Page 9 of Captive Audience

“Fake it till you make it, baby.”

I grabbed my purse and sent a quick text letting the girls know I was on my way.

7

ROOK

From across the street, I watched Asha walk into the bar. Her friends were already inside. I’d seen them arrive fifteen minutes ago. Sunshine blonde and dark-haired Goth Barbie, the same women she met with every week.

Asha was more dressed up than usual. Short black dress, high heels, red lips.

Fuck me, she was gorgeous.

And all the bastards inside knew it, too.

The bartender glanced up mid-pour. Two arseholes at the bar pretended not to stare while practically undressing her with their eyes. One leaned over to whisper something to his mate, and they both turned to watch her walk by.

A muscle ticced in my jaw. I gripped the lamppost beside me to keep from storming in and putting someone’s head through a wall.

Asha didn’t even notice. She was busy smiling at her friends, oblivious to the male attention on her. Oblivious tome.

Jealousy curled low and hot in my gut. I hated that those men got to see her like this. Hated that they got to be close to her. Some prick probably thought he stood a chance of taking Asha home.

Over my dead fucking body.

I was supposed to stay outside and watch from a distance, like always, but…what harm would it do to step inside the bar and see her up close, happy and carefree, before everything changed?

Because tomorrow, I wouldn’t be Asha’s stalker any longer. Tomorrow, I’d be a menace far harder to shake, and she’d become mine in every sense that mattered. By law and by name.

I rolled up the sleeves of my black shirt, checked that the kid I’d paid to keep an eye on my Ducati was still doing his job, then crossed the street.

Soon, there’d be no more space between us.

8

ASHA

Iarrived at the Greenhouse and found Beth and Daisy seated at a reclaimed wood pub table near the entrance. Along the back wall, the name of the bar swirled in pink neon against the ivy-covered brick. Potted ferns dangled from the rafters, and between them, strands of fairy lights twinkled.

A DJ played lo-fi beats from the corner while bartenders shook cocktails and muddled fresh ingredients.

I gave each of my girls a hug. Beth had changed from her ER scrubs into wide-leg pants and a white crop top, and Daisy wore a fuchsia maxi dress with cutouts at the midsection. She’d just come from an afternoon garden wedding she’d organized for her event-planning business.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Philadelphia’s slutty little true-crime podcaster.” Daisy grinned and flicked her long blonde hair over her shoulder.

“Keep your voice down, Daze.” I gave my girls a hug and shimmied my ass onto an olive-green velvet stool. “Caught the promo, did you?”

“Sure did. You looked like a total smoke show.”

“Thanks. I’m not sure it got me the right kind of attention, though. Did you read the comments?”

“Do you mean the ones from the pearl clutchers or from theincels?” Daisy waved her hand in the air. “Don’t worry about them, babe. Let those dummies boost your views.”

Beth sipped her martini. “How’s the case going?”

“Slower than I’d hoped. This might be a tough one to crack.”

A month ago, Sierra’s parents had messagedCaptive Audience, asking if I’d help find their daughter. I’d agreed because there’d been an unusually high number of runaways vanishing from the streets of Philly this year, and the police rarely bothered searching for transient teens. The Witkowskis had even offered a generous reward for information leading to Sierra’s whereabouts, but so far, all responses had proved fruitless.