After a moment of silence, Nick rolls his shoulders. “I hear your Lady is going to be in the Screw Year’s Eve wrestling match,” he says, jerking his head for me to follow him up a set of stairs. I notice we’re at a shitty hourly hotel. Garbage is piled up by the front door and a guy with acne scars on the sides of his face makes a ‘want some?’ gesture at me. I give him a hard look and glance away. Whatever he’s selling, it’s a hard pass.
“She wanted to do it,” I reply, following him into the sour-smelling lobby. The lights cast a sickly, jaundiced glow on the older man sitting behind the counter. “She’s really into the charity stuff for the South Side kids.”
“A little do-gooder, eh? The fuck’s she doing shacked up with the lot of you?” He says it off-hand, clearly meant to be a joke. Only it isn’t a joke, and we both know it.
“We’re her Lords, and she’s our Lady,” is my answer. “That’s just how it’s done.”
He cuts me a brief look at this, like I’ve just said something unintentionally profound. “Hey, Earl,” he calls to the old man. Earl nods but doesn’t look up from the newspaper he’s reading. Seems Nick has been here before. He starts up the steps and looks back at me. “Well, for what it’s worth, I put all my money on her.”
“Oh, yeah?” I follow him up the narrow staircase with worn, ragged carpet. “Why’d you do that? Isn’t the Duchess, like…Duke-trained?”
Nick gives a quiet, rumbling laugh. “The Duchess is fine, but the Lady is tougher. Any other female would have broken down in the pit, including some who work upstairs.” He raises his eyebrow. “Not your Lady. She does what it takes. I bet she plays dirty, doesn’t she? When it’s really on the line?” When all he gets from me is a blank stare, he shrugs. “Plus, I hear she’s got beef with the Countess. Who doesn’t want to see that conniving bitch get hers?”
He climbs three flights of stairs at a slight jog, barely out of breath when he steps into the hallway. He may have eschewed the Dukes, but it’s common knowledge he still fights. Daniel doesn’t keep him around just for his good looks.
I follow him down the dimly lit hallway, noting the peeling wallpaper and faint odor of urine. I swear to Christ, if Daniel sent me here to pick up a dead body, I’m going to go back and shoot him myself. Nick stops at a door and pulls out a flat brass key.
When he slides it in and turns the lock, I brace myself for what’s inside, holding my breath in anticipation of the stench of decay and bodily fluids. My lucky day, there’s no dead body on the bed.
But there is somebody.
A girl, about Story’s age, is curled up on the bed, staring at the flickering TV. She’s got blonde hair that looks like it’s seen better showerheads, and legs for days. Attractive, for sure.
But the look she sends us is ugly.
“I thought we all agreed he’d stop sending you,” she sneers. The expression is so severe that one could almost forget that split second of dull melancholy on her face before she realized we’d entered.
“Chill, little bird.” Nick shoves his hand into his pocket and emerges with a crinkly wrapper. “I brought you a treat and everything.”
She doesn’t stop glaring, but beneath the thick tension of disdain in her features, a subtle, surprised longing appears. “Hand it over then,” she says, voice sharp.
“Not until we’re done.” Nick stuffs the candy back into his pocket, cutting his eyes to me. “Trying to impart a bit of positive reinforcement. You understand. Pets need structure.”
“What the fuck is this?” I ask, uneasily. A quick scan of the room reveals a small box mounted in the corner near the ceiling. No mistaking what that is. Fists curling, I grind out, “If he thinks I’m doing another show—”
A frozen hardness comes over Nick’s face. “Not a fucking chance. I told you. We’re here to transport.” Eyes narrowing, he clarifies, “More accurately, I’m here to transport. You’re here to make it awkward because Daniel thinks I won’t do anything to her if there’s someone else around. For the record, he’s wrong.” Nick swings his gaze back to the girl, smiling darkly. “It’s just that I have impeccable self-control.”
“Control this, dirtbag.” She flicks him the middle finger, scowling. “And if you’re going to feed me, then you better not have brought shitty tacos for dinner again. I’m pretty sure I found a rat aorta wrapped in the meat.”