“Hey,” I say to Ainsley. “Was that the dean?”
“Yep,” she confirms. “Apparently he’s good friends with Madame Rochelle from my studio. She’s mentioned me to him. He’s going to come watch me practice sometime next week.”
My brows rise. “That’s a good thing, right?”
Ainsley nods. “It’s a very good thing.”
“That’s awesome, Ains. So the odds of you staying in LA just got higher?”
She smiles. “Much higher.”
Reed’s smile is packed with pride and adoration. If I didn’t know he was such a kinky fucker, I’d swear the boy is a giant marshmallow when it comes to Ainsley Davenport. Regardless, it’s apparent the guy is head over heels, which makes me incredibly happy for my friend.
Kingston nudges Reed with his arm. “I saw a few people I wanted to say hi to, but I don’t want to bore Jazz. You cool if she hangs with you for a bit?”
“Of course.” Reed gives a stern nod.
“Duh,” Ainsley adds, swinging her arm around my shoulders. “What do you say we go find the booze?”
Kingston and Reed have a silent exchange before Kingston yanks me into him and plants a kiss on my mouth.
“I’ll be back soon.”
I wave him off. “Do what you need to do.”
I watch as Kingston weaves through the crowd. He has his eye on someone in particular, but Ainsley tugs on my arm to get my attention before I can see who he’s after.
“Jazz? Did you hear me about the booze?”
“That sounds like a great idea.” I could use something to take the edge off from my encounter with her father.
“So... what’s up with the weird vibes I was getting earlier?”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“I mean...” She stretches the last word out. “Why was my dad acting like a total creeper? And he knew your mom?! How crazy is that? What did he say after I went to talk to the dean?”
“Uh...” I look to Reed for some help.
“Babe.” Reed puts a hand on Ainsley’s lower back, guiding her to the bar. “Let’s get those drinks. I’m thirsty as hell.”
Ainsley giggles and presses up on her toes to whisper something in his ear. Reed’s hand flexes around her hip, leading me to believe that whatever she said was filthy. Whatever he says back to her is likely even filthier because she’s turning beet red.
Diversion successful. God bless teenage hormones.
After she disengages from the dirty talk, Ainsley’s hazel eyes, identical to her brother’s, roam the room. “Is it just me, or are there an awful lot of girls our age here?”
I noticed that, too, but I wouldn’t exactly know what’s considered atypical with these types of gatherings.
“And that’s odd?”
Ainsley nods. “Totally odd. Usually, the only women present are freshly Botoxed wives or girlfriends. At least in the parties my dad has hosted at our house. They must be dancers, too, here to meet the dean.”
Reed is scanning the room right along with me and based on the wary look in his eyes, I’m guessing the same thoughts are running through his brain. Could these girls possibly be trafficking victims? My recent online research has taught me that sex trades can take on many different forms. On the surface, victims could look like your average happy, healthy person.
But sometimes, beautiful women are used as high-class escorts in wealthier circles. Or they work as masseuses—not to be confused with massage therapists—through seemingly legitimate day spas or likewise establishments. You just never know because things aren’t always as they seem. They even have task forces during the Super Bowl, whose sole job is to raise awareness or provide an opportunity for victims to escape during the massive influx of travelers.
Sadly, it’s not always easy for a victim to leave, even if they had the chance. The traffickers keep them compliant with threats, blackmail, drugs, material things, or pretty much anything they can use as leverage. One recent study said that girls in foster care are particularly vulnerable. Is that how my mom got sucked in? Is this what she was subjected to?
Ainsley’s right—a lot of these women are in their late teens, maybe early twenties. Kingston once told me that you can usually spot an interested buyer by watching how closely they observe others. Pay attention to their body language as they track a young woman or, even more disturbing, little girls. As I attempt to do that, I think I spot one.
The man isn’t even that old—maybe thirty at best—but he’s giving off strange vibes. The redhead he’s talking to flattens her palm over his chest, before lifting up on her toes to whisper something in his ear. When he pulls back, he nods and watches her walk away. Another woman—this one blonde and closer to his age than mine—comes up to him with fire in her eyes.
I’m guessing this may be his wife or girlfriend who just happened to witness his interaction with the other woman. The man’s face flushes as she presumably rips him a new asshole before stomping off. With slight hesitation, looking down the hall the younger woman walked down just moments ago, he chases after the blonde. I look down the hallway and spot the redhead disappear behind some French doors. My gut’s telling me something’s not right. I need to make an excuse to step away so I can follow her.
“I need to pee real quick.”
“Okay,” Ainsley says.
“Hold on a sec,” Reed adds.
The man from the ballet school approaches us. “Miss Davenport, may I have another word? It’ll be brief; I promise.”
Reed looks back and forth between Ainsley and me.
“I’ll be fine,” I assure him, hitching a thumb over my shoulder. “I think the powder room is right there. I’ll only be gone a minute or two.”
Reed reluctantly allows Ainsley to pull him aside while talking to the man. I see him running his thumbs over his phone screen, probably texting Kingston, but I don’t waste any time hanging around. I head down the hallway and find the doorway the mysterious woman walked through. It leads to a small brick patio right off of a beautiful courtyard. I get a quick flash of her coppery hair as she disappears into what appears to be a large hedge maze.
I have a feeling I’m going to regret this, but that doesn’t stop me from going in after her.
Chapter 8
JAZZ
Well, one thing’s for sure, this is definitely a maze. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve rounded a corner, and there’s no end in sight. I’m trailing behind the woman just enough to avoid being seen, but not too far where I could lose her. The outdoor lighting barely reaches this area, so the darkness helps conceal me, but I still need to move cautiously. Thankfully, whoever designed this thing thought to pave the path, so it’s easier to navigate in these damn heels I’m wearing.
My phone is vibrating like crazy in my purse, but I’m not going to risk pulling it out and scaring this chick off. I may have no clue where we’re heading, but she certainly does, and I intend to find out what’s at the end of this labyrinth. Just when I think this will go on forever, the hedges open up to a patio, like the one at the other end. Behind this one, though, is a small cottage. It seems rather odd to have your guests go through all that to get here, but what do I know? I suppose it would afford them privacy.
The woman walks through the front door without knocking, so I’m guessing she’s the person staying in the house. I turn around to begin the long trek back when a familiar voice catches my attention.
What the hell?
I whip my head around and see the redhead had left the door slightly ajar. I slowly creep closer, my eyes darting back and forth to ensure the area is clear. I plaster my back against the stucco siding just to the right of the door and listen carefully. The unmistakable sounds of sex are echoing throughout, and if I had to guess, I’d say there’s more than a few bodies inside. It sounds exactly like what I heard outside of the boathouse by the lake.
What is it with these rich people and their orgies?
My ears perk up when I hear the voice that drew me here.