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Jack winked and attacked his burger.
I loved In-N-Out as much as the next person but not at sunrise.
“So, you’re the host at the Boulevard,” Cat observed.
“I am.”
“Bet you didn’t think your first VIP after your promotion would be such a slimy asshole.”
What the hell?
“How do you—”
“Stop freaking out Atlee,” Jack interjected. “Cat here is a Deputy Marshal. She’s part of a task force known as the SOIB. Sex offender investigative branch. Before that, she worked for Homeland. Before that, she was human intel in the Army.”
I glanced back at the pretty woman, unable to see her in any of the roles.
“I’m here to take down your VIP.”
Cat calling Martin my anything made me want to gag.
“Take him down?”
Wilson appeared next to me, two mugs of the elixir of the gods in his hands. He offered me one. I looked at the steaming liquid the perfect blonde color. He remembered how I took my coffee. I didn’t know what to do with that beyond take the mug.
“Thanks,” I muttered.
He sat across from me on the couch next to Cat. Very unwelcomed jealousy reared its ugly head. He was not mine, and even if he was, him sitting next to a pretty woman in a robe shouldn’t have bothered me. Yet it did. And I was having a hard time reminding myself of all the reasons why I needed to avoid him and the feelings he evoked.
“What do you know about Martin Jackson?” Wilson asked.
It was then it became clear. He’d pulled me out of bed at an ungodly hour to interrogate me about Martin.
The hotel had strict rules about sharing any information about the VIPs I worked with. An ironclad NDA that if I violated they’d own my assets from now until the day I died. Not to mention I’d be banned from ever working in another hotel.
“I don’t know anything about him.”
“Wilson,” Cat sighed. “You’re not very good at this. She’ll need something before she breaks the nondisclosure.”
Wilson’s tired blue eyes narrowed.
If he hadn’t woken me up and dragged me down the strip I would’ve felt sorry for him. He looked exhausted and weary.
“The women,” Jack started. “They’re Martin’s personal stable of hookers. Eden Dunhill is a madam. She handles the women. From recruitment to renting them.”
“Eden Dunhill is Martin’s assistant.”
“She is, in the sense she assists planning his sick fuck fests,” Wilson bit out.
That couldn’t be right.
Well, the fuck fest party was an accurate description but the rest was farfetched.
“I think you’re wrong. Hundreds of billionaires come through this city each year, flashing their money. They order call girls, throw parties, and spend exorbitant amounts of money. Martin Jackson is just like the rest of them. An asshole with too much money and a sick fetish.”
“He’s a sex trafficker,” Cat rejoined. “The last two parties he’s thrown are nothing more than a taste. It’s part of the vetting process for the main event.”
“What’s the main event?”
