Page 27 of The Masked King

I’m in the dressing room at the end of my shift when I hear voices.

I haven’t met any of the characters from the other rooms. I don’t even know their names, real or otherwise. We enter the back way when we arrive, get escorted to the dressing room by Michael Douglas, and once we’ve stepped into our alter ego shoes, we’re escorted to the client room via the back door. The client doesn’t see what we see, and vice versa.

So, aside from the bodyguards and the clients, I’ve spoken to no one else since I started working at JADED.

I zip up my jeans, go to the door, and press my ear against the wood. The voices are not coming from the corridor outside. Facing the room, which is the size of a small walk-in closet, I scan the walls looking for a panel or vent through which the conversation is reaching me. I find an air vent at the top of the wall on my right just below where it meets the ceiling.

Crossing the room, I press my ear against the wall, but it only muffles them further.

I need something to stand on, and the only piece of furniture is a dressing table pushed up against the wall facing the door.

I clear the skincare products and lubricants from the surface and carry the dressing table across the room, placing it directly underneath the vent. Then I climb up and stand on it, leaning my weight against the wall to compensate for it wobbling in the opposite direction.

Standing on the table, I’m almost eye level with the vent on tiptoes. I peer through the grate covering it and get a partial view of the room on the other side, but I can’t see who is speaking.

“…can’t promise.” It’s a man’s voice.

“This makes me unhappy, and you know what happens when I am sad.”

The second speaker sounds Slavic, like the men who interviewed me for the job. I haven’t seen them since I started working here; I’ve had no contact with anyone, not even DI Goss, and I’ve no idea if my JADED salary has been paid into the bank account the special unit opened in my alias, Kate Glasgow.

“Alright, alright.” The other voice has a typical upper class Manhattan accent. “I’ll make it happen. But you let me down⁠—”

“Hey, when have I ever let you down?”

A knock at the dressing room door makes me jump, and the dressing table wobbles beneath my feet. “What’s taking so long?” Michael Douglas is waiting to escort me off the premises, and it’s the first time I’ve heard such bluntness in his tone.

Shit!

I climb down and go to the door. Keeping my voice low so that it doesn’t travel to the next room, I say, “I couldn’t find my keys. Give me a minute.”

“Time to go.”

I quickly shift the dressing table back to its original position, shove the skincare products and gels on top, and grab my purse as I slide my feet into my boots.

I open the door, heart racing, as Michael Douglas reaches for the handle.

“Sorry.” I step outside, smiling, close the door behind me to stop him from checking out the mess on the table, and dangle my keys in front of his face. “I must’ve dropped these earlier. They were under a pile of clothes.”

“Next time, keep them safe,” he says flatly. “Or I have to report the delay.”

He’s already marching towards the exit, and I jog to keep up with him. He’s wearing the standard black suit, his hair cropped so short I can see his scalp, tattoos on the back of his thick neck. He doesn’t hand me over to another bodyguard.

Outside, I apologize again and thank him for his patience. “It won’t happen again.”

He doesn’t react. Turning his back on me, he heads back inside and closes the door behind him with an unremarkable click, and I feel as if I’ve lost an ally that I never really had.

I take my usual route through the quiet early-morning streets. I feel bone-weary with the adrenaline crash from my session with Brian, but I don’t look for him on the way home.

I’m still replaying in my head the brief snippet of conversation I overheard through the air vent. The speaker with the American accent sounded familiar. I’m almost a hundred percent certain I’ve heard him before, potentially even met him, but I can’t put a name to the voice.

Yet.

7

ENZO

I sleep like the dead. It’s the smug slumber of an arrogant asshole who thinks he has it all figured out.