“I keep it in my box when I take trips. Every now and then some drunk asshole gets a little too excited.” He rested the back of his head against the bricks. “Wearing it tonight wouldn’t have done me any good.”
“But you could have defended yourself.”
“Ha!” he guffawed, then hissed in pain. “That’s not exactly how it works. What would I have done? Aimed it at them in the club?” He shook his head. “Talk about causing a scene.”
Cassidy paused to imagine the patrons of the club racing for the door, completely panicked that an intruder had a gun and was moments away from shooting. Her sore stomach clenched once more, feeling twisted and tight. “So, you just let them drag you outside?”
“I may have said a few things that encouraged them,” Dutch admitted. “I figured you were up those stairs, but the goon with a diamond earring and his friend weren’t very welcoming.” He looked at her, his left eye halfway swollen shut now.
“Just for coming after me?” Cassidy asked, shuffling her tired feet. She longed to sit down but there was nowhere except the sidewalk which was gritty and cracked. “Why not just escort you outside and be done with you?” she asked.
Dutch’s eyes flicked away. “Well, there’s a bit of history there,” he said.
Cassidy narrowed her eyes as the realization came to her. “Don’t tell me, you used to be in their club.”
“Yeah,” he said, licking the corner of his lip, then wiping the blood with the back of his hand. “It was a long time ago, though,” he added, his voice flat, resigned. “But hatred doesn’t die easily.”
Cassidy zoomed her focus outward to her plan, or lack of one. A car zoomed by, its exhaust grinding loudly.
“I have to go back in there,” she said.
“No way,” Dutch said, then coughed, his right shoulder hitching up in pain. “Goddamn, I forgot how much this fuckin’ hurts,” he groaned. Then he looked at her. “They let you walk out of here the first time. You won’t be so lucky again.”
A shiver ran down her throat and pooled cold and hard in her diaphragm. “Izzy might be here.”
Dutch shook his head, grimacing. “So? I think it’s pretty clear that they’re willing to do whatever it takes to keep you from finding her.” Slowly, he pushed to upright, his face tight with pain. “Plus, how are you going to get in?” he wheezed. “They’ll recognize you. They may even be looking out for you, knowing that you might come back.”
“I know,” she said, slipping her backpack from her shoulders. She dug out her spare t-shirt, a plain dark blue one and pulled it on.
“Are you always this stubborn?” he groaned, watching her scornfully.
Cassidy ignored this, pulling back her unruly curls and used a hair elastic from her wrist to create a messy bun at the top of her head. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but it would have to do.
He tried to take a deep breath but his face hitched tight with pain. “I’m going with you then.”
“Ha! You can’t even stand up straight,” Cassidy replied. “And if they’re looking for me, they’ll sure as hell be looking for you.”
“So what?” Dutch grunted as he tried to straighten. “Safety in numbers,” he added before succumbing to a fit of coughing that doubled him over.
He groaned, and this time, it took him longer to straighten.
“Look, let me go inside. See if I can find her. There’s also a waitress I want to talk to.” She explained the exchange from their visit before, watching Dutch’s face transform to an even paler shade of white.
“Don’t try to take on Saxon. If you see Izzy…” he paused for a moment, panting, “…come back and we’ll figure out how to get her out.” Another clotty-sounding coughing fit ended with a wad of thick-looking spit smacking the ground. In the pale streetlight’s glow, Cassidy noticed its pinkish hue.
“Okay,” Cassidy said. His breaths seemed faster, shallow. “You sure I shouldn’t call 911 first? You don’t look so good.”
“Go,” he wheezed, his good eye boring into her. “But hurry.”
Twenty-Seven
The underage street vendor with his table of fake goods was still there. Cassidy bought a pair of ridiculous sunglasses—white, round frames too big for her face—for ten dollars. She tugged the hem of her t-shirts to expose her midriff, tying a knot in both layers under her right breast. Then, she slipped into the club’s recessed entrance.
Inside, the now-familiar sounds and smells hit her senses: though now there was an added scent of B.O. layered with something she couldn’t place—more of a feeling, which she identified as desperation. The floor was completely packed with guests, most of them standing. Though the stage stood empty, dance music flooded the air while waitresses circled and entertainers perched on chairs or lingered at the edge of the booths set along the back wall. Cassidy forced her eyes to see through the dark glasses, hoping to spot the waitress from the bar. She racked her brain to remember the details of the woman’s face: faint freckles beneath her brown eyes, dark hair slicked back into a bouncy ponytail, her petite figure covered only by a pair of tight black shorts and a striped tank top that fit loosely over a lacy, baby-blue bra.
Cassidy wove through the crowd along the wall opposite the bar, the music and bright lights blaring into her skull, scanning each area methodically while also keeping an eye out for the bartender and the two bouncers. But two women held court behind the bar now, and the bouncers were nowhere in sight. She reached the corner where the main room transitioned to the hallway leading to the restrooms, the V.I.P rooms, and the stairs to Saxon’s office.
Cassidy paused to search the room once more, scanning left to right. But saw no sign of the waitress. With a jolt, she
