Job Hunt (5 page)

Jack wanted to hit something… somebody, but he kept his face calm and his body moving to the music. He pushed the memories down, put the rage back in its box, and buried it under layers of purpose and discipline. He thought he’d masked his fury well enough, but when he looked up, there was open concern on Gareth’s face and a question in the man’s eyes.

Out?
Gareth’s fingers queried, and he meant it. The thought steadied Jack, and he moved his head in a negative, grateful that their target chose that moment to make his entrance. He needed the distraction.

Clive’s description of the pimp—medium everything and white-blond hair—didn’t mesh with the reputation the man was supposed to have in the clubs. Jack had met a few gorillas in his time, and at first glance, his current target just didn’t make the grade. The man was neither very tall, nor very broad and had no discernible fashion sense. He looked washed-out and forgettable despite the black leather trousers and vest he wore.

His sneer told a different story. One that convinced Jack that Clive had the correct man in his sights. The sneer and the way he swaggered in, arm around the shoulders of another teenage boy. This one had brown hair that flopped loosely around his head and brown eyes that seemed too big for his thin face. He walked docilely enough beside the pimp, but his eyes looked anywhere but at the man, and when the arm around his shoulder tightened, he turned his head away.

The small signs of defiance heartened Jack even as they made bile rise in his throat, and as the music got louder and the beat picked up, he decided that now was as good a time as any to make his play. The pimp had settled on a bar stool close to Gareth and was idly scanning the crowd while nursing a beer, the brown-haired boy close by his side.

Jack moved from the dance floor to one of the columns in the man’s line of sight. He leaned against it, one knee bent so the sole of his boot rested on the black vinyl and the tight leather trousers showed off his long legs and the line of his ass. He draped himself against the column as if lost to the music and whatever chemicals he enjoyed for recreation, head back, throat bared, eyes closed, and dark spikes of hair falling every which way. The hem of his shirt rode up another inch to show off his abs, and a spotlight hit the tattoo on his face, making it stand out stark black against his skin.

The pose was an invitation. Jack knew exactly how he looked and what he offered. He’d practiced the move in front of a mirror over and over, and if he tilted his head just right and squinted through his lashes, he could usually watch his target lose their cool.

The pimp was better than most. He leaned forward, clearly interested, but he didn’t get up or take his eyes off Jack. Instead, he waved to one of his men and pointed. And Jack dropped his lashes and waited.

“Hey, you!”

Jack ignored the rough voice close to his ear until the man prodded him. Then he lifted his head—slowly, as if it weighed a ton—and opened his eyes. “Yeah?” he slurred.

“The boss wants to talk to you.”

“Huh?” Closing his eyes completely hadn’t been a good idea. The sudden influx of light started painful fireworks in Jack’s head. He bit the inside of his cheek to stifle a pained groan before it could slip out and focused on breathing until his eyes adjusted.

“Guy at the bar wants to talk to you,” the rough voice repeated, barely patient. “Move your ass. He doesn’t wait well.”

Jack pushed himself upright and stepped away from the column with a small provocative sway to his hips. The pale-haired pimp was a little to his left, Gareth right in front of him. Both men were leaning forward on their barstools, and both wore almost identical looks of eager interest.

Jack might have found that gratifying or embarrassing or even faintly amusing, had Gareth not reached back toward the bar right then and snatched the pimp’s beer bottle from the counter. The bottle disappeared into the inside of Gareth’s jacket before anyone had noticed the man had even moved—and Jack felt a strange stab of disappointment that was swiftly followed by irritation.

They were on a job. That meant blending with the crowd and acting like those around him. And if Jack had known how distracting it would be to have Gareth Flynn watch his back, he would have chosen to call this off. Or declined Gareth’s offer. Maybe.

He drew close to the pimp, swayed a bit on his feet, and wasn’t surprised when the hand reaching out to steady him landed on his hip and slid over his ass. From the corner of his eye, he saw Gareth jerk and bare his teeth before the mission face slid back into place.

Jack put his arms behind his back and kept his eyes down. This was the hardest part of his act. Submission didn’t come easy to him, and he was far too old to still be bashful. He felt hungry eyes trawl over his skin, assessing, imagining, plotting… and he wanted to look up and memorize the faces of the men surrounding him. Just in case he ever found one of them alone.

“Look at me.”

Jack raised his head with apparent reluctance and focused his gaze on the bar behind the pimp, watching the man from the corner of his eye. The pale hair was stringy and curled damply around the man’s neck. Something dark—blood? Sweat?—stained the black leather vest in places. But right in Jack’s line of sight, the man’s grin lifted a cheek.

“I have work for someone like you,” the pimp stated baldly. “What do you say?”

Jack swiveled his head as if he’d just woken in a strange place and looked around. “Here?”

“Here, or any other club I send you to. We also run an escort service.” He chuckled, and the sound ran down Jack’s spine like a trail of ice water. “I can see clients going crazy over you. Especially when you’re bragging.” He let his eyes trail from the tattoo on Jack’s face all the way down his long legs to his boots and back up again. His eyes focused on the stylized sixty-nine that adorned Jack’s temple. “Yeah.” He leered. “Especially when you’re bragging.”

The man threw his arm around the shoulders of the brown-haired boy beside him—not caring about the obvious way the boy flinched—and pulled him close. “Hey, Ricky, why don’t you give Bambi the tour? Explain how things work. Do it right, and I let you have the rest of the night off.”

He pushed the boy in Jack’s direction, and Jack had to fight not to reach out and steady the kid, pull him away from the bleach-haired pimp. It was a close-run thing, but he managed it, instead just tilting his head in invitation. The youngster pointed toward a quieter corner of the club, and Jack nodded and fell into step beside him.

“You’re Ricky?”

“And you’re Bambi?”

The kid’s soft voice barely made it over the music, but the sarcasm in it was thick enough to spread on toast.

Jack offered a real smile. “I’m Jack.”

Ricky stopped next to a bench and waved for Jack to sit. They were still in the pimp’s line of sight—and Gareth’s—so Jack straddled the bench. Just in case the man read lips. If he had instructed Ricky to stay within sight, he might be paranoid enough.

When he’d first seen Ricky, Jack had thought that a bath, sleep, and a few square meals would do wonders for perking up the kid’s looks, but now that he could observe from up close, he felt uneasy. Ricky’s face wasn’t just spending-too-much-time-in-nightclubs pale. He was gray, and his skin shone with a thin sheen of sweat, even though now and then, he shivered.

“You hurting?”

“None of your business.”

Jack backed off immediately. “Worked for the guy long?”

“Some.”

“Worth it?”

“Hell, no!”

The emphatic reply was so unexpected Jack recoiled, remembering at the last moment to mask his response and lean against the wall to hide it. And Ricky wasn’t done.

“Why would you even consider working for a bastard like that?”

“I need the money,” Jack said.

“There are other ways to earn money.”

“If I have to get groped at work, I might as well get paid for it.”

Ricky shook his head and mumbled something under his breath that looked suspiciously like
idiot.
When he looked up, his gaze held a large dose of pity. He leaned forward, turned his head so his mouth was close to Jack’s jaw, and waved a finger at Jack’s tattoo. “You know what’s funny about this picture?”

“No?”

“You thinking that you’ll get off somewhere in all this.” Ricky shook his head once. “You couldn’t be more wrong. Oh sure, he’ll work you till you’re raw, and there are always johns willing to pay extra. But if you know what’s good for you, you won’t dare take any money… or pleasure.”

“I just want to save up enough,” Jack said, sticking to his role despite his growing concern. Ricky’s shivers grew more frequent, and the teen’s color ebbed and flowed in a way that wasn’t normal. He reached forward and placed an arm around Ricky. Only to feel Ricky flinch as soon as the soft touch brushed his back.

“You
are
hurt.”

“And you’re beyond stupid. Listen, if you don’t believe shit, believe me. You don’t want to get into this. Not with him. Once you’re in, nobody will help you get back out. No matter how loud you scream.”

Jack was grateful for Gareth’s presence only a few meters away. He met the man’s gaze, flicked his fingers as quickly and unobtrusively as he could through their old army shorthand signs for
witness
and
out,
before he returned his eyes to the boy opposite him.

“What if I… could?” Jack’s voice was a breath against Ricky’s cheek.

“Get me out of here?” Nobody could say that the kid was slow. “I
knew
you weren’t fried.” He rested his head on Jack’s shoulder, and Jack felt the tension in the slim body pressed to his. “What’ll I have to pay you for that?”

Jack didn’t flinch at the suspicion in the low tone. He blipped a brief look in Gareth’s direction, knowing the man would understand, be ready if the whole thing went south. “I’m here to take him down. I take any help I can get. But it’s not a trade. You want out. I’ll get you out.”

“Why?”

“Been there. Got out. Returning the favor.” Jack didn’t care that he was blunt. The kid was smart enough to recognize lies when he heard them, and soft soap wouldn’t do Ricky any good. So what if Jack’s words opened old wounds? They’d healed before. They’d heal again. Far more important was the teen slumped against him, all ragged breath and clammy skin. Ricky was hurt, and the devil of it was that Jack couldn’t tell how badly. He guessed that Ricky had been caned or flogged since every touch to his back made him flinch, but even a hard beating would not cause the symptoms Jack was faced with. The kid was showing signs of shock… and that wasn’t good. Not at all.

He raised his eyes and found Gareth leering at the two of them. The look didn’t suit Gareth, but it got them what they needed. In no time at all Jack saw him talking to the pimp. Negotiating, if Gareth’s sudden studied disinterest was any indication. It was an obvious tactic, so obvious that the odds of someone falling for it were minuscule, but Gareth didn’t care about the odds. He just played. And won.

Relief washed through Jack when the pimp leaned back against the bar and waved at Gareth to proceed. He didn’t feel guilty about pulling out so early. They had the man’s fingerprints. Knowing Gareth, they probably had pictures. They even had a witness. But that witness needed a hospital. Fast.

Gareth didn’t hesitate. He rose and took the few steps across the room to where Jack and Ricky sat huddled together.

“Hey, boys, what’d you say to a little playtime?”

Ricky pressed himself closer to Jack as Gareth’s shadow loomed over them both, and Jack soothed him with a quiet sound. His nod, once he met Gareth’s gaze, was little more than a sweep of lashes, but its effect was instant.

Black smoke. Wailing alarms. And chaos.

C
HAPTER
FIVE
T
HE
B
ILL

T
HE
BLACK
smoke was a nice touch. It billowed from behind the kitchen door and wafted around the DJ booth, adding authenticity and a touch of menace to the alarms wailing through the club. Gareth mentally saluted whoever had crafted Jack’s
distractions.
Dorky look aside, once operational the things were damned effective.

A cacophony of sound—a mix of thrumming beat, shouts, and blaring alarms—turned the dance club into an inferno. Patrons milled without aim in the gloom of flashing strobes, pushing this way and that while others rushed toward exits, losing their way and their reason in the billowing black smoke and growing terror.

Gareth blocked Jack and Ricky from the pimp’s view. His shoulder blades itched as if he had a target painted across his back. Their masquerade would be over as soon as they moved from their position, and it irked Gareth that he couldn’t predict the blond pimp’s reaction to having his assets abstracted. He felt beyond stupid for making the attempt without knowing if and how the pimp and his men were armed, but then, his plans for the evening had not included nightclubs, pimps, or impromptu rescue missions. He’d just wanted to convince Jack to take the offered job.

Instead, Jack Horwood had revealed a side that Gareth couldn’t have cooked up in his most fevered dream. It wasn’t the crusade that had surprised him—Jack and crusades had always had an affinity—but the way Jack went about it, using himself as bait and weapon both. Not to mention the fact that Jack put himself in harm’s way without a moment’s thought even when his allies let him down.

The memory lit a spark of anger, and Gareth pushed it aside.

He couldn’t afford the distraction right now.

Despite the growing pandemonium, Jack kept to his role, held his body as if he was conversing with Gareth while he waited for his cue, and comforted the boy by his side. This close, Ricky’s waning color and the shivers that wracked his body were as obvious as Jack’s concerned frown. Gareth kept his impatience on a leash despite the need to hurry, kept his stance casual and a sharp eye on the main entrance. Once the bouncers had roughly established a little order and cleared a path in the wall of panicked patrons blocking the double door, he caught Jack’s gaze.