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“Someone approached me for a web design job.” I let the words trickle out, careful with every detail. “He said it was for a local import company. But he wouldn’t give a real business name, only initials. He wanted to give the payment up front, in cash. Far more than market value.”
Orien’s focus narrows. This isn’t what he was expecting. “When was this?”
“Yesterday,” I say. “At the coffee place near 14th. Guy was a Beta, in his late thirties, no accent, and dressed in business casual. He said he found my profile online, but that’s a lie. My portfolio isn’t even public yet.”
“What was the product?” Orien asks.
“He wouldn’t say, aside from them needing a site, fast, to appear legitimate for some supplier overseas. He wanted a two-week turnaround. Said it was urgent.”
“Did he give an address?”
“Yeah. It’s an old brick office on Bering Avenue. I checked it out on the way here. There was no sign, only a buzzer. The mailbox is labeled BAH Partners.”
Orien files the information away. “Did you take the cash?”
I shake my head. “I told him I needed to check my schedule and I’d get back to him.”
“What made you think this was information we’d want?” he asks.
I add a hint of uncertainty to the performance. “It seemed off, and whatever the guy is importing, it’s in the same neighborhood as the Blue Note. If you don’t think it’s important, then I’ll tell the guy the timeline is too short.”
A silent beat passes.
“No, you did the right thing.” Orien studies me before he turns to Ghost, who has returned with my drink. “Don’t go back to the coffee shop until you hear from me.”
“Okay, I won’t.” I let my shoulders droop with relief. “Thanks. The guy really gave me the creeps.”
Orien motions to Ghost, who walks down the bar and returns a moment later with the ledger. I try not to stare at it with too much avarice.
Ghost sets it on the bar top and cracks it open to a clean page. “What did this guy look like?”
I give the description in more detail, having memorized the data from the dossier my family sent over of the sacrificial goat they dug up to give me an in with the Blue Note.
While Raiden Johnston never approached me in person, he’s complete scum, and he is looking to set up a website on the dark web to bring in child brides.
Ghost writes as I speak, taking down all the relevant information, and a thrill goes through me.
I’ve passed another gate at the Blue Note, and scum like Raiden will be taken off the streets, because there’s not a doubt in my mind that once they investigate his activities, Orien will ensure he disappears.
Orien nudges my fresh whiskey sour closer. “Grab your drink, trouble.”
Before I can ask why, he slides off his stool and moves toward the back of the lounge. The club’s band has gone into a cover set, drums and guitar pulsing in the floor, the chatter rising to fill the gaps.
I follow.
He doesn’t check whether I’m behind him, leading the way through a gap in the tables to the empty booth in the shadow of the stage I’d asked about earlier.
It’s dark leather, the seams split here and there, the surface buffed smooth by years of elbows and hips. The table is small, the kind designed for intimate settings instead of a crowd.
Orien slides in first, takes the far side with his back to the wall, and waits.
This is dangerous. I know it, but I set my drink on the table and slip in next to him. Seated behind the speakers, it’s actually quieter here, though not quiet enough for anyone to overhear our conversation.
Orien stretches his legs out under the table, his foot nudging mine, and my pulse skips a beat. The attraction runs bone-deep, drawing me toward him despite every reason to resist.
He spreads his arms out along the back of the cracked leather, his big body open, and his pheromones reach out to me, curling into my lungs and messing with my reason.
Under the table, his foot slides up my calf in a gentle urging motion to come closer. A shiver goes through me as I turn on the bench, drawing one leg up onto the padded seat, and place my hand on the back below his arm.
