EIGHT
Anton
Savannah has been acting strange ever since I found her in my office. I run a hand through my hair. I want to loosen my tie—the club is stifling—but I need to look my best.
Mikhail is here, along with the girls.
And the one person I want to show off to them, seems to have gotten cold feet.
Okay, that's probably an overstatement. Savannah is taking on a VIP customer, which is great, but why hadn't she mentioned it to me when I requested that she entertain our special guests for the evening?
I don't want to grow suspicious of her. She's given me no indication that something is amiss until tonight.
What was she doing in my office? I don't believe she has a thing for numbers. I've never seen her show any interest in anything math-related.
She was snooping, but I'm not sure why.
Was she trying to see how much the other girls make and are paying the club? I wouldn't put it past her for being curious, but sneaking into my office with the key I gave her was wrong.
The girl ought to be punished. But if I mention it to Nikita or Mikhail, she'll be fired.
No, it needs to be handled by me, off the books, at home, tonight.
I wander into the women's dressing room. The girls are all on stage or entertaining clients. The place is dark and empty. The lights flip on. There's a motion sensor when I step into the space. I head for Savannah's locker. It takes nothing to pick the lock, and I pull it off, opening the compartment.
There isn't much inside. Her purse, some clothes, and a makeup bag. I poke through her belongings, but there's nothing out of the ordinary.
I'm not sure what I'm looking for, but I feel something isn't quite right. Like I've been missing something all along.
The background check came back clear.
I've been to her apartment. I've seen where she lives. What am I missing?
I shove the contents back inside, attempting to make it look untouched. I resecure the lock and head to the security office. I want to verify that Savannah is in the VIP room.
I need to see with my eyes that she's not playing me. But why would she? Does she not want to dance for girls?
Or maybe she doesn't want anyone asking questions about the two of us. I haven't told Mikhail that I've been fucking the new hire, but perhaps she's concerned that she might lose her job if he finds out.
But the ledger.
My stomach tenses, and I can't shake the feeling that something is wrong. I stumbled in, and she excused her behavior like it wasn't any big deal, going through my office.
I hurry into the security office, pull out my phone, and when the camera zooms in on the VIP room, I request them to take a snapshot of her face and send it to me.
There are better pictures of Savannah, but the camera is state-of-the-art, and I upload them to my phone. I don't recognize the client, but we get a lot of different traffic this time of year. It's summer, and it's New York City. We're not in the seedy part of town. We pride ourselves on our establishment.
Stalking out of the security office, I slam into Mikhail.
When do we ever want what we're running to be detected? "That's what we pay you for, Rylan."
"Yeah, I'll swing by tonight on my way home and input the parameters into the system. If it pops up anything tonight, I'll let you know. Otherwise, you can expect a call from me tomorrow."
"Great."
"Do you want me to send a copy of anything we find to Mikhail?" Rylan asks. It's not usual for him to get notified, wanting up-to-the-minute information when we're dealing with scumbags.
"That isn't necessary."