Page 71 of Nightfire

She looked down at herself, naked and shivering. There were faint red marks across her chest, her shins, wrists and ankles where the restraints had bitten her skin. Other than that her skin looked pale and colorless, with an underlying gray, like that of a dead person. As a child, she’d seen lots of dead people, shot in the streets like animals by the narcotraficantes. As a child, she’d thought death to be the most horrible thing that could happen to a person.

She’d been wrong.

She dressed. Just the bare minimum, panties and the linen shift dress she’d had on. The bra and shoes were beyond her. As she made her way to the door, she glanced at a mirror and stopped, shocked.

She looked like the living dead.

Consuelo brought a hand to her mouth and watched the woman in the mirror do the same thing. It was like watching someone else. If she looked any longer, she’d lose her courage. There were things she had to do and little time to do it in.

She peeked out the door, saw no one and slipped out.

The corridors were mainly empty. Life at the Meteor Club didn’t really start until 10 pm.

Consuelo knew she looked like a ghost as she made her way to her room, a wild-eyed ghost with messy hair and ruined make up. The few girls she met looked downward as she passed and Consuelo realized how many times she’d seen the women of the Meteor looking abused since the arrival of los rusos They’d all learned to let it go, avert your gaze, pretend nothing was wrong.

This was the beginning of a road that shot straight to hell.

In her room, Consuelo went to the closet and took out her one pair of jeans and a white shirt for tomorrow.

She stared for a moment with loathing at the clothes in her closet. Bright colors, plunging necklines, clothes meant to entice men, clothes easy to get out of so the men wouldn’t have to work for their sex.

Her hand fisted in a blue satin gown that looked good on her. Made her skin glow, highlighted her breasts. She hated it. There was at least $50,000 worth of evening gowns and fine lingerie in her room and her hands shook with the desire to rip all that satin and silk and lace to ribbons. Slash it all then burn it.

But she didn’t dare. If she had any chance at all, it would be because nobody would sound the alarm until tomorrow evening. Her first client was at 9.

She would be far far away by the time the client, a famous attorney who had gotten out of control a few times lately, showed up.

So instead of ripping her clothes up or tossing them to the floor, she left the closet as it was, neat and organized.

All of this was easy to walk away from.

Her hands started trembling again as she pulled a card out from a hidden pocket in the lining of her purse. Most of the girls had the number memorized and so did Consuelo, but she loved the card so much she kept it because it was so beautiful.

A normal visiting card, cream colored, with only a number and a stylized bird in flight.

Freedom.

She punched the numbers in and waited, trembling. When a quiet female voice answered she said, “I’m in trouble. Can you help me?”

FIFTEEN

La Torre

Coronado Shores

“Are you hungry?” Mike asked. “I never fed you.”

Chloe was in a sex coma. She barely understood what he was saying. More than hearing the words, she felt his deep voice reverberate in his chest and since she was lying naked on top of him, reverberating against her chest, too.

“Are you?”

That luscious sound was words, presumably meaning something. She should be paying attention to them, instead of relishing those utterly male bass tones.

Mike rubbed his chin against her hair. He had the beginning of a five o’clock shadow and her hair caught in his beard, pulling a little. The tiny bite of pain brought her back to reality.

He’d said something…food!

Chloe was just about to answer that food was the last thing on her mind when her body spoke for her. Her stomach rumbled loudly.