“Oh.” Angel chewed her lower lip, leaving streaks of dark red lipstick on her teeth. “I could…I could cry instead.” Again, her gaze darted toward the piano. “Some people like that. It turns them on when I cry. Or I can do whatever you and your man want me to. You’re the guests. I’m here to serve you.”
“No, no, no. I didn’t mean—” Isabella forced the emotion in her chest to stay the hell away from her face. Just because they were somewhat tucked away over here and Kellan had her back didn’t mean she could give her emotions any wiggle room. The job was more important. Always. “I only meant that if you’d like to take a break, we can go into one of the private rooms and just talk.”
“He’s always watching.”
“Excuse me?” Kellan asked from over Isabella’s shoulder, his voice soft with concern.
Angel tipped her head just slightly toward the man with the scar on his forehead, who was now roughly encouraging the blond in the blue dress to dance with a man who looked twice her age. “Franco keeps an eye on us girls from out here, but Mr. DuPree watches the private rooms with hidden cameras to make sure we’re doing our jobs. We’re not…” She paused for a wince. “We’re not really supposed to tell the guests that, though.”
Isabella’s stomach tightened. Damn it, she should’ve figured the bedrooms would be under just as much surveillance as the rest of the place. “That’s okay. We won’t tell anyone you said anything. You won’t get into any trouble.”
“Angel.” Walker kept his tone low, probably as much to keep from spooking her as to avoid being overheard. “Do you know if Mr. DuPree listens to what goes on in the private rooms too? Or does he just watch on the security feeds?”
She edged closer, although cautiously. “I don’t know. But he’s not watching because he wants to keep me or any of the other girls safe. He likes to see us work. The rougher, the better. You take me to a room and don’t fuck me or make me fuck you, he’s gonna be mad. And you don’t want to know what happens when he gets mad.”
“No, you’re right,” Isabella reassured her. “I don’t want that.”
Angel leaned in toward Isabella, her expression growing panicked. “So can we please just go fuck now? I promise I’ll try my best. I’ll do whatever you tell me to. Just don’t make him mad. He cut me off from my stash, and I…I need the fix, okay? Please.”
Isabella steadied her hands over Angel’s shoulders, but just barely. “Easy, Angel. Mr. DuPree won’t be mad. You don’t have to worry, okay?”
Taking a deep breath, she sent one last look around the space in search of a more private place to talk without being eavesdropped on or easily seen, but damn it, between the chance they’d be caught not screwing on video or overheard by one of DuPree’s lurking goons, talking here was too risky.
Isabella was going to have to talk to Angel outside of this penthouse if she wanted to get enough of a statement to go after DuPree. Plus, the longer she and Kellan stood here, the greater the chances someone would notice they were both still dressed and sober.
She closed the softly lit distance between her and Angel, putting her mouth close to the woman’s ear but stopping well shy of contact. “I don’t want to get you in trouble, but I do want to talk. If you’re not here because you want to be, I can help you.”
Angel stiffened, her chin turning in surprise. “How?” she asked, the flash of vulnerable hope in her eyes negating the toughness she’d tried to stick to the word. “You some kind of fairy godmother or something?”
“Or something.”
The girl’s dark eyes grew round. “You’re a—”
Isabella squeezed Angel’s shoulder, not hard, but enough to cut her words to the quick. “Friend, Angel. I’m just a friend.”
“I don’t have friends. Not anymore.” She looked across the room at the spot by the piano, where Scarface leered openly at the blond, who seemed far less sure of her balance and her surroundings than she had five minutes ago. “Rampage and Franco and Mr. DuPree made sure of that. Me and the others, we’re not even allowed to talk to each other most of the time.”
Isabella’s heart slapped at her sternum, but God, she had to stay steady. “Well, you can talk to me.”
“Yeah, right,” Angel said. “Like I got time for conversation. If I don’t start blowing your boyfriend in about fifteen seconds, Franco’s gonna come over here and backhand me into next week.”
“No one’s going to lay a finger on you,” Walker interjected, the vow quiet but fierce enough to make the back of Isabella’s neck prickle.
“We can’t talk now, you’re right. But you can come talk to me away from here. Would you like that?”
“Mr. DuPree will kill me,” Angel whispered, the look on her face backing up the fear.