Page 28

28

MADDOX

What the fuck just happened?

Alissa went glassy eyed for a moment and then left in a huff.

She thinks something is going on here. Something dark.

Aces Underground certainly has some unspoken stories, but nothing that any other former speakeasy wouldn’t have.

She’s gotten worked up. People are watching serial killer documentaries all the time now, and everyone is paranoid, seeing things that aren’t there. How many conspiracy theories are floating around the internet these days? They rarely end up being true.

Harrison is the only person I’ve ever brought to this club, and he never asked too many questions. He was just happy to order drinks on my tab and flirt with whichever women I hadn’t chosen for myself.

Alissa is a woman. Maybe that’s the difference. Women tend to notice small details, ask the questions that are supposed to go unanswered.

But there are plenty of women who are members of Aces in their own right or come on the arms of their boyfriends or husbands. None of them, as far as I know, have peeked behind the curtain.

The official party line is that Rouge is doing the right thing. The people who work in this club are getting their chance to start a new life, live the American Dream.

Alissa is British. What does she know about the American Dream?

Actually, she’s kind of living it. She came here to get a music education and was able to turn on a dime and pursue nursing instead. She got a job at a great hospital downtown and can afford a nice apartment in a good part of town. And she gets to date me, which is a plus.

I’m living the American Dream, too. I built that shop from practically nothing. True, I made an arrangement with my father to get the building in my name, but everything else was at my own expense, and Dad was eating up half of my profits until the moment he dropped dead.

Good timing on the old bastard’s part. Things started really taking off once I could keep all the money I made.

I got his car too, so I was able to sell the old clunker I’d been driving since my sixteenth birthday for a little extra spending money as well. Now, over ten years later, I’m doing pretty well for a small business owner in his early thirties. I’ve even been able to start putting money away into a retirement fund—not that I ever want to stop running that shop.

Shouldn’t the scantily clad waiters and waitresses in this club be given the same chance?

Of course, if Rouge really cared about them, she’d simply sponsor their immigration without making them work for her for five years. She has the money—the Montroses are as well-established in Chicago as the Hathaways, if not more so. She could start a non-profit, raise a ton to help these people get their start here, and hire American citizens to staff her bar at an agreeable wage.

But this way, she makes more money in the long run.

Or does she? It’s got to be expensive to do all that traveling, paying for legal expenses to get everyone here on a green card. Plus she’s on the hook for housing and food and medical expenses for the next five years.

I scratch my head. It’s not adding up.

I don’t know all the details, of course, but something is nibbling at the back of my neck about it all—and it has been since Alissa started asking questions earlier.

Maybe Alissa is right. Maybe this thing goes deeper.

It could be a wild goose chase, but I love this woman, and I?—

Fuck.

I love this woman.

I really do.

It’s only been a few days, and she’s run out on me twice now, but some invisible force has tethered her to me.

But it can’t be.

I don’t fall in love with women at the drop of a hat. I learned this lesson after Laurie dumped my ass the day of my father’s funeral. After what happened when I first started coming to Aces. I learned to carefully guard my heart, never allowing a woman inside. Most of the women I took to bed were expendable—gone in the morning with a disposable cup of coffee, a kiss on the cheek, and a lying “I’ll call you.”

But despite the walls I built around myself, Alissa managed to worm her way in. The way she speaks her mind without thinking, the way she twirls her hair around her finger when she’s contemplating, the way she zones out as she ponders something meaningful.

And…shit.

She’s going back into the same alleyway where that gang of thugs cornered her last night.

What was she thinking?

What was I thinking, letting her leave like that?

Where would she even be going? It’s not like she can figure out what Rouge is up to—if Rouge is indeed up to anything—by hitting up the Harold Washington Library.

If anything, my political connections are going to be the way to go about this.

She needs me to help her. And to protect her.

I get to my feet and run up the mirrored staircase, pounding on the door.

Chet opens it, cocking his head. “Leaving so soon, Mr. Hathaway?”

“Yeah.” I button my jacket. “Did you see Alissa?”

“Alissa?”

I roll my eyes. “I believe you call her Miss Wonder.”

Chet grins. “Are you looking for her?”

“Yes. That would be why I asked if you saw her.”

Chet clasps his hands together. “Do you think she left?”

“She went up the staircase, Chet. There’s only one direction she could go from this room.”

Chet raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”

“For Christ’s sake, of course I am. Did you see which way she went?”

“Which way do you think she went?”

“I swear to God, Chet…”

“Do you believe in God, Mr. Hathaway?”

I grab him by the shoulders, pressing his jacket up against the wall. The button keeping it together snaps off, revealing his pale hairless chest. And his nipples are…purple? Covered in violet makeup.

What the fuck is up with this guy?

“Give it to me straight, or I’ll fucking pound your skull against this wall until there actually is another exit out of this room. What the hell is going on here, Chet?”

His lips twitch. “What do you think is going on?”

I groan, exasperated. “Fuck this all, and fuck you.” I let go of Chet and exit through the black door. I look around the alleyway. No sign of Alissa. I grab my phone out of my jacket pocket and shoot her a quick text.

You okay?

I stare at the screen, willing the three dots to show up.

They don’t.

Shit.

I put the phone back in my pocket, and it rustles up against something.

I wrinkle my forehead. I don’t keep anything in my jacket pocket except my phone. It looks bulky otherwise.

Maybe it’s a receipt from the bar.

Except no. Aces charges all my drink orders directly to my account, and I’m billed for whatever my father’s estate doesn’t cover.

I pull it out of my pocket. It’s a piece of notepaper folded neatly into quarters. I unfold it. At the top is a phone number with the words Call me when you’re there , and then a message scrawled below it in ornate handwriting.

A figure of black, with points to its rank

Was lost near a henge of cascading wet banks.

In fields where the grasses grow wild and unkempt,

Its crown was interred—placed perhaps with contempt.

Search not for the heart, nor the diamond or club,

For their sister lies still beneath flower and shrub.

Where wings take to sky, and landings draw nearly,

You’ll find what was hidden, its fate mirrored clearly.

What the actual fuck?