at the classiest casino-slash-whorehouse in the District. He ducked past Billy, his own height dwarfed by the guard’s shadow.

Cade felt the warmth of the hallway in his face, blood rushing to his cheeks as he breathed deeply. Now that he was—relatively—safe, he felt like he could relax.

“Damn, I need some coffee,” he said, turning to give Billy a two-finger salute. “Can I bring you back anything?”

Billy shook his massive head. “No, sir, Mr. Creel. I’m fine.” He pulled the door shut behind him, the echo shaking through the narrow hallway. “You have a good day,” he said, slow and careful. Cade could feel Billy’s gaze crawling over his body, not because he wanted some action but because Cade’s face, coat, and pants were caked with dirt.

“You too.” Cade forced himself to walk up the staircase slowly, taking his other glove and scarf off, tucking things in the pocket of his overcoat. He opened the red door at the top, another quick glance at Billy.

Who watched him with curious eyes.

He disappeared through the doorway, hurrying into the brightly lit catacomb of hallways.

C
ADE
HAD
lived at the Iron Butterfly for three years, an “original cast member,” as Zed liked to say, which made what they did sound like Disney World and not a high-class whorehouse. They were the first of the big-money places to open ten years ago and so held a bit of cachet—classy and elegant, where you spent your money when you wanted a bit of high society mixed with your scotch and a piece of ass. The piece of ass part was relatively new, and only if you felt it was worth it—that was Zed’s thing. Putting out for anyone who asked or even offered to pay? A waste of your time. Cultivating clientele and escalating the “treats” for each visit? Then you are mining, not doing a smash-and-grab.

Zed’s criminal past wasn’t exactly a secret, but even less so when he used examples like that.

Cade made excellent money—most of which he sent home, much to his father and brother’s annoyance—and had achieved some notoriety on the circuit. The New City was packed with entertainment, from the visual to the physical, casinos and sex and light shows and gourmet meals. Everything was calibrated to entice the few with enough money to pay the high cost of pleasure. And make everyone else so damned envious they counted their dollars until they could come too.

Cade was a star, like the people who used to make movies and television in the Big Apple or perform on Broadway, a few blocks away. His face flashed in advertisements, his body broadcast around the world to sell a masculine, polished look.
You, too, could look like me—a well-coiffed sex worker with a brain and a whole lot of brawn.

Here’s what I eat for breakfast. Here’s how many sit-ups I do. This is my checklist for the perfect blowjob.

Clients paid money to see him model beautiful clothing. To be a charming and articulate companion for dinner and drinks and dancing and blackjack. They could also establish a visit schedule that enabled them to see what was underneath—and with each passing year, Zed could charge a bit more and Cade could ensure the family farm was safe.

A heartwarming tale, his manager, Rachel, would say dryly, and toss her long auburn hair as she mocked his bitching and whining when he felt like he was being overworked.

Poor you
, she’d say.
Safe and warm and clothed, earning a living to support your entire family and doing it from luxury. I’m sure there are thousands of people living in shitty neighborhoods a few miles away who wish they were beautiful enough to do the same.

Rachel was right, of course. She knew this business, and he stuck close, did what he had to do to stay her favorite.

Staying Mr. White’s favorite put extra money in his pocket—even if that meant breaking a few of Cade’s own rules.

Keep your head down, do your work, and never—ever—ask questions.

After depositing his outerwear and damp boots in the slim lockers of the “talent” lounge and washing off as best he could in the men’s room (it took a thin layer of makeup to cover the scratches on his cheek), Cade walked the corridors of the Iron Butterfly from the sterile white of the service areas to the tenth floor, where the staff had their offices.

The cleaning staff lugged their equipment up the back stairs; Cade politely waited for the crew of black-suited men and women to maneuver up three flights until they reached the casino floor. Their day started hours before opening, but that was scarcely enough time to meet Zed’s approval.

“Good day, Mr. Creel,” a few of them murmured as he continued on.

The steel was cold under his stocking feet as he jogged up. At the tenth-floor doorway, he pressed his personal code onto the keypad and waited for the whir and click as the lock disengaged. He slipped in, alert for Zed or his mercurial assistant, Damian. Questions from either of them would force Cade to lie, and while he was a good actor, he was shit without a script.

The industrial feel of the building changed entirely; steel-gray carpeting and mauve walls greeted visitors to this floor. Doors painted the midnight black of the Iron Butterfly’s logo lined the wide hallway, with silver sconces to light the way. Soft, serene.

At the end of the hallway, Cade paused. To the left was the suite of offices Zed used. The heavy double doors were usually guarded by security, but their absence signaled the boss was elsewhere.

Entertaining talent in his private rooms, one might imagine.

Cade took it as a good sign, turning to the right and hurrying to Rachel’s door. A thin silver nameplate was its only decoration.

Rachel Moon, Talent Manager

He knocked twice, deciding to use a visit with Rachel to cover his sudden timeliness for the meeting.

The knob turned and Cade pushed in, sliding into the office and then shutting the door as quickly as he could.

“Stealth,” Rachel said. She looked up at him, smirking, as she petted his stomach, wrinkling her nose at his plain gray sweater. “No need to sneak around, honey. Zed’s not even here. And you better change before the meeting. You look like a homeless person.” Her outfit was her usual prefloor uniform—a pale pink dressing gown over a set of white silk pajamas, her auburn hair perfectly smooth and falling over her shoulders in neat waves.

Rachel turned and walked back to her desk, a monstrosity of carved birds and flowers in heavy oak, utterly at odds with the delicate French boudoir scheme of the rest of the floor. She perched behind in a chair rumored to have come from a castle in Belgium, red velvet and ridiculous.

“To what do I owe this honor?” She shuffled around some green folders on her desk. Damian’s demands for numbers, most likely. At some point they would end up in his wastebasket.

On fire.

Cade threw himself in the pewter wing chair that was set aside for visitors. “Just wondering if you have me booked for the Anniversary Weekend,” he said casually, crossing his legs. The mud streaks were obvious, but Rachel didn’t react beyond a flicker of her gaze.

“If you think you can convince me to pawn the Germans off on someone else….” She gave him a look that reminded him far too much of his mother—disapproval, affection, and the sure knowledge of complete control over his actions.

“No, it’s fine. They’re big tippers.” They were also rough and a little nasty; Cade usually ended up staying in bed for two days after they left, in a state of painful melancholy.

“That’s the spirit,” she said approvingly. “Besides them, you have Mr. Valdez, Mr. White’s regular, and a double session with Mr. and Mrs. Torres.”

Cade’s eyes went wide. “Double?”

“Yes.” She looked pleased. “They’ve upgraded their weekly appointment to Tuesdays and Saturdays.” The weekends cost more, and that meant their commitment had nearly tripled in price.

Cade didn’t know whether to be excited or nervous. Mr. and Mrs. Torres weren’t quite at the level of the Germans, but they were a double handful nonetheless. Lately things had been getting a little rough as Mr. Torres came to terms with some of his particular… appetites. Appetites his lovely wife had no interest in satisfying. Cade let himself go boneless in the chair, tipping his head back so he could stare at the ornate ceiling. Kissing cherubs, looking dirty and innocent at once.

“I’m not really supposed to handle the rough stuff,” Cade said, not trusting his ability to say this while looking at Rachel. “And they seem to be headed in that direction….”

Rachel made a disapproving sound. “Cade.”

He tamped down his whining and excuses for why he couldn’t. “I’ll handle it.”

Rachel smiled. “Thank you.” She opened her mouth as if to say something else, but just as quickly gave a shake of her head and turned her attention to her tablet.

T
HE
STAFF
meeting took thirty-four minutes—Cade counted every second of it, tired and itching for a shower. The lack of sleep was catching up with him, the crash of adrenaline burning through his blood and empty stomach. He still had a full evening ahead of him, one that would most likely end in the wee hours of the morning with his two-thousand-dollar suit on the floor of the high rollers’ suite upstairs.

Zed—all thick black tattoos peeking out from the corners of a tight short-sleeved shiny suit—commanded their attention, stressing the importance of their upcoming Anniversary Weekend, the original two hundred guests when the doors opened, and how their continued patronage at the Iron Butterfly would keep them all very comfortable. He gestured with his hands, his mouth running a mile a minute; a Cockney lilt that might not be real, furious curse words and slurs that absolutely were, and a gentle threat under it all.

Pull your weight, make them spend more, or find out just how brutal five months of winter can be out on the street without a plane ticket home.

Rachel sat slightly behind where Zed stood, a smirk on her lips. She found their boss entertaining, even when he was furious, screaming and throwing things in the hallway.

Damian Oh—Zed’s business manager, keeper of the money and details Zed didn’t want to bother with—sat on the other side, perched at the edge of his chair. Every time Zed raised his voice to air another point, Damian scrunched up his face and nodded. He squinted at each of them from beneath a shaggy styled haircut, fierce like a tiny purse dog that thought it was a Doberman, silently willing (Cade assumed) their continued moneymaking ability.

“And before anyone asks, security will continue to be doubled.” He paused to scowl. “Tripled, until the police find the prankster calling in bomb threats,” Zed finished. This was an ongoing headache for him and all the other owners in the District. Bomb threats every few days, without follow through. Without even a random demand. Just—nuisances. Much like the fires and vandalism reported from job sites north of the city.

The police were no further in finding the culprits than they were when it started a few months before, and the moneyed District movers and shakers were furious their bribes and protection money got them no closer to the truth.