Darian
“Fuck.” I jab my thumb against the screen and throw the phone onto the couch. Like a caged tiger, I pad the length of my penthouse, having no idea on what to do. It’s been three fucking days, and I haven’t heard anything from Becky. To make it all worse, she’s not even answering her damn phone. I’ve probably heard her voicemail more than a hundred times now.
Three days!
The first day was hard, the second was torture, but now...now I’m going fucking insane. I’ve tried being respectful and giving her some space, but this is just too much. And it doesn’t really make any sense, does it? I mean, why would she let me stew for this long?
I grab my phone again and text a message to my driver:bring the car around. I hurry out of the apartment and, once I’m out of the building, I immediately spot my limo.
“Greenwich Village,” I say as I slid into the limo’s backseat. “Same address as always.” Like an anxious kid, I keep on tapping my foot against the floor, wondering about what I’m going to find once I get to Becky’s. Maybe I’m overreacting and she’s fine. She’s probably just angry that Peter and I thrashed her living room.
Then again, how’s that my fault? I’m not the one who signed that fucking contract with Max, and I sure as hell am not the one who threw the first punch. If Becky wants to be mad, she should be mad at Peter, not me.
As soon the limo grounds to a halt, I jump out of the car and make my way up the steps. “Open up, Becky, it’s me!” I hammer my fist against the door for what seems like an eternity, but it’s useless. For a moment, I think she’s hiding inside the house and doesn’t want to see me...except when I press my ear against the door, not a sound comes from inside.
“Wiggle Jiggle,” I tell my driver as I hop back into the limo. If Becky isn’t home, maybe she’s at work. Just thinking of that makes me tense. She’s fucking FBI agent, not a stripper. And even though she puts to shame all the other chicks, she shouldn’t have to strut her stuff for justice.
Once there, I cut the line and the bouncer waves me in. Whether that’s because Max told him to do it, or because he knows I’m someone you shouldn’t fuck with, I can’t really say...and I don’t really care.
One step inside Wiggle Jiggle and I immediately hear the muted beat of the music, the kind you expect to hear in a sleazy strip joint. It really doesn’t matter how fucking expensive a place like this is—the music selection never really changes that much.
On the stage, a tall brunette is dancing on the pole, her body sliding up and down with magical ease. Shit, sometimes I wonder why pole-dancing isn’t a part of the Olympics. These chicks can do stuff that would put athletes to shame.
“Have you seen Becky?” I ask the bartender, a bald dude with forearms that are as thick as my neck. More than just being here to pour whisky, this guy is here to intimidate the customers. That’s to be expected—some assholes can’t control themselves whenever they see a pair of perky tits, and I bet Max hired this frowning giant to scare these pathetic men into behaving.
“Becky Brash,” the guy snorts, and then rolls his eyes. “You’re the fifth person asking me that tonight. I’m going to tell you what I told the other dudes: no, I haven’t seen her, and I have no idea when she’s coming back. Now, are you going to asked me about Becky’s horoscope or are you going to choose a damn drink?”
“I’ll take the drink.” I don’t like this asshole’s tone, but what the hell—I do need a drink. I point at a bottle on the upper shelves, and the bartender pours the scotch over a couple of rocks. Drink in hand, I make my way to a booth by the corner.
I sit there, half draped in shadows, and let the alcohol burn its way down my throat. I was hoping it’d help me clear my head, but it doesn’t.
“Darian Strong,” I hear someone say, and then a slender redhead plops herself right beside me. I don’t even have the time to blink my eyes—half a second later and four more strippers appear, turning my moment of introspection into a fucking party.
“And who the hell are you supposed to be?” I ask her, annoyed at how crowded my booth has just become. Just because you know my name, it doesn’t give you the right to sit at my table...even if you’re a bombshell capable of making a man’s heart explode just by flashing him your breasts.
Alright, maybe I’ve become a little desensitized to hot women, but what did you expect? After having someone like Becky, all other women are nothing but fake plastic annoyances. Becky, though...Becky’s real.
“I’m Pearl,” the stripper replies, her voice coming out as a purr. The other four also give me their names, but I barely register them. They’re the usual stripper fare, anyway. Jasmine, Candy, Pearl...whatever.
Any other day, and I’d be all over these five chicks. I’d tell my driver to bring the car around, herd them all into the limo, and then I’d spend the night drinking the finest whisky and fucking the hottest of women. But that’s not me anymore. It might be a pathetic thing to say, but I’ve changed. The only woman I can think about—and care about—is Becky.
“Hello, Pearl,” I finally tell the stripper. With a smooth motion, I down the rest of my scotch and rise to my feet. “Goodbye, Pearl.” Before Pearl or any of her friends has the chance to protest, I slip out of the booth and make for the door. I can’t be sitting here while Becky’s missing. I need to do something, I need to find her, I need to…
“Peter,” I mutter under my breath, hating the way his name sounds. Even so, I reach for my phone and dial that asshole’s number. It doesn’t take long for him to pick up.
“What the hell do you want?” He snarls. “If you’ve called me to accuse me of—”
“Shut the fuck up,” I cut him short. “This is serious, Peter. I think that Becky might be in trouble.”
“Becky? In trouble?”
“You heard it right,” I say. “Now sit tight.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m coming over.”