Page 17 of Dirty (Chicago Underground 5)
I couldn’t put voice to the question. Ready for what? For I already knew the answer. I had been waiting for it, carefully cultivating the seed. Telling myself a thousand times it wouldn’t grow, until, like magic, a tendril of green peeked through the cold, packed earth. Us, he meant. When I believed he knew me and not the persona, not the prostitute, then I would be ready for us.
Chapter Eight
A thick line of eager partygoers blocked the entrance. In front of us, a pair of girls shivered in their halter tops and short skirts. Those thigh-high striped stockings were to show how hip they were, not for warmth. They clung to each other like vines; even from the back they were clearly too nervous for the giggling and flirting that marked the other women in line. One of the girls whispered to the other, briefly pulling out an ID and then slipping it back into her shiny black purse. There was no way for me to see if it was fake—but it was. That much was loud and clear from their body language. This must be how Ella had looked, all vibrating anticipation. I wanted them gone, out of this line, off the street, far away from the life Ella would be leading right now if I hadn’t found her. But anything we did would draw attention to us.
I sneaked a look at Luke. He wore his gangbanger appearance well, so I almost didn’t know him. Underneath the soot and ratty white-gray fabric, it was still Luke. Wasn’t it? Like studying an optical illusion, I could look at him once and see Luke. I blinked, and the noble cop receded, replaced by the sooty criminal. The same image, different perspective, and my mind didn’t know what to make of it. His blank expression gave no clue as to whether he had noticed the girls in front of us, but I knew he had.
“Don’t,” I said.
His green eyes flicked to me. “Don’t what?”
I raised my eyebrow. He already knew. Don’t pull your cop routine to get these girls out of line. Don’t mess up our plan to assuage your goddamned integrity.
“They won’t let them in,” he said quietly. “Then they’ll look at ours more closely.”
“You don’t know that. Ella got in.”
A line appeared between his eyes, the only sign h
e was disturbed. “Look what happened to her. We can’t let them go in.”
“We’ll be inside too,” I pointed out. “We can help if there’s any trouble.”
“Us being there increases the odds for trouble¸” he said drily. “Besides, it would blow our cover to help.”
“It would blow our cover to stop them from going in.”
We shuffled forward with the line, quiet for a moment as people resettled.
The girl with the striped stockings checked her phone. “My dad’s calling.”
“Don’t answer it,” the other whispered. “Text him. Tell him you’re at my house.”
I approved of Striped Stockings. The anxiety in her voice made it clear she didn’t want to be here. Her friend Blondie was the troublemaker.
“What if he calls there?” she persisted.
I mentally cheered. That’s right. Think of the consequences.
“Say you’re going to sleep now.”
From the side, I saw her bite her lip.
“It is pretty late. I’m usually asleep by now.”
It was barely ten o’clock. Luke didn’t have to look at me to make his point. See?
Okay, I did see. He couldn’t stand by and let them inside, knowing they might be targeted. And maybe that was beyond my capability too—damn Ella for messing with my sangfroid—but hell, I didn’t know how to make them leave. I sure as hell couldn’t make Ella do anything. We were nearing the entrance. The bouncers stood impassive, disinterested in the crowd, but any attempts to dissuade the girls would surely attract attention.
The group at the front slipped inside, and we all inched forward, a giant lumbering caterpillar with a multitude of feet.
I held my breath, hoping he would stay silent. Hoping he wouldn’t.
Luke cleared his throat.
A nervous sound of objection or surprise escaped me—Oh!
The bouncer in front looked over at me, bored at first, but his expression rapidly turning to one of interest. Sexual interest, hopefully, because if I had been identified before I even made it through the doors, I really had lost my touch. Like some sort of cartoon sketch, the bouncer pointed at me—directly at me, and I half expected a trapdoor to open in the concrete, sending me to a pit of crocodiles.
