Page 15 of Sweet Deception

The vice grip releases my ribs, but I can’t pause to enjoy the freedom. In a flash, I snatch my phone and book it quietly out of the bedroom and into the suite’s den so I can swipe my discarded heels off the floor.

After unlocking the door and easing it open, I check both ways for Darren’s friends or other Kings. Clear. In fact, the hallway’s empty, probably because the only people awake at this hour never went to bed and remain crouched at a slot machine or card table somewhere. The partiers who went to bed are likely still passed out from the previous night’s shenanigans and will be slow-moving once their hangovers set in.

Barefoot, I sprint down the brightly carpeted corridor toward the elevators.

They ding and open. I rush inside, press the correct button, and collapse against the side wall. I allow myself a few scant seconds to gather my wits before strapping my heels back onto my feet.

Across the way, the mirrored wall reveals my face to me for the first time today.

Wow, I look like shit. After rubbing hard to get the sleep out of my eyes, I submerge my hands into my own hair to comb out the tangles. It’s not perfect, but it works. I’d rather be disheveled and alive than cute while dead.

I track the numbers ticking down, floor after floor, and try to forget the memory of Darren’s hands on my skin.

So what if he managed to take me apart and put me back together again? So what if he knew just how to touch me, how totalk to me, how to melt me into a boneless mess? I’ll never see him again.

The sting of that realization hits me harder than I expected.

Maybe it might’ve been nice to meet Darren any other way. To spend another few hours with him—or another day—to see if last night was just a fluke, or if he could repeat his performance.

My phone weighs down my dress. Part of me kind of hopes his organization isn’t involved at all in what’s happening to Lucy. Darren may be part of the Kings, but even I know there are levels of dirty within various crime families. Darren could skew more to the morally gray side of the spectrum.

I hope that’s true. If so, I could banish the guilt pinching my chest every time the events of last night replay in my mind.

When the elevator opens into the lobby, I anticipate stares and whispers about my appearance, but no one pays me any mind as I zip through them toward the exit. It’s almost like a regular morning, except really…not at all.

There’s a buzz beneath my skin. My crazy-ass plan actually worked.

I got what I came for.

Now I need to get my stuff and get the hell out of Sin City.

Out into the muggy desert air I go. I dive into the first open taxi idling at the curb in front of the Sanctuary, and I’m gone without so much as a glance back.

An hour later, in my own far less lavish hotel in a far less lavish room, I grab my bag and open the safe to collect my favorite hacking laptop, which comes complete with a decal of pointe shoes affixed to the case.

I climb onto one of two double beds and get the laptop open before retrieving my phone from the pocket of my dress. Ignoring the way my hips achewhen I sit cross-legged on the bed, I connect my phone to the laptop and start running thedecryption software. It’ll take five minutes to unlock the stolen data I swiped from Darren’s phone.

Pushing out a big breath, I connect to my secure VPN and call Maya.

“Are you okay? Did you get it?” My best friend’s expectant voice centers me.

Yeah, I got something all right…

I clear my throat, my face heating up some. “Yes. Got the phone and the data I came for.”

“And?”

“The decryption software’s still initializing, but I should know more in a few minutes.” I’m supposed to sound hopeful or excited or victorious, right? We’re one step closer to finding out what happened to Lucy…

So why does a shroud of dread and self-disappointment loom over me?

How did I let him get the better of me last night?

That one question slaps my mind back and forth, over and over.

“How’d it go?” Shuffling emits from Maya’s end of the line, as if she’s moving around her tiny NYC kitchen.

“How did what go?” I ask, mind elsewhere.