Page 92 of Direct Action

I didn’t get a chance to tell her that right then coffee was my only hope of making it through the day.

“It’s my turn,” she went on acidly. “And I’m not letting you fuck it up.”

“I have no idea—”

“Don’t pull that innocent, doe-eyed bullshit with me. I see the way you look at Sterling, and it won’t work. He doesn’t fuck his hostesses.”

My stomach revolted at the thought of fucking Sterling.

“Are you . . .” I stopped abruptly, realizing Naomi obviously knew something I needed to know and calling her crazy wouldn’t get me the information. But playing along would.

“Jealous?” she huffed, wrongly finishing my thought. “Please. If I wanted to fuck him, I would’ve already done it.”

“I wasn’t going to—”

“Listen, bitch,” she cut in. “I’m only going to say this once. Back the fuck off of Sterling. I’ve been waiting a long time to get invited to a feast. Cindy was one of his favorites, and now that she’s gone, I get my chance.”

“Cynthia was—”

“A stuck-up bitch,” Naomi rudely interrupted me again. “She thought she was the queen fucking bee with her standing invitation to hostess at the parties. Never thought that bitch would quit.”

I heard the barista call my name.

I probably should’ve had a better handle on my anger. I needed Naomi to open up and explain to me what a feast was so I could tell Ryan and the guys. But hearing Naomi call Cynthia a bitch had my temper flaring.

“She didn’t quit, and you know it. Her sister has reported her missing, and she’s frantic with worry.”

Naomi rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, right. Cindy’s been talking about moving to Vegas for the whole time I’ve known her. At five thousand a party plus tips, she took her twenty grand and ran.”

Twenty grand, holy shit.

And holy shit, Cindy had worked four of these parties.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I muttered and started for the counter.

I didn’t get very far before Naomi grabbed my arm. “I’m warning you—”

I wrenched my arm free. “And I’m warning you back. If Sterling asks me and I get my shot, I’m not saying no.”

With that lie still lingering in the air, I bustled to the counter.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“It’s fucked and it’s not much, but it’s more than what we had,” Beckett finished.

I went from looking at Pete’s phone sitting on the table to the man himself, then over to Gavin. Both of them looked as disturbed as I felt.

Beckett had just spent the last twenty minutes briefing us on a trip he took up north to the San Fernando Valley with Blackwell. A trip where he’d scoured the porn scene, making his selections for talent for an upcoming feast. Blackwell hadn’t been forthcoming with the ins and outs, but Beck had been able to connect the dots.

Blackwell was a sick fuck and he was hosting a party for his rich, equally sick friends at his mansion in Rhode Island.

“I’ll call Fallon and tell him to run missing persons reports from the San Fernando Valley and surrounding areas and have him narrow that to anyone in the porn industry,” Pete said, then switched topics. “How are you handling being under again?”

I heard Beck grunt through the phone.

“Need more than that, Beck,” Pete urged.