Page 43 of Foxed Up

A lot of my unconscious misconceptions died an undignified death, or at least were strongly challenged. Some of the shifters here were previously from "better" circumstances than mine even, and life had hit them hard and in all the wrong ways. Nobody came right out and said they couldn't leave if they wanted to. Nobody said they could, either. There was a general, resigned attitude that I picked up from everyone working here: some places were much worse. The management might be controlling, and the "clients" weren't a lot of fun to deal with, but there was a certain amount of safety and at least they got paid.

The implication being that other places were worse, didn't even pretend it was a job rather than sex slavery, and sometimes johns could be downright evil.

Lexie returned a few times, hanging out with us, eating, trading jokes, leaning on my shoulder, and generally behaving like a know-it-all when it came to instructing me how to get used to working here, how to act, how to be a prostitute, etc. I could see he was enjoying being the one in the know for once. Since he was the youngest one here, it probably didn't happen often.

I wanted to ask if anyone would consider testifying to the police, seeking a new career elsewhere, etc. But the bouncers were always in and out, McCann showed up at the oddest times, and they all had sharp ears. I was still scared as shit for most of the time.

I couldn't wait for the day to end, and I really hoped they'd let me leave. So far, no "clients" had been pushed on me. But I expected it was only a matter of time till McCann tried.

Jon Connery

I should not have let him leave the house.

My sweet, fragile boyfriend was not back. He should be back, giving his report. Telling us what he'd found out. Moving back into my arms so I could hold him and comfort him. But he wasn't back.

I thought of the curve of his slim wrists, the tilt of his smile, when he meant it, the way it lit up his eyes. The way he'd looked in my bed last night, lingering, neither of us rushing. He'd reached out to rub my arm, affection in his gaze even after the last of our lust had been extinguished. He had so much presence, and he still amazed me, always would. And now he was gone from my life, a candle snuffed out.

He'd better still be alive.

In the meantime, till I knew, I was on the warpath.

Six hours later, a molasses-slow search that turned up nothing, and fruitless questioning of some shifters who had worked there but apparently never heard of Wallace, fox shifters in general, or indeed anything to do with dancing. It was hair-tearingly frustrating.

And I was on my last chance, the last resort, the wing-and-a-prayer chance. It was the only thing I could think of...and it might already be too late.

I stood outside the door of a shitty mobile home on the riverbank and knocked. The pungent rotting smells of the riverside felt like a slap in the face. I could only hope I didn't receive an actual slap in the face rather than the help I so desperately needed.

Quinn Green opened the door and gave me a calculating look. "I've got the kids staying with family. You can come in. What do you want?"

I'd remembered to call him rather than arrive unannounced, as he'd specified. No need to piss him off. He crossed his arms and looked me up and down, his eyes narrowed.

I swallowed. It was hard to beg. But I'd do it if I had to, if that's what it took to save Wallace.

"My partner—"

"The fox?"

"Yes. Wallace Avery."

"Don't lie to me. He's more than your partner. I saw the two of you shopping together, with your kid. Acting all lovey-dovey."

"He's my boyfriend, yes. We also work together. Can I continue?"

He huffed, a triumphant sound, and leaned back. "Go ahead."

"He's missing."

Quinn gave a shrug, his eyes hard. "Foxes are like that, aren't they? Just up and disappear. What, did you think he came here? That's a riot."

"He didn't just disappear." He wouldn't have left without letting me know. He'd promised to let me know he was alive next time I was worried about him. This was an entirely different situation. "He was working undercover, trying to crack a possible trafficking case. He didn't come home, didn't report in, hasn't been heard of since. I'm desperate to find him. We checked everywhere we could, questioned people... No evidence. Nothing. Then I thought of you. You'd recognize his smell. Maybe if you did a walk-through of the strip club, you could discover something."

"What, you mean like his dead body?" I must have flinched. His eyes softened briefly with regret, and he uncrossed his arms. But he didn't take it back.

"I mean...some clue," I managed with difficulty, and then began laying out the terms the captain had offered me if I could get his cooperation. "The department would pay you for your help, of course. As a special consultant. A good fee for your time, and no confined spaces with predator shifters, of course."

"That's not good enough," said Quinn sharply. "Thedepartment? You think I trust the cops as far as I can throw them? Why should I? They get what they want and do what they want. I'm trash to them and you know it." He walked up to me and poked me in the chest. "You want my help, you pay me. Personally. What's it worth to you?"

"Whatever you want." I swallowed hard. I wasn't a very good negotiator with Wallace on the line. "I'm not rich. But I need help. I'll pay whatever you—"