Wild: A Bad Boy Romance (Chicago Underground Book 4) by Skye Warren

Author:Skye Warren [Warren, Skye]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Romance, Dark, Adult
Published: 2015-06-29T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Without much time, our plan was simple: Allie swiped their keys for me and then distracted both men while I got away. I knew Allie could hold her own, but I hoped Colin wasn’t too annoyed at her on my behalf. At least his old truck didn’t stand out so much in this neighborhood.

Jade’s house sat at the end of the street, the hinge between a poor residential neighborhood and a row of ratty strip malls. I parked in the small paved lot and climbed the creaking wooden steps. The glass in the front door had been painted black for privacy, which proclaimed the type of establishment this was as much as the neon THAI MASSAGE sign.

My eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim interior. It looked the same as when I’d first been introduced here years ago, summoned by Jade and escorted by one of Henri’s senior girls. Only later had I learned that an audience with Jade was a commodity in Chicago’s sex industry.

The city was fractured in half, the upstanding and the underworld, each with its own customs. The bookstore had a chatty sales girl to usher a new hire in. Jade was my guide. She ruled with a power none of us completely understood but we all respected if we were going to last in the business.

Technically she didn’t control anything outside these walls, but everyone showed her deference. Even Henri had always stepped carefully where she was concerned. I wondered about them, what bound them together, which one of them was the devil and which had struck the deal. There was something deeper there, but that was the old guard, and I was the new girl.

Back then, the bright red vinyl banners with gold lettering had seemed jarring over the cracked yellowed walls, the irony almost mocking. A little cat statue waved its paw, representing prosperity, next to the sign listing $75 FOR 30 MINUTES. The good-luck pendant hung over the door leading to the “massage” rooms. Over time I had come to appreciate the blending of noble tradition with harsh reality, the evidence of hope within a brothel.

I wasn’t the new girl anymore.

After ringing the small desk bell, I scooted one of the metal folding chairs away from the wall and gingerly sat down to wait. I had only seen a cockroach on the wall once, but it made me eternally grateful for the expensive hotel rooms where I usually worked.

Two men came in, squinting and laughing and stumbling. Boys, really. They sobered at the sight of me, a woman in the waiting area of a whorehouse. The one with his hair in two-inch spikes whispered to the other furiously; the other argued back.

I couldn’t make out their words, but as if channeling some animal instinct, well sharpened, I sensed their lust, their anticipation at having it soon slaked, and their terror at this taboo venture. First timers. I disliked being a man’s first paid sex experience, vicariously living their thrill and shame over less money than they’d have dropped on a nice date.

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