Niles Verbeck.

Each pulse of blue light from the table illuminates his face, only briefly. He sits, arm slung over the back of the booth, the weight of his gut sagging over his belt. Standing beside him, a muscle-head of a bouncer gestures aimlessly, speaking to Verbeck.

I swallow.

The stems of the two cocktail glasses feel as though they may snap between my fingers any moment. I hold them in a death grip, approaching the rather vacant VIP area, and my heel has barely kissed the bottom stair for more than a second when—

"Hold it, Miss."

The muscle-head has seen me. He strides over, his eyebrows furrowing over a pair of dark sunglasses. He'd look ridiculous wearing sunglasses in here if it wasn't for his thick neck and rippled arms. I don't feel like laughing as he towers over me at the top of the stairs.

"Oh, I'm sorry." I plaster a smile on my face and take another step up the stairs. "I was just—"

"Did you hear what I just said?" He snaps his head to the side, and at this angle, his bald head glints in the club lights. "Take another step and I'll have you thrown out of here."

My smile drops. I freeze.

"What's going on, Riggs?" a voice calls from behind him, and though muscleman is blocking my view, I know who it is.

Riggs takes a step aside, allowing a full view of the upper floor.

My eyes set on Verbeck. He has barely moved. He's still slouched, arm propped up on the back of the booth. He is looking at me. "What do you want, sugar?"

It takes a moment to find my voice and remember my lie. "I was just... I saw you were alone, so I thought I'd get you a drink."

Verbeck and his bouncer exchange a look.

"Let her by, Riggs."

With a terse nod, muscleman motions me forward.

I ascend the stairs and make my way over to the pulsing table. Both sets of eyes follow me. My stomach churns.

"What have you got there?" Verbeck asks, gesturing at the drinks in my hands. But his eyes aren't on the drinks. Beady and unnerving, they wander over my legs as I walk.

I force a cheery smile. "Dirty martinis. I hope that's okay."

"It's been a while since I've had one of those. That's just fine."

I stop beside the table and offer him a glass.

This close, I can now see his face. His full, fish-like lips turn up into a grin as he takes the martini. "Please, have a seat."

"Thank you." I lower myself into the booth across from him. Involuntarily, I throw a glance across the club, across the shifting sea of people, towards the shadowed hallway.

I wonder if Trip is watching me. Why am I hoping he is?

"I was sort of lonely before you came along," Verbeck says. He hasn't lifted his gaze off me. "Where have you been all my life, lovely?"

A beat off, I let out a short laugh, cross my legs, and adjust the hem of my dress. "Well, I was lonesome too," I say, and as a afterthought, "I'd almost given up hope on finding someone interesting. Luckily, I saw you up here all by yourself."

Verbeck smiles, pleased. "I've sparked your interest?"

I make a show of flipping my hair over my shoulder and settling back into the booth. "Maybe."

He grins more and raises the glass to his lips.

And my stomach clenches into knots. I watch him tip the glass and swallow a mouth full of clouded olive juice and vodka without taking his eyes off me. I wait for a reaction.

He only licks his lips. "What's your name?"

"Kayla." My voice sounds strangled, and I hope he doesn't hear it over the throbbing music. In an attempt to mask my anxiety, I sip my own drink.

"Kayla. That's nice, that's nice." He takes another gulp. "Do you know who I am?"

I shake my head, lying through my teeth. "No, I'm afraid I don't. Should I?"

Judging by his expression, he thinks that's funny. "Well"—he even pauses for dramatic effect— "I own this club."

"Oh?" I feign shock, touching my fingertips to my chest, a motion that doesn't escape Verbeck's notice. My cheeks are starting to hurt from smiling so much. "Are you serious? I had no idea."

"Niles Verbeck." He offers his hand, and I reluctantly shake it.

"Nice to meet you."

He's still holding my hand when he says, "You are gorgeous, Kayla, too gorgeous to have come here alone. You're not alone, are you?"

I take my hand away, unable to allow him to touch me any longer. "My date stood me up."

"Ah, that's a shame."

"But I figured I would come here and have a good time anyway."

That line makes him grin. He drinks, swallows, and smacks his fish lips together. His fingers rap the table to the beat of the music, pinkie ring winking in the lights. His eyes dip below my neckline, and I fight the urge to cross my arms over my chest. He's inspecting me.

And some of the things Dax mentioned being Verbeck's pastimes, like human trafficking, flutter across my mind.

"Why don't you let me show you around the club?" Verbeck asks finally. "Maybe you'd like to see my office."

I'm taken aback. Quickly, my mind scrambles to drudge up a response. "Oh, I—"

But Verbeck is already standing, and now I see just how short and flabby he is. A short, stout bulldog. Jowls and all. "Come on, I'll get us a real drink."

Frozen in indecision, I throw another glance towards the hallway, and for a second I swear I see movement in the shadows—Trip?—then Verbeck is blocking my view. One hand clutches his martini, the other is curling his fat fingers around my arm. Breath quick, a bit panicked, I start to rise from my seat.

"Uh, Sir." The bald muscleman appears at Verbeck's side. He leans forward—and down—to speak in his ear. "Mister Braxton is here to see you."

A sudden look of agitation, and maybe even unease, crosses Verbeck's expression. His eyes dart towards the stairs. And I whip my head around to follow his gaze. Two men are standing, waiting at the foot of the stairs.

Turing back to Riggs, Verbeck draws a deep breath and grumbles, "Dammit. Let him pass."

Muscleman nods and marches off to fetch them.

"Sorry, lovely." Verbeck slides down beside me in the booth, and surprised, I scoot over to give him room. "We'll have to postpone the tour. This won't take long, I promise."

"No, no. It's fine," I say distantly. My hands are gripping the end of my dress.

This isn't part of the plan. It was supposed to be just me and Verbeck. I don't understand what is going on. Trying not to look too much like a frightened, snared rabbit, I search the dark hallway for a sign, any sign.

What do I do? This is getting complicated.

"Niles." A deep voice sounds, and the owner of the voice, a tall, broad-shouldered man in a suit, approaches the table.

"Braxton, hello," Verbeck says, struggling to sound jolly. But unease thickens his voice. He clears his throat. "Nice to see you again. It's been a while—what? A few weeks? Looking for fun?"

Chin held high, Braxton surveys the club. He gives a slight shrug. "Not tonight." He glances down at the table. "Are you going to invite me to join you?"

"Yes, of course. Have a seat. Want a drink?"

Braxton sits and straightens the front of his suit. "A whiskey sour on the rocks. Thank you."

Verbeck twists around and tells Riggs to get the drink. As the bouncer sets off down the stairs, the second man—a younger man—draws beside Braxton. He stays standing, hands clasped behind his back, looking straight forward, expression grave, like a soldier on guard. Braxton barely glances at him, but as soon as this young man is in sight, Verbeck's eyes flicker warily towards him. I feel him shift uncomfortably beside me. The booth's plastic seat squeaks beneath him.

"Who is this?" Braxton asks, jutting his chin at me.

"Kayla," Verbeck says and clears his throat again. "We were chatting over a drink before you came along."

I muster a smile. "Hi."

Jade eyes look me over, and a simple, clever smile begins to play on Braxton's lips. "Kayla. Nice to meet you."

That smile unsettles me. My own smile falters.

Verbeck sips from his martini. "So, how is—"

"You must know the reason why I am here," Braxton says, turning his gaze on Verbeck.

Fidgeting, Verbeck lets out a tense chuckle. "If it's like before, I don't have it. Not yet."

"Hm." Braxton frowns. "Well, I'm getting a tad tired of hearing that."

"I said not yet, not yet." Embarrassed, Verbeck glances at me and does his best to keep the conversation sounding nonchalant. "But I will, in a few days. Things have just been slow around here these last couple of weeks. I'll have it soon."

Braxton fixes his glimmering cuff links. "When I help a friend, I expect that friend to repay me within a reasonable amount of time. Is that too much to ask?" Verbeck, squirming in his seat, opens his mouth to answer, but Braxton goes on. "I've got problems of my own right now. I'm under a lot of stress. You don't want to add to that stress, do you?" He looks up. "Well? Do you?"

Verbeck chokes back some of the martini he was sipping and answers, "No. No, of course not." With another nervous glance at me then at the young man stationed next to Braxton, Verbeck adds, "I heard about your problem. I've seen the media coverage. I guess it hasn't been rectified yet."

Media coverage?

My breath hitches.

Braxton smiles that same small, clever smile. "It will be. I have a feeling we're very close to rectifying the situation."

The statue to his right—the young man—looks at Braxton from the corner of his eyes. They are dark, dark eyes. Almost black.

"That's good. I'm glad," Verbeck says, still squirming in his seat. "I was hoping you would find..." He trails off, eyes widening.

Both Braxton and the young man look questioningly at him.

"What?" Braxton asks.

But I already know what.

"I'm sorry." Verbeck hastily stands. "Will you excuse me for just a moment? I'll be right back. I'm sorry, I just..." He spins and in a quick shuffling walk, heads down the stairs. Towards the hallway.

The fast-acting laxative I slipped into his drink must have kicked in.

Time to go.

My eyes fall on Braxton, who is looking at me narrowly, suspiciously. I flash a smile and start to scoot my way out of the booth. "Sorry, I really should be going. Would you mind telling him I had to leave?"

"Hm. I really wish you'd stay a while longer," Braxton says, leaning back against the booth, jade eyes settling into a wolfish sneer. "I'm sure we have much to talk about, Miss Ashford."

I freeze, wide eyes snapping up at Braxton.

Did he just say...?

He only smiles.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean," I mutter. And I am standing, walking across the VIP area, down the stairs. With a quick glance over my shoulder, I see Braxton leaning over to speak to the statue.

Statue nods.

Adrenaline pours into my veins.

Get out.

Get out now.

My strides lengthen, quicken. I make my way through the crowd around the bar, around the edges of the dance floor. With a heart thrashing louder than the blaring music, I break through the sea of people and rush for the lobby. The lip-ringed girl behind the counter calls, "See-yah!" But I barely hear her as I head for the exit doors and step outside into the night, into the cold air.

Goosebumps race up my arms. I rub them.

My heels hit the pavement in panicked, uneven steps.

The alley. Just get to the alley.

Another glance over my shoulder.

No one following.

I pick up my pace, shoving my way past clusters of people waiting for taxis, and as soon as I turn the corner, as soon as I am in the confines of the dark alley, I realize my breathing has grown wild. I slow down, trying to catch my breath.

Shakily, I run my hands through my hair.

How? How did that guy know me? He recognized me. And I don't even know who he is.

The pulse of the music rattles the back door of the club. I can scarcely hear it through the blood coursing so thickly in my temples.

But then I do hear the footsteps approaching behind me.

I spin.

I don't have time to gasp before sudden pain cracks across my jaw.