I’m pumped all of the next day, waiting for it to be time. I’m always pretty antsy by the end of the month, anyway, purely because the parties take the edge off my more outlandish tastes. I go to nights held by other people—Frankie used to host a downright dirty one—but it’s not the same. I am in control when that stuff goes down under my roof; I get what I want with whomever I want. The release just isn’t the same when I’m not the only master to be obeyed. It’s not that I don’t let other dudes in; that just wouldn’t work. But every guy who enters knows who the boss is, and that’s the way I need it to be.
It’s almost dark when I’m finally driving over to the place in the Camaro. Lace is laid out on the back seat, sleeping. I’m not leaving her alone for a second, even if that means she has to sit in a room with Michael keeping an eye on her all night. A cell phone alerts, making her grumble drowsily; I remove the one in my left hand pocket, trying to remember whether this one is Sloane’s or mine. It’s mine, and funnily enough the alert, an email, is from Michael.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Received: 02/21/14 19:21
Hey, boss, just a quick head’s up. Still haven’t found anything on the girl. If Charlie has buried her, he’s buried her deep. Got some of Rufus’s boys looking, too. They don’t know any names. I’ll be over in an hour.
I may call Charlie my boss, but there are plenty of boys out there who reserve that title for me and me alone. Michael’s been on my payroll for the last five years; he’s handy with his fists and has nerves of fucking steel. With Charlie’s non-too-subtle threat at the end of our last meeting, I know he’s probably got people on the alert for me snooping around in his shit. I’ve always kept Michael separate from Charlie, though. He won’t be on the look out for a six-foot-five motherfucker from Boise, Idaho. I slip the phone back into my pocket and process the information Michael sent me—he still can’t find the location of the girl, or even any record to confirm she still exists, but he’s still on the job. I know he’ll eventually turn something up. It’s just a matter of waiting.
We arrive at the apartment not long after that. I park the Camaro in the underground lot and collect Lacey from the back seat, careful not to wake her as I lift her out. She loops her arms around my neck and I carry her to the elevator. On the fourth floor, the apartment door is open and Ganya is hefting crates of vodka in from the hallway.
“Thought you liked the girls conscious at the beginning of the night, Zee.”
I shoot him a dirty look and head on inside, ignoring the jibe. I go to the end of the corridor on the eastern side of the sprawling, six-bedroom apartment, and settle Lacey inside the last room, making sure the door locks properly—we’ve had problems with unwelcome visitors taking liberties before. It does lock so I leave her while she’s sleeping, then I make sure the rest of the place is ready. At the front door the masks are already set out on a table. The theme for this month is gold, and so most of them are either white or black, coated with gold glitter or whatever that shit is they put on Venetian masks. I pick the ugliest one I can find—a devil’s mask complete with horns and downturned mouth—and set it aside for myself. I’m pleased when I find that everything else has been organised and set in place, as well. The lighting is low, a burned, honey-yellow that casts as many shadows as it does highlights. Sliced fruit and other treats are laid out for the guests, and silk screen partitions cordon off discreet corners of the various rooms, where people can gain a little more privacy should they want it. Most of the people who come here don’t, but there you go.
Guests begin to arrive, dressed in tuxedos and shimmering evening dresses, hair coiled in sweeping, elegant styles, just begging to be messed up. Names aren’t exchanged. Masks are kept in place. I go and get ready, trying to keep my head clear. The fucking thing won’t stop racing, though. Will she come? Will she dare? And if so, what the hell is she gonna do when she sees all of this.
I must be sick in the head.
Not only have I not spoken to the cops, but I’m on my way to the address Zeth sent me, and I’ve worn the shortest, slinkiest dress I own. I don’t know why but his text felt like a dare. He didn’t think I would do it, which made my rebellious streak stick its middle finger up. It’s been a while since that happened. After the worst day at work, being interrogated about Carrie’s disappearance—you were the last to see her, Dr Romera. Are you positive she didn’t mention anything about leaving—a fight with this guy is the very last thing I need. I’m not stupid, though; it’s probably going to happen, so I’m primed for one, regardless.