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He tensed but didn’t stop eating. “Who?”
“He’s Gavin’s banker.”
“You trust him?” Angel asked without looking away from his chicken wings.
“No.”
“Why?” She hesitated, and he finally looked away from his plate. “Tell me why, Carmen.”
“He’s a pervert, a leech. He has a fetish for unconscious women. His sons-in-law are no different. They all work at his bank.”
Angel considered her words and nodded before he pushed away one plate and went for the other. One of the dancers stumbled, which got her attention. She focused on the two women who couldn’t dance for shit and examined them more closely. They were thin. Too thin. Their movements were jerky, awkward, and obviously untrained. When one of the women dared to look into the silent crowd, Carmen jolted.
“She can’t be older than eighteen!”
“She is,” Angel said.
“How do you know?”
“Because I asked the last time I was here.”
She stared at him. “You’ve come here more than once?” She was appalled and totally turned off. Some guys had darker tastes when it came to sex, and it appeared that Angel was one of them. He made it clear he was attracted to her, so she thought he would want a strong woman, but if he liked watching what looked like young teenagers with no curves and that scared, submissive expression, maybe he was—
“I didn’t come here for the girls,” Angel said. “But I asked about them because I thought they were underage, just like you. They turned eighteen this week.”
“And they’re on stage?” It happened but going totally nude a week into your eighteenth birthday was hardcore, and the girls on stage looked far from the defiant, rebellious teens one would expect.
“Apparently, that’s what they go for here. As young as legally possible, untrained, and amateur.”
The girls on stage were getting worse by the minute. She couldn’t blame them. She doubted that this place was ever full, and within a half hour, nearly every table and booth was now occupied by a silent spectator. Two new dancers stumbled on stage, and the other two scurried off. These two were a little better than the first. They had a little more meat on their bones and fake boobs. They sent winning smiles into the crowd as they attempted to climb the poles and promptly slid back to earth.
Carmen fisted her hands in her lap. She wanted to drag the girls backstage and lecture them on better clubs where they could make more money if they just had some training. She glared at Angel, who ate his wings as if he was at a five-star restaurant instead of a dumpy bar. She should make a scene and get out of here, but her damn curiosity kept her in place. Something big was about to go down; she just didn’t know what.
More people filed into the bar. She eyed each of them in turn. Some she recognized, and some she didn’t. The ones she did recognize sent a wave of dread through her. She couldn’t resist leaning into Angel to warn him about the more notorious characters. Nothing made an impression on him.
The crowd in The Pussy was one of the most eclectic and confusing she had ever seen. Wealthy bankers and politicians sat next to gang leaders and criminals while police officers and other government officials rubbed shoulders with bikers and CEOs. She assumed they were here for Angel, but he seemed more concerned with finishing his wings than addressing anyone, and no one paid them any mind. She knew the upper echelon guys, the ones she and Vinny rubbed shoulders with at fundraisers and obligatory parties. She recognized the gangs and bikers from their tattoos, patches, or colors. Her dad would shit a brick if he knew she was within a quarter mile of any of these guys, much less in a room full of them.
She was trying to place a vaguely familiar face in the crowd when she spotted George Wotherton disappear down a hallway beside the stage. She tensed. There was probably a bathroom back there, but … she elbowed Angel.
“Move,” she hissed.
“What?”
“Move. I have to check on something.”
He held up stained hands. “I’m almost done. I’ll go with you to the bathroom.”
“It may be too late—move!”
Angel stood with his hands in front of him. She grabbed her purse and walked down the middle of the room to avoid the Black Vipers. She wasn’t sure if the current leader, Maddog, knew that her father killed his over fifteen years ago, but she wasn’t taking the chance. As she rounded the stage, she reached into her purse and felt the reassuring weight of her gun. She flipped the safety off and paused in a hallway that was just as filthy and damaged as the rest of the place. The lights flickered. A minute later, a door at the end of the hall opened, and George Wotherton appeared, dragging one of the nude dancers under one arm. He raised his head and noticed her standing there.
“Carmen Pyre,” he said with a jovial smile and continued toward her.
She pulled out her gun. “Put her down, George.”
“Why?”
“What’d you do to her?”
