It turns out that the whole “go after Evan Black” plan was a little more complicated than I’d anticipated, primarily because I had no idea how to get in touch with him other than through his office. I’d done that, leaving a message with his assistant through the automated voicemail system. Since I didn’t immediately get a call back—and I fully expected him to ignore the message—I decided to scour the entire condo in the hopes of finding his personal cell number. Then I’d cross my fingers and hope he’d answer.
Too bad for me, I found diddly-squat. Not one single number for Evan, Cole, or Tyler. I did find the mother lode of family photo albums in the bottom drawer of Jahn’s bedside table, and I spent two solid hours sitting on his bed and thumbing through them, soaking up the memories and feeling melancholy.
Most of the pictures were of people I vaguely recognized but didn’t know by name. Grandparents who’d passed away before I was born and third cousins I’d met only at various graduations, weddings, and funerals. But two of the albums focused on my little corner of the family. There were pictures of me and Gracie at the Kenilworth house. Me and Gracie on a sailboat in the middle of the lake. Me and Gracie at Disneyland.
My mom and dad were in all of the pictures that featured me and Gracie, but there were earlier pictures, too. Pictures without either of us that looked old enough to be from before even Gracie was born. My mom was in all of those photos, my dad in very few. In some, Jahn stood beside my mother, his arm around her as she leaned against him, smiling and radiant.
I wondered if my father was the one behind the camera, but I had a strange feeling that he wasn’t. Instead, I had the feeling that I was a voyeur. That I’d stumbled on something I wasn’t supposed to know about.
Feeling melancholy, I closed the albums, put them back in the drawer, and made a mental note to mail them to my mom.
I poked around a bit more in Jahn’s bedroom and found a battered address book that included Evan’s name, but when I dialed, I heard only the message that the number had been disconnected. I would have called the office and talked to Jahn’s secretary, but it was Saturday, and this hardly seemed like the kind of thing I should bother her at home for.
I was about to ditch the whole thing and give Flynn or Kat a call, when I realized there was one more place I could check. I reached for my phone, searched the Internet for Destiny, and dialed.
“Destiny,” a woman’s voice crooned. “Where your fantasy is our pleasure.”
“Um, yeah. Hi.”
“How can I help you?” She sounded perfectly polished while I sounded like an idiot.
“I’m looking for Evan Black. Could you tell me if he’s there right now?”
“I’m sorry, we don’t expect Mr. Black for another hour. Can I have him return the call?”
“Oh. Um, no. Thanks, but I’ll just call back.”
I stabbed my thumb on the button to end the call feeling a bit like I’d just done espionage. I did, however, now have a plan.
I glanced down at myself, and realized I was still wearing yoga pants and the Northwestern T-shirt I’d bought my freshman year. Not exactly appropriate attire for a strip club. Then again, I had no idea what one wore to a so-called gentleman’s club, and though I’d had the chance to find out in college, I’d manage to completely blow that opportunity.
My roommate sophomore year had thought it would be a hoot for a group of us to check out a strip club, and she’d set her sights on Destiny, which she’d heard was the biggest, nicest, least sleazy strip club in the area.
I’d been desperately curious, not only because I knew the knights owned the place, but also because I was dying to know what went on inside a club like that. Were the women completely nude? How exactly did a lap dance work? And were there really private rooms where guys went for a three-martini lunch and a blow job?