Page 87 of High Reward

When I step into the hallway, I find Victor waiting, leaning against the wall in a charcoal button-up and dark jeans instead of his usual suit. He looks younger, less burdened, and the sight of him makes me smile. His eyes trail up my body, lingering on the neckline of my dress and the pretty necklace that serves as my training collar.

“Beautiful,” he says simply.

My cheeks warm, as he offers his hand. “Let’s go, butterfly.”

“Where are we going? I thought we were under lockdown.”

His smile is conspiratorial, and he tangles his fingers with mine. “We are. But I have good security and a plan.”

When we exit the hallway that houses the suites, two armed guards are waiting. They say nothing, as Victor and I pass them, but they follow us toward the back of the club. I catch sight of Lili talking with Trinity near the bar as we pass through the main room. She meets my eyes and smiles, then blows me a kiss. Whatever this is, she’s in on it, or at least aware of what’s going on.

We enter the kitchen and exit into the back parking lot through a side door. Victor helps me into his Audi, the leather seat cool against my bare legs. He slides into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. A dark SUV pulls out ahead of us, driven by one of the guards. Another follows behind.

“Seriously, Victor, what’s going on?” I watch his profile as he navigates out of the parking lot. “Is this about a pickup for the club? Or are we going to see Harper?”

His mouth quirks slightly. “Neither. Just be patient, Mariposa.”

The desert evening spreads around us as we drive, the sun setting behind the mountains, painting the sky orange and pink. The Strip glitters ahead, and my shoulders relax. I should be scared, being outside the safety of the club, but it’s nice to be free for a little while, driving through this city I’ve grown to love. And Victor seems to think it’s safe, so I’m determined to enjoy whatever this is.

We turn away from the Strip, heading toward the Arts District. The buildings grow smaller, more colorful, murals adorning brick walls, signs advertising local friendly happy hours and live music. This part of Vegas is different from the neon excess everyone pictures when they talk about this place. It’s more authentic for locals, and I’ve always loved it here. Driving through this area now reminds me how long it’s been since I’ve attended a First Friday event. I love the food and the localartists, and I always try to buy something fun for the walls of my apartment from one of them when I attend.

“Are we meeting with an artist?” I try again. Though I have no idea why that would be the case.

Victor just shakes his head, that small smile still playing at his lips. I’m not used to him being playful like this, but I like it.

He pulls up in front of a small storefront nestled between a coffee shop and a vintage clothing store, a colorful mural on the brick facade frames windows filled with books.

A bookstore.

My heart does a little somersault in my chest.

A small sign in the window clearly says “CLOSED” though, so I fear we’re going to be disappointed.

Victor kills the engine. “We’re here.”

“But it’s closed.” I point to the sign.

“Not for us.” He gets out and comes around to my door.

The security SUVs park across the street and down the block, maintaining distance but keeping watch. Victor takes my hand and leads me to the door.

A lockbox hangs on the handle, and he punches in the code. It pops open, and the key falls into his palm. He unlocks the door as if he owns the place.

“Victor.” I pause at the threshold. “What is this? How do you have the key to a bookstore?”

He guides me inside with a gentle hand at the small of my back. “I rented it. For the evening.”

The door closes behind us, and he engages the lock with a soft click. The store is dimly lit, lamps casting a warm glow over the shelves. No one else is inside. Just books, hundreds of books, their spines creating patterns of color along the walls and down the aisles.

“You… rented a bookstore?” I can’t quite process what’s happening.

Victor’s hand finds my back again, and he nudges me deeper into the store. “You mentioned once that bookstores were your safe place growing up. That you’d hide in them for hours when things got tough at home.”

I did tell him that. Years ago, in high school. In a casual conversation that I barely remember. But he remembered.

“With everything happening,” he continues, voice low and intimate in the quiet space. “I thought you might need a safe place again. Somewhere away from the club, away from the danger. Just for a little while.”

My throat tightens. This man, who commands rooms with his presence, who plans security details, interrogates enemies, and has a past littered with violence, remembered a throwaway comment about bookstores.