Page 98 of Direct Action

“Please,” Pete answered.

“Certainly, Mr. York,” she purred. “How about you, Mr. Sinclair?”

I swallowed down my disdain when her lips curved up into what I was sure she’d hoped was a come-hither smile that she wanted me to read and, if she was lucky, act on. It sucked to admit, but before Chloe, I would’ve given her a second look, probably even would’ve accepted the invitation. Though the regret would come faster than normal when her clothes came off and all I got was hard points and boney. Not even her obviously fake tits could make up for the curves she lacked other places. But she was easy, and before Chloe, that was my type. Women who put out with no expectations. Women I wouldn’t respect mostly because there’d be no getting to know them. Women who wouldn’t latch on in hopes of getting more. Women who didn’t want or see a future. And that worked for me since the future I’d wanted had been tied to Chloe and I’d been certain that was an impossibility.

“Water.”

I didn’t miss the flash of disappointment.

“Of course. It’ll be just a few minutes before the bar reopens.”

I glanced over and saw three bartenders cleaning the bar top. This was a necessity seeing as the two female bartenders had just climbed down after dancing on top of it.

“That’s fine, Naomi. Thank you.”

She transferred her attention back to Pete and smiled, before she walked away.

“You’re off your game,” Pete admonished, but he did so with a smirk.

“When your woman’s dancing in a room full of horny men who don’t know which part of her they want first, this happening while they’re fighting their dicks getting hard, you can explain to me how to stay focused.”

“Fair enough.”

I was looking at Pete, but in my peripheral, I caught Chloe stop at Blackwell’s table. No doubt he’d requested her section again.

“You know he’d blow the mission before he let anything happen to your girl.”

Pete was talking about Beck.

I knew that was the truth, but it didn’t make it any easier watching Blackwell smile at Chloe the same way Naomi had been smiling at me, knowing damn well he wanted a piece of her.

“You think he’s gonna let Beck in?” I asked.

“He’s down a guard. If he has something planned soon and is desperate, maybe. If he’s got more security we don’t know about already set up, he’d be stupid to bring someone new into the fold this soon.”

That was my take as well. Blackwell was keeping Beck close while in San Diego, but that didn’t mean enough trust had been built to bring him along to a party. However, that was exactly what we needed to happen. It would confirm these parties were taking place at one of the many properties Blackwell owned. We’d also understand what exactly was happening at these parties. Prostitution was one thing. The kind that meant the women or men involved were sober and consenting and there of their own free will to make money however they saw fit to make a living. Forced prostitution was something else. Kidnapping and trafficking another level.

We had three missing women that we knew of, spanning over two years. That didn’t give us anything, because while that was horrific, it didn’t say trafficking. If Blackwell had a ring set up, he’d be selling more women than one a year.

Finally, Chloe walked away from Blackwell’s table, and the knot in my gut released enough I could take a full breath. Not that it lasted long, when Blackwell pushed back from the table and made his way through the room, weirdly headed in Poppy’s direction. A quick glance at Beck, and he was following Blackwell’s path while shifting his gaze to Poppy, then back to Blackwell.

“Fuck,” I grunted.

“You can say that again.”

Blackwell stopped in front of Poppy. Smiled. Leaned close but not too close, then his mouth started moving. Poppy immediately started nodding and smiling back.

“Fuck.”

This time Pete didn’t say anything. Not that he could, because Naomi was back with our drinks. She was also blocking our view.

By the time Naomi was done, Blackwell was walking back to his table with a smile on his face that gave me a shiver.

“Whatever that was, was not good.”

“Nope,” Pete agreed.

“Whatever that was, was not fucking good,” I repeated.